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

by Julia Buckley

  “Thank you again. Bye, Sam.” I hung up and sat still for a while. I needed to rewrite the forest scene, but my head was swarming with thoughts.

  I got up to search for my green pencil, which I had set down somewhere. In the midst of my quest I stopped and remembered that Camilla had called Sam West “your friend.” Not “our friend,” but “your friend.”

  Why would Camilla, who had introduced me to West and his reputation in town, suddenly refer to him as my friend alone? It was a curious distinction for someone whose business was words.

  Troubled by this, I located my pencil on the carpet (I suspected Lestrade had been batting it around again) and went to the desk.

  It was time to return to the Black Forest.

  8

  Gerhard did not return, and they began to worry about his whereabouts; Johanna experienced a general dread, not just about the consequences of involving Gerhard in her suspicions, but of life itself, with all its hidden pitfalls, and the existence that the giant trees had made her call into question. What, really, did she know of the world, or herself, or her future? Why, really, did it matter?

  —from The Salzburg Train

  I HAD FINISHED a draft by late afternoon; it was not one I would show Camilla, but it was a start. I dressed with a sense of satisfaction; I knew that writing was a layered process, and one had to find little joys as one went along. A finished novel was a culmination, but Camilla had once said, in a 1981 interview, that “the real joy is in going down the path, pen in hand, and meeting your story as it comes. You never know what adventures await you, and it’s the start of the journey that is the most thrilling. At the end, when the book is done, you all say good-bye. I far prefer the start: my characters as my friends, and a whole adventure awaiting us.”

  In Camilla’s formula, this was the beginning of the adventure, in so many ways, and I intended to relish every moment of it. Perusing the outfits in my closet, I said as much to Lestrade, who was stropping against my leg in an attempt to get me to open the door. He had a new world, too, and he longed to explore it. I smiled down at him. “Okay! Just tell me what to wear first.” I scooped him up and edged toward my hanging clothes. Lestrade, who had actually done this before, stuck out a paw, which happened to land on a blue sweater.

  “Fine. I was leaning toward that one anyway. Here you go. Say hi to your new pals.” I walked him to the door and let him out, and he made his fluffy way down the stairs.

  I returned and donned a bit of perfume before I slipped the blue sweater over my head. It was a midnight blue, a gift from my parents when I turned twenty-one. My mother had grown ill soon afterward, and I had always valued this sweater because it was a beautiful memory of a time when we were all together.

  I pulled on my “dress jeans”—the nicer, newer black pair that looked well enough with a sweater and a pair of black boots—and viewed the result in the full-length mirror on the bathroom wall. “Yeah, that works,” I said. Allison knew that I wasn’t a frilly person, and never had been. But I also felt that casual clothes suited me, and that I could still project a certain elegance with them, especially when I donned some matching jewelry. I slipped on a long, blue-stoned necklace that my ex-boyfriend Kurt had given me one Christmas, along with the matching earrings, which I now fastened into my ears.

  “Blue is your color,” he had said to me once. The sad reality was that it was probably the most romantic thing he had ever said. Kurt wasn’t frilly, either, and it had turned out he also wasn’t thoughtful or kind.

  With a sigh, I grabbed my purse and made my way downstairs, where Rhonda was making dinner and Camilla was nowhere to be seen. I leaned into the kitchen and said, “Rhonda, if you see Camilla, could you tell her—”

  Rhonda turned, surprised. “Isn’t she in her little study there? I just saw her stoking the fire.”

  “Uh—I’ll look again.” I walked back to the study, and sure enough, Camilla was sitting on the edge of her desk, flipping through a book.

  “Hello, dear. All ready to go? Did Allison give you good directions?”

  “Yes, thank you. I was looking for you earlier, and I didn’t see you in here. It seems like a couple of times I’ve had that happen . . .”

  “Hmm? Oh, I’m sorry. I was hunting for this book. It has a reference that I needed for my German character, my Gerhard.”

  “Oh, I love him!” I said.

  “Did you find time to work on the scene?”

  “I did. I finished a draft, but it’s not ready for your eyes yet.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll look forward to us comparing notes.” She snapped the book shut. “Seeing you going out reminds me—I should probably wear something other than this old sweater, since I have a dinner companion.”

  “You look stylish—it seems effortless with you.”

  Camilla gave me her shrewd, assessing look. I had forgotten that she didn’t like flattery; then she softened. “Oh, Lena. I could have used your kind support in the last few years.” Her face, though lined, looked oddly young and vulnerable for a moment. Then she stood up and regained her traditional composure. “Do tell Allison that I said hello.”

  “All right. Should I tell her that you’re working on your knitting?” I asked, looking pointedly around the room.

  Camilla laughed. “Observant girl. I’m trying to learn, but I’ve been terrible about practicing. I’m not very good at it. Allison is much better. She’s making a blanket.”

  “I’ll tell her that you said hello. Have a nice dinner with Adam. Make sure you put those beautiful roses in the center of the table.”

  Camilla waved as I made my way out to my car, which I hadn’t driven since arriving at Graham House. I climbed in, started the engine, and then pulled Allison’s directions from my big purse so I could study them one more time. I also retrieved Camilla’s contract. Then I pulled out of the driveway and drove halfway down the hill; I parked in front of Sam West’s place and got out of the car, contract in hand. He was there, leaning on a tree and stubbing out a cigarette with the toe of his boot. He squinted up at me, his hair slightly mussed by the wind.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Hello. We look like spies, passing a mysterious document in the shelter of the woods.”

  I laughed and handed him the contract. His hands were ungloved and large, with long fingers. For an instant I imagined him caressing Victoria West’s face and was jolted by unexpected jealousy. I shook my head and pretended to be brushing something off—a leaf, an insect? Perhaps West wouldn’t notice that there was nothing there.

  “Hopefully it won’t be too mysterious. I’m truly appreciative of this favor,” I said.

  “No problem, Lena. Have a nice dinner with your friend.”

  “Thanks.” I started to move back to my car, then turned around and saw, to my surprise, that he wasn’t going in, but just standing there, watching me. Even in the shadow of the tree, in the autumn evening light, his eyes looked very blue. “What time should I be here in the morning?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not that early a riser. How about nine?”

  “Perfect. Thank you again.”

  He waved, and this time he did turn and walk away. I remembered that the news article had said he was thirty-five, which meant that now at most he was thirty-six. In some ways he seemed ancient—especially in the defeated expression he sometimes wore—but when he smiled he looked young.

  The wind had picked up, even since I’d left the house, it seemed, and I was glad to tuck back into my car and turn on the heater. I needed to get back on Green Glass Highway and drive south for about a mile, then turn left into a subdivision called Forest Glen. I would take this to a street called Winterbourne, where Allison’s house sat on the corner lot.

  This was easy to remember, and I set the directions aside and enjoyed the scenery of autumn in Blue Lake. We had not yet turned back the clocks, so I was treated
to a glorious sunset over the water. This was the sort of place one could get used to as a permanent home. I recalled what Camilla had said when we stood on the shore and watched the technicians work on the body of poor Martin Jonas. She had said that Blue Lake was “unrelentingly beautiful.” Her voice had been resigned. Had she wanted to leave at one point? At many points? But perhaps she had fallen into a comfortable existence here, or perhaps she had even come to rely on those profound sunsets and the horizon that seemed to go on forever.

  At the edge of town, about to turn onto the highway, I saw the young man I had first seen in Bick’s Hardware on the day of the storm—the ski-sweater man who had been talking to Martin Jonas. In the evening light I could see that his hair was actually red, a detail I had not noticed when distracted by his weird sweater. Now he was wearing a Windbreaker and jeans and walking rapidly toward the restaurant called Wheat Grass—Adam Rayburn’s place. It was a charming restaurant with beige stucco walls, large windows, and a water view. Now that I had money I could dine there . . .

  The man in the Windbreaker looked once over his shoulder, almost directly at me, and I accelerated past him and the restaurant and turned left onto Green Glass. He and Martin Jonas had been arguing. And hadn’t he sort of threatened Martin Jonas, this man with the red hair? It seemed perfectly obvious to me that he was the prime suspect for killing poor Martin—so why was he still walking free? Was it because my description of him had been lacking? If so, now I had more information to give the police. The man had red hair, and at nearly six in the evening on October 15, he had walked into Wheat Grass wearing a blue Windbreaker. Surely they could find security footage of him and arrest him right afterward?

  What would Adam Rayburn think if he learned he had a murderer in his restaurant? Rayburn’s name made me think of something entirely different: had Camilla seemed nervous about having Rayburn over? If so, why would she invite him? And what, I wondered, was Rhonda making for dinner?

  Once again the people of Blue Lake were dominating my thoughts. I tried to think of nothing but the topaz sky as I drove to Allison’s house for my first dinner away from Graham House.

  * * *

  ALLISON’S MARRIED NAME was Branch. and she had told me to look for a house on the corner. I knew I had the right place immediately, not only because it sprawled on a corner lot with a leaf-strewn yard, but because there was a stone placard that read “Branch House” sitting in the center of the lawn. It was stately and expensive-looking; I wondered if it had been a wedding present.

  I pulled into the driveway and gathered my purse and a little housewarming gift that I had purchased back in Chicago: a huge caramel-colored candle in a driftwood stand, scented with some alluring spice that I couldn’t name. Allison was mad for candles, so I felt confident it would be a hit.

  I got out and marched to their front door, which flew open. Allison stood there, blonde and good-looking as always, her hair gathered in a casual ponytail that should have looked scruffy but looked fashionable instead. She wore a cream-colored sweater and a pair of black knit pants with high-heeled black shoes. “I’m so glad to see you!” she cried, hugging me against her.

  “I come with gifts,” I said when she released me, handing her the package the clerk had wrapped for me. “Although I just realized I should have brought wine or something.”

  “We have plenty—and our other guest brought a bottle.” She turned and pointed to the men who had just entered the room. “You know John, of course. And this is Doug Heller, our good friend and neighbor.”

  Douglas Heller stood there, looking different and out of context. He wore jeans and a green sweatshirt that said “IU.” He held a beer in his right hand, but he lifted his left to wave at me. “Hey,” he said, grinning.

  “Hey. I did not expect to see you here. I thought you were busy solving murders.”

  He nodded. “The Blue Lake PD never sleeps. But I took a break because my friend Allison said there was someone I should meet.” His voice was slightly hoarse, as though he had a cold.

  Allison barged between us. “What do you mean you didn’t expect to see him? Do you guys know each other? How could you possibly know each other?” John was smirking. It cracked him up when Allison got all hyper.

  “First of all,” I said, “Detective Heller was the one who came to the beach when Camilla and I found—Martin Jonas.”

  “Oh, my gosh, of course. How did I not put two and two together?” Allison looked disappointed. Clearly she had wanted to spring Doug Heller on me as the ultimate surprise—which he would have been, considering his good looks and Viking-like demeanor.

  Doug Heller spoke in his new, scratchy voice. “But even if I hadn’t met her then, I had already met her on the day she came to town. I saw her legs dangling out of her car on the side of the road, and figured I might have a motorist in distress.”

  He sent me a twinkly look, and Allison didn’t miss it. She moved even closer. “What happened? What’s the story? I feel totally out of the loop here.”

  John held up a hand. “Allie, let them sit down. Why don’t you offer Lena some of these nice appetizers you made?”

  “Hang on, hang on,” Allison said, pouting slightly. “Spill it, Lena. Or Doug. Whoever.”

  John was holding a tray of cheese and crackers. I helped myself to one of each and moved to a large oak table that sat in the middle of the room. “Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s actually very funny in retrospect, and I’m sure it was funny to, uh—Detective Heller.”

  “Doug,” Heller supplied.

  “Yes. I’m sure Doug found it funny even at the time.” I paused to take a bite of Swiss cheese, dainty as a mouse, and Allison looked as though she might explode.

  I laughed, as did the two men, who sat down at the table with me. “Okay, okay,” I said. I told them the story, with occasional ironic interruptions by Doug Heller. I explained about the faulty cat carrier and Lestrade not being a great passenger. About the ominous storm, and my potential lateness while meeting my one and only idol. About Lestrade leaping around the car and hanging from the ceiling like a fat, furry chandelier. About Doug Heller magically having catnip and saving the day. “But I never even got his name,” I said. “It was sort of a Lone Ranger situation.”

  “Who was that masked man?” asked John, laughing and pointing at Doug.

  I looked at Heller. “You really did save the day. I got there on time—almost—and eventually made a good impression on Camilla. And now—thanks to my best friend, Allison—I am living a dream I didn’t even know I had.”

  Allison moved to the back of my chair and hugged me around the neck. “Everything is going so well!! I mean—aside from the murder.”

  “Yes. That was not an auspicious start to my stay in Graham House,” I said.

  “You talk like a writer,” Doug Heller noted.

  “Thank you for the compliment, which I will assume it was,” I said, taking more cheese and crackers. John slid a little plate under my food after wiping up the crumbs I had already made. Allison poured a glass of wine and set it before me with a flourish.

  Doug Heller leaned forward, looking defensive. “Of course it was a compliment. I don’t know how anyone could be a writer, especially of a whole book. I can barely get through one paragraph of a police report before I’m wishing I could be finished. To write hundreds of pages—and to have to be profound on all of those pages—that seems like it would take a miracle. I don’t know how Camilla does it.”

  Allison sat down with us, her Pinot Noir clutched in one hand. “Lena has written a book, too. She’s going to be a big-deal writer someday, like Camilla. That’s why this job is so wonderful.”

  Doug Heller studied me. “Well, that is impressive. Again, I don’t know how you do it.”

  I shrugged. “Just a certain way of thinking, I guess. I don’t know how anyone could solve a crime. I was pondering that yesterday. It’s this big
puzzle that you can’t give up on because justice itself is at stake. It must create so much pressure.”

  Heller nodded. “But murder is an unusual thing in Blue Lake. Usually I just have to solve such complicated crimes as who vandalized the statue by writing his own name on it—true story,” he added as I laughed in disbelief, “or who stole the lawn ornaments from his neighbor’s house and set them up on his own grass. Also true.”

  I giggled and looked at John and Allison to see if they shared my incredulity. They seemed to have heard these stories before, because their faces were placid and only mildly amused. “But you’re a cop,” I said. “You see the dark side of humanity. You must have witnessed terrible things.”

  “I have,” Heller admitted, his eyes flicking downward. “But those don’t make for good party conversation.”

  “Yeah, this is becoming a downer,” Allison said, smacking the table with her hands. “Let’s change the subject.”

  “Just one more thing,” I said. “I saw the guy again—the one who was with Martin Jonas in Bick’s on the day of the murder. He has red hair. He was walking toward Green Glass Highway, and he went into Wheat Grass. He was wearing a blue Windbreaker and jeans. I wanted to tell you, because initially I said he had sandy-colored hair, but it was red.”

  Doug Heller nodded. “I’m relatively sure that’s Dave Brill you’re describing. He’s well known to us down at the station. We did interview him, along with all of Jonas’ other friends and acquaintances.”

  I stared at him, trying to read his face. “But, I mean—can’t you hold him? He was fighting with Jonas in the store, and sort of threatening him.”

  “Not exactly,” Heller said. “What you told us on that day was that he wanted Martin Jonas to do something and had given him a one-day deadline. We asked Mr. Brill about that, and he said that he and Jonas buy and sell rare comic books. He had a buyer for some, and he needed Jonas to go out of town and make the sale. He had even given Jonas gas money up front.”