“Weren’t you just going in?”
She waved her hand. “I can get it later. I’m running low on paper towels; no big deal.”
She pushed her glasses up on her cute nose and tucked her arm into mine. “Now, come.”
We moved down the sidewalk and I felt her studying my face. “Did you have a fight with Sam?”
“What? No. I never fight with Sam.”
“Maybe you should. Work out some feelings.”
I shook my head. “We’re not that kind of couple. We’re . . . peaceful.” A gust of air blew my hair over my eyes, and I brushed it away.
“Anyway, did you know that weather like this can affect your mood?” Now she was wearing what I thought of as her librarian face. “Not for the better, sadly. But things like rain and wind have been proven to have a potentially negative effect on the spirit.”
“I love the wind,” I said in a small voice.
Belinda squinched up her eyes as we walked. “I’m trying to remember an article I read . . . some people have a particular sensitivity to weather. They can even anticipate coming storms.” She peered at me. “Maybe you’re responding to weather that hasn’t happened yet.”
“Maybe it’s just hormones,” I said, shrugging.
“Here we are. Come sit inside for a minute and talk to me. I haven’t seen you in a while. Did Doug tell you I want to throw a party?”
“Yes. He mentioned it yesterday,” I said, climbing into her passenger seat. “But then all this happened with Jane Wyland.”
“What’s all this?” she asked.
I told her. About Jane’s visit, and Camilla’s distress, as the reason we had come to Allison’s. “And the reason Doug and Cliff left turned out to be Jane’s death. I assume you read about it in the paper, or maybe Doug has told you.”
Belinda’s green eyes widened with interest. “He just mentioned it in passing. He tries not to talk about cases. This is all rather neatly dovetailed, isn’t it? How strange.”
“Yes, everything is strange. Remember when Hamlet said, ‘The time is out of joint’? That’s how it feels. Out of joint. I think that’s why I’m teary. I need someone to come and shove my life back into the socket.”
“A tenuous analogy, but I get it.”
“It’s Shakespeare’s analogy,” I said. “I’m just borrowing it.”
“In a weird way,” Belinda said, grinning.
I giggled, then sighed. “Do you have any chocolate on you?”
Belinda made a show of patting herself down. “No. I can take you into Bick’s and buy you a candy bar.”
“That sounds great. But I should probably get back and see what Camilla would like me to do. She said we can work on our book tomorrow, but maybe I should do some chores or wash the dogs or something. She does pay me, you know. I’m spoiled, and it’s the easiest job ever, but I try to be available for her.”
“You can take a rain check on the candy bar. Now, do you remember I said I had a present for you?”
“Oh yes. What is it?”
“Stay here. It’s in my trunk.”
She got out, and I watched her long blonde hair windmill around her head as she walked in the tempestuous air. She came back with a box. “Camilla’s publisher reissued all these titles with new covers, so we updated them and took these off the shelves. Old editions. They’re yours, or Camilla’s, if you want them.”
I stared down at a box full of hardback Camilla Graham books, some dating back to the ’70s and ’80s. “Ohhh, they’re beautiful! Look at this one. The Torches Burn Bright. Oh my gosh—I just read this line in a letter from Camilla’s husband. He was so romantic. This is taken from Romeo and Juliet! I wonder if that’s why Camilla gave the book that title. It is a romantic novel. Have you ever read it?”
Belinda shook her head. “No, but Doug tells me I need to get started. He’s read three or four of them. At first, he was just being loyal to Camilla, but now he’s hooked.”
“Of course,” I said, running my fingers lovingly over a copy of The Silver Birch. “Look at the cover art. Look at the way the light hits the birch trees. I was so in love with the hero in this one—Maximillian Brent.”
“You should see your face,” Belinda said with a little grin. “You know, you can tell a lot about a person by the books they read. Take it from a librarian; we are observers of human nature.”
“Is that so?”
“Sure. What is Camilla reading right now?”
I thought of Camilla’s living room, the cozy corner where she kept the knitting basket that she never used (although she did sometimes add a ball of yarn—I think she enjoyed the changing colors) and where her book of choice usually sat on a table beside her armchair. “The Story of My Life, by Helen Keller,” I said.
“Perfect. Doesn’t that just suit Camilla? I suppose she admires the woman’s tenacity and genius.”
“Yes, but also her philanthropy. Camilla’s been reading me some parts—Keller was so focused on others, and on gratitude. Considering her disabilities, she could certainly have become hardened or bitter. But she chose joy and service.”
“Interesting! Okay, that fits with Camilla. What’s Sam reading?”
I thought of Sam’s bedroom, where the two of us liked to occasionally cuddle together and read our respective books until we got distracted by each other. His bedside table generally held only his alarm clock, his watch, his Far Side coffee cup, and a small pile of books culled from a shelf in the corner, or newly received in the mail. I smiled. “He’s got a pile of three that he’s sort of rotating through. To Kill a Mockingbird, because I recommended it. He is in love with Scout.”
“Good.”
“Also a Bill Crider novel. Something about a sheriff in a small Texas town. He says I should read that one when he’s done.”
“Also good. He likes fiction, like you.”
“But he’s also reading a book about Crazy Horse and other great tribal leaders. He has great admiration for Native Americans.”
“See? That gives me new insights into Sam.”
“And what is Doug reading right now?”
Belinda smiled. “A book about Roosevelt, and a Sherlock Holmes novel. You know Doug—he likes his mysteries.”
I smiled and stroked the cover of The Silver Birch. “That’s right. He said something the day I met him, when he heard Lestrade’s name. I should have guessed.”
Belinda looked pleased. “I guess this was a good present, right?”
“Oh, it’s amazing! I don’t have all of these in hardback. I’m going to give you a kiss.” I leaned over to embrace her and plant my lips sloppily on her cheek, and she laughed. “You did make my day, thank you. My blues are fading.”
She waited while I tucked the books back into the box, then said, “So is it something with Sam?”
“No! I mean, I miss him a little. When I’m not busy with Camilla, he’s busy with Cliff. But that’s how it should be. He and Cliff have waited a lifetime to meet each other.”
“And you waited a lifetime for him,” Belinda said. “Reading romantic books and falling in love with fictional characters.”
“Yes, that’s true. And Sam is everything I need him to be.”
She turned away slightly to watch a piece of paper blow down Wentworth Street. “Well, that’s good. Shall I drive you home?”
“Don’t be silly. It’s just up the hill.”
“But you have that big box now. And whatever you bought at Bick’s.”
“I didn’t buy anything; I was just talking to Marge. Okay, my friend, I will take a ride, and while we drive I’ll tell you about Wally the bear.”
“Don’t cry,” Belinda warned with a sardonic lift of her lip.
“I’ll try not to,” I said.
* * *
• • •
I THANKED BELI
NDA again and invited her in for a cool drink, but she said she had to get home and make the most of her day off. She waved brightly as she shifted gears. “And we’ll have chocolate soon!” she yelled out the window before she drove down the gravel drive.
Inside Graham House I found Camilla paying bills in her office. “I’ll be finished in a moment, Lena, and then you and I can make a plan for the day,” she said. The dogs were back under her desk; not even their tails moved at the sound of my voice. Star must have given them a good walk.
I waved my assent to Camilla and ran upstairs to deposit the precious bag of books in my room. Lestrade was not on the bed; I wondered if he had ventured to a warmer spot. He seemed to fluctuate between wanting cool air and wanting to be as hot as he possibly could. Sometimes he even stalked up to Camilla’s attic, where he would lie in dusty sunbeams and bake in the hottest point of the house. At my dresser I combed my hair and then pulled it into a ponytail. Then I ran down to the kitchen, where I got some water at the tap and sat down to drink it. I checked my texts again; I had one from my father, asking how things were going. I texted back that things were fine and I missed him. I sent a hug emoji to go with it.
The emoji looked affectionate and comforting; I started to send one to Sam, but I got another text, this time from Allison. Did you hear about Belinda’s party? She’s throwing it on the Fourth, before the fireworks.
I wrote back that I planned to be there, and then I heard Camilla calling me. I returned to her office, where I spied Rochester stretching and yawning before rolling over and curling against his brother.
“Camilla, I meant to show you this,” I said, crossing the room and summoning the picture of Baby Athena that Victoria West had sent me. It still felt odd, hearing from Victoria, perhaps because for so long she had been only an idea to me, and a world-famous missing person. Now she was just Sam’s ex-wife, happily domesticated in a new relationship and clearly doting on her beautiful baby daughter.
Camilla looked at it, then clapped her hands. “Oh, she is so beautiful. I do hope they visit soon.” She looked at me with one of her shrewd expressions. “Victoria liked you a great deal. Still does, obviously. She wants you as a friend.”
“That’s nice, I guess.” I set the phone on Camilla’s desk. “I’m not sure why.”
Camilla raised her eyebrows. “You found her when no one else could. You saved her. And then you found her daughter. I think she idolizes you.”
“Wow.” I tended to feel guilty about Victoria, especially about the baby whose abduction I had witnessed without realizing it. Occasionally I was still haunted by the memory of Baby Athena’s trusting dark eyes. I had been essentially spying on Sam and Victoria when a man I had thought was Victoria’s assistant took the baby away.
“You don’t view her as a rival, do you?”
“No, not at all. She told Sam and me, a month or so ago, that she is in love with Tim, the man who was her bodyguard in Blue Lake. They seem good for each other.”
“It all worked out,” Camilla said placidly. “Meanwhile, our fictional heroine is still pining for the man she thinks has betrayed her. I think we need to relieve her worries in this chapter, don’t you?”
“Yes. We don’t have to wait until tomorrow—let’s do it now. And whatever revelation he brings must come as both a wonderful and a terrible surprise, because now she will realize that she has underestimated him.”
“Fine. Shall we exchange notes or talk it out first?”
“Let’s talk it out. Nothing like a good brainstorming session.”
Camilla touched the gold rim of her teacup. “And afterward—I suppose we should read some more letters.”
“All right. If it’s not too difficult for you.”
“I’ll be fine. Meanwhile I’ll ask Adam to come over soon. I want him to bring some old photo albums. Perhaps that will trigger some memories, in him or in me.”
“Good idea! I told Cliff that we would be looking, and he said he wants to hear any little detail we think is relevant.”
“Good.”
“Camilla? I spoke with Marge Bick today.”
“Ah?”
“She said that at one point there was a huge fight in James’s old group of friends, and that they never really came together again. Do you know what the fight was about?”
She shook her head slowly. “Nooo, although I think it happened shortly after we were married. I only went to some gatherings at the pub a few times before James suggested that we didn’t need to do it anymore. Whatever it was, he didn’t want it to touch me.”
“Marge said that the big fight happened right around the time Carrie left town.”
Again, Camilla looked a bit uncertain. “I did not know Carrie. She worked for James and his father for a time, but she was gone by the time I got here. I never actually shared this house with another woman—until you.”
“And look what a troublemaker I turned out to be,” I said, my voice light.
Camilla smiled absently, then nodded a couple of times. “Carrie. Of course. She’s a link to Jane and to the Grahams. She worked here; perhaps she’s the one who found out whatever ‘secret’ her sister thought she knew.”
I tried to picture it: Carrie dusting the shelves and finding a deep, dark Graham family secret in the form of—what? A letter? A document? A secret identity?
“I think I’ve read too many books,” I said. “The only things I can think of seem fictional.”
“I agree. If Jane Wyland hadn’t come here and made a scene I would never have believed there could have been anything shocking in the past—not regarding my husband, anyway.”
A thought occurred to me. “Did Carrie live here while she helped care for the house?”
Camilla narrowed her eyes and looked upward, as though focusing in on a memory. “I think she lived at her home, at that place we just visited. Where poor Jane died. But if I recall there was a time when James’s father was in a bad way and James had to go out of town that Carrie stayed for a while.”
“In my room, I’m guessing?”
She shook her head. “No. Mr. Graham lived down here because he had trouble taking the stairs. So that back library near the sunroom was his bedroom, and I think Carrie stayed in the little room beside it—the one where I keep my Christmas decorations now.”
“Ah. Did James have to travel a lot?”
“Back then he worked at a law firm in Daleville. He never practiced law; he did legal research. He mostly worked from his office or from home, but sometimes they sent him to seminars and conferences. He had to write up these dry things explaining the letter of the law, but he was actually a delightful creative writer. He composed a poem for me every Christmas, about the year we had just spent together. I have those somewhere, too. I’ll have to show you.”
“I wish I had met him, Camilla.”
“I do, too.” She smiled ruefully, then pointed at the office. “Now let’s get to work. We’ll come back to this mystery later.”
“Let me get a refill on my water and I’ll be right there.”
I went to the kitchen and filled my glass again at the tap, and then, out of curiosity, I moved down the hallway, past the sunroom to a small, square space where Camilla stored all sorts of seasonal decor. It was a nice enough room, with a small window that looked out on the lake, and slightly musty blue carpeting. I tried to imagine Carrie Wyland standing there, looking out at the view for a moment before returning to her chores, or to answer the call of poor old Mr. Graham. She had been so young then—what had she dreamed about? What had she wanted to do with the money she earned? And what was it about her young life that had infuriated her sister, had sent the older sibling running to the pub to confront all of her friends, to cause a rift that lasted for decades?
Blue Lake, unchanged for all that time, lay serene beneath the summer sun, keeping Carrie’s secrets and its own.<
br />
7
My dear Camilla, I apologize that you were distressed by the tone of my last letter. Life here has become complicated, but I continue to think of you with the same affection. I am facing a difficult decision, and it’s kind of you to say you want to help. The best way would be to go to that lovely church we visited, the one surrounded by lilac bushes, and say a heartfelt prayer for me. I know I’ll feel your inspiration, even across the sea.
—From the correspondence of James Graham and Camilla Easton, 1971
ON THE FIRST day of July, Camilla and I went to Wheat Grass for lunch; Adam had insisted that we leave the house and that the change of scenery would do us good, but I knew that he had an ulterior motive of wanting to see Camilla. She hadn’t been inviting him over as much, and I feared that sensitive Adam was feeling neglected. Even I had wondered if reading James’s lovely letters had cooled her affection for Adam, although I didn’t see any obvious lessening of Camilla’s fondness when she spoke of him.
We pulled up to the sophisticated building on the edge of Green Glass Highway right around lunchtime, and I realized that I was quite hungry, which I mentioned to Camilla as we walked toward the door.
“I think Adam said he has some new menu items,” she told me. “You must treat yourself to something delicious. My, the heat has come back today, hasn’t it?”
It had; the temperature was already eighty-five degrees and still climbing, and I was glad to enter the cool elegance of Wheat Grass, where the new hostess, Yolanda, met us at the door and led us to a table near the back of the room. As usual the silverware gleamed brightly, and a yellow rose sat in the center of the table. “I love this place,” I said. We sat down and Yolanda brought us a small loaf of bread. “Your waiter will be Thomas; he’ll join you in just a moment.”
“Thank you,” I said, already sawing away at the bread, to Camilla’s obvious amusement.
“All the waiters seem new in here,” she said in a rather sad voice.
“I’m sure some of your favorites are still on the staff—just on a different shift. Adam would tell you if any of your friends had left, wouldn’t he?”
Death Waits in the Dark Page 7