A Dark and Stormy Murder (A Writer's Apprentice Mystery) (19 page)

Camilla smiled. “Have Adam bring a few to me at the house. I’ll sign them and send them back. He can be our courier.”

“Oh my gosh—thanks! It truly is an honor. I just want to say—your books just—transport me to another time and place. I hope you write a million more.”

Camilla thanked him again, I handed him the leather folder with the signed charge slip inside (along with a healthy tip for Grant), and we gathered our coats. Apparently, though, Grant wasn’t finished speaking. “Oh, and I just wondered what you thought of your notorious neighbor!”

“I’m sorry?” Camilla’s voice was cold now. A queen displeased by a subject.

“Oh—it’s just—Adam mentioned once that Sam West was your neighbor. I wondered what you thought about the latest news. You being a mystery writer and everything.”

“What latest news?” I said sharply.

“That he’s been arrested. I just heard it on the radio. They said they have enough evidence to prosecute him for the murder of his wife.”

15

For a long time she existed without living, working at the local bakery and paying the baker’s wife half of her wages for a cot in the room behind the business and for meals twice a day. She waited for a word from Gerhard, or for any sign that he was still alive and perhaps coming for her. Despite all of her vigilance, when the sign came, she was not ready.

—from
The Salzburg Train

W
E LISTENED TO
the car radio and heard the dreadful details. Sam West had been taken into custody early that evening. Police were not saying what evidence they possessed, but they were confident that West would be found guilty of his wife’s murder when the case went to trial—and the state’s attorney did intend to prosecute Sam West to the fullest extent of the law. West’s lawyer, in turn, said the arrest was a travesty of justice, and that if he had anything to do about it, West would soon be free.

“Ridiculous,” Camilla said. “Poor Sam.”

“I need to text him,” I said. My head felt strange, as though it were filled with roaring ocean waves.

“You can’t, dear. If he’s under arrest, they take those things away, don’t they?”

“Oh, God. This is terrible. What can we do, Camilla?
Can’t we do something for him? You’re famous. What if you gave the police a comment, saying you are confident that Sam West is innocent?”

“My dear, that would accomplish nothing at all. No one cares what an old novelist thinks. The police are supposedly basing this on evidence, though I find the appearance of the blood quite suspect.”

I turned to her. “Yes! So do I! Why do you think so?”

“Lena—please. We can’t help him if we don’t live. Keep your eyes on the road and try to calm down.”

I had driven us in my car, and now I stared ahead into the darkness, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry. I just—this is such bad news. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Neither do I. But Sam has a good attorney and a fine mind. He’s trying to work this out, too. He has been for a year.”

“But now the whole world will be against him. You know how willing people are to believe the news headlines. To think the worst.”

“And why don’t you think the worst? What makes you defend Sam so strongly?”

I stole a glance at her and saw curiosity in her eyes. “Because—because I met him. And I saw his pain and misery, but I didn’t see cruelty or jealousy. And when he spoke of his wife—he was worried about her. That’s authentically innocent. If he had killed her, he’d want to place the blame on her, or deny that a crime had been committed. That’s what the others do—the men who really did kill their wives. I’ve seen their faces on television, and I’ve seen Sam’s face, and Sam’s is good.”

I felt on the verge of tears again.

“I agree, Lena. I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

We pulled onto the gravel road that led to her house, and I realized that I hadn’t checked on Sam’s house recently. The thought of doing it in the dark didn’t appeal to me; I made a note to check it the next morning and water all of his plants.

“He has plants, Camilla. He cares for them and . . . nurtures them.”

“Yes.”

“I’m curious, though. Why isn’t his family speaking out on his behalf? Surely they can’t believe he’s guilty?”

Camilla sighed. “So he didn’t tell you that part of his history.”

“What?”

“It’s sad. I’m not sure you can handle much more sadness.”

“What is it?”

“When Sam was twenty-two, his parents and his younger sister boarded a plane bound for Massachusetts; they intended to visit some colleges. She was seventeen, and starting to plan her future.”

“Oh, no.”

“The plane crashed. It was Flight 427—do you remember that, on the news? But you would have been only about, what—twelve or thirteen years old.”

“Everyone aboard was killed. I do remember. They were searching the water for survivors.”

“Sam was orphaned, and Wendy was his only sibling. But this is what I want you to see—he’s remarkably strong, Lena. He’s weathered it all and remained a good person, under the veneer of cynicism.”

I parked in front of the house and stared at its dark outline. “Thank you for telling me.”

We went inside, and the dogs greeted us with their predictable merriment. Camilla said, “I’ll let them out.”

“I think I’ll head upstairs, Camilla. Thank you for your company.”

“Thank you for dinner,” she said. “Things will look brighter in the morning.” Her expression was comforting, and yet I was not comforted.

Upstairs I found my room empty—Lestrade was on some evening prowl. I sat at my desk and gazed at my notes, my laptop, my phone.

I picked up the cell phone and sent a text to Sam West. I didn’t know if he could read it, but I wanted him to know he had my support. In a world of people out to believe the worst of him, I believed the best.

Restless, I dialed my father’s number. He picked up on the second ring and said, “There’s my long-lost girl! How’s the new job going?”

“Oh, Dad,” I said, half in tears.

“Whoa! Take a deep breath. Let me get my glass of wine. Okay, there we go. Now start at the beginning.”

I talked to him for two hours: about Camilla, about Martin Jonas, about Doug Heller, about Allison, about Sam West.

“Wow,” he said at last. “And I thought things were complicated with your plant scientist.”

“Kurt?” With surprise, I realized that Kurt had practically been wiped from my memory banks by a couple of weeks in Blue Lake. “Yeah, you’re right—Kurt was ultimately less complicated. But also less worthwhile.”

“Do you want us to come up there? We can stay in a local B and B or something. Just be around for moral support. Tabitha would love that. She misses you as much as I do.”

“You are the sweetest dad in the world. Maybe we can plan something like that for spring. It’s too cold right now, and it’s getting colder. You guys stay warm in Florida, and let me finish this first project for Camilla, and then—yes, I would love it if you came up here.”

“You just let us know. We can take vacation days and make arrangements on short notice.”

“I will. And thanks, Dad. I feel better just talking to you.”

“Meanwhile, I have to be a father and say that a murder was committed in that town, and I’d prefer if you don’t wander around alone. If you go out, go with other people. Okay? Will you promise me that?”

“I promise, Dad.”

By the time I hung up I did feel more peaceful, and more optimistic that things would resolve themselves. Martin Jonas’ killer would be caught, and Sam West’s lawyer would prevail.

In the meantime, I had my own job to do, and perhaps it would be best if I focused on that. I looked out into the darkness and saw that it had begun to rain. In a burst of visuals, I recalled the storm that had brought me to Blue Lake: the bulging clouds, gray over tossing water; the anxiety over my meeting with Camilla; Doug Heller, blond and handsome on the side of the road; Martin Jonas facedown on the sand; and Sam West, his blue eyes concerned, standing in the drizzle and thinking his private thoughts.

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

T
HE 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 manually. 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?