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

by Julia Buckley

  A woman got in line behind me; I darted a quick glance back and saw that it was a very sleepy-looking Lane Waldrop, holding a package of diapers. “Hello,” I said.

  “Hey!” Her face brightened slightly. “Lena, right?”

  “Yes. And you’re Lane.”

  “Right. Our names are kind of similar.” She grinned at me, and I realized she was very pretty when she smiled.

  “Looks like you ran out,” I said, pointing at the diapers. I’ve never claimed to be a great conversationalist.

  “Yeah—Tommy had a little accident in bed last night and I had to clean him up and calm him down at three this morning, and then when I woke up, I saw we had only one left. That kid can go through them, I swear.” She brushed some of her red hair off her shoulder, and I realized it was a beautiful shade—the kind you couldn’t buy in a box.

  Marge leaned in with her curious face. “Where’s Clayton? Can’t he help when you’re half exhausted?”

  She shrugged. “Clay’s got a new client who wants all these shrubs dug up and then a whole new landscaping thing done in his front yard. He had to get up at five and drive to Frontsville to pick up the sod and wood chips. He offered to take Tommy with him, but I just asked Selby from next door to come over.”

  Marge sighed. “Ah, parenthood. I remember those days oh so well. And I had four of them under six at one point.”

  Lane offered a thin smile, and I got the impression she had heard this story before. “Anyway, I’ve got to pay for these and get home before Tommy decides to fill the one he’s got on.” She looked pointedly at her watch.

  Marge didn’t see it as a brush-off. “Oh, right you are. Those little ones keep you on your toes, don’t they?” She rang up the diapers and put them in a bag.

  “I’d better get going, too,” I said. “It was nice seeing you again, Lane. Bye, Marge.”

  Lane held up a finger as she took her change. “Hang on, I’ll walk you out.”

  We made small talk as we moved back through Bick’s Hardware, and then on the sidewalk Lane said, “Hey, we were supposed to make a lunch date, remember? I’d have you over to my place, but it’s a disaster. I bet I can get Selby to watch the kids and I could come up to your manor house.” She said the last two words with an ironic twist of her lips.

  She certainly seemed fascinated with Graham House. And yet who was I to judge? I had a near-obsession with the woman inside Graham House. “I would love that, but I don’t feel comfortable inviting anyone unless I ask Camilla first. Maybe I can text you and let you know?”

  “Sure! Hand me your phone.” She set her bag down and took my proffered cell, tapping it expertly with quick fingers. “There. I put myself into your contacts. Now call me, so you’ll be in mine.”

  I took the phone back, found Lane’s number, and pressed it. She took out her own phone, clicked it on, and said, “Hello?” holding it comically up to her ear. We laughed, and I realized that I liked her. She was whimsical and fun—I wondered if Allison knew her. They seemed to have a great deal in common.

  I tucked my phone in my pocket. “I’d better get back—but I’ll text you today or tomorrow, okay?”

  “You got it. Meanwhile, parenthood calls.”

  “Your children are very cute.”

  Her face softened. “I know. They drive me nuts, but I know.” She sent me a last wave and went loping over to a red Ford station wagon. She climbed into the driver’s seat and fiddled with the radio; moments later she was driving past me and I was being treated to a bar of Taylor Swift asking why someone had to be so mean.

  I made my way back up the bluff, enjoying the serenity of isolation and trying to dream up a plot for a mystery that could be set in Blue Lake, Indiana. The fact that it already contained many mysteries made me wonder, briefly, if I might consider writing true crime.

  I hesitated at the bottom of Sam West’s long driveway and wondered if he considered me a friendly neighbor at this point. Should I wander up and say good morning? And yet he had made it clear he valued his privacy. I stood there, uncertain, staring at the little stones on the curving driveway and half expecting West to wander out with one of his cigarettes, holding a hand up to keep the flame alive. Would he appreciate a friendly face? A non-judgmental voice? Or would he just want to be alone, focused on his investments and his investigation into his wife’s disappearance? After a moment’s hesitation, I turned and continued up the hill toward Camilla’s house.

  Bob Dawkins and his horrible son were on the porch again, this time installing some marigolds and mums in the window boxes on either side of the front door. It was a surprisingly bright and attractive addition generated by two opposingly dark and dingy human beings. I pretended I didn’t see them as I walked up the stairs, but the older man pointed at me with a dirty finger. “You been to town?”

  I help up my Bick’s Hardware bag. “Yup. Running some errands.”

  “You should be careful walking all alone,” he said. He made eye contact for a millisecond before he stared back at the dirt and his flowers. The scent of soil permeated the air.

  I hesitated. Was that a threat or a warning? Either way it felt rather sinister, especially because, while Bob Dawkins’ face was expressionless, his son’s wore a smirk that was, as Marge Bick would put it, “unsavory.”

  “Why do you say that?” I said.

  He shrugged. “A man’s been killed. Never know what kind of loonies are running around. Plus there’s him down the road.” He beckoned with his head toward the end of the driveway while his hands continued to knead the soil, plunging the roots deep into their new home.

  A burst of defensiveness filled me. “I have nothing to fear from Sam West—or probably anyone else. It seems to me that Martin Jonas was killed because of some sort of personal issue. I certainly hope no one else is going to be harmed.”

  “Yeah, let’s hope,” said Bob Dawkins to his flowers.

  His son said nothing. I wondered if he were socially impaired in some way.

  I moved into the house and glimpsed Camilla sitting at her desk near the fireplace. “Good morning,” I said.

  “Oh, Lena—good. Did you go out for some breakfast?”

  “No. I just had to pick up some items at Bick’s.”

  “Rhonda left breakfast in the kitchen. Do help yourself. What would be a convenient meeting time?”

  “I can meet in half an hour, or any time after that. I just want to feed Lestrade and have a bite to eat.”

  “Fine. Half an hour.” She waved and went back to her work. I moved upstairs with my bag and looked for Lestrade in my room, but he had wandered out. I poured him some food anyway, figuring that he would search for it sooner or later. I stowed the toiletries in my bathroom and sat near the window with my newspaper, where I read the story about Martin Jonas. He had been twenty-four years old, the article said, and helping to support his war veteran father and cancer-ridden mother. Someone had started an online fund for the family, and it had already raised eighteen thousand dollars—an example of one of the more positive things that the Internet could do.

  There was a picture of Jonas, apparently taken when he was much younger, and his face bore a certain vulnerability that I had not noticed in person. Perhaps Marge Bick had been right, and Jonas had changed due to his ill-chosen companions.

  Doug Heller was pictured, too, squinting in the sun as he stood on the beach. The caption read “Detective Douglas Heller of the BLPD says that the case is still under investigation, and as of yet the police have no suspects.”

  What must it be like, I wondered, to have to face a puzzle so daunting, with no guarantee that the answer would eventually emerge from the mist of clues? Doug Heller faced such a puzzle, but so did Sam West. Did he sit in his house at night, trying to work out what might have happened to his estranged wife? Did Doug Heller fear that his job would be on the line if he did not come through
with answers?

  Suddenly glad about my own job and my confidence that I could do it well, I grabbed my annotated manuscript, went down to the kitchen, and ate a quick plate of scrambled eggs with toast and a little fruit salad, which Rhonda had displayed attractively in individual blue ceramic bowls. I put my dishes in the sink, feeling decadent, and went in to Camilla and her warm, cozy study.

  “Is now an okay time?” I asked, holding the sheaf of papers awkwardly in my arms.

  “Of course. Here—pull up that purple chair. Then we can both use the desk.”

  I set the book down and dragged over the stuffed chair she had indicated. It was firm, yet comfortable.

  She smiled at me, then pointed at the manuscript. “This has annotations, as well? Wonderful. I’ll take that, too. I’ve been going through your notes. They are splendid, Lena.”

  “Thank you. Your book was an inspiration.”

  “Mmm.” I needed to remember that, as a rule, Camilla was immune to compliments.

  “Where should we start?”

  “I am concerned at this point about the scene in the Black Forest. You made some fine notes there, and clearly there is a problem. What do you think is lacking?”

  I settled into my chair while I thought about it. “The thing is—the location alone is thrilling. She’s left Austria and has become embroiled in the mystery in Altensteig. And then there’s that amazing scene where she’s being chased through the Black Forest by the man whose criminal enterprise she has stumbled upon. It’s compelling. But—it’s not as suspenseful as it should be.”

  “Yes. You’re right, of course. I reread it last night, through your eyes, and I can see that it needs to be much more intense. I need them on the edges of their seats, not just appreciating the scenery.”

  “Which I did,” I said.

  She laughed. “Lena, you are irrepressible.”

  “I sense that you’ve seen it firsthand—the Black Forest. Have you been there?”

  Her expression grew soft. “On my honeymoon. Many, many years ago. Beautiful places tend to stay with you, especially if they are the settings for beautiful experiences.”

  “Camilla—I know we’re just getting acquainted, but someday—I’d love to hear how you met. You and your husband.”

  She nodded, her expression brisk again. “And someday I would like to tell you. Now—here is what I propose. We will both rewrite the scene in the forest. We will share, and decide on the best parts of each for the most suspenseful experience. Is that all right with you?”

  I’m sure my face was bright red. “I—it—I would love to. I—if you think—”

  “Good. In the meantime I’ll finish the other notes and work on addressing them, point by point. How long will you need to write the scene? It’s approximately, what? Fifteen pages.”

  “Uh—let’s say two days. That way I can write and rewrite and bring you what I think is best.”

  “Excellent.” She held out her hand like a business executive, but she was laughing. I shook it, and then I was laughing, too.

  I wanted to say something about how honored I was to have the chance to write with her, but it was clear she already knew that. I stood to go, but she held up a hand.

  “Wait one more moment, Lena. I realized that we haven’t really addressed the issue of your pay. I took it up with my accountant yesterday, and she put you on the payroll. If it’s all right with you, you’ll receive compensation on the first and the fifteenth of the month. Since today is the fifteenth, I had her generate a check and bring it to me this morning.”

  She handed me an envelope, which I took, feeling awkward. Did I open it in front of her? Did I wait to open it in my room? What was the etiquette?

  Camilla seemed to read my mind. “You’ll probably want to open it later; when you do, I want you to know that this is the going rate in New York and London for people doing exactly what you are doing.”

  “Okay. Thank you,” I said. Was she warning me that it was a low amount? Or suggesting that I might find it too high? I feared it was the former.

  “In addition, I’ve had my lawyer write up a contract.” She slid a packet over to me. “You’ll want to have your people look it over.”

  “Oh—uh, yes.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t really have any . . . people.”

  Camilla’s mouth twitched. “There are several worthwhile attorneys here in town who work on a sliding scale. And now that I think of it—your friend Sam West used to be an investment banker. I think he’d be quite good at this.”

  “Oh! Okay, yes. Thank you. Thank you, Camilla.” I had stood up and was backing away as I spoke, clutching my contract and my envelope, which I was dying to open. Then I stopped. “Oh—I meant to tell you that I’m having dinner with Allison tonight. So Rhonda only needs to feed you.”

  She nodded. “She always makes too much. I hate to have all that food just sitting around—who might . . . perhaps I’ll have Adam over—as a thank-you for the roses. What do you think?”

  “That sounds great. I hope he can make it. Also, I ran into Lane Waldrop in town this morning.”

  “Yes, I know Lane.”

  “She spoke about us having lunch together. I had the feeling she was hinting that she’d like to be invited here. I think your house has a certain mystique for the locals—”

  Camilla shrugged. “God knows why. But you’re welcome to have her here for lunch. Just let me know the day and I will tell Rhonda. Actually, I’ll be out of town for half the day on Thursday. I have a doctor appointment in Daleville. I love my doctor, and she moved farther away, so I followed her.”

  “I see. All right, Thursday then. I will tell Lane to come at—noon?”

  “Make it twelve thirty. Rhonda will want to have everything just so. She’s very particular about visitors. As though I were the queen and this were the castle.”

  I laughed. “Well, thank you, Camilla. For everything.”

  “The gratitude is mutual, dear.”

  Out in the hall I increased my pace, practically running up the stairs and diving on my bed to tear open the envelope. I stared at the amount in the box with my mouth hanging open. After taxes, my pay came to twenty-five hundred dollars. AFTER taxes. Which meant I was being paid five thousand dollars a month. I was getting free room and board and a ridiculously high salary for work that was easy and did not confine me to a rigorous eight-hour schedule. Lestrade flew up onto the bed, breathing his cat food breath on me.

  “Lestrade, I am rich. I’m rich and lucky and happy. I can pay off my debts and buy gifts for my father and new tires for my car. I am an employed woman.” I said this to him earnestly, but he yawned as though he’d heard it all before. I scratched his fluffy head and got up to set the check and the contract carefully on my desk. I would have to decide on a bank in the area. Meanwhile, I needed someone to look at the agreement.

  I opened my laptop and searched the local white pages for Blue Lake. Then I googled Sam West. I figured his number would be unlisted, given the extent of the harassment he had received, but to my surprise, his name and number were right there on the page. I felt nervous about approaching him for a favor, but I grabbed my cell phone and dialed before I could talk myself out of the decision.

  He answered on the third ring. “Sam West. Is this Lena?”

  “Uh—yes. Hi, Sam. You have caller ID?”

  “I do. Nice to hear from you.”

  “Yes. You might not think so when you hear that I’m calling to ask for a favor.”

  “I have no problem doing a favor for you. You granted me one the other day by dining with me.” His voice was deeper than I remembered, rumbling into my ear.

  “That’s nice of you. Okay, here goes: Camilla gave me a contract, and said I should have someone look it over. Except I don’t know a soul in this town, and I know zero
about contracts and money and things.”

  “I know everything about them. We are the yin and yang of contracts.” He sounded amused, and my tension eased.

  “I wonder if you would look at it and advise me? I would owe you another favor in return.”

  “That is the best part of all. Knowing I have a favor coming from Lena London.”

  I said nothing, and he laughed.

  “Of course I’ll do it, Lena.”

  “Oh, thank you so much!”

  “When would you like to meet?”

  “Um—I’m basically free, except I’m having dinner with my friend Allison tonight. She’s the one who stood me up for breakfast the other day.”

  “I am in her debt.”

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  “Yes, I guess so. Would you like to meet for breakfast again?”

  “Sounds good. But this time you come here and I’ll feed you. I’ve had enough evil stares for one week.”

  “Um—okay.”

  His voice became businesslike. “Meanwhile, why don’t you drop the contract off on your way to dinner, and I’ll look it over tonight.”

  “Thank you! That would be great. I’ll do that. Probably around six.”

  “I’ll meet you in the driveway. As you know, I like to contemplate the evening while smoking a cigarette.”

  “And as you know, I disapprove on principle.”

  He sniffed his amusement into the phone. “And what is your friend serving tonight? No giant waffles to endanger your own health?”

  “She’s making lasagna with an unfortunate side of a male companion for the evening. She seems to think she should fix me up as a part of welcoming me to town.”

  “Hmm. Avoid the interference of matchmaking friends, that’s my advice. They are often trying to kill two birds with one stone rather than giving great consideration to what sort of man would make you happy.”

  “Exactly! I agree, Sam.”

  There was a sound in the background, a pinging that could have been a text message or a computer. I could sense that his attention had shifted. He said, “I’ll see you tonight, then.”