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

by Julia Buckley

  16

  One thing Johanna had learned since boarding the train in Salzburg—oh, how long ago it now seemed—was the power of instinct. It was her instinct that told her that she was no longer safe in the baker’s house, instinct that persuaded her to creep down the stairs in stocking feet before the sun rose, and instinct that sent her, for a third time, out into the world alone.

  —From The Salzburg Train

  THE NEXT DAY it was cold, yet bright; a few wayward leaves had pasted themselves to my bedroom window, reminiscent of a child’s art project cut from paper. I showered, dressed, and poured food into Lestrade’s bowl. He was still sleeping off his nighttime revels, whatever they had been, and he snored lightly at the foot of my bed.

  Downstairs, too, things seemed more cheerful. Rhonda was in the kitchen making something that smelled delicious, but wouldn’t tell me what it was. “It’s a surprise,” she said. “Just go sit down in there.”

  I headed for the dining room, but by way of the front hall, so that I could retrieve Camilla’s morning paper. I opened the door and grabbed it from the porch; Bob Dawkins and his awful offspring were finally painting the porch they had repaired. I forced out a “Good morning,” which Dawkins answered in a gruff voice. His son merely sneered at me.

  “Wow,” I said under my breath, retreating into the house.

  “That guy is the worst,” I told Camilla as I sat across from her at the dining room table. I pointed at the stairs and she nodded.

  “They both are, really. The apple doesn’t fall far. But I must say they do excellent work, and they charge a fair price.”

  “Just like Lane Waldrop’s grandfather—what was his name—Mr. Haney?”

  She nodded, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear. “Oh, yes, Mr. Haney. He was quite good. But he had much more charm than those two. He was charismatic, and a born storyteller. Perhaps that’s why he was so fascinated by this house and its hidden parts. I’m sure he spun the mystery into quite a tale for his grandchildren. No wonder little Lane was fascinated.”

  “Wait—if his name was Haney . . . does that mean that her name, at one time, was Laney Haney?”

  “Oh, dear. What a name to saddle a child with! No wonder she married young. Although Waldrop itself is not particularly graceful, is it? Let’s hope Haney was the mother’s maiden name, and not Lane’s surname.”

  We giggled, but I could tell that Camilla, like me, had other things on her mind, and we were each making an effort to divert the other.

  “Have you—heard from Adam today?”

  “No. I don’t expect to. We’ll need a bit of time to process last night’s interaction. We were both taken by surprise.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” I tapped my fingers nervously on the table. “I had some new ideas about the Black Forest scene last night. And if you could give me some work—any other scenes in particular you’d like me to focus on—I’d be happy to do it.”

  Camilla nodded. “Yes. Perhaps we both need the distraction of work.” Neither of us mentioned Sam or Martin Jonas, but their names hovered in the air.

  Rhonda came in with a tray of something hot and fragrant. “Here we go—homemade waffles, Rhonda-style!”

  She put a large waffle on each of our plates, then pointed to the syrup, butter, and cream on the table. “Help yourselves,” she said.

  Camilla was effusive in her thanks, and I made some grateful noises.

  “Lena? Are you all right?”

  I took a bracing sip of my coffee. “I—suddenly feel a little bit queasy. I’m not sure I can eat this, but I don’t want to offend Rhonda.”

  Camilla took a bite of hers. “Mmm. Delicious. But if you absolutely can’t—there is a way to dispose of it that will make everyone happy.” She tipped her head in the direction of the dogs, who sat in the doorway, ears alert, not exactly begging, but ready for any sign of human largesse.

  I slipped most of my food to them while Camilla managed, serenely, not to notice.

  “Are you running any errands this morning, Lena?” Camilla asked, sipping some coffee.

  “I was going to mail a letter to my father. Did you need anything?”

  “I have a small list; I’d appreciate the help, if you’re already going.”

  “Of course. I may as well go now. Let me grab my jacket.”

  Rhonda walked past us, also with a coat on. “I’ll be back to make lunch, Camilla. My son is getting that award today, as you know. But I have everything ready, and I should return by twelve thirty.”

  “That’s fine. You two run along and I’ll get some writing done.”

  A few minutes later I was at the door. Camilla met me there with her wallet and a small list. “This should cover it; let me know if it doesn’t. They should have it all right there at Bick’s Hardware.”

  “Of course. Bick’s has everything.”

  I looked out the screen door and watched Rhonda driving away in a little pickup truck. The breeze seemed to have intensified, and despite the sun that shone on the new porch paint that the Dawkins duo were assiduously applying, the air smelled like rain. I wondered if another storm were coming.

  “You can’t come this way,” said Dawkins the lesser, squinting at me as he held up his brush. Dipped in a deep gray tint, it looked like eagle talons in his hand. “The paint’s still wet.”

  “Oh, right—I forgot. Didn’t Rhonda come out this way?”

  “We sent her around back.”

  Camilla appeared next to me. “That’s fine, Lena. I’ll walk you out. I need to call Doug. I thought he took away all evidence of that terrible drug ring, but I found some more this morning, and I want to share it with him. It might just give him the break he’s looking for.”

  I spun around, surprised. “You didn’t tell me that at breakfast.”

  She blushed slightly. “We were speaking of other things. I’ll tell you all about it when you come home.”

  “All right.” I studied her face; there was something she wasn’t telling me. “I’ll get going then. Out the back,” I said loudly, so the Dawkins duo could hear.

  I made my way outside and down the back porch, then around the house and down the path, past Sam’s sad and empty house and down, down the pebbled path of the bluff. At the bottom of the hill I turned left on Wentworth, remembering that Camilla had told me the library was in the other direction. Perhaps I would have time to explore it soon . . .

  But first I had errands to run. I marched to Bick’s and moved to the back wall, familiar now with all the clutter and the strange assortment of goods. I greeted Marge, who was leaning on her counter with a tranquil expression, peering through her cheaters at what looked like a romance novel.

  “Hi, Marge. I’d like to mail this, please.” I handed her my letter and suffered her nosy glance at the address.

  “How is your dad doing?” she asked.

  “He’s fine. I’m just sending him an update; I do it every week or so. We e-mail, too, but he likes letters.”

  “Don’t we all? They’re so much more personal.” She tossed the letter into an outgoing bin and said, “Anything else I can do?”

  I looked at Camilla’s little list. None of the objects were particularly personal, so I felt I could show it to Marge. “Can you tell me what aisles these items are in?”

  She took the paper and squinted at it. Her cheaters didn’t work very well. “I’ll do you one better—I’ll write the aisle numbers down next to each one. This for Camilla?” I nodded. “She wants a box of nails—that’s in our hardware section—aisle twelve. Then she wants a legal pad—that’s in stationery, aisle two.” She jotted down a few more things and handed me the paper.

  I thanked her, retrieved Camilla’s items, and returned to pay for them. Marge smiled at me while she punched things into her register. She had no scanner, so she actually had to punch in the amounts man
ually. Bick’s was like a visit to the twentieth century. “So, you’re quite the popular young lady here in town,” she said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Well, you’ve made all sorts of friends, haven’t you? After just being here a short time. And I say good for you.”

  Were people gossiping? What friends had I made, exactly? “I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, forcing a smile.

  Marge began placing my items in a paper bag. “Well, the other day you were here with the Waldrop girl. You seemed thick as thieves.” She smiled at me with slightly crooked teeth. “Then, the word was that you had breakfast with Mr. West.”

  I said nothing. I watched her hands as they finished packing. Marge seemed immune to my lack of response.

  “And of course Mr. Bick and I were wondering about another young man in town. We thought maybe there was a romance brewing.”

  “I certainly seem to have been the subject of conversation around here,” I said, my voice cool.

  “Oh, not just out of pure gossip. Mr. Bick happened to see someone leaving your place at a surprising hour, and he happened to mention it to me. And then we just wondered—maybe a romance.”

  My cheeks felt suddenly hot. I put my hands up to cool them. “That is certainly not true. He happened to be at my place because I called in an emergency, and he came to respond. We had an intruder, actually.”

  Marge’s eyes widened. “Why in the world would he come if you called about an emergency?”

  “Because Doug Heller is on the police force,” I said, my voice crisp. I was tired of defending my life to her.

  Marge Bick’s eyebrows rose, and her lipsticked mouth opened slightly. “Who’s talking about Doug Heller? I was talking about Ray.”

  I heard every sound in the store in a weird rush of sensation. People chattering in the aisles; ceiling fans squeaking on their hinges; Mr. Bick flicking the switch on a paint mixer, which whirred and thumped on the wood floor.

  Ray.

  “I’m sorry; I think we’re at cross-purposes. I don’t know anyone named Ray, and I certainly didn’t invite anyone named Ray to my home.”

  Marge paused, a finger on her chin as she gave this some deep thought. “Well, that’s funny. Horace says he saw Ray coming out of your driveway at one, two in the morning.”

  “Ray who, Marge? Who is this Ray person?”

  She barked out a laugh of disbelief. “Everyone knows Ray. He works with his dad all over town, doing odd jobs. Ray Dawkins.”

  “Oh my God!” I said.

  Bob Dawkins’ horrible son. Ray Dawkins. The Ray who had been there when I was knocked to the ground. The Ray who had probably killed Martin Jonas. A terrible chill ran up my spine. Had poor Martin Jonas seen horrible Ray Dawkins’ sneering face as his last sight on earth?

  And now he was at Camilla’s house, and Camilla was home alone. She would be safe, I supposed, as long as she didn’t suspect him. But—what had she said, as I was leaving? That she had more evidence to give to Doug Heller—evidence implicating the unknown killer. And Ray Dawkins had been sitting right there, with the door open!

  I had left Camilla alone with a killer.

  “I have to go,” I said, putting a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and grabbing my bag with numb hands.

  “But, hon, you’ve got change coming,” she said.

  “I’ll come back for it—I have to hurry,” I said, and I ran.

  I flew down Wentworth toward the path at the foot of the bluff. Why, why, had I never once asked about the horrible son’s name? Because he was as invisible as a mailman or a telephone worker; he was background music.

  Now he was in the foreground, and a whole lot of things came into focus, starting with the easy access he would have to his lair at Camilla’s because he always found reasons to be on her property. If anyone ever questioned him, he could usually say that he was working on a job for her. And Camilla, in her generosity, had probably gone out of her way to make new jobs so that the Dawkins family could keep working.

  Camilla. What sort of evidence had she been talking about? Why hadn’t I asked her about it at the time? I had assumed she was safe in her own house, but I was wrong, wrong! And now, perhaps, I had left her, old and frail, with a heartless murderer who feared exposure.

  A new and more terrible thought occurred to me: Martin Jonas had been shot to death, and Heller and his investigators had never found the gun. Did that mean Ray Dawkins still had it? Was it on him right now? How could Camilla possibly defend herself against a loaded weapon?

  I paused on the pebbled path, catching my breath, then ran again. If I could just get to her before Dawkins made his move—because surely he would make a move—then I could lock the doors and call Doug and the whole thing would be over once and for all.

  I tore up the last of the bluff, my calves screaming from the uphill run, and stopped dead in the center of the yard. The old van that the Dawkinses drove was gone; had they left? Was Camilla all right? I set the bag down, fumbled for my phone, and dialed with trembling fingers.

  “Heller,” Doug said.

  “Doug, I know who Ray is.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Bob Dawkins’ son. He was here today. He overheard Camilla say something about evidence she had—”

  “What evidence?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just something she said. But now their truck is gone, and she was alone here, and I’m going in to see if she’s all right.”

  “Do not do that. Wait for me; I’ll be right over.” He hung up in my ear, and I lifted the bag and propelled myself forward, up the newly painted, still-sticky porch and through the front door, which was unlocked.

  That was the first bad sign.

  The second was that the dogs were nowhere to be seen.

  In fact, the house was eerily silent. “Camilla?” I called softly. “Camilla, are you here?”

  I heard a creaking sound; I wasn’t in the house alone, but a strong instinct told me that it wasn’t Camilla who was sharing the space with me. I was in the hall, fair game for anyone who might dart down the stairs or out of a doorway. I peeked into her study, which seemed empty. On a sudden impulse, I moved swiftly toward the vent and turned the dial. I heard the satisfying click and rushed to the wall.

  The door slid quietly open and I went inside. I didn’t flip on the light. I closed the door almost all the way, leaving just a crack through which I could observe the room, but hopefully which would not allow someone to notice the aperture from the study itself.

  I waited, breathing hard, listening to the drumming of my own heart. I remembered being a child in a game of hide-and-seek, waiting painfully for someone to discover me, fearing detection, wanting to go to the bathroom, dying of suspense. I hoped I wasn’t breathing too loudly.

  Another creak, louder this time, and a form came into view. It was Bob Dawkins’ horrible son; how had I not noticed how sinister he was, how evil his face looked? He was only feet from my hiding place, and he wore the look of a hunter; he paused every now and then to listen, his entire body still, and then he would creep forward again on silent feet. He paused once at the windowsill; he picked something up and put it into his pocket. Was he robbing her now? I couldn’t focus on that, because Dawkins was coming closer. Would he see the slight crack in the wall, or the wallpaper that was now not flush with its opposite panel?

  His focus, though, seemed to be on my supposedly invisible hiding place.

  I realized with sudden dread that I had trapped myself. Assuming he figured out my location, I had nowhere to go.

  I pressed my eye to the tiny crack in the door and tried to suppress my breathing. Dawkins was acting strangely, tapping at the wall behind Camilla’s desk. In an instant I saw the truth: he suspected a secret door, and he would tap until he found the hollow place. He was coming right toward me.

  A
look around the room behind me reminded me of its contents: books and canning jars. I moved silently toward the jars and picked a heavy-looking one labeled “Strawberry Preserves.” Slowly, I edged back toward the door and peered out again, almost letting out a scream when I saw that he was directly in front of me, his eyes scanning. I stepped away from the wall, fearful that he would see my eye against the tiny crack. How had he not seen the little aperture in the wall? Was it that well hidden from his side?

  A door slammed somewhere in the house. “Lena?” I heard Camilla say.

  His chin came up; his eyes narrowed. His hands had both been at my eye level, reaching toward the wall. Now one of them flicked to his side and came up with something that gleamed in the sun. A knife. He was holding a knife. He was going to hurt Camilla. Perhaps he had already done so? Where was she? Where were the dogs? Were they already dead or hurt? Where was Doug Heller? I was on my own with a man who had killed someone.

  On an impulse of horror and rage, I kicked the door outward, catching him in the forehead. “Ouch! Son of a—” he yelled, grasping his head with both hands. His knife clattered to the floor.

  I leaped forward and kicked it out of the way.

  “You,” he said. “You stupid cow. You’re the reason the cops came here, aren’t you?”

  “What are you doing in this house? Camilla isn’t here.”

  “Where’s the evidence she has for the cops?” he said, looming over me. “Give it here, or I’ll hurt you. I’ll hurt you both.”

  He crowded into me, pushing me back against the wall; his hands wrapped around my throat. I felt the weight of the strawberry preserves, still in my right hand, and I swung the jar up and against his head, hard.

  “Ouch!” he yelled again, staggering backward. Then he let loose with a stream of swear words, some of which I didn’t even know, but which sounded particularly filthy. His head was bleeding. He touched it, then looked at his hand. He sent me an evil glance. “I’m gonna kill you,” he said.