“I think we do need to meet this prodigy,” Sam said. “When it’s all over, I’ll throw a damn party for her.”
We all stood there for a moment, entranced by Sam’s words, “when it’s all over.” For the first time since I had come to Blue Lake and learned of the missing Victoria West, it looked as though we might actually be on the verge of finding her.
• • •
DINNER THAT NIGHT was an almost giddy affair. Knowing that we had Nikon in our sights meant that there was light beyond the darkness, and Sam was aware of that most of all.
“Once we have Victoria back, and she can tell her story to the world, then I can step back into the shadows as the man she divorced, and there won’t be a clear link between me and Taylor Brand. I have no motive now, but I will have even less motive when it’s established that Victoria is alive and well.” He lifted his glass of wine in a toast, and Camilla and I lifted ours, as well.
“But we need to find that second yacht. It should be a matter of public record, and yet Belinda couldn’t find it. That’s what worries me most,” I said. “What if he knew that he wanted to use this new vessel in a sort of—secret way? What if he planned for it to be under the radar, even though it’s probably some huge boat?”
Camilla looked troubled. “You mean like some sort of Josef Fritzl? Planning Victoria’s abduction in advance?”
Her analogy troubled me, and yet that was what I had been thinking: an orchestrated abduction. It was at least one way to explain Victoria’s absence from the world for more than a year.
Sam reached out to put his hand over mine. “One step at a time, Lena. This is a victory. Let’s treat it as one.”
“I know, yes. And yet what about that blog post? The one with the pictures?”
Sam’s smile was almost serene. “In the two hours that I left here and went home, my phone rang almost constantly. I had no problem ignoring it.”
“That’s odd,” I said. “Ours hasn’t rung at all.” I looked at Camilla, who was calmly cutting her meat with knife and fork. “Has it?”
“I wouldn’t know, dear. I took it off the hook.”
“Camilla! You might get business calls!”
She shrugged. “My publishers, as you know, call the cell phone that they insisted I buy. Very few people have that number, and I don’t need to speak to anyone who calls me on the landline. If they start knocking at the door, I’ll hire a bouncer. I won’t bridge the disrespect of the faux media. I have already given my story to a reporter I trust. Let’s hope Jake Elliott does right by all of us.”
Rhonda wandered in with a steaming gravy boat. “Let me switch this out for that other one,” she said. “This one’s piping hot.”
“Thank you, Rhonda. This is delicious,” Camilla said. “Do you know Adam wants to steal you away from me for Wheat Grass?”
Rhonda laughed as she cleared away a few dishes. “No, thanks. I love it right where I am.” She turned, arms full, then turned back. “I’m going to head out now, but I’ll be back for breakfast.”
“Thanks again,” Camilla said. “Say hello to the family.”
Rhonda disappeared, but peeked in to wave good-bye a few minutes later. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. A man came over today while you and Lena were talking about books. He said he has something that you want.”
“What man?” Sam asked, his voice sharp.
“He left a card—hang on.” She came back in and handed a little vellum square to Camilla. “To be honest, I didn’t like the look of him, so I sent him packing. I hope that’s okay.”
Camilla smiled. “Rhonda, I don’t pay you enough for all that you do for us. Go have a good evening. You did exactly the right thing.”
Rhonda waved and left through the front door.
Camilla held up the card. “Theodore Strayer,” she said. “Now what could he possibly have that we want?”
“The negatives of those photos? But they were digital photos, surely? Either way, why would it matter? Everyone has seen them now,” I said.
“He’s fishing for a story,” Sam said. “I feel like going there and punching him in the face.”
Camilla put the card down and picked up her fork. “Which of course you will not do at any point, since you would probably make that reporter’s day. How pleased he would be to post on his blog that Sam West punched him—that he had seen Sam West’s violent tendencies.”
“Point taken,” said Sam, his face grim.
“Let’s go back to celebrating,” I said. “We can deal with Ted Strayer tomorrow. Sam and I can go together. I have a few things I want to say to that so-called journalist.”
“Me, too,” Sam said.
Camilla finished eating and pushed her plate away. “In the meantime, let’s concentrate on Nikon. That man is out there, and we need to find him. So what’s our next plan? Doug and the other authorities will do what they do, but what can we do?”
“We can always dig further with research. I know Belinda is still hunting. We can do it, too,” I suggested. Lestrade wandered into the room and began licking his paw in a casual way.
“Who’s that?” Sam said.
“Oh my gosh, you’ve never met Lestrade! He’s my special boy. I brought him here from Chicago, but he really likes Blue Lake.”
“Is that so?” Sam looked pleased. “I was thinking of getting a cat once. Then I got distracted by—everything.”
“You will be free of the ‘everything’ soon,” I said.
He reached down and Lestrade gamely walked into his hand, purring loudly. Sam laughed. I had only heard his laugh on a couple of rare occasions, but I loved its youthful sound, which belied Sam’s perpetually serious expression.
Sensing the attention, Camilla’s dogs came loping in, and this made Sam laugh even harder. “The menagerie awakes,” Camilla said with a playful smile.
In a burst of knowledge I realized that, aside from my father in Florida, my two companions at the table were my favorite people in the world.
Later I walked Sam to the door and helped him put on his coat. “Sleep tight,” I said.
“You, too. Call me tomorrow when Camilla is finished with your literary inspirations, and we’ll talk with Mr. Strayer in his lair.”
“Okay. I’ll be looking forward to it,” I said, and I kissed him.
• • •
I HAD STARTED Camilla’s new novel, but I needed to make some progress, so I took it to bed with me that night. Like her previous book—our previous book—it was a romantic suspense novel set in Europe, specifically Budapest, as she had mentioned. I tried to imagine a young Camilla with her husband, James, wandering through Buda’s historic streets and gazing into the dark blue depths of the Danube.
I had already read the part of the book, set in the 1960s, where the heroine, Margot, learned of a plot to abduct a young woman named Sylvie, the oldest daughter in the household where Margot taught English. Margot warned Sylvie just in time for her to escape with her lover to a safe place. Now I read on to find that Margot, forced to stay in her job, hoped that the men who wanted to harm Sylvie would not realize Margot’s knowledge of their plan, or realize that she was the one who communicated the plot to Sylvie.
I turned pages rapidly as it became clear that Margot had been found out. They knew what she had done, and they were determined to silence her. At this point Margot decided to go on the run, knowing not a soul in Budapest except her employers, her enemies, and a man who had claimed to love her after only a few meetings . . .
“Oh, Camilla,” I sighed as I read the predictably beautiful prose. Lestrade leaped on the bed and glared at me. This usually meant that he was tired; sure enough, after a few minutes of his grumpy cat face, during which time I gently petted the ruff of his neck, he indulged in some long blinks, then curled up next to me while I read the part where Margot and the man who called himself Joe were
to meet at the river under cover of night.
Despite the very exciting climax of the book, I found myself drifting away from it, worrying over the potential climax in the story I was living. Would Doug find Nikon Lazos? Would that lead to the whereabouts of Victoria, at long last? Would she need to be rescued? Who would do that? Would it be dangerous?
I shifted in bed, suddenly unable to find a comfortable position. Tomorrow, when I went into town, there was a chance that people might look at me differently. Ted Strayer was certainly going to get a piece of my mind. And perhaps Sam and I would be wise to speak to the proprietor of the Red Cottage—what had Doug said her name was? Janey Maxwell. Surely she would be able to provide some sort of concrete information about Taylor Brand.
I sighed. Lestrade was already asleep. I envied his ability to click out of consciousness and indulge in a long period of relaxed escape. I wasn’t sure that I would fall asleep, after all that had happened. On a whim I reached over and grabbed my phone from a side table. I clicked it on and tapped the Internet icon, then found the story that Ted Strayer had written. Under the post, which had “like” or “dislike” buttons, I saw that the story had been “liked” by 40,471 people. “Ugh,” I said.
Before I had only scrolled through the pictures; now I read the article that Strayer had posted with the pictures, and it had none of the journalistic integrity that Jake Elliott had promised his piece would contain.
Strayer began with an almost tongue-in-cheek tone:
“Those who might have thought that the much-maligned Sam West was pining away in his stylish home on a bluff in Blue Lake, Indiana, can think again. West, 35, has apparently hooked up with a local woman, originally from Chicago, named Lena London. Miss London, 27, is relatively new to Blue Lake, having embarked on a writing career as both an editorial assistant and cowriter of Camilla Graham’s much-anticipated new suspense novel, The Salzburg Train.”
“How does he know this stuff?” I asked the sleeping Lestrade, my eyes still on the article.
“It’s not clear how London and West met, but clearly the sparks are flying. These photos, taken on January 10, suggest that neither member of this duo is feeling the subzero wind chills of Blue Lake.”
“Unbelievable,” I whispered.
“Victoria West’s whereabouts are still unknown, but the fact that she is alive was actually brought to light by Lena London herself, although in news coverage back in October she was referred to only as ‘a staffer in Camilla Graham’s employ.’ How London found Mrs. West when no one else could is anybody’s guess, but these photos suggest that it might have been love spurring her desperate search.
“Police today have confirmed that another body has been found in Blue Lake, and in Sam West’s backyard. Could it be that body that is causing such tension between this attractive couple?”
“Another body?” I said. There had been no first body! And why was Strayer not referring to Taylor Brand by name? But of course—when Strayer had posted this story, the police had not yet made Taylor Brand’s identity public. One could only imagine what Ted Strayer would be writing tomorrow, armed with the knowledge that Sam West knew the victim.
I lingered a moment over the photographs, separating myself from the indignity of the story to realize that Sam was right—they were nice pictures of both of us, especially the one in which Sam had pulled me into a sudden passionate kiss. If I hadn’t already known how he felt about me, I would have realized it from looking at these pictures. Not everyone is given the chance to see her life from an outsider’s point of view . . .
This made me think of Taylor, and her blog. Blogs were strange things, because the people who wrote them might think they had a limited audience, but it was an unlimited posting. Anyone could happen across a blog post, anywhere in the world. Taylor Brand made no secret of the fact that she lived in New York, or of the fact that she planned to visit Blue Lake. Had someone been using her blog to plan a crime? Or was her death a crime of circumstance? Perhaps she surprised someone on the cliff path, doing something they shouldn’t have been. But what crime could someone commit on a cold snowy cliff in January? Why would anyone be up there at all? Perhaps she had merely surprised someone, and they had pushed her without realizing what they were doing? But no: the link between Taylor and Sam, the timing of events, the friendship between Taylor and Victoria, and the location of Taylor’s body meant that there was no coincidence here. Taylor had been murdered for a very specific reason.
I ran a gentle finger over a picture of Sam’s face, then clicked out of the story and opened a texting window.
“Good night,” I typed.
I was about to put the phone aside when I got an answering text beep.
“Good night, sweet Lena.”
I put the phone back on my table and returned to Camilla’s book. The man named Joe was tucking Margot into his canoe as silently as possible, because the men who sought them were just above the boat on the bridge, making their search plans.
Joe held Margot against his chest, calming her nervous trembling so that she did not cry out in fear. Somehow, in my mind’s eye, Joe’s face became Sam West’s face, and his eyes were dark blue in the Budapest night.
9
He had tried to warn her that the press would be cruel: that they would not care about the truth as much as they did about a story. They had her image, and they had her name, and they would do what they wanted with them.
—From Death on the Danube
I AWOKE EARLY the next morning, determined to do some work for Camilla before I met with Sam. I climbed out of bed, amused to hear Lestrade gently snoring near my pillow, and dashed to the shower, then dressed quickly in jeans and a warm sweater.
I went downstairs for a cup of coffee; no one was up and about yet in the quiet house, but there was a bit left in the pot from the day before. I warmed this in the microwave and took it to my upstairs space, my new and beloved home, and its beautiful wood desk, where I preferred to do my work. I sat down and began to read more of Camilla’s manuscript, marking it with my green editing pencil. Lestrade, awake now, sat on the corner of the desk, taking a thorough and noisy bath. I smiled at him, then went back to work.
Camilla’s story enthralled me, as usual, and when I looked up again I saw that it was nine o’clock, and that I had been working for two hours. I got up and stretched, then texted Sam. “Are we still meeting this morning to see Ted Strayer?”
I scratched Lestrade’s ears for a time, then heard an answering beep. Sam had written “Breakfast first, then Strayer. Meet you in my driveway in ten minutes.”
I gave Lestrade a kiss on his fuzzy head and jogged downstairs, where Camilla sat at her own desk, flanked by a sleepy-looking Rochester and Heathcliff. “Good morning,” I said. “I just finished some work on your book.”
“Lovely. We’re both being productive this morning.”
“Yes. I’ll return to it soon, but Sam and I intend to confront Ted Strayer today, and I want to do that right away.”
Camilla nodded. “Yes. But proceed with caution.”
“What do you mean?”
“People like that man are dangerous. Treat him as you would any snake, and be aware that he could be venomous. You don’t want to make any more trouble for Sam or endanger your budding career.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” I said.
“That’s what I’m not sure of,” she said. “But by all means, make that so-called journalist answer for his actions.”
“We will,” I said. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Send Sam my love,” she said, and then she was back inside her work, her head bent over a sheaf of papers.
I went to the front hall, where I donned my coat and boots, and then out the door, down the porch, and to the now-familiar pebbled road that led down the bluff. The road was covered with snow, and I picked my way carefully, not wanting to wipe out on a patc
h of ice. Sam lived in the next house down the bluff, and I paused about twenty feet from the end of his driveway. He stood under a pine tree, in the very spot where I had first laid eyes on him.
Much had happened since that first meeting; the spot under the pine was also the first place I had kissed him. I studied him now, wondering if he was experiencing the same memories. I noted with pleasure his tallness, his messy brown hair, his jacket that gave him the aura of an adventurer, and his blue eyes, currently fixed on me. “Good morning,” he said.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” I joked, moving forward.
He closed the distance between us and put his warm lips on mine. “I will not stop. I intend to meet you here and many other places, and I no longer need to keep it a secret, thanks to our friend Mr. Strayer.”
“No friend of mine.” I took his hand and we began walking down the bluff.
A moment later Sam’s hand tightened on mine. “Lena—you’ve said many times that you’re willing to stand up to the press, but you may not realize that now you’ll have to. This thing with Taylor, compounded by Strayer’s photojournalism, has brought them all here like vultures. You know that, don’t you?”
I opened my mouth, ready to tell him he was exaggerating, but then I heard them. Somehow they must have learned that we were headed down the hill—did they have a lookout?—and they were clamoring. “Oh, God—is that the press? Are they the ones making that weird baying noise?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. You’ll have a trial by fire. The police still have the barricade up on Wentworth, and there are some officers posted. I spoke with them this morning. The chief said that if they harass us in any way, he’ll make some arrests just as a lesson to the rest of them.”
“Oh, my. What should we do?”
Sam squeezed my hand and bent to kiss my ear. “I want breakfast. I’m going to offer a brief statement in exchange for them leaving us alone after that. It might work for an hour or two. Meanwhile, whatever they say to you, whatever they do to try to goad you into talking, just ignore them. Smile or say ‘No Comment.’”
Death in Dark Blue Page 9