“Okay,” I said, and then we went down a little dip in the road and there they were, straining at the barricade while two Blue Lake officers stared them down. The normally quiet street was lined with news vans.
“Lena!” a woman screamed. “Are you in love with Sam West?”
“Sam! Have you found Victoria?” A man shouted.
Another woman leaned toward me with a microphone. “Do you think Victoria West would resent your relationship?”
Then a man’s voice, stern and cold. “How do you think Taylor Brand’s body ended up in your backyard?”
Sam hadn’t batted an eye, just kept walking, but at the barricade he stopped and held up a hand. “I intend to make a brief statement, in exchange for privacy and a quiet breakfast with my girlfriend.” He pointed at me. “This is Lena London; she was loyal to me long before it was determined that Victoria was alive, and she has been my staunchest supporter ever since. Lena was the one who worked to prove, against all odds, that I was not a murderer, and she has done so. I am very grateful to her. I am also infatuated with her for reasons that are partly evident just by looking at her.”
A little hum of interest from the crowd. Sam held up a hand. “As for Taylor Brand, I am extremely saddened to hear of her death. At one time she was my good friend, although I have not been in touch with her in years. I did not know she was coming to Blue Lake, and I don’t know why she was here, nor do I know how she died. It’s a tragic thing, and I hope they get to the bottom of it soon.
“Lastly, Victoria has not been found, but several law enforcement agencies are working on it, and I am confident and hopeful that they will find her soon. That is all; I’m sure you’ll agree it was generous and that, for the most part, it’s really none of anyone’s business. And now I’m going to have breakfast with Lena.”
He pushed past the protesting crowd and dragged me along with him. Someone hissed in my ear, “Do you trust him, Lena?”
Surprised, I turned to see who had spoken and a camera flashed in my face, blinding me momentarily. Who used a flash on a winter morning?
I turned away and followed Sam down Wentworth Street to Willoughby’s, a diner where we had eaten together before. Thanks to Doug’s officers, we got there without being detained by the press.
We entered the warm interior of the little restaurant and several diners turned to stare at us. Sam had long been notorious in town, and now he and I were both getting glances. Some of the faces were friendlier now than they once had been. As we were hanging up our coats, the proprietor came out from the kitchen and shook Sam’s hand, saying “You’re always welcome here, Mr. West,” and insisting that our meal would be on the house.
Sam inclined his head and accepted with a few gracious words, and then we followed the waitress down an aisle to a booth with a window view. We settled into our seats and I put my hands up to my hot cheeks. “What a morning!”
He shrugged, gazing down at his menu. “I’ve had worse.”
I reached across to touch his hand. “I can only imagine. I’m sorry for all that you went through, Sam. And so are a lot of people in this town. You can tell that they’re trying to make amends, if only with their eyes.”
“Yes, I’m sure they’re delightful.”
I smiled at him. “You’re funny.”
“Is that why you find me so devilishly attractive?” he asked, his blue eyes meeting mine.
“Partly. But it’s also because you’re very handsome.”
“Interesting. Go on.”
I giggled. “And egotistical. I need to look at this menu. I intend to have waffles.”
“I would be disappointed if you did not.”
I met his gaze again; Sam and I had bonded over waffles. “I guess I’ll always choose them, when we’re in this particular place.”
“And as tradition dictates, I will order eggs but reach across and steal some of your food.”
“Fine.” I closed my menu and studied him. “Are you okay? After all those questions they fired at you?”
“That was nothing. You can imagine what they asked when the world thought Victoria was dead.”
“Oh, Sam.”
His eyes flicked down to his menu. “Actually, none of that was as painful, in retrospect, as realizing I liked you and fearing that you might fall for Doug Heller, the Norwegian god.”
I had been studying a bowl full of jam samples, and my hand froze. “Do you know that’s the first time you’ve called him by his name?”
He shrugged again. “Things change.”
“That’s for sure.”
The waitress came and took our orders, and I faced Sam with a serious expression. “What exactly do we want to say to Ted Strayer?”
Sam’s face closed off slightly. “Let’s not ruin our breakfast. When the time comes, we’ll follow our righteous indignation.”
• • •
THE RED COTTAGE was actually a cluster of cottages behind one main building. They were quaint and well-kept, and my friend Allison assured me that they were a tourist favorite. Sam knocked on the red wooden door, which bore an elaborate and fragrant berry and ivy wreath, and Janey Maxwell opened it quickly, pulling us inside a warm lobby filled with antiques and some over-stuffed red couches. “Come on in out of the cold and sit down, sit down,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re here to talk with Ted Strayer,” Sam said. “We saw him earlier in the press line out there, but I understand the police have told him not to leave the area; do you know if he’s in his cottage?”
She nodded. “He went back in about an hour ago and ordered a pot of coffee. I think he’s writing.”
“If you call it that,” I mumbled.
“I’m so sorry about all you’ve gone through,” Janey said to Sam. “You know that nice Taylor Brand was staying here before she died. I still can’t believe it. Someone with so much life left to live, and suddenly she’s gone.”
Sam leaned forward toward her; she had settled on a chair across from our couch. “Can you tell me what you remember about her stay? Anything she said that might be relevant?”
She scratched her left arm absently. “Well, of course I told the police everything I could think of. She was a nice woman. I spoke with her a bit when she checked in, and then in the morning she sat here for a while, where we are, drinking coffee and checking her phone.”
Her phone. Doug said they had found it in her purse, here at the cottage. Surely they must have found clues on it by now? “The police said her phone was in her room. Did you see her room before they did?”
She shrugged. “Sure. I make beds every morning if people are out, and she was gone that morning.” She sighed. “It’s funny that there was so little in her room, especially when she had told me about what she wanted to show you.”
“What?” Sam said.
“She said she was excited about meeting with you. Asked where you lived and how to get there. But she was afraid you wouldn’t forgive her. She asked me if I thought you had it in you to forgive, after what you’d been through. I said I was sure you would.”
Sam nodded his appreciation. “But what did she say she wanted to show me?”
“Oh, she made this comment about how she needed to show you something because she wasn’t sure if it was a clue or not. She said something like it was a code, and she needed you to decode it.”
Sam stared at her. “But there was nothing? The police found nothing?”
“No. She just had a little suitcase, and some nice clothes and make-up and stuff, but nothing—mysterious. I guess I was a little disappointed by that.”
“Did she have any visitors?”
Janey switched her gaze to me. Her green eyes looked surprised. “It’s funny you should ask that. I didn’t check anyone in, and I didn’t see anyone go in or out, but you can get to those cottages by just walkin
g around this building and going down the middle path. So if cottage residents have visitors, they don’t necessarily need to check in. Anyway, someone complained that morning, after she had already left for her breakfast at Wheat Grass, that she’d hosted a man the evening before and that he’d been yelling loudly. I didn’t hear a thing, but I went to bed early, and I’m lucky enough to be a sound sleeper.”
“Did you ever determine who this man was?”
She shook her head. “No. I never really thought about it again. She was gone by then, and I probably figured I could talk to her about it when she got back, but she never got back.” She looked sad.
Sam had been thinking for a while. Now he asked, “Did the police say they found anything of significance?”
She shook her head again. “If they did, they didn’t tell me.”
• • •
JANEY POINTED OUT Ted Strayer’s cottage, one of six that lined her little back walkway like storybook homes. Each of them had a quaint name: Gooseberry Grove, Harwood House, Caitherwood Cottage. Ted Strayer was in one called Acorn Abbey, and a little acorn wreath adorned his door.
Sam knocked, and Strayer opened the door, smiling at us as though we were friendly neighbors bringing him a freshly baked pie. “Come on in, come on in,” he said. “Nice of you to stop by.”
Sam glared at him. “We’re not here to offer up an exclusive interview, Strayer. Or whatever you call it in your kind of journalism.”
Strayer held up a hand. “Hey, there was nothing wrong with that story.”
“Except that you took pictures on private property of a private event and printed them without permission,” I said, indignant.
“I didn’t commit libel, did I? Nothing I wrote was untrue. Just some attractive pictures with some documented background information. No harm, no foul. You both ended up looking terrific, so you’re welcome.”
“That’s disgusting,” I said.
His eyes widened. “Since you’re so focused on what defines journalism, let me tell you something: element number one is called prominence.” He pointed at Sam. “You’re prominent.” Then he pointed at me. “And you’re prominent now because of your connection to him; people recognize your names and your faces, which makes you fair game for the media. People seek out stories about those that they know. That’s human nature.”
“It’s human decency to allow people their private lives. We’re not celebrities,” Sam said. “We didn’t seek the limelight.”
Strayer smiled, like a person who doesn’t get a joke. “But you are celebrities. This is a reality-TV world, and people want to know about your life. And before you complain about journalistic ethics, let me clue you in: no one cares about those anymore, including my boss. You know what those pictures of you got me? A raise, and an order to stay here until you two stopped being interesting. I’ve gotten other offers, too—lots of other offers. So thanks to both of you and your photogenic faces, I got a career boost. And no, I’m not sorry.”
“Great,” I said.
He turned to me, eager now. “Do you know how many of my colleagues at the newspaper got fired last year? Seventy-five. That includes every single one of our photographers, because they figure, who needs trained artists when we can just use cell-phone footage? I bet all those laid off photographers are glad they studied the craft for years, just so they could get kicked out and replaced by Joe Schmoe on the street, who doesn’t know a wide angle lens from a hole in the ground!”
Sam moved closer; he was taller than Strayer by a head. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that I still have a job, and health insurance, and a future as a journalist, thanks to you guys and the long-lost Victoria. And I will be milking this story for as long as I possibly can.”
Sam said something back; I was suddenly too disgusted to listen anymore. My gaze traveled around Strayer’s small and pathetic room. There was no sign of any personal possessions except for an open suitcase with a jumble of clothes dangling out, an open laptop with a screensaver of a cartoon shark swimming through curly waves, and a pile of papers on a side table.
I walked toward the windows and pretended to lean on Strayer’s table so that I could “accidentally” bump the laptop and see if I could make the screensaver go away. I succeeded, and the file on the screen was a story called “The Endless Saga of Victoria West.”
I scowled at it and stole a look at Strayer’s smug face. Of course he had a good thing here in Blue Lake; he could simply go back over all the months that Victoria had been missing and turn it into endless exploitative stories.
Strayer was still droning on. “The news today isn’t about ethics or objectivity. No one gives a crap. The news is about only one thing: ratings. And that translates into cash. And do you know how they measure ratings for my online news blog? By how many people click it. That’s what it comes down to in today’s journalism: the click-through.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “People like Jake Elliott still care about the news.”
Strayer sniffed. “He’s a dinosaur, and he’ll be the next one to get fired.”
“You must be very proud,” Sam said.
I leaned back, bumping into the pile of papers, and one of them fell on the floor. I bent to retrieve it and saw that it was a postcard with a lovely picture of what looked like a Greek island. Curious, I flipped it over to see that it did, in fact, have a Greek postmark.
And it was addressed to Taylor Brand.
Beyond that, there was only one thing scrawled on the card, in block letters: .R. Acie.
“Sam,” I said, holding it up. My tone must have been strange, because Sam stopped arguing and looked at me, concerned. “This is addressed to Taylor Brand. And it’s postmarked Athens.”
The look on Sam’s face as he turned to Ted Strayer was nothing short of murderous.
Strayer held up his hands, but stood his ground. “Hey, before you get any ideas, she gave it to me. She knew I was an investigator, and she thought maybe we could put our heads together and figure out where Victoria was.”
Sam shook his head. “No, because she wanted me to solve a riddle with her.” He pointed at the card. “That looks like a riddle. One word on a postcard. And somehow it ends up not in police hands, but in yours.”
Strayer nodded. “Yeah. And I’ve been making some progress. The name Acie is relatively common, and I found fifteen of them in New York City alone. I’ve been working through them, trying to see if they have any connection to Miss Brand or to your wife.”
Sam stared at him for a moment, then turned to me. “Call Doug,” he said.
I moved to the corner and dialed Doug on my cell. He answered after two rings, and I explained briefly that we needed his help at the Red Cottage. “I’ll be there in a few,” he said, and hung up.
Strayer and Sam were still arguing, and this time when Sam loomed over him, Strayer did take a step back. “Listen, I’m trying to help,” he said. “Why can’t you see that? You two get up on your high horse and whine about ethics, but who are you to judge?” He looked at me and pointed to Sam. “He’s married.” Then he looked at Sam. “And she’s too young for you, isn’t she? Or do you just look old?”
I opened my mouth and Sam shook his head. “Don’t bother, Lena. He won’t hear the distinctions.”
Strayer started babbling again, and we let him rant until we heard a knock at the door. Sam opened it to admit Doug, who glanced at his watch and said, “What’s happening?”
I held up a card. “Might this be the evidence you should have found in Taylor Brand’s room? Because Ted Strayer had it.”
Doug took the card, holding it by one edge, and studied it, then put it down on the bed and glared at Strayer.
Strayer once again declared he was not responsible. “She gave it to me,” he repeated.
Doug narrowed his eyes. “And when we interrogated you
yesterday after a woman died tragically, you didn’t think that was fit to mention? That you had evidence potentially related to her death, and to the disappearance of Victoria West?”
Strayer’s mouth hung open like a hooked fish. “That didn’t occur to me.”
“And you touched it with your stupid hands, even though we might have been able to process it for prints?” Doug said loudly. I felt my face reddening; I hadn’t considered that, either.
With a snarl, Doug took out his handcuffs and snapped them open with a satisfying sound. “You have the right to remain silent. A right I hope you intend to use.” He grabbed Strayer’s wrists and clapped on the cuffs.
Strayer was clearly shocked. “What exactly is the charge?” he burbled.
“Obstruction of justice,” Doug yelled. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” He took out his radio and said something unintelligible into it, then finished Mirandizing Strayer, who glared at us as though we had caused his problems.
Doug pushed him toward the door. “I have a nice squad car waiting for you. They’ll process you at the station, and you can decide whether anyone likes you enough to bail you out.”
Some officers appeared at the door, and Doug handed Strayer over to them. Then he returned to the room and bent to study the card on the bed before producing an evidence bag and sliding it inside.
“It’s worth a try—see if we can find any recognizable prints on it. But it’s dated June, so that’s a long time, and a lot of hands on it since then.”
I looked at Sam. “Do you think it could be from Victoria?”
He shook his head. “I really couldn’t say. It’s in those block letters—she never wrote that way. But I’m guessing that if this is what Taylor wanted to show me, it was the word she wanted to ask about. Or whatever that is. This is the Nikon problem all over again.”
Doug looked thoughtful. “So you think we might have to find this R. Acie the way we need to find Nikon?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea. But I could kill Ted Strayer right now.”
Death in Dark Blue Page 10