“Overachiever,” I said, and Lestrade mewed in apparent agreement. Seemingly tired of Heathcliff, he wandered to the desk and jumped on it and began to play with a pencil that was lying there. He deliberately knocked it on the floor, then looked at me.
I scratched his ears. “Google is our friend, Lestrade. What do you want to know?”
He squinted at me, perhaps surprised that I wasn’t going to get upset about the whole pencil thing. Sometimes Lestrade just wanted a reaction. In that way I supposed he was just like any person. I had a sudden inspiration and Googled “Martin Jonas.” This brought only a few results: one was a crime report from five years earlier, when Martin Jonas had been a senior in high school. Jonas and two other boys were arrested after “significant vandalism” of their school. They had been caught in the act by a passing patrol car. All three of them had spent some time in jail.
I found an older article about Jonas winning an art award; apparently he had been a promising painter. So why had he stopped going to school and gotten a job as a waiter? Surely his jail record hadn’t kept him from pursuing more education? Or maybe Jonas was just one of those kids who couldn’t wait to get out of high school and had no intention of going any further. I sighed. One day in Blue Lake, and I was surrounded by mysteries—and not just Camilla Graham’s, which I had been avoiding in order to follow my curiosity about the locals.
I had accomplished very little on Camilla’s manuscript by the time I wandered down for lunch. I amused Camilla and Rhonda with the tale of Heathcliff and Lestrade. Rhonda stood in the doorway, holding a dish towel, and chatted with us a bit while we ate another delicious salad.
“Where do you get such fresh greens?” I said. “Salads in the city are nothing like this.”
She grew pink with pleasure. “Sometimes they’re from my own garden. But we have a little farm stand here in Blue Lake called Dooley’s. It’s on Green Glass Highway—you probably passed it when you drove into town.”
I had seen it—it was visible when I pulled over to get Lestrade off the ceiling of my car. That’s when I had met Doug Heller without knowing who he was . . .
“It’s delicious as always, Rhonda,” Camilla said in her quiet way.
Rhonda shrugged. “I’ll get started on the main dish.” She moved back into the kitchen, and I turned back to Camilla.
“I was doing a little research upstairs. I happened to see that Sam West and his wife were in the process of divorcing when she disappeared.”
Camilla’s eyebrows rose as she speared some greens with her salad fork. What seemed like a smile flitted across her lips and was gone. “That’s true. It was over for all intents and purposes.”
“Which means he would have no motive to, uh—eliminate her. So why is Doug Heller staking out Sam West’s house?”
“Is he doing that?” She looked surprised.
“Yes, Sam says so.”
“And when did you speak with Sam?”
“This morning Allison couldn’t make breakfast after all. I was sitting in the restaurant alone, and Sam was there, so he joined me at my table. He was actually really nice, and sort of funny. So much different from the first time I met him.”
“Perhaps he was just wary of you. You would be horrified, Lena, to know what perfect strangers have said to him, written to him. People who have decided that he is evil when the police themselves don’t even know if a crime has been committed. It’s those people out there, Lena—the ones who would be judge and jury and executioner if they could—they are the ones to be afraid of. Not people like poor Sam West.”
I opened my mouth to ask another question, but the doorbell rang, which set off a cacophony of barking. Heathcliff and Rochester came bounding into the hall and put on their scary dog impressions. Rhonda whisked past and said, “I’ll get it.” Soon enough she was ushering in Adam Rayburn, the man who had saved me when Heathcliff had trapped me on the stairs. “Hello, ladies,” he said. He held a huge sheaf of roses in his hand—a rainbow of pastels—and set them down next to Camilla. “We got a new flower delivery for the vases at Wheat Grass, but they sent too many. I thought I’d brighten your day with a sampling.”
Camilla pursed her lips at him. “Those are absolutely beautiful, and they are not just leftovers. That bouquet looks expensive, Adam!”
He held up his hands. “I swear. I just took the extras and put them in some paper.”
“They’re divine,” I said. “You have a knack for presentation.”
“Sit down, Adam,” Camilla said with a wave of her hand. “Would you like some lunch?”
He shook his head. “I can’t stay. I have some interviews to do this afternoon. And I’m on the way to speak to the mother of Martin Jonas.” His face grew grim.
“Oh, my. How is she holding up?” Camilla asked.
“Not well, although thankfully she has a big family that is providing a great deal of support. Martin was always a challenge, I understand. But he was the youngest, and much loved.”
“Why are you going to see her?” I asked.
“Just to send my sympathy, and to give her Martin’s last check and some money that we collected at Wheat Grass for the family.”
Camilla pushed her salad plate away and pulled one of the roses out of the paper. It was a creamy yellow, just out of bud and beautifully fragrant. She held it to her nose and closed her eyes for a moment. For an instant she looked twenty years younger and quite lovely. “It is so sad about Martin. He was just a boy, really.”
“Yes.”
“Do the police have any leads?” I asked.
“Not that I’ve heard. I hope to speak with Doug Heller today, as well.” He looked at Camilla for a moment, then stood up. “Well, I must get going. Thank you for the offer of lunch. Perhaps I might join you on another day.”
Camilla stood up and offered her left hand; in her right she still clutched the yellow rose. “Of course, Adam. Rhonda will make something special when you come by. Let us know when you have a day off.”
“I will. Good-bye—Lena, is it?”
“Yes. Good to see you again, Adam.”
He left the room, and soon after we heard the front door open and close. Rhonda walked in with a hearty casserole, and I found that I was in fact hungry again.
I didn’t bring up Sam West again, and Camilla seemed slightly distant for the rest of our lunch, as though something were on her mind. Perhaps she was thinking about revisions for her book. It was time, I realized, to stop letting Blue Lake and all of its inhabitants distract me. I needed to go upstairs and finish The Salzburg Train, and then Camilla and I could begin our work in earnest.
* * *
FIVE HOURS LATER I did finish the book. I had made seven pages of notes, but that hadn’t kept me from fully enjoying the novel, which in many ways was the best she had ever written. I sighed and stroked my hand across the manuscript. “Beautiful,” I said. My mind was already fashioning potential covers for this eventual bestseller, and all of them were fascinating, filled with mysterious blues and lavenders and greens as the train rushed through an Austrian forest at twilight.
Lestrade clawed at my door from the hallway; Camilla and I had agreed that, since the dogs seemed to have accepted him now, he could have the house to explore. He seemed to understand, though, that my room was his home base, so he had made a few trips in and out since I had started reading. I got up, stretched, and let in my fluffy feline friend. “Had a nice walk?”
He leaped up on the bed and began his bathing ritual. My phone rang shrilly, making us both jump. “Sorry, Lestrade,” I said, grabbing it and clicking it on. It was Allison, her voice comforting and familiar.
“Hey, Lee,” she said.
“Hey, pal. How were the accident victims? I hope no one died.”
“No, thank God. We had a couple of broken limbs, though. Sorry to leave you in the lurch.”
&n
bsp; I sighed in her ear. “Well, I can’t really begrudge your services to sick people, but I was bummed out that I couldn’t talk to you.”
“That’s why I called—to invite you over for dinner tomorrow. I want you to see our house, and we’re inviting a fourth person, too. A guy John wants you to meet. That way you can get married and we can all raise our kids in Blue Lake.”
“Wow. No pressure or anything.”
“You sound weird. Are you under stress?”
“Do you have time now? Or does John need you to rub his feet or something?”
She giggled in my ear. “You crack me up when you’re crabby. I have all evening for you if you need it, my dearest friend.”
“Fine. Then get comfortable. There’s stuff I have to tell you.”
So I did: about Camilla and her house, and her dream of a manuscript, and the dead man on the beach.
“Oh, God, I heard about that on the news. Martin, of all people. We knew him from the restaurant, and sometimes when we had Wheat Grass cater our events, he would be the one to show up with the food—”
“Wait, there’s more. I went to meet you for breakfast and you didn’t show up, so I thought, fine, I’ll eat alone, and then Sam West came and sat at my table, and—”
“What?”
“Sam West. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him—”
“Oh, I’ve heard of him.”
“He was being nice. He saw that I was alone and he didn’t want me to look like a loser.”
“Lena, stay away from him. There’s something you should know . . .”
“I already do. The people in this town have already decided that he’s some evil murderer when his wife hasn’t even been found. Sam has no idea—”
“Sam? You’ve been here a day and you’re calling him Sam?”
“It’s his name. Anyway, he has no idea what happened to his wife.”
“And how do you know that?”
“He told me.”
There was silence at the other end. I envisioned Allison desperately pantomiming to John across the room, probably suggesting that I would soon be murdered.
“Allison?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Listen, we need to talk about this in person. Can you come tomorrow night? I’m making a lasagna.”
“Yes, I’ll be there. Text me the address and the time.”
“Don’t be mad at me, Lee-lee. This is just—a lot has happened to you in one day.”
“Tell me about it. You said this was a quiet little town.”
“It is. This stuff—this is an anomaly. Normally the most exciting news is that someone stole a bicycle or knocked over a mailbox.”
“So far I have found Blue Lake to be full of conflict—from the storm that ushered me into this place to the evil looks I got at the restaurant yesterday. Not to mention the dead man that I saw up close and personal.”
“That must have been scary. I’m sorry you saw that, Lee.”
“Have you seen them at the hospital? Dead people?”
“Yes—a couple of times. It’s easier to process there because it’s not always unexpected. Your experience was shocking. I hope you’ll be able to put it out of your mind.”
“I can, sometimes. But then it floats back in.”
“Poor Lena. You need good friends, some good wine, and a good home-cooked meal.”
“Yes.” I looked at Lestrade, who had cuddled into a ball, and felt inexplicably sad. “You know what? I’m suddenly really tired. Just text me that info and I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Looking forward to it.”
“Okay—bye, Lee.” She sounded a little uncertain. Allison had always been an uncanny barometer of my moods, and she knew something was going on with me—perhaps better than I did, since I wasn’t quite sure of the source of my melancholy.
I said good-bye and clicked off.
For the rest of the day I fought the bad mood that hung like a cloud over my head, just like the clouds that had hung over Blue Lake on the day of my arrival.
7
Gerhard took her one day on a jaunt in the Black Forest, where the giant trees stood like sentries over the curving, rutted path, and leaves littered the ground like two-toned confetti, silencing their footfalls so that the only sound was the “twee twee” of the red crossbill who sheltered in the branches far above them. She had the sense that she had entered another world, and that the silent man she followed was leading her into oblivion.
—from The Salzburg Train
THE NEXT MORNING I walked down the hill, heading toward the main street and Bick’s Hardware. I needed to tap my sadly depleted savings account in order to get some cash for my expenses. I had not signed any official contract with Camilla, and now, as my hero worship receded enough for me to be practical, I wondered if I should ask about it. Even if this were a standard job, I wouldn’t be paid for a couple of weeks, I realized, so Camilla was within her rights to test me out, as it were. Still, I felt a bit precarious in the financial sense.
My father, far away in Florida with his new wife, Tabitha, texted me occasionally to ask about my money situation. It was his largesse that had allowed me to finish graduate school, but I hated relying on him for money at the age of twenty-six. This morning’s text said:
Hi hon. How’s the new job? Living the dream. Need money?
This was my father in a nutshell. Always fond, always providing. My mother had been the same, before her untimely death, and I felt the prick of unexpected tears as I neared my destination. Our life together—father, mother, daughter—had been wonderful, but seemed distant now.
I paused at the door to Bick’s and breathed in some cold Blue Lake air. This calmed and refreshed me. I marched through the crowded store with its odd arrangement of items and went to the back counter, where an unlikely ATM sat beside an antique cigarette machine. With a surreptitious glance around the room to make sure I was not being observed, I punched in my information and retrieved my cash, which I stowed in the little purse with a long strap that I wore slung over one shoulder and tucked underneath the other arm. In Chicago, it had taken one pickpocket and one purse thief before I had finally gotten wise about security and conscious of the way I carried my possessions. Now, in this little town that sometimes looked to have only about one hundred residents, I was as cautious as a cat.
I gathered a few items, then went to the window of the little post office. It was my stepmother’s birthday in a few days, and I had written her a silly card. For some reason, Tabitha thought I was hilarious, so I always tried to live up to that reputation, but with her alone.
“Hello, hon,” said Marge Bick, leaning toward me over the counter. “You’re Lena, right? I remember that name. Sort of old-fashioned, somehow.”
“I suppose. How are you, Marge?”
“Oh, hanging in. Do you need stamps again?”
“No. Just to mail this.”
She took my envelope and read it with inappropriate curiosity. “Florida, huh? What, do you have a boyfriend out there?”
I felt my friendliness diminishing with her invasion of my privacy. “No—just some family.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Although you probably don’t get to see them much.”
“They come up now and then. And I always have an excuse to vacation in Florida, so that’s good.”
“Horace and I went to Daytona Beach in spring once. So pleasant, and the weather was so nice. A big gang of bikers there, too, though.” She looked at my letter again. “But I see your folks live in Jupiter.”
“Yes.”
She looked at my face, shrugged, and tossed the letter into what was apparently an outgoing mail bin. “Anything else today, hon?”
“Just these.” I pushed forward a bag of cat food, some toiletries, and a local newspaper.
Marge pointed at the headline—“Local Man Slain”—and frowne
d. “This happened up by you, didn’t it? Right by Mrs. Graham’s house.”
“Yes. It’s a terrible thing.”
Marge sighed as she rang up my items in the slowest way possible. “That boy, though. You sort of knew he would end up in trouble.”
“Why?”
“I saw him in here all the time with unsavory types. I always told my own kids, pick your friends wisely. The peer group.” She nodded with a sage expression and pushed her cheaters up on her nose. “They are the biggest influence, for good or bad. Isn’t that true? Think of your own pals, when you were a teenager. But you’re just a youngster. That wasn’t long ago, was it?”
“Fairly long. Who were the people he hung around with?”
“I don’t know all their names. Some of them were regulars from the bowling alley down there. That place is unsavory.” She clearly liked this word. “They hang around and drink beer, and when they’re not bowling, they’re playing darts.”
I pretended I was yawning to conceal my laughter. When I managed to reclaim a blank face, I said, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“You’d have to go in there to know what I mean. And I do NOT recommend that you go in there. You’re too nice a young woman. For one thing, the place smells awful, like old beer and body odor and onions. And maybe something else, if you know what I mean.”
“Do you mean drugs?”
Marge darted a glance around, as though we might be under surveillance. “Yes, I think so. I don’t claim to know what they all smell like—all the drugs—but I know a weird smell when I smell it.”
“So you weren’t a fan of Martin Jonas?”
“Oh, he was okay. A nice enough boy at heart. But it’s like I said—he picked the wrong crowd. And now I’m proved right, because they killed him, didn’t they? They killed that poor boy.”
A Dark and Stormy Murder (A Writer's Apprentice Mystery) Page 8