by Kristy Tate
I laughed, slightly off guard. “Thomas Gray?”
A smile curled around his lips and he extended his hand. “No, Pastor Grayson, and you are?”
“Emma Clements,” I said, grasping his proffered hand. “I know you aren’t Thomas Gray, unless of course your parents named you after the poet.”
“You look like someone I know.” The pastor studied me, his gaze intense. I noticed one eye was slightly larger than the other and not quite centered. “Remarkable resemblance.”
“People tell me I look like Julie Andrews.”
“No, that’s not it. What brings you to our island, Emma? Are you here for the memorial?”
“Just vacationing.”
“No family, then?” I felt his gaze burning through me.
I shrugged. “Not here.”
“So, vacationing or escaping?”
I toed the dirt with my boot, thinking of escape. “I’m hoping to do some painting.”
“You’re an artist,” he said in a tone he might have used to say you have flees. A strange look passed over his face and then quickly disappeared as he recovered his manners.
“I’m renting the Dunsmuir’s cottage.”
“Ah, the Dunsmuir home, a beautiful stone Victorian. At one time, they’d owned the entire island. The cottage is a lovely, old thing,” he nodded, “a stone’s throw from the house, but miles away from anything else. Are you sure you’ll feel comfortable out there alone?”
Resting my hand on Wyeth’s big, furry head I said, “I’m not alone.”
“Ah, so I see. A mastiff?”
“No, a poodle mix.”
Pastor Grayson reached out his hand and Wyeth growled low and deep. “Wyeth!” I tugged on his leash. “Sorry.”
“Mixed and stirred,” Pastor Grayson murmured. Then he said in a louder voice, “He will keep you safe. There’s something about a cemetery that brings our thoughts closer to time without end,” Pastor Grayson said. “Are you comfortable with death?”
What a strange thing to ask. My eyes returned to the gravestones. The dandelions, buttercups and shoots of grass bent under the breeze. A cloud passed over the sun and momentarily darkened the small cemetery. The colors intensified—the gray headstones turned white, the yellow buttercups mustard, and the green moss looked almost black.
“Is anyone ever, really?”
“I hope Helen is,” he returned, nodding his head at the freshly dug grave.
“Well, she doesn’t have much of choice now.”
He stepped closer. “When the time comes, none of us have a choice.”
I smiled and tried to dismiss my sudden feeling of…what? Disquiet, suspicion, nerves? I tried to pinpoint what was making my heart race and came up empty. “I’m looking for the Jenson’s farm,” I told him.
“Follow your nose, my dear.” He pointed to the path angling to the north through a grove of Aspens.
“It was nice meeting you,” I lied and waved goodbye.
He returned the salute, lifting his arm and exposing a large black revolver tucked into his belt.
Chapter Three
I’d imagined the Jensen’s dairy would be as old and tired as the rest of the island, but after passing through a tunnel of pines and fern, the woods opened up to sun-lit valley. A white clapperboard gingerbread embellished Victorian, encircled by a large porch sat on a knoll of rolling lawn dotted with crocuses. A turret overlooked the pastures and the large red and white barn. A white split rail fence ringed the property and the words Dina’s Dairy and a cluster of buttercups had been painted in bright yellow on the gate. Beyond the barn were white vans with similar buttercups next to a loading dock that protruded into the Sound. I recognized Dina’s logo from the dairy section of the organic food store where I shopped.
My cell chirped and I grabbed at my purse. I hadn’t thought there’d be service here, but I hadn’t expected a major organic food company either. I scowled at my phone, and moved toward the fence, debating on whether to answer.
“Grammy,” I said. “I thought we were supposed to non-communicative.”
“I know, so sorry, sweetie,” Gram apologized. “It’s just that I’m so rusty at this, and I’m finding all these letters so depressing. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Not one of these letters is from happy people. These letters are toxic! Just listen, Listless Lilly wants to know…”
I smiled at the animals on the opposite side of the fence, preferring goats and sheep to Listless Lilly. Wyeth looked at a black, shorn sheep in the eye and growled. The animal turned to show us his dirty rump and waddled away. Wyeth probably outweighed the goats and sheep by at least fifty pounds. “I can take him on,” his look said. He whined, and I rested my hand on his head. “Good dog,” I murmured.
“What?” Gram squeaked.
I sighed and stooped to pick a long shoot of grass which I fed to a silky white goat. He poked his head through the railing and nibbled. “Remember what you used to tell me? Each letter is a person in pain.”
“See, that’s why I miss you,” she said. “You’re a natural.”
I hitched myself up on the fence and sat on the top rail. “I’ve been gone for four hours.” Although, looking at my surroundings, I had to admit it did seem like much longer.
“This month is going to last forever.” Gram wasn’t prone to separation anxiety; she often traveled for months at a time. Her comment both surprised and touched me.
Wyeth grew jealous of the goat and began to nuzzle my hand. I let the goat take the remainder of the grass and fondled Wyeth’s ears.
“This is ridiculous,” Gram said, her voice hard. “Smitten Kitten didn’t believe in love at first sight, until now.”
How did we get from listless to smitten? Wyeth stood and woofed. I twisted on my perch to watch a man in jeans and work boots approach. How long did it take to get from listless to smitten? About a two heart beats. Sunlight lit his brown hair and his blue eyes crinkled in a welcoming smile. I had a sudden vision of a gentleman farmer from a Regency romance novel, Lord Regal, tall, early thirties, boasting a dimple in only one cheek. I understood why Artie thought this remote location was a perfect holiday spot.
His long-legged stride cut through grass and the cluster of goats and sheep parted for him, much like the Red Sea parted for Moses. “I, huh, have to go,” I told Gram.
“What? You can’t go.”
As the man drew near, I realized he was much larger than I’d supposed and blessed with a broad chest, sculpted biceps and a slim waist.
“Yes,” I said rather breathlessly. “I’ll call you later. Or, you can call me.”
“Wait!” Gram shrieked, her voice growing smaller as I lowered the phone from my ear.
The man extended his hand, and I took it as I wondered about his single dimple. Don’t dimples come in pairs? I slipped off the split rail to his side of the pasture, and my phone dropped into the field.
“Hi,” I said, ignoring the phone. “The girl in the shop told me I could buy produce here.”
“Emma! Emma!” Gram’s voice shrieked small and sharp, lost somewhere in the deep grass. A number of goats bleated in reply.
“Here,” the man said, bending down and picking up my phone. Goats clustered around him, pushing against his knees and bleating. “Someone’s calling you.”
“Are those goats?” Gram called. “Who is that man? I’m sure I heard a man.”
I ended the call and tugged Wyeth through the rails of the split fence. Goats and sheep dispersed.
“I’m Dean Jenson,” the man said. “And I would love to show you our service counter.”
Why did that sound sexy? The tall grass waved around our legs as we cut across the pasture. A dragon fly, a pair of yellow butterflies and a robin fluttered past. I felt like I’d entered another world. I glanced over at my companion, caught his eye and smiled. Wyeth and I had to hurry to match his long gait.
“I’m Emma Clements. I’m renting the cottage by the Dunsmuir House.”
His eye
s traveled over me and I resisted the urge to tighten on my ponytail. I wished I’d worn something other than jeans and a T-shirt.
“Are you here for the funeral?”
“No, I’m an artist,” I confided, feeling a small thrill, liking the sound of the words. I’m an artist, I mentally repeated, forgetting about my ponytail, jeans and T-shirt because artists aren’t vain. “I need quiet to work. Are you Dean, as in Dina?”
He shook his head. “Dina’s my sister. Our parents had a sense of humor, or a partiality for alliteration. Growing up we had a dog named Dino.”
“Like the Flintstones.”
“Except my parents are more like the Jetsons. Dina’s organic kick is her weak rebellion.”
We reached the side of the barn where a swinging glass door bore the Dina Dairy logo. I tied Wyeth to the split rail fence that separated the pasture from the parking lot. He gave the cows huddled under the shade of a giant maple a hostile glance, but they ignored him.
The same rough-hewn beams crisscrossing the barn’s ceiling had been used to construct shelves. Large woven baskets filled with produce, whole grains, and dried fruit sat on the shelves and checkerboard tile floor. A refrigerated dairy case ran across the back wall.
“A successful rebellion.” I shivered in the dim cool interior. “Does your food taste as good as it looks?”
Dean shrugged. “My sister’s food. It’s her store. I’m just the computer geek…Another Jetson, I’m afraid.”
“He’s my capitalist,” said a voice from the depths of the giant refrigerator.
“Dina.” Dean’s face broke into a smile and he pulled open the glass doors to expose his sister. She stood partially hidden behind a shelf bearing sour cream and a variety of cheeses. The siblings looked identical, but what was handsome and rugged on Dean, looked askew and asexual on his sister. The prominent chin, thick eyebrows, broad shoulders, narrow hips, complimented Dean and cursed Dina. But beyond the physical features lay another difference I couldn’t quite define—humor, affability, gentleness, a quality Dean possessed and Dina lacked. I told myself I was being unfair, I’d only just met her, but I flinched away from Dina’s green-eyed glare.
“This is Emma Clements,” Dean told his sister. He laid his hand on my arm. “She’s renting the Dunsmuir cottage.”
Dina didn’t emerge from behind the cheese shelf and the dim light of the refrigerator cast shadows on her face so I couldn’t read her expression. Her heavy-lidded eyes slid over my jeans, lingered on my boots and finally rested on the hand Dean had placed on my arm.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “This is a great store.”
Dina nodded sharply and after another meaningful glance at Dean’s hand on my arm, she disappeared into the dark, cavernous refrigerator.
“This store is just a tiny part of what we do,” Dean said, pride ringing in his voice. “Dina’s dairy products are sold in whole food stores throughout the West.”
I paused by a bushel of blueberries.
“Oh, you don’t want those,” Dean said. “The berries on the bushes are free if you pick them. Free is always important to capitalists, and, I assume, to starving artists.”
I let him believe I was starving and he filled a hand-held basket with whole wheat bread, a pound of Gouda cheese, a jar of raspberry jam, and some eggs.
I took the basket to the counter and opened my purse.
“I can’t take money from my newest neighbor on her first day,” Dean said.
Maybe Dean wasn’t much of a capitalist. “Well, then I can’t take your food.”
“What’s a few food-stuffs between neighbors?” he argued.
“About forty dollars,” his sister piped from her place in the fridge.
That seemed excessive, but after some quick mental math, I realized she was right. I slipped two twenties into a charitable donation jar when Dean wasn’t looking. Dina’s expression told me that she had noticed but did not care. Her glare was still hostile. If she wanted to take the money from the charity can, I wouldn’t stop her.
Dean pushed open the door, and the sun felt warm and blindingly bright after the cold, dim store. I untied Wyeth, and let Dean lead us to the orchard.
Wyeth’s tail beat against the bushes and his paws crushed fallen blueberries. His prints left blue circles in the dirt field. I’d have to bathe him or at least splash him down in the Sound before he could come in the cottage. A cool breeze blew away the smell of the dairy and carried with it the sharp scent of the ocean. Birds darted in and out of the pines on the hills bordering the valley. I lifted my face to the sun and closed my eyes. It was hard to believe I was only a few hours away from my life in Seattle. I trailed after Dean, allowing him to fill a green plastic basket with berries. The island was idyllic, except for one thing.
“Dean,” I said. “I met Pastor Grayson. I assume you know him?”
Dean stopped, turned to me, his eyes resembling his sister’s. He held the green plastic, partially filled basket between us. “Everyone on the island knows everyone. We can’t spit or pee in private.”
“Yes, well then, I guess you’d know why he carries a gun.”
The smile returned to Dean’s eyes and the crease on his forehead disappeared. “Actually, most of the islanders have guns,” Dean said. “I thought it was weird when I first arrived, but even the little old ladies have a loaded gun case somewhere on their property. We need a small arsenal to scare the robins out of the cherry trees and keep the bunnies from eating the zucchini.”
“But no one, let alone a pastor, shoots robins or rabbits with a pistol.”
Dean stopped and handed me the now full basket. I popped one in my mouth. It was sweet and warm.
“You’ll want to wash those,” Dean said, frowning at my pleasure.
I was going to eat a handful then decided against it. I liked Dean more than I liked blueberries.
I raised my eyebrows and Dean continued, “There’s only a few of policemen for the all of the islands. There isn’t any state patrol. Pastor Grayson is a retired Seattle police officer and a commissioned ‘special deputy.’ He has all the authority of the law. That’s why he carries a gun.”
“That must be a giant responsibility, to be the only officer for the entire island.”
Dean turned away and headed back toward the barn. I quickly popped some blueberries into my mouth while he had his back turned. “Nothing ever happens on Lister,” he said.
A golf cart loaded with my luggage raced out of the trees and bounced down the dirt path toward us. Jeff had been replaced by a heavy-set woman with dark hair and an even darker expression. Wyeth ran ahead and then waited beside the cart with a wagging tail.
“You Emma?” she asked.
“Yes. You must be Lucy,” I said.
Dean took my elbow and helped me into the cart. “We’ll meet again soon,” he promised as he handed me a bag of produce.
#
The cottage, a tiny weathered wooden building with a steep roof, two dormers and a bay window, looked out onto the black sand beach. Daffodils and tulips poked out of a thick patch of English Ivy that climbed over the porch rail and scaled a willow bent into a moon gate.
“Beneath a moon gate kiss, blessed with eternal bliss. I guess I better find someone to kiss,” I said when Lucy parked.
Lucy shook her head. “Not here.” She pulled my luggage out of the back of the cart and easily hefted my things up the brick path. She had dark hair, fair skin, and a thick body dressed in black jeans and a sweatshirt with a picture of a cow. “Are you married, Lucy?” I asked, following her up the brick path.
She nodded. So, she probably knew more about bliss-kissing than I did.
“Is it true then? Have you and your husband tried kissing under the moon gate so you can have eternal bliss?” I stopped by a gnarled crabapple tree.
On the porch Lucy sat down my things and gave me a hard stare.
“I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.” I mumbled. I tied dirty Wyeth to the
tree. He sat down and began to nose the hard, green fruit surrounding him.
Lucy fished a skeleton key out of her pocket and inserted the key in the door and pushed it open to reveal a large room dominated by a stone fireplace with a wide stone hearth. A large faded floral sofa and two club chairs flanked the fireplace.
“This looks perfect,” I said, stepping inside, and looking out the large picture window framing the Sound. A large gray cloud gathered over a distant island and cast a menacing shadow in an otherwise sunny world of water, trees, and birds.
“Listen, I know you’re a friend of Artie’s, that’s why I’m telling you this.” Lucy lowered her eyebrows at me. “Just ‘cause something looks good, don’t mean it is.”
I looked around the cottage, wondering what was so “not good.” “I think I’ll be happy here.” My statement sounded like a question.
“I’m not talking about the cottage. Those Jensons might seem friendly, but they’re trying to buy up the island and turn it into their own private little Dina-dom. They already employ most everybody and are running rough shod over everybody else. You seem like a nice girl who wouldn’t want to mess around with those types.”
‘Those types?’ Hailey’s voice came unbidden to my head. “People are much too complicated to fit into an acorn shell,” I had advised a reader. I reminded myself I should never assume a thick set woman wearing a cow on her sweatshirt doesn’t bliss kiss with her honey, just like I should never assume an astute business person rides rough shod.
“I’m here to paint,” I told her. “I’m an artist.” The small thrill returned. “The front porch will be a great place for my easel.”
Lucy looked skeptical. “It’s going to be wet.” But she set my art case and easel down by the door and stared at me. “I’m not being a gossip and I’m not repeating the rumors.”
I looked at her blankly.
“About the murder?” she prodded.
“What murder?”
“Exactly.” Lucy nodded. “Miss Helen was a sweet creature and it was her time to go.” Lucy’s voice quivered. She turned and stomped away.
