Wuthering Kites

by Clover Tate

  “Look. I’ve got to go. Talk to Matt directly. But I can tell you that, no, he was great to work with, and once he gave me a few ideas, he left me alone to work. I have no idea what he was up to.”

  “One more question,” I added quickly.

  “Yes?” From his tone of voice, I knew I was wearing out his patience.

  “You have the rights to the photos, right? Could I order copies?”

  “Why do you want copies?”

  “As a gift. For Matt,” I said. Lame. But maybe the photos would show something—Uncle Gus in the distance. With Matt, for instance.

  “Matt already has them. He paid me to take them. Remember?”

  “But maybe you have photos he didn’t see, maybe—”

  “Are you saying that you want to buy some of the photos he didn’t use?”

  “Yes. I’ll pay.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me in the first place?”

  I was tired. The photographer had just told me Matt didn’t hang around the shoot. Maybe he was somewhere else on the property, but maybe not. The photos might not show anything at all, but I wouldn’t know until I looked. “Can you e-mail me a link to the portfolio?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Home, I paced up and down the small apartment with Bear at my heels. When I reached the front window, I stared for a few seconds at the darkening ocean. When I passed the kitchen on the way back, I refreshed my laptop’s e-mail to see if the photographer had got back to me yet with photos of Matt’s winery. Then I repeated the circle. I stopped the rhythm only once, to get a drink of water. Finally, Bear gave in and curled up on a floor pillow for a nap.

  At last, the ping of a new e-mail. I banged my calf on the coffee table as I hustled to my laptop. Yes, it was the photographer.

  I brought the laptop to the other floor pillow and opened his e-mail. He’d sent a link to the photos, with a note that if I wanted his business to please call.

  I flipped through the photos, looking carefully for any sign of Uncle Gus or Matt. Most were of the tasting room or the vineyards, and about a thousand—or so it seemed—were of bottles of wine or glasses craftily posed with the vineyards in the background.

  Just as I was about to give up, I hit a handful of photos of the forest bordering the vineyards. I was about to click to the next photo and stopped. Was that a person? I enlarged the photo as much as I could. Yes. And Matt’s long wavy hair was unmistakable. It was a photo of Matt walking at the edge of the forest. Toward the shortcut through the woods to Gus’s farm.

  I set down the laptop, barely able to believe what I’d seen. I’d been looking for some sort of evidence of Matt’s guilt, but now that I had it, I was frozen. Matt had explicitly said he was at the winery all day. He wasn’t. But a photo of him walking on his own property wasn’t anything that would inspire Sheriff Koppen to issue a warrant for his arrest.

  I grabbed my phone and dialed Sunny’s number. “I need some kind of plan,” I said as soon as she answered.

  “What? Not even a hello?”

  “I think I know who killed Allison. And her father.”

  “Come over. Now,” Sunny said. “I’d go there, but I don’t have a car.”

  Within fifteen minutes, Bear and I were pulling into Avery’s driveway. This time, only Avery’s car was in the driveway, not the flotilla of vehicles from Dad’s Watergate reenactment club. The living room had reverted to its comfortable sprawl of sofa, coffee table, and two armchairs. Bear, who was equally at home in both places, ambled in and jumped into the softest chair.

  “Come in here,” Sunny said, following Bear. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Where’s Avery? I saw her car.”

  “She and Dave are out. It’s just us. Now, spill it.”

  I told Sunny about Jack’s and my visit to the farm and about talking with Matt. “He told us he didn’t leave the winery. Plus, the sheriff visited. Obviously, something is up.”

  “Then why isn’t Sheriff Koppen following up?”

  “He says he’s pursuing leads, but he won’t tell me what they are.”

  Sunny pulled a short dreadlock to her mouth and chewed on its end. “Okay, show me the photo.”

  She didn’t have to ask twice. I opened my laptop and enlarged the photo as I had at home so that Matt appeared more clearly. “You really think it’s him?” She sighed. “I thought he was cute.”

  “I’m sure they said the same thing about Jack the Ripper. What should I do?”

  “Maybe just leave it to the sheriff.”

  “And let Jack get framed—or, worse, killed?”

  “If Matt’s planning on buying the land, why would he kill Jack? I thought you said he and Claire were selling it.”

  I shut the laptop and leaned back on the couch. I closed my eyes. “I’m not sure anymore. Jack seems . . . attached.”

  I didn’t need to say more. Sunny got it. “I’m sorry, Em. That sure makes things difficult.”

  I looked at her, not trusting myself to speak without a wavering voice.

  “You’ll figure it out. I know you will,” she said.

  Bear left his chair and jumped up on the couch between us. He groaned a bit as he settled in.

  “I know,” I said and raised my head. “What if we find a way for Matt to implicate himself?”

  “Like what?”

  “You know, lure him to do something illegal. Let him think we’re on to him, then set a trap.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sunny said. “This isn’t Scooby-Doo. If you’re right, he’s already killed twice.”

  “Maybe we play it differently. Maybe we pretend to have evidence that someone was with Gus when he fell. We don’t have to say we know who it is. I can tell him the evidence is at the shop at a certain time, or that the sheriff is going to pick it up at a certain time. Then I park the sheriff in the back room to wait.”

  “What evidence?”

  We both looked at the laptop.

  Sunny was the first to flinch. “Okay, Em, what exactly are you thinking?”

  I scooted forward on the couch. “I have this photo, right? All I have to do is mention that I have something that I think—I’m not sure—shows that someone killed Jack’s uncle. I leave the photo at home, and I wait for someone to break in and get it.”

  “I don’t like it,” Sunny said.

  “What? You’re usually the one egging me on to take risks.”

  “Look at the details. How are you going to let all the suspects know you have the photo and where it will be? Plus, you don’t want to be home when a murderer stops by to pick up incriminating evidence.”

  “I’m not that stupid.” It was starting to come together. “I send an e-mail to Jack, Claire, Matt, and Dustin, and I say I have a photo that seems to show someone with Uncle Gus just before he died.” Anticipating Sunny’s next question, I added, “I’ll tell them I wanted to hire Matt’s photographer, so he sent me the photos.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ll make a point of saying that I’ll be out tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Good idea. If you can manage it, you really should be out. Dad’s coming back for another shot at the San Clemente hearings.”

  I relaxed into the sofa. “Avery sure is generous.”

  “Mom asked if they can borrow Bear again.”

  At the mention of his name, Bear raised his head.

  “Fine.” I was still thinking about the sting. I could print out the photo tonight and leave it on the counter.

  “How are you going to catch whoever breaks in to take the photo?” Sunny said.

  “I might hide in the stairwell and wait. Or wait downstairs with the connecting door open.”

  “No. That’s dumb. Besides, you’re supposed to be away, right? Matt would be smart enough to make sure you’re gone.”<
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  “I could hide in the closet. You know, somewhere out of the way.”

  “Say Matt does break in. What’s your proof that you saw him? For that matter, how are you going to get a look at him from the closet?”

  All good points. I ruffled my fingers through Bear’s fur. “Secret camera. That’s what I need. A secret camera.”

  “Ha-ha-ha.”

  “No, seriously. A camera. I could hide it on top of the refrigerator, and monitor from my laptop downstairs—or anywhere. Then we’d have proof.”

  Sunny cocked her head. “You’re serious about this.”

  “It’s not so farfetched. Shops use cameras all the time for security. I wonder if an electronics store would have the parts.” We looked at each other, eyes wide. “Dustin,” I said. “He could fix one up.”

  “Do you trust him?” Sunny said.

  “There is absolutely no way he could have killed Gus. Remember? There are photos of him at that gala in San Francisco. If anything, he’s the one person we can trust.”

  “Not just that,” Sunny said. “Can you trust him not to tell Matt? They’re good friends.”

  True. I jabbed a finger in the air. “I don’t have to say it’s Matt. I can just say it’s a figure, and I can’t see exactly who it is.”

  We sat quiet for a moment. “I can’t believe we’re talking about setting up hidden cameras. This is starting to sound more and more like Dad’s group. Only, for real.”

  “If no one shows up, nothing’s lost,” I pointed out.

  Another moment passed, with the wind rustling the trees outside.

  “Before you do anything, why don’t you sleep on it? Think it through.”

  “All right,” I said. But in my mind, it was a done deal.

  chapter thirty-two

  The next morning I sprang out of bed, sure of my plan. Instead of the sleepless night I’d anticipated, I’d fallen asleep almost on landing on the mattress and didn’t budge all night. I was doing the right thing. It was nearly risk-free, as long as I could get Dustin’s help.

  While I waited for a decent hour to call him, I cleaned my apartment. After all, if it was going to be on video, I wanted it to be tidy. Bear watched warily from his bed. Thanks to my lack of household goods, “cleaning up” didn’t mean much more than running the vacuum, dusting the coffee table, and fluffing two floor pillows. I printed a copy of the photo of Matt going into the woods and placed it on the center of my freshly wiped kitchen counter. Then I waited some more.

  Last night’s storm had left a thick mist over the ocean, but the sky above it shone an almost cartoonish blue. I wondered if Jack had finished “thinking things over,” and, hopefully, given up the crazy idea of hanging on to his uncle’s land. Would we keep seeing each other if he moved to McMinnville? Just as we were getting closer, he was considering moving an hour and a half away.

  Which was better than moving to the state penitentiary. With that thought, my attention returned to the plan to catch the murderer in the act of stealing evidence against him. I decided that nine in the morning was late enough, and I dialed Dustin’s number.

  He was on the yacht. I could tell by the seagulls’ cawing. Music played in the background, someone on jazz clarinet I could imagine spinning on the Brew House’s turntable.

  “Emmy, it’s nice to hear from you. I was going to call, actually.”

  “Really? What a coincidence.”

  “It’s my last day in Rock Point—I have to push out for the Bay Area this afternoon—and I have some good news. Have you already had breakfast?”

  Now, this was a bit of luck. “Not yet. There’s something I wanted to talk to you about, too.”

  “I’m still at the Claire de Lune. If you don’t have anything else planned, why don’t you come down? I’ll make us some waffles.”

  “I can be there in twenty minutes.” I combed my hair and tossed on a coat before taking Bear on his morning bathroom break. We’d take a longer walk later. Before leaving for the marina, I left a note in the shop for Stella telling her I was at the yacht and would return shortly, then rummaged through the studio’s refrigerator for the jar of Mom’s strawberry jam. As long as Mom didn’t get too creative with the spices—once she gave me a jar of curried apricots, saying the turmeric would be good for my kidneys—it would be delicious with waffles.

  I’d had the foresight to wrap an extra scarf around my neck. The morning’s fair skies meant the night had been extra cold. This would be my first winter in Rock Point. Throughout my childhood we’d spent big chunks of the summer here, but winter visits were rare. I hadn’t yet seen snow fall into the ocean and dust the tidal pools.

  Although the slips on the old dock were full, as usual, with fishing boats and family rust buckets usually named after long-dead pets, the new docks in the marina were mostly empty. Tourist season was over. Dustin’s yacht held pride of place at the end of the marina, and walking toward it I felt as if I were stepping into an old movie. Cary Grant would surely be inside joking with Rosalind Russell as the sun gleamed off the mahogany deck and threw its sparkle across the bay.

  “Hey, Emmy. Come on in.” Dustin’s face glowed. His hair ruffled in the breeze, and his sweatshirt and worn jeans made him look Sunday morning.

  I couldn’t help but smile in return. “Thanks.”

  The gangplank gave gently under my feet as I stepped onto the yacht. Imagine that. Emmy Adler now strolled the deck of a first-class yacht accompanied by a world-famous inventor. And I’d been interviewed by Sunrise magazine. My jar of jam wasn’t a magnum of fancy champagne, but I offered it as if it were, anyway.

  “Mom’s homemade jam. I thought we could have it at breakfast.”

  In the cabin, sun pooled on the Persian rugs and brought out the topaz-like grain on one of Dustin’s guitars.

  “Do you want to come down to the galley with me or wait here? It’s a gorgeous morning.”

  “I’ll come with you. Besides, you said you had something to tell me.”

  His smile beamed again. “I do, but you have to keep it a secret. At least for another day.”

  Why did people do that? The second I hear “must keep this secret,” I would promise anything to hear the rest. As I promised Dustin right then. “Lips zipped.”

  “Claire and I are getting married.”

  I stopped on the narrow stairs. “What? That’s fantastic! Congratulations.” I bit off the So soon? that came to my lips. After all, they’d known each other all their lives, and Claire was clearly smitten. I simply hadn’t known they were that deep into their relationship yet.

  Dustin opened the galley door and pulled a mug from a hook. “Coffee? Do you take cream?”

  “Yes, please. You’re getting married—wow. I saw Jack yesterday, and he didn’t say anything about it.”

  He handed me a mug with “Experience Music Project” on its side. “Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. It came to me last night. Why not marry Claire? Why not? We’re perfect together.”

  “You haven’t asked her yet?”

  “I will. Today. Before I leave.” He poured batter into the waffle iron. “Do you think she’ll say yes?”

  I laughed. “Yes.” Despite my enthusiastic response, an ache grew in my chest. Of course Claire would say yes. She’d been waiting for something like this. Maybe not so soon, but eventually. Yet, I felt a stir of warning. Jealousy? Jack and I had been getting so close, and now he was considering moving away. Claire and Dustin seemed to be flying along together without a bump.

  “I’m happy for you.” I didn’t have to force the words, but they might have come out more quietly than I’d intended.

  Fortunately, Dustin didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve been interested in her a long time, but Dad always discouraged it. I never knew why.” Neither of us had to put the obvious into words. Gus Butler was dead. With a more somber tone, he said,
“In five minutes breakfast will be on the table. We can take it upstairs. He picked up a spatula. “Now, you. Tell me your news.”

  “Oh . . .” It seemed wrong to take down the mood.

  “Tell me. It was important enough for you to call early.” He smiled. “Come on, cough it up. Don’t tell me you and Jack are getting hitched, too?”

  That did it. “I have a plan to catch Allison’s murderer.”

  Dustin dropped his hands so fast the spatula hit a cupboard. “What?”

  “Maybe it was wrong to come here and burden you with this—”

  “Tell me. What’s going on?” His voice sounded normal. I couldn’t see his face, because he busied himself with lifting a waffle from the waffle iron to my plate.

  “Oh, Dustin. Are you sure you want to hear all this?”

  “Definitely.” The second waffle now in the maker, he turned to me again.

  “You know Jack is in the sheriff’s crosshairs as the top suspect.”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “It’s ridiculous. Claire is super upset, too.”

  I set the waffle on the counter. “I got to thinking. What if your father’s death was murder, too?”

  Awareness passed over Dustin’s face. He turned white, then red. “I never thought of that.”

  “I’m not sure, mind you, but it’s a possibility. I was thinking—I know this sounds crazy—but I was thinking Matt had a motive for killing your father and framing Jack for Allison’s death. To expand his vineyards.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Dustin said. “Matt?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know for sure.” The edges of the waffle behind him were darkening from golden to brown. “You better check breakfast.”

  He spun around and flipped the waffle maker open so quickly that I bumped back against the galley wall.

  “Let’s take these upstairs. I want to hear more.”

  In the few minutes it took to gather our things and trudge upstairs, Dustin seemed to have composed himself. We laid the small table across the cabin from his row of guitars. The sun didn’t feel as warm anymore.