A Dark and Stormy Murder (A Writer's Apprentice Mystery)

by Julia Buckley

  Camilla smiled. “She’s still that way.”

  “The first day I met her, she said, ‘I’m Allison! How about if you take your nose out of that book and we can talk?’ I had been hiding, really, because I was afraid to be in a big new school. And just like that, Allison walked up and demanded to be my friend.”

  “How perfect.”

  “Yes. She’s so unlike me, because I’ve always been a quiet person. In school I walked around with my blank journal and doodled ideas in it when I had free moments. When we got together, Allison would jump around, learning some new dance for whatever inevitable play she was in and talking about every boy in school. But she made me laugh and brought me out of my moodiness. And she said I was the person who could always calm her down when she got too manic.”

  “I can see that—what a fine pairing. But you seem like the sort who should be in a play, as well. A name like Lena London, and that pretty face.”

  “Thank you.” I felt myself blush at her compliment. “I’ve always been more of an introvert.” I forked up some food and then, embarrassed, said, “I hope you don’t think I’m eating too much.”

  Camilla laughed. “Of course not. You probably haven’t eaten all day, and Rhonda always makes too much—she seems to be laboring under the delusion that I am a lumberjack.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh.

  “Besides,” Camilla said, turning her fork tines down to signal that she was finished, “I despise leftovers. One never knows what to do with them.”

  “Well, if my appetite stays this hearty, you won’t have to worry about leftover food. And I’m guessing the canine companions who are currently warming our feet would help you out with them.”

  “They often do,” she said. Then she leaned back and sighed. “Have you started reading the book?”

  “Oh, yes. What a pleasure! I’ve only read five chapters, but I’ll get back to it when I go upstairs. It’s wonderful, Camilla. I feel so honored to read it before the rest of the world.”

  “Good. But of course I’ll need your suggestions.”

  “It definitely has that Graham magic that your fans love. So far I just have two main notes.”

  She looked amused, but interested. “Good—go on.”

  “Well, the heroine—Johanna—leaves Salzburg in the first line, and it’s implied in the first chapter that she leaves out of necessity. Later, though, she tells the man she meets in the café that she left on a whim. So either she’s lying to the man in the café, or this is a contradiction of what the narrator tells us earlier.”

  Camilla leaned forward, her eyes bright. “That’s an excellent note. You might find that the issue resolves itself by chapter ten.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Okay, then there’s this issue: on Johanna’s passport, her middle name is listed as Alina. But later, when she signs the form at the embassy, she writes ‘Johanna T. Garamond.”

  Camilla clapped her hands. “This is what I need you for more than anything else, Lena! These small errors are the bane of my writing life, and the older I get the less I can keep track of them. Do please note these things down for me.”

  “Of course! Would you prefer a typed sheet?”

  “Perhaps that would be best. You have your laptop, correct? So if need be you can e-mail the comments to me, and I can send them to the printer in my office.”

  “And should I wait until I’m finished, or just send notes section by section?”

  “The latter will be best. Then your mind is fresh on the chapters you’ve just read.”

  For the first time since I had arrived, I thought I was seeing the real Camilla Graham. Her face was flushed with excitement as we talked about the process of feedback and revision, and I realized that she truly loved writing her books—it wasn’t just a job to her. But then again, one could guess that from reading her novels. Each one was a special journey for the reader, and perhaps for Camilla herself.

  Camilla sat back in her chair and stifled a yawn. I stood up and began to clear our dishes away.

  “Oh, don’t bother with that,” she said, but without much energy.

  “It’s the least I can do after you’ve fed me such a delicious meal.”

  “You can just set them in the sink, then. Rhonda does the washing up when she comes in to cook.”

  “I look forward to meeting her,” I said. I moved into the kitchen, illuminated only by a light over the stove, and scraped a few uneaten scraps into the big dog bowls by the sliding doors. Rochester and Heathcliff loped over to them and snuffled for a while. They were surprisingly slow eaters. When I was a teen, I’d spent a lot of time with Allison’s golden retriever, who inhaled food so quickly she was often confused about where it had gone. These two shepherds were more delicate about their eating, their long snouts buried in the bowl as they processed the food piece by piece.

  “Enjoy,” I said. I took the plates to the sink and set them down with care. Then I looked out at the dark night and the twinkling lights nestled into the bluffs of the town, and it struck me: I was looking at Blue Lake from inside Camilla Graham’s kitchen. I did a silent little dance, and the dogs watched me with interest, their ears up straight.

  I walked to them and patted their heads with new affection.

  “Good night, boys,” I said.

  I made my way back out to the dining room, where Camilla had tidied the table. “I think I’ll head on up for the night,” I said. “It’s been a surprisingly long day.”

  “Yes. Thank you for making the journey; I think our partnership will work out quite well, don’t you?” she asked.

  “I do.” I smiled at her, and she smiled back briefly. Then her face grew troubled.

  “I’m sorry for all that you had to witness today. It was most unfortunate. Martin was a nice young man, when all was said and done.”

  “Hopefully they’ll find the perpetrator quickly.”

  “I have the utmost faith in Doug,” she said, but her face was still solemn. I wondered if she was thinking about Sam West.

  We wished each other good night, and I went up the creaking stairs to Lestrade and The Salzburg Train. I knew that I could count on a Camilla Graham novel to make me forget all of my problems—even the unhappy reality that I had seen murder.

  I went to the beautiful desk and flicked on the green lamp. Lestrade jumped onto one corner and began to take an elaborate bath, but soon I had lost track of what he was doing, because Johanna Garamond was leaving the café and realizing that the man who had given her information was now following her . . .

  When I stopped reading I was on chapter fifteen and nearly gasping with suspense. “Camilla, you are amazing,” I murmured. I pulled my laptop toward me to type my notes while they were fresh.

  It was clear that Camilla had not lost her gift for writing, and this made me happy. She had long been my idol, but for a very powerful reason: opening a Camilla Graham novel was like stepping into a wonderland.

  5

  She had been in town less than a week when she realized that something evil lurked beneath the gingerbread facades and cobbled lanes.

  —from The Salzburg Train

  I WAS DOWNSTAIRS early the next morning; Allison had texted me the night before and asked if I wanted to meet her for breakfast before she went to work. She was a nurse, and she worked at the emergency room of St. Francis Hospital. I explained my plans to Camilla, who sat drinking coffee at her desk. “I sent you some notes last night,” I said. “And I will finish the book when I return.”

  She waved a hand. “That’s fine, dear. The schedule can be fluid as long as we find time to work each day. Meanwhile, tell Allison I said hello.”

  “I will—thank you.”

  I donned my warm jacket and scratched the heads of the disappointed dogs, who had clearly been hoping for a walk. “Later, guys, I promise,” I said, and I slipped out the door. I
almost tripped over a bald man in a fleece jacket who was kneeling on Camilla’s porch, bisecting a two-by-four with a handsaw as the board sat propped on a small sawhorse. A younger man with dark hair and a long, thin nose held one end of the wood, keeping it steady.

  “Oh, hello,” I said. “Doing some porch repairs?”

  The older man spared me a quick glance. “Who are you? The niece?” he said.

  “Um—no. I’m Lena London—I’m Camilla’s new assistant. Does she have a niece? I didn’t—”

  The younger man assessed me with widely spaced gray eyes. “What are you assisting her with? She doesn’t do anything. Just sits in her big house.”

  I disliked him instantly, and then it hit me: I was meeting the legendary Bob Dawkins and his horrible son. Camilla was right about the latter—the name suited him. “Camilla is one of the most famous suspense novelists living today. Writers all over the world wish they could do what she does.”

  Bob’s horrible son snorted and wiped at his long nose with a gloved hand. “Yeah. Drinking tea and writing about people drinking tea.” He slapped his father’s arm and got a laugh out of the older man.

  “You are utterly underestimating the woman for whom you work,” I said coldly. “But I realize that not everyone can find the mental stimulation that you do, cutting your boards in half.”

  My sarcasm was lost on them; in fact, they seemed to puff up slightly, their faces smirking, as though I had given them a compliment. Bob Dawkins became a fraction more human. “Watch your step on those stairs. The bottom two are rotten, and they won’t be fixed for another hour or so.”

  I wondered if they were charging Camilla more than was necessary; yet she didn’t strike me as the sort of woman who would suffer fools gladly. “Thanks,” I said, my tone still cold. I moved quickly down the stairs and onto the path. I could still hear the two of them reminiscing about the terrible joke Bob’s son had made.

  “Books about people drinking tea,” Bob said, and they both laughed.

  I made a mental note to ask Camilla to consider firing them, and then purposely put them out of my mind so that I could enjoy the day. The sun had returned to Blue Lake, and I was getting my first glimpse of fall as the light shone through the multicolored leaves rustling above me. The forested bluffs and the town below them glittered like gold.

  Inspired by the beauty, I made rapid time down the path and onto the main street, where I quickly located the diner Allison had recommended—the one called Willoughby’s. I reached it, recognizing the sign I had seen in the window the previous day, which read “Attention: we have delicious food, and we hope you’ll visit us for breakfast or lunch. Willoughby’s is not open for dinner!”

  I opened the wooden door, and a tiny bell jangled at my entrance. I was in a small room with delightful décor that made it seem I was being given intimate access to someone’s private dining room. Polished wood tables sat at regular intervals, each sporting a bud vase with a yellow rose. Family pictures and wooden plaques with famous sayings filled the walls. A young woman in a red gingham apron approached me. “Are you dining alone today?”

  “Uh, no—I’m meeting a friend. Can I have a table for two?”

  “Sure! How about there by the window?” She pointed out a narrow table with a view of the street, where the yellow rose and its crystal vase shone in a bright sunbeam.

  “Perfect, thank you.”

  “Can I get you something to drink while you wait, hon?”

  “Some tea, if you have it.”

  “Sure.”

  I sat down and looked around me. The restaurant wasn’t full, but there were ten or fifteen people scattered around the room in various-sized groupings, and based on their relaxed body language, they all seemed to be regulars. The waitress, whose nametag said “Carly,” was quick and efficient; she was back with a pot of tea in less than a minute, and then she swept through the tables—dropping off creamers here, ketchup there, and a bill somewhere else.

  The doorbell jangled and I looked up to see not Allison, but Sam West, looking a bit disheveled but somehow even more handsome because of it. Carly was at the door in a moment, and he murmured something to her; she led him to a table near mine, also by a window.

  He saw me when he was halfway to his chair and lifted a hand. “Hello, Lena. How are you this morning?”

  It was surprisingly pleasant, coming from the man who had been so rude the day before. “I’m fine, thanks. Meeting a friend for some breakfast.”

  “Enjoy,” he said, and then he disappeared behind a large red menu that bore a giant, gold-embossed “W” on the front.

  I took a deep breath and relaxed into my chair, taking pleasure in the preparation of my tea. I took it with a bit of cream and two sugars, and I enjoyed the ritual of making it almost as much as the act of drinking it. I was stirring in the sugar when I noticed a sort of rustling in the room; I looked up to see that a great deal of attention was being focused on Sam West. The diners were observing him while trying not to appear to be doing so. Suddenly a variety of people were pretending to look at art on the wall, or searching for something outside the window where West was sitting, or, in the most brazen cases, merely staring directly at West.

  If he knew it was happening he pretended he did not, but continued to peruse his menu, which lay on the table now, with a relatively serene expression. I realized that I, too, was staring. I looked down at my tea, my face red with indignation on his behalf. What must it feel like to be West in a town this small? Why would he stay in a place where the populace believed the worst of him? Camilla had expressed nothing but sympathy for West, and had sniffed indignantly at the thought that he could be a murderer. And after all, West’s wife was only missing—why would everyone assume that she was dead?

  The waitress appeared at West’s table, and he gave her his order in a low tone.

  My phone buzzed on my table; I had received a text. Sighing, I realized this meant that Allison was probably running late, but when I clicked open the message I saw that it was worse:

  “Lena, so sorry—there was a car accident and I’ve been called in early to help the emergency staff. Can we reschedule?”

  “Oh crap,” I said, apparently more loudly than I’d thought, because I glanced up to see Sam West grinning at me.

  “Problem?” he said.

  I sighed and texted back, assuring Allison that we could meet later. How stressful to have a job like that, when one had to be called in to witness terrible things. But in addition to that, I had a very selfish response. I’d had so much to tell her . . .

  “It can’t be that bad,” West persisted, his eyes bright. Clearly I was providing his morning entertainment.

  I shrugged. “My friend can’t make it for breakfast. No big deal.”

  He was up in an instant and moving toward my table; then he was sitting across from me. I realized my mouth was hanging open, and I clamped it shut.

  “I can’t let you eat alone,” he said. “That wouldn’t be hospitable—seeing as you just got to town.” He smiled again, and with a rush of admiration I realized that a smiling Sam West was far, far preferable to a scowling one.

  “Well, thanks. I’m not big on solo dining.” I stole a glance at the faces in the room: they weren’t hiding their interest now. I was aware of many sets of eyes, some shining with interest, some narrowed with hostility.

  “You always make this big an impression?” I said lightly.

  “You get used to it.” He looked out the window as he said it. “I suppose Camilla has filled you in on the reason for my celebrity status?”

  “Only minimally. She told me of an unfortunate label you’ve earned in town, and she scoffed at it.”

  Carly the waitress was back with Sam West’s coffee. She didn’t bat an eye at his change of location. She set it down in front of him, and I ordered a waffle with extra butter. She jotted it d
own and said, “Your breakfasts will be out in a jiff.”

  We thanked her, and she whisked off again to make her rounds. I wondered if she had sore feet by the end of the noon rush.

  Sam West opened a creamer packet and poured it into his coffee; he stirred it in with a thoughtful expression. “Camilla is a good woman. I respect her.”

  “That seems to be mutual.”

  He nodded. “Has Camilla hired you, then? Is this a permanent position?”

  “It seems to be a good fit.”

  “Good, good.” He took a sip of his coffee and ran a belated hand over his disheveled hair.

  “I’m very excited about her latest book. It’s spectacular, as they always are.”

  His eyes met mine for a moment. “How did she happen to find you?”

  “It’s a strange story,” I said.

  “I’d love to hear it,” said Sam West, leaning back in his chair with his coffee cup.

  So I told him: of my lifetime devotion to Camilla’s books, of my friendship with Allison, of Allison’s marriage and relocation, and then of Allison’s life-changing phone call and my own unexpected move. “So, in the end, it can’t be called anything short of serendipity,” I concluded.

  “Indeed. As though you were destined to meet this woman you idolized.”

  I felt the hugeness of my own smile. “I still can’t believe it, to be honest. That I’m living in her house, and reading her work in progress, and dining with her at mealtime.”

  “Except today.”

  “Today I was supposed to meet Allison and fill her in on everything.”

  “And here I thought it would be a young man meeting you here.”

  “I don’t know a soul in this town, aside from Camilla, you, and Doug Heller.”

  West’s face grew shuttered. “Ah, yes, Detective Heller.”

  “You two don’t seem to like each other.”

  “We don’t.”

  Carly appeared with a plate of eggs, sausage, and hash browns for West and a preposterously large waffle for me. I was torn between greed and embarrassment. West saw my expression and laughed—a surprisingly youthful sound.