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

by Julia Buckley

  I had no idea what was going through his mind. What was this fresh blood, this sudden evidence? Why would there be blood now, almost a year after his wife’s disappearance, and why would they assume he had anything to do with it when he had made a new home in Blue Lake?

  He had been back to New York, they said—but why did that matter? He was a businessman. He had to do his business, didn’t he?

  I was still bristling, clutching West’s key. “How can they dare to demand that he go all the way to New York when this blood could belong to any person or animal? How can they possibly arrest him on such limited evidence?” I asked. I could feel the belligerence of my own face and my weirdly thrusting jaw. I felt a terrible urge to cry.

  Heller spoke to me in a gentle voice, as one would to a child. “Lena, it’s his wife’s blood. They’ve had it tested. And it was in his apartment—the one he still owns in New York and stays in when he goes back there. The one they once shared.”

  I felt this news viscerally, with a sudden pain in my stomach. “I—it—who had the right to go into his apartment?”

  The two detectives exchanged a glance. “The blood was near the door; it had begun seeping under the frame into the hallway. A neighbor saw it and called the police. It doesn’t look good for him, Lena.”

  My mouth opened and shut again.

  All I could see, for an instant, was blood—enough blood to seep across floorboards and underneath a door. But what had been the origin of that blood? “A body,” I said. “They must have found a body?”

  “No—just the blood. But it’s hers, and it’s fresh. Which means that until recently, Victoria West was alive.”

  “Maybe she still is. Maybe she snuck into her old apartment and somehow hurt herself. They should be checking the hospitals. They should be looking into all the reasons why blood would appear without a body, and why it would appear now, when things have finally died down.” A thought occurred to me for an instant, but then flitted away. It had seemed important . . .

  “They are looking into it. The first and best way is to interview her estranged husband, who just so happened to be in town recently. The prosecutor thinks it’s enough to arrest him for, but he needs a judge to agree and to issue a warrant. I’m sticking my neck out telling him this much.”

  Something just didn’t add up. Why didn’t Doug Heller see that? Why was he looking at me with that infuriating pity in his eyes?

  Sam West appeared, a travel bag slung over his shoulder. His face was carefully expressionless. I could only imagine what he was feeling. He said, “It’s okay, Lena. I’ll see you soon, I hope.”

  “Sam—we’ll figure this out. Your lawyer will talk sense into them. They cannot arrest you for this!” My voice cracked on the last word, but I doubt anyone noticed, because they were already moving out the door.

  He was escorted to a car by the Blue Lake Police, and I didn’t say another word to him. I stood in his silent house, unable to think. With stiff fingers I picked up our breakfast dishes and washed them at West’s elegant sink. I wiped my hands on a towel that hung nearby, then scanned the room and saw the nuts I had thrown on the floor, still lying there as reminders of the tiny scene I had caused. I bent to pick them up, crossed the room, and tossed them in a little black wastebasket that sat next to the counter. The garbage was empty except for a receipt I recognized—it said “BICK’S” in large blue lettering at the top. Without thinking, I picked it up and studied it. It was dated for the previous evening at six thirty-two P.M., when West had purchased only one item, listed as “Oster Waff Mk.”

  A waffle maker. After agreeing to look at Camilla’s contract for me, Sam West had gone to Bick’s Hardware and bought a waffle maker so that he could make me a special meal.

  I stared at the receipt for a moment, then folded it carefully and put it in my pocket. I checked Sam’s plants and did a quick scan of his house, then left and locked the door behind me.

  11

  Johanna hesitated to show the letter to Loli, the girl who had been such a friend to her, and in that instant, as Loli leaned forward, her blue eyes wide and curious, her fingers reaching for the paper, Johanna realized she didn’t trust the other girl, and never really had. She slipped the letter into her pocket and made an excuse, and she did not miss the bitter expression on Loli’s face.

  —from The Salzburg Train

  I BARELY HAD time to tell Camilla what happened before she had to leave for her doctor appointment. Her face was grim, though, when I told her about the new evidence that had been found in New York. “Blood?” she said, and then she grew quiet, occasionally shaking her head in disbelief.Her response satisfied me in a way that Doug Heller’s had not.

  Rhonda was at work in the kitchen, already making lunch for me and my eventual guest. I couldn’t imagine eating or being a gracious host, and yet Lane Waldrop was going to show up regardless of my feelings. With a sigh I climbed the stairs to my room. I washed my face and combed my hair in the little bathroom, then went to my desk. Lestrade wasn’t in the room; I assumed he had taken the morning to explore Camilla’s house, which he had started to do on a regular basis.

  I took Sam West’s receipt out of my pocket and set it in the top drawer of the desk. Then I pulled out my laptop and tried to concentrate on Camilla’s book and the scene she had asked me to reimagine. I had a good start, but even my scene needed some ramped-up suspense. I felt restless and certain that I couldn’t concentrate, and then suddenly I realized I had written a great deal and that almost an hour had gone by.

  Back down the stairs I went, straight to the kitchen, where I asked Rhonda if she needed my help. “Oh, I think just about everything is ready to go,” she said. “Just go see if you think the table needs anything more. I pulled a few of those gorgeous roses out and put them in a smaller vase—it would be crazy to put them all out for your little lunch, right?”

  I agreed with her. I went into the little dining room, where she had spread a white cloth and selected roses in two shades of yellow, then tucked them into an emerald vase at the center of the table. “This is beautiful, Rhonda!” I called.

  She came in with a tray of canapés and set it down. “Thanks. It’s refreshing to do some entertaining. It’s been just Camilla for so long, and all of a sudden I have a dinner guest and a lunch guest. It’s fun! I think you bring out a more social side of her.”

  “That’s nice,” I said absently.

  She stopped halfway back into the kitchen and said, “I heard you two maybe had a visitor last night.”

  “What? Oh, yes. That seems like a long time ago.”

  “I hope the cops are on it. It’s not a happy thought, that someone is targeting an older woman who—for all they know—lives by herself.”

  I had not thought of this. No one in town knew that I was living with Camilla—just a handful of people, really. Allison, Doug Heller, Sam West, the people who worked for Camilla. And yet there had been those people in the diner who had seen me sharing a table with Sam West. He had assured me that I’d be the talk of the town. But what if I wasn’t? What if, as far as any miscreant knew, Camilla was just an elderly writer who lived at the top of the hill? Might she be a target for hooligans? If so, why?

  “Anyway, I’ve got a nice cold lunch laid out for you here, and a little dessert in the fridge. I have to leave early because my son has a doctor appointment. You’ll be okay, right?”

  “Of course. Thank you so much.”

  Rhonda shrugged. “No big deal. Like I said the other day, this is a great gig.” She disappeared into the kitchen, then came out with her purse. “Just keep things locked up, okay? I don’t like leaving you here alone, but—”

  “I’ll be here with two large German shepherds,” I said, laughing. “And multiple telephones if I need to call the police.” Although Doug Heller might be on the way to the airport—or would he let “Officer Dillon” do that alone? She se
emed appropriately capable and even a bit mean. Would she go all the way to New York, or just make sure Sam West got on the plane? If she went, would Heller go, too? He certainly couldn’t risk letting West get away, not after he broke protocol by telling him of the imminent arrest. Why had he done that, anyway?

  “Well, good. We can’t forget that a murder occurred here, way too close for my liking,” Rhonda said.

  This gave me a chill. For a while there, Blue Lake had seemed idyllic; now it seemed that every part of the town was tainted, and every person somehow cursed.

  “Are you okay?” Rhonda asked, looking concerned.

  “I’m fine. It’s been—a weird couple of days.”

  “No joke. But when things get back to normal, you’ll love it here. I promise.” She gave me a maternal pat on the arm and a reassuring smile, then moved swiftly to the front door. “Have a nice lunch,” she said and opened the door. Lane Waldrop stood on the other side, wearing a pair of brown wool pants and a cream-colored cowl-neck sweater with a long necklace of little pearls dotted with rhinestones. I was wearing the blue jeans and brown turtleneck that I had worn to Sam West’s house.

  “You look nice,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m underdressed.”

  Lane laughed. “No you’re not—I’m overdressed. But I’m so excited to be away from my kids, I can’t even tell you. And I never get to wear nice clothes because of baby puke and stuff, so I figured hey, I’m going somewhere nice, I’m going to dress nice.”

  “Well, you look great. Rhonda made us lunch.”

  “Don’t I get a tour?” Lane asked, her eyes on the stairs.

  Her eagerness was surprising. What was it about this old “monstrosity,” as Camilla called it, that fascinated people so much? Adam had wanted a tour, too, Camilla said.

  “Well—I don’t actually know the place that well. And I don’t know if Camilla wants us upstairs. I can show you the rooms down here.” I led her to the study, with its crackling fire, and the living room to the right of the main door, and then the kitchen and the dining room, with the breathtaking view of the bluff.

  If she was disappointed not to see the rest, she hid it well. “This place is great,” she said, gazing at a framed photo that sat on Camilla’s hallway table. “It’s got great bones.”

  “Yes—I’m not sure how old it is. I’ll have to ask Camilla. The house came to her through her husband’s family.”

  “That’s cool.” Her eyes were still wandering, soaking up the scenery.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  Her gaze came back to me, and she smiled. “Oh, just a pop or something. What are you having?”

  “That sounds good. Let me see what she has.”

  I dug two Diet Cokes out of Camilla’s refrigerator, and we settled at the table and started munching on Rhonda’s delicious little bites.

  “Mmm! What’s this?” Lane asked, biting into one and rolling her eyes with pleasure.

  “I forget what Rhonda called it. Some sort of little cracker with mascarpone cheese and sprouts and something something.”

  “It’s awesome. The best hors d’oeuvres I ever make are Ritz Crackers and Cheez Whiz.”

  “That’s good, too. Rhonda seems to have a special gift for these fancy things.”

  “Obviously. Ooh—I have to try one of those little stuffed mushrooms. Yum. Clay would be so jealous.”

  “Clay—that’s your husband? How did you two meet?”

  She sat back and savored her food for a moment, then wiped her fingers on a napkin that Rhonda had set next to the plate. “He and I were high school sweethearts. Got married a year after we graduated.”

  “Wow. That’s romantic.”

  “I suppose.” She shrugged. “I love Clay, but I think my mom was right when she said we were marrying too young. You only see these things later—like when you’re twenty-four and you already have two kids.”

  “They’re great kids.”

  “Yeah. I can’t complain. They’re both healthy and beautiful, and Clay is beautiful, and we mostly get along great. So that’s better than what most people have, right?” Her eyes were flicking around the dining room, noticing small details.

  “I think it is better. And it doesn’t matter what age you get married as long as you have a good relationship, right?”

  “I like to think so. There really couldn’t ever be anyone for me but Clayton. That’s just how it is.”

  “Is he a good dad?”

  “Oh, yeah. He does all sorts of stuff with the kids. Lets them ride on his tractor when he’s mowing our yard, and takes them to the lake with their little life preservers on. Little Tommy has this inflatable duck that he rides on—it’s just hilarious.”

  I munched on another cheese canapé, then sat back in my chair. “So you two went to Blue Lake High School?”

  “Yup.”

  “Did you go there with Martin Jonas?”

  Her eyes widened. “That’s funny that you would know that. Yeah—Marty was a year ahead of us. Clay knew him because they took wood shop together. And I knew him because I was always with Clay, and Marty and he hung out together. I think Marty had a thing for me at one time.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Her face was blank. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a pretty girl. I’m sure lots of guys at your school had crushes on you.”

  She blushed slightly and shrugged, barely concealing a pleased smile. “I suppose. But they couldn’t get anywhere near me. Clay’s always been sort of possessive.”

  “So Clay must be upset—about Martin’s death.”

  “He is. Although he and Marty didn’t see each other much after high school. I wasn’t interested in having my husband going out every night with those idiots, hangin’ at the bowling alley and tellin’ their tall tales and gettin’ drunk.”

  “Does he have any suspicions about—what might have happened?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He was so shocked when he read Marty’s name in the paper, you could have knocked him down by blowin’ on him.” She studied me for a moment, and her gaze moved to my left hand. “You’re not married?”

  “No.”

  “How come?” she asked. Somehow the question wasn’t rude the way she asked it—it was rather flattering because her tone suggested it was impossible that the men of the world would have let me get away.

  “I don’t know. There was someone serious, but that ended almost a year ago.”

  “Yeah? What was he like?” Her naked curiosity was a surprise, and perhaps a refreshing change—but I imagined it would get old fairly quickly.

  “He was two years older than I am. Dark hair, dark eyes. Handsome. Kind of brooding and aloof. And he was distracted, all the time. He was always absorbed in his job.”

  “Huh. What was he, a lawyer or doctor or something?”

  “He’s a botanist. He works as a researcher.”

  “A botanist. So that’s—like—some kind of scientist?”

  “A plant biologist, yes.”

  “Oh.” She looked disappointed. “So how did it end?”

  I shrugged. “One day I realized that I wouldn’t ever be as important to him as I wanted to be. Or if I was, that he would never be able to show me. He didn’t—express emotion very well.”

  “Wow, what a jerk. Clay is always grabbing me in these big bear hugs that go on forever. I couldn’t live without those.”

  Now it was probably my face that looked envious, and the surge of jealousy that ran through me at her words was another surprise. Hadn’t I just told Camilla that I wasn’t interested in romance, and that I was happy just where I was? And yet the thought of a relationship in which one could find joy and security in a daily, heartfelt embrace—that sounded good to me.

  “He sounds very devoted,” I said.
“Let me get our lunch.” I stood up, taking the empty canapé tray with me. I claimed a new tray from the refrigerator, which held a graceful assortment of tea sandwiches that Rhonda had marked with tiny cards—cucumber and cream cheese; ham, brie, and apple; mortadella and watercress.

  I brought it back to the table, along with a pre-labeled salad Rhonda had prepared, and listened to Lane’s predictable oohs and aahs. She helped herself to some salad and said, “You know, my granddad was in this house a few times. He was a mechanic, back in the day, and I guess Mr. Graham’s family hired him now and then to fix things. He knew how to fix everything. And at one time or another he was probably in every house in this town, just about.”

  “What a wonderful skill to have.”

  “Yeah.” Her green eyes widened with a kind of excitement. “You know what he told me about this place? He said, ‘That house has a secret, Laney! Graham House has a secret!’”

  “What secret?”

  She leaned forward. “He always told me he’d tell me one day. It was his little joke, to keep us in suspense. But he died, and he never did tell me.” Her face was a mixture of sadness and resentment.

  “Maybe he just meant it metaphorically. You know, like ‘If houses could talk,’ that sort of thing. Camilla is sort of mysterious.”

  Lane shook her head, impatient with me. “No. It was a secret that he learned as a workman here. A secret about the house itself. Don’t you know what it is?”

  I leaned away from the table, realizing with a jolt that Lane Waldrop hadn’t been looking for a new friend—just for a way to satisfy a lifelong curiosity. “I’m afraid I don’t,” I said. I heard the coldness of my own voice, and suddenly I thought of Kurt. He had specialized in cold.