Death Waits in the Dark

by Julia Buckley

  “Yes! They’re quaint. Do you know someone who lives there?”

  She sat up straighter. “Jane Wyland.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “No, don’t look like that. You know I’m not the type to brood over something. I want to get this resolved today. I intend to face her down and demand to know this secret she claims she has.”

  “I thought you said she moved out of Blue Lake?”

  “Apparently she moved back when she retired, into the home where she grew up. She inherited it, I suppose.”

  I studied Camilla’s face for a moment. She looked determined, but calm. “All right. I think—that’s a good idea.”

  “Yes. I’ll just get my purse. I let the dogs out when I made the tea, so they’ll be fine for a while.”

  The dogs were not within eyeshot, and I was fairly certain that they were lying like dead things on the floor of Camilla’s office. “I’m sure they will be. They’re about as excited as Lestrade is to move around in the heat.” Lestrade was a paradox; the heat seemed to pull all the life from his body, but he sought out every sunbeam and every hot place.

  Camilla’s face brightened. “Oh, but the air-conditioning does make things better, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s wonderful. My room was quite pleasant last night.”

  She stood up and carried her cup to the sink. “Give me one moment. I’ll meet you outside.”

  I brought my own dishes to the sink, scratched the ears of Lestrade, who sat sunning in the kitchen window, and went into the hallway. Now that I’d been at Graham House for several months, I wasn’t as strict about stowing all my things away upstairs. I generally slung the strap of my purse over the handle of Camilla’s linen closet, which I encountered on the way to the door. I grabbed the bag now and put it over my shoulder, then moved outside, where I was surprised by a huge gust of air.

  “Ahhh!” I said aloud. I gazed around and saw that all of the trees were bending under the force of the wind, a warm wind, but not hot, and not at all unpleasant. I pushed against it, heading toward my car, laughing slightly.

  Camilla joined me. “What’s funny?” she asked.

  “I love a windy day. Always have.”

  She looked at the sky, blinking as the air hit her face. “This one seems ominous, though. Look at those clouds.”

  “Just a touch of gray. I don’t think they’re rain clouds,” I said, opening my door. A piece of paper fluttered out—some store receipt that I didn’t remember leaving in the car. “Oh no! Oh, there it goes!” I shouted, then laughed again.

  Camilla stared at me, mildly amused by my euphoria. “Let’s go, Lena.”

  “Okay, okay.” We got in the car and buckled in. A glance at Camilla told me that she was too distracted to enjoy the rare weather. Jane Wyland and her toxic anger weighed on my friend’s mind. Camilla was right; this needed resolution.

  I pulled out of the driveway and turned left onto the rocky road that led down the bluff, then right on Wentworth Street, heading toward Belinda’s workplace. “We turn near the library, right?” I asked.

  Camilla was looking for something in her purse. “Hmm? Yes. Two blocks past, on a street called Derby. Take a right and drive until you see a sign that says ‘The Bayside Cottages.’ Then left on Vista.”

  “Got it. It’s really such a lovely area.” I leaned forward to peer at the sky. “It doesn’t seem as if it will storm. Remember how the sky looked, back when I moved to town? That day you could tell the rain was coming.”

  “Yes. And what a storm we had. I’m lucky you stayed in town, after the chaos of last October.”

  “I had plenty of reasons to stay.”

  I followed Camilla’s directions, my eyes enjoying the effects of the wind: the traffic lights swaying on their ropes, a half-uprooted stop sign bowing to us like a dignified butler, the occasional burst of green leaves that hit our windshield after being wrested from trees.

  When I turned on Derby, Camilla consulted some notes. “Left on Vista, and her number is 57. That should be the fifth house down.”

  “Okay.” I turned again. I saw a cluster of cars down the street, and as we came nearer we could see that they were emergency vehicles—an ambulance and three police cars. “What’s going on?” I said aloud. “Do you think this is why Doug and Cliff got paged last night?”

  Camilla stiffened. “It’s her house. Look—that’s number 57.” Her eyes were wide. “What do you think she’s done?”

  I pulled up directly in front of a cream-colored cottage with brown window shutters and potted flowers on either side of the door. Camilla focused on a couple of paramedics who stood by the ambulance. I wasn’t sure where to go; there wasn’t any visible parking spot. Across from us, behind the even-numbered houses, one could view an inlet to Blue Lake. I gazed for a second at the little strip of blue that Jane Wyland would have seen every morning when she left her house . . .

  Thumping sounds on my window made me jump and swivel my head back toward Jane’s cottage. Doug Heller stood there in his police-issued khakis and Blue Lake polo. He was scowling, and his blond hair blew around in a chaotic cloud, making him look like an angry Norwegian god. I rolled down my window and got a blast of warm air along with his disapproval.

  “Lena. Camilla. What are you two doing here?” he asked.

  “We had an appointment,” I said. “Or at least Camilla wanted to make one. We need to talk to the lady who lives there.” I pointed at Jane’s house. “Can I just—”

  Doug’s eyes widened. “What do you know about the woman who lives here?”

  Camilla leaned toward my window. “Douglas, I’m not sure what’s happening on this block, but if you could let me have a few moments with her, I’d be grateful. There’s an issue I’d like to resolve.”

  Doug leaned in the window. “Are you talking about Jane Wyland?”

  “Yes, Jane,” Camilla said.

  Doug shook his head, then climbed into the backseat of our car, slamming the door against the wind. He leaned forward so that his head was between us. “Camilla, I’m sorry. Jane is dead.”

  “What?” I said, shocked.

  “What happened?” asked Camilla. Her posture had become straight and still, as if she feared a giant predator would detect her presence in the car.

  Doug frowned. “No, you first. Why did you come here to see Jane?”

  Camilla leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. “Tell him, Lena.”

  “Hang on, I’m in the way.” I piloted our vehicle behind one of the police cars, put the gear shift into park, and then turned to face our visitor. As succinctly as I could, I described Jane’s visit. Her angry demeanor, her threat to Camilla and her family, her promise to expose a Graham family secret. “I brought Camilla to Allison’s house as a diversion because she was so upset by Jane yesterday, her mean attitude and her cryptic comments.”

  Doug listened with growing interest and said, “Camilla, do you know what she meant?”

  Camilla opened her eyes and turned her head. “I have no idea. That’s why I came here today. I wanted to reason with her, talk it out, get her to confide in me. Something was eating away at her, and she was vengeful. But I can’t imagine how it related to poor James or anyone in his family.” She turned sadly toward the house. “What was it—a heart attack?”

  Doug paused, and I felt a burst of guilt. We were always asking him for information he really wasn’t supposed to give. Because Camilla and I had been very helpful in some of his previous investigations, though, he sometimes relented, as he did now. “No. She was murdered, Camilla. Shot.” I gasped, and Camilla made a soft regretful sound. Doug’s face was somber when he added, “And this new information tells me that she was killed just before she was going to take some sort of extreme action.”

  Camilla’s demeanor was calm, but her eyes were wide. “And it also tells you that I had
the best motive for killing her.”

  She and Doug exchanged a meaningful glance. He said, “No, because you had no idea what the secret was.”

  “You would have to consider that I might kill to save my husband’s reputation,” she said.

  I put a hand on her shoulder and pointed at Doug. “But she didn’t. She was at Graham House all evening with me. We left the party not long after you did, and then we sat around and talked about how nice it was and how tired we were, and we finally went off to bed. Is that a good enough alibi, since Camilla seems interested in offering herself as a suspect?”

  A tiny smile flickered across Doug’s face as he got out his little computer tablet. “It’s good for starters. But I need some more details about what the woman said when she came over. She spoke to Camilla only?”

  Camilla nodded, and I said, “Uh—yes. But then I chased her to the driveway and tried to reason with her, which made her even more angry.”

  Camilla’s large eyes found me, surprised. “What did she say?”

  “She said something about how the Grahams hadn’t faced justice for forty years, and she was going to stand up for her family, because no one else would, or something like that. I was just shocked by her demeanor, and the intensity of her words. That stays with me more than the words themselves.”

  Doug nodded and typed. “And to you, Camilla? What did she say in your office?”

  “Similar things. She claimed my husband and his family were not what I believed them to be. That they hid a terrible secret and she felt the world needed to know about it. Then she said maybe I did know the secret, and I assured her I did not, because James would never have kept anything from me. She laughed in my face then and said that I hadn’t known my husband very well.”

  “She was wrong about that,” Doug said.

  “Yes, she was.” Camilla looked at me, her eyes clear but sad. “I am very sorry this happened. I had nothing against Jane, although I did consider her a mystery. It’s always a surprise, isn’t it, when people we barely know dislike us? We can’t help but wonder at their reasons.”

  “She didn’t like you?” Doug asked.

  Camilla shrugged. “Back when we were young, the very first day I met her, she was cold. Polite, but cold, as though I had offended her terribly and she was still learning to forgive me. That was how it felt. I think I asked James about it once. I was twenty-four, and I wanted everyone to like me, especially because I was in a new town, a new country.”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  “Did she ever say anything back then? Hint at any reasons?”

  “No. She was quiet as the grave,” Camilla said, and her troubled eyes drifted back toward the ambulance. Then she turned to Doug. “If you were called last night, why is the ambulance still here?”

  Doug stopped typing to look up at her. “Our photographer was on another job in Daleville. She finally got out here at around five, so we’re a bit behind.”

  Camilla’s eyes were sad. “She’s still in there, then?”

  “Yes. And I need to get back,” Doug said, but gently.

  “Yes, of course,” Camilla said. “Lena, I suppose we have no need of our errand now.” She had switched from shock mode into thinking mode, and her gaze was far away.

  I reached out to touch Doug’s hand. “Sorry we interrupted you. We had no idea—well, you know. One of those strange coincidences.”

  “You two have an unerring ability to discover coincidences,” he said. “See you later.”

  He held up his hand in a brief wave to both of us and climbed out of the car.

  Camilla was turned away from me, looking out her window. I turned the radio to a classical station that was playing the “Overture” to Candide. I left it on at a low volume, appreciating the genius of Leonard Bernstein and giving space to the genius of Camilla Graham.

  I drove back toward our house, watching everything dance in the chaotic wind, first the boats in the bay and then the wheat-colored grasses along the highway, which sighed and bowed to the inevitable. I loved windy days because they spoke of anarchy, of truthful disorder. We had control of nothing. Since moving to Graham House, I had become more and more convinced of this philosophy, and now the forceful air that shook our car reminded me of our frailty, our vulnerability. Why did I find that so invigorating?

  “Lena, I’ve never seen you so enthralled with the weather,” Camilla said drily.

  “It’s fascinating. Such energy, seemingly from nowhere.”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you thinking, Camilla? You can’t feel guilty about Jane’s death?”

  She rustled in her seat. “Guilty? No. Curious? Very. She gave me an ultimatum, Lena. She said I had one day, and that tomorrow—now today—she was going to take action. To reveal some long-buried secret.” She shrugged and then smiled. “If you had known James—you would know how silly it seemed, to think that he would keep any secret, much less a decades-old one. He could never even wait a few weeks to give Christmas presents. He was terrible at hiding things.”

  “I wish I had met him. And I wish I knew what Jane Wyland had been thinking.”

  Camilla nodded, and I grew suspicious.

  “You’re forming some sort of plan.”

  She shook her head. “Not a plan, no. But I do have one way of going back in time, and I’ve decided that I may just need to use it.”

  * * *

  • • •

  AT GRAHAM HOUSE we made a pot of tea; every window drew my gaze because the wind continued to put on a show. A little wren hovered in front of the dining room window, beating her wings as hard as she could, in vain, against the giant gusts. Finally she gave up and retreated to a nearby tree, where she clearly intended to wait out the intractable forces of nature.

  Camilla joined me at the casement, teacup in hand. “It is rather dramatic. Almost Shakespearean.”

  “Yes. Presaging the death of a king.”

  “Certainly a death,” Camilla said.

  I turned at the tone of her voice. “Are you planning to tell me your method of time travel? Will it rival something from Harry Potter?”

  She smiled. “No, although wouldn’t that be fun? No, it’s very simple. Come here, Lena.” She walked toward her office, and I followed. She moved toward her desk, where I recognized a large blue box that had previously sat on a side table in her bedroom. It had been there the day that I sat on her bed to console her.

  She touched the box. “When I was still in England but engaged to James, I was finishing a book I was working on—I had a contract for a series of nonfiction books about the Gothic era—and I needed to complete that and tie up all of my affairs before I could go out to join him.”

  “Those were the books you were promoting when you came to America the first time?”

  “Yes. A few of us who wrote for my publishing company at the time had the opportunity to travel here on a press junket. I thought I was so impressive, a young author going to America for her very first book contract. It ended up being a life-changing trip.”

  “You met James at a Christmas party, right?”

  Her face grew softer with the memory. “Yes. Just a chance thing; our American contact, Bridget, asked if we would like to attend a party that one of her friends was throwing. We were in Chicago at that time; we were stopping in four American cities. We were all young, we English authors, and we all wanted to go, to experience America. Most of the people at the party were going to be publishing types, but James was there because he was good friends with one of the hosts. He told me that he fell in love with me instantly when he saw me through the window.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “The Camilla I know would never believe a statement like that.”

  Camilla’s laugh sounded refreshingly like her old self. “You are right. I thought it was nonsense. Of course, he didn’t dare t
o tell me that night, but he did manage to extract my contact information from me.” She sighed. “This will not sound at all like the Camilla you know: I thought he was unbelievably handsome, like a man from a fairy tale.”

  “That’s romantic.”

  She nodded, then patted the box briskly. “In here are all of the letters he wrote me when we were apart. He had ambitiously promised to write me every day, which he did not manage, but he wrote often. We were separated for six months, during which he made one visit to England, and I one to America. Other than that, we were in our respective countries. We missed each other.” She lifted the lid from the box and I saw neatly filed, thin envelopes with red and blue borders. “Airmail,” she said. “It was the norm back then.”

  “So what do you intend to do with these letters?”

  “What we will do is read through them all. More than one hundred letters, Lena. All written around the time that Jane Wyland was friends with James. We’re going to read the letters and make notes and try to see if there are any clues in my husband’s history—any references that I wouldn’t have understood then but which I might understand now.”

  “Wouldn’t you know? I mean, don’t you know all these letters by heart?”

  She smiled at me. “You are sweet. I haven’t read most of them for decades. It was enough to know they were there. Do you understand? To have my precious history in this box.”

  “I think I do,” I said.

  She sipped her tea and frowned. “I need to warm this up. It may be hot out, but the sight of this wind makes me feel cold. Where shall we read?”

  “How about the sunporch? You have a big table there, and a nice view of our Shakespearean weather.”

  “Perfect. See you there in a moment.”

  She left, bound for the kitchen, but I lingered at the window. The dogs loped up and joined me, and the three of us watched the punishing wind shake leaves from the elm tree in Camilla’s backyard.

  4

  I often feel sad these days; I worry about my father and I miss you. How hard it is, sometimes, to accept life’s sterner rules, especially after one has tasted happiness.