That wasn’t what I remembered Gerry saying, but admittedly, I’d had other things on my mind. “And that worked?”
Something about Jen’s shrug seemed amused. “I had a good deal lined up, and he cheated me out of it. I called him on it. Then he wanted to know about the camp, and I told him, and he seemed really supportive. I mean, I should have picked up on it then—you saw him, the way he dyed his hair and that stupid goatee, the clothes, trying to look like he was thirty years younger. He had a reputation in Portland, you know. I asked some of the guys. They said he was on all the apps. Kind of a standing joke; everybody knew what he liked.”
“He wasn’t local?”
“Gerry? No. Like I said, Portland.”
“What about you?”
She shook her head. “Grew up in California. I’ve been coming up here for the cold-water surfing for a long time. Then I started doing the camp in the fall. I would have made the move permanent once this place opened.” Her fingers flexed and settled on her hips again. “I shouldn’t be talking about it like it’s over, but God, who knows?”
“Why would it be over?”
“Because he owns the land. Because he was putting up most of the money for the camp itself.” Jen let out an unhappy little laugh. “Because he’s the only reason this thing ever got off the ground in the first place.”
“You were partners, then?”
Jen nodded, but she didn’t seem to have heard me.
“But it was your idea, right? I mean, you must have been the majority shareholder, or however you say it.”
She started to nod again. Then she brought her head up and considered me. Her expression wasn’t wary. It wasn’t even defensive, not exactly. But it was...closed, I guess, in a way it hadn’t been before.
I decided to risk a lie. “The reason I ask is I heard the cops talking about an argument you guys had. About money, right?”
The caution in her expression evaporated in a flash of heat. “No, not about money. About his stupid idea to turn this into a daycare. Listen, I like working with kids. But this is my surf camp. It’s not an amenity for his planned community. It doesn’t matter whose name is on the paperwork.” She drew a breath. “Who said we were having an argument?”
I didn’t want to get into a game of he said-she said, mostly because I had no idea who had said anything, so I said, “How’d he get up there, anyway?”
“What?”
“On the cliff. Did anyone see him after, you know, that stuff with Bobby?”
Jen shifted her weight. “I don’t get why you’re so interested.”
Genius struck again. “Oh, I was just thinking out loud, I guess. Wondering about liability, you know—if the family might sue because the surf camp was negligent.”
“That’s ridiculous! He was so drunk he could barely stand up—you saw him staggering out of here. And I wasn’t his babysitter. You walk that way—” She pointed toward the ocean. “—and you end up right at the cliffs. Flat ground, an easy walk. It’s only a few hundred yards.”
I tried to construct a mental map. That made sense—the route I’d taken the night before, when I’d been following Deputy Bobby, had definitely taken me downhill until I reached the beach. The route had also curved a fair bit, following the natural slope of the ground. It made sense that it would have taken me longer to go down to the beach and then along the bluffs to reach the spot where Gerry had fallen; Gerry, on the other hand, could have gotten there in a few minutes (depending on how many times he stumbled along the way, I guess).
“Do you mind if I take a look?”
Her eyes widened; apparently, she hadn’t been expecting that. “Yeah, I do, actually.”
“Why?”
“Because a man died out there.”
“Technically, he died on the beach, not on the cliff.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I just need a quick look. I promise I won’t disturb anything.”
“No!” She seemed to be trying to think of a reason because then she said, “The deputies were out there all night. You might mess something up.”
“But they already left,” I said. “Which means they’re done.”
I took a step in the direction she pointed, and she moved into my path. “You can’t go out there. It’s like you said: the cliffs are dangerous, and what if the camp is liable? I don’t want to be on the hook for anybody else.”
“I’ll sign a waiver.”
When I tried to step around her again, she caught my arm. She was strong—I’d known she was strong, but she was even stronger than she looked. “I think you should leave.” She released me and stepped back, but she was still in my way. She wouldn’t quite meet my eyes as she said, “I’m sorry about what happened to you, but I don’t feel comfortable letting you wander around out there.”
I got back in the Jeep and left, but instead of going back to the state highway, I took the first turn I came to. It led me south, in the general direction of Klikamuks Head. The dirt roads weren’t labeled, but fortunately, everybody who drove back this far was headed for the same place: the beach.
It took me fifteen minutes to find another route down to the water, and I parked on a square of flattened grass where a piece of driftwood had been laid like a parking stop. Beaches in Oregon—every inch of coastline, in fact—were public property, which meant that while Jen might have the authority to kick me out of the surf camp (although I wasn’t sure about that, since Gerry had been the owner), she couldn’t keep me off the beach.
When I got out of the Jeep, the sound of the surf met me, and a stiff breeze raked my hair. Big, white-capped waves tumbled and broke out on the water. I shivered; the canvas jacket, I decided, definitely wasn’t going to cut it.
I worked my way up the beach as quickly as I could, sticking to the firmer sand near the waterline and setting a pace that balanced speed and, well, my current level of conditioning. The wind made a high-pitched noise, and when it faded, even for a moment, the detritus of shells crunched underfoot. I’d read about the bottom of the ocean. Marine snow, that’s what they called it: the powdery blizzard of bone dust left by millions—billions—of deaths. The day had a crushed, grayish-white glow. Still no shadows.
It was faster going this time. I passed the lifeguard tower and the racks of drying wetsuits, the surfboards lined up at attention. Nobody was out on the water today. It’d be nice to think they were grieving Gerry—it’d be nice to think somebody was grieving him, anyway. But I had a feeling this had more to do with the surf conditions, and possibly with Jen, than it did with anything else.
When I reached the bluffs, I cut across the sand and found a path—barely more than a cut in the rocky face—I could scramble up. Stone gave back the sound of my breathing, which, admittedly, was starting to sound a little labored. I pushed my way through scrub, the brush stiff and rustling. A few thorns caught the backs of my hands. Then the bushes and tall grass gave way to hemlock and pine, and I crested the rise.
As I made my way to the cliff where Gerry had fallen, the wind rose, and over the slap of the waves came the creak and protest of the branches above me. He’d come out here at night, I thought. Drunk. Maybe he’d wanted to see the water. I glanced behind me; the nearest outbuilding of the camp couldn’t have been more than a couple hundred yards, which meant Jen had been telling the truth. Maybe he’d just wanted some privacy, time to collect the shreds of his dignity, not unlike Deputy Bobby. Or maybe, like a boy, he’d wanted to pee off a cliff.
