A Dark and Stormy Murder (A Writer's Apprentice Mystery) (20 page)

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.

“You are not going to touch her,” said Camilla’s voice. She stood in the doorway of the office, a shepherd on either side of her. The dogs, showing their teeth, looked alert and ready to attack; I was especially pleased to see them. “Unless you’d like me to give my dogs the order to pin you down.”

He sneered at her. He truly was stupid, because he said, “I’ll take my chances,” and lunged for his knife.

Camilla said one quiet word, and the dogs rushed across the floor with a whooshing sound, then clamped down their jaws on his flesh with a noise that sounded like “snarf.” Heathcliff had his calf, and Rochester had his right arm.

Camilla’s voice was calm, but I could see that she was frightened. “They’ll just hold you like that, unless I have to give them the order to bite. It’s up to you,” she said.

Dawkins’ horrible son swore some more, and called Camilla and me some names that neither of us had ever been called, and I could see that Camilla was tempted to give her dogs the order.

Then we heard a sound at the front door. Camilla leaned
out of the study doorway and said, “Hello, Doug. Please do come in.”

Doug Heller walked into the room and took quick stock of the situation. “What’s he doing in here? Did he hurt either of you?”

“He threatened to kill Lena. Perhaps he would have tried, if the dogs and I hadn’t come in at that moment,” Camilla said.

“He was looking for the evidence Camilla said she had against the leader of the drug ring. He threatened to hurt me if I didn’t give it to him,” I said. “I hit him—that’s why he’s bleeding. First with the door, and then with a canning jar.”

“I’m suing her,” Dawkins said from the floor. “That was assault.”

“Shut up,” Heller said. He took out a pair of handcuffs and pushed Heathcliff out of the way so that he could attach them to Dawkins’ wrists.

“Ray Dawkins,” he said, “I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Martin Jonas, and for the possession, manufacture, and sale of illegal substances in the state of Indiana. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law . . .” As he Mirandized Dawkins, the man on the floor scowled at Camilla and me.

“You don’t have to say the whole thing. I know it from TV shows,” Dawkins said irritably. “I also know that I get a lawyer and that if I don’t say a word then you have nothing on me.”

I saw something poking out of his pocket and I ran forward to retrieve it. “Except this,” I said. I held up the gray scarf. “Doug, your guys found this on one of the nights these guys visited their drug lair. They gave it to Camilla,
and she held on to it, waiting to find out if it belonged to anyone she knew. And when Mr. Dawkins here saw it on the windowsill just now, he shoved it into his pocket.”

“That don’t mean anything,” Dawkins sneered. “I’m here all the time, fixing stuff. I probably lost it then. You got nothing on me.”

Doug smothered a laugh. “We’ve got plenty on you, idiot. We’ve got fingerprints which I’m thinking will match yours, and we’ve got your stupid drug lab, and we’ll probably have Dave Brill’s testimony in a plea deal. We have the fact that you broke into this house today, armed with a weapon, and threatened to kill Miss London. And we have whatever Camilla found.”

We looked at her, expectantly. She shrugged. “Oh, I didn’t find anything. I just suspected this young man, so I figured I would send Lena out of harm’s way and take myself out with the dogs and see if he took the bait. Which he did.” She looked at Ray Dawkins, the horrible son who had turned out to be a horrible criminal. “Why in the world did you choose my house for your illegal hideout?”

He shrugged and shared his chronic sneer. “I’m not saying I did, but why wouldn’t I? There’s no better hiding place than that tunnel, which I seen when we boarded it up, and you’re just an old woman. No one would suspect it, and you couldn’t do a thing.”

I was furious on her behalf, but Camilla looked amused. “Perhaps you’ll rethink your decision in your jail cell.”

Doug said, “Camilla, call off your hounds so I can get this guy back to the station.”

She clapped for the dogs, who jogged over to her, and she patted their heads. I was sure they would get a special treat for dinner tonight.

“That’s a pretty nasty bump, Ray. Did you fall?” Doug asked dryly as he marched his prisoner across the room.

“She just told you she hit me! Arrest her, why don’t you?” Dawkins attempted to point at me with his cuffed hands. “And I’m going to sue. I’m going to sue her, and your stupid-ass police force.”

“Oops,” Doug said, as he bumped Dawkins’ head into the door frame. “That was an accident. Please go on about your lawsuits.”

“Police brutality!” Dawkins yelled. “I’ll sue for that, too.”

“I’m sure these ladies will countersue,” Doug said. He turned to us and said, “Thanks, girls.” And he winked. I didn’t think men still winked, but Doug Heller did it, and it looked attractive. He went through the door, but poked his head back in. “Are you two okay?”

“Yes,” Camilla and I said in unison.

We thanked Doug and waited until the door shut.

I ran to Camilla and we hugged each other. “I was afraid he would hurt you,” I said.

“I felt the same. I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. I thought I could take out the dogs, leave the house unattended, and let him fall into the trap. Then I would call Doug—which I did—but he told me you had just called and were planning to check on me. Then I was terrified!”

I patted her hair, which was a bit disheveled. “Why did you suspect him?”

“It dawned on me just this morning, as I saw him painting with his father. I’ve seen Bob Dawkins do work all over town, but his son isn’t always with him. Here, though, the son was always along. I studied him while he worked, and saw that his eyes kept darting to the side of the house, and
the padlocked hiding place. Then I realized he had opportunity and motive, assuming he had a falling-out with Jonas. He’s around the same age as both Jonas and Brill, which would explain how they all met one another. You told me that Martin Jonas knew the house had a secret. Apparently they figured it out.

“So I decided to say something about evidence and see what he would do. I stood by the window after you left, watching them. When it was time to leave, he sent his father off alone, saying he was going to walk to a friend’s house. That’s when I took the dogs out and waited.”

“You were taking a risk, Camilla. I can’t believe you put yourself in such danger!”

“I ended up putting you in danger, which is the last thing I wanted to do. And look what a tough fighter you are! Everyone should have you on her side. Or his side,” she added with a hint of a smile.

I gave her an extra squeeze before I let her go. “I think this means it’s over, right? Things will go back to normal now.”

“You never knew what normal was, poor thing.” She looked around the room with sudden distaste. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll go somewhere. Would you like to ride out to Lake Michigan, or the Dunes? Or perhaps we can go somewhere for a nice lunch—food to warm the soul. Or should we see what’s playing at the movie theater? That might be just what we need.”

She went to her computer and saw that the town theater, which specialized in showing “oldies but goodies,” was in the midst of a Golden Era week and currently showing a Katharine Hepburn classic:
Bringing Up Baby
.

Camilla Graham looked up at me from her desk chair.
It could have been a picture on the jacket of one of her books. “How does that sound, Lena? Would you like to see a movie with me?”

I told her I would like it very much.

And that is why, only an hour after Bob Dawkins’ horrible son was arrested for the murder of the ill-fated Martin Jonas, I found myself sitting in a movie theater and sharing a large popcorn with my idol, Camilla Graham, who sat with perfect posture in her seat and looked like some elegant, adventurous aunt that I might dream up for myself.

In the midst of our laughter at what was a very funny movie indeed, I had a sudden thought. “Camilla,” I whispered, “what about the boat? What did they use it for? Why couldn’t they trace it?”

She thought about this, then nodded. “We’ll ask Douglas in the morning. He’s a bit busy today, don’t you think?”

She patted my hand and then left hers there, sitting lightly on mine.

17

On her own again, she wondered who might be out there, in the large disinterested world, to offer aid. It was a sobering thought to realize that, upon reflection, she had no true friends.

—from
The Salzburg Train

T
HE BOAT,
D
OUG
Heller told us while we all shared coffee and rolls at Willoughby’s the following morning, had been a purchase made on craigslist and paid for in cash. Martin, who had been gifted in technology, had created the false persona of Darren Zinn in order to avoid detection. Zinn had a real post office box which occasionally received mail.

“Why didn’t they just do their business on the boat, then? Why involve Camilla?” I asked, poking at my cinnamon roll.

“They did use the boat all the time, at first. But they didn’t like having it out in the open and risking witnesses every time they boarded. Then a couple of years ago Ray Dawkins was doing a job with his dad, repairing some siding on Camilla’s house that had been knocked off by a storm. He discovered the little lever that opened the door entirely by chance, and soon enough he found not just the room, but the tunnel. That was when they relocated the
boat to a dock near Camilla’s place, and they figured they had the perfect location. The tunnel was basically soundproof. They visited it only in the wee hours of the morning, and they used the boat to make their deliveries at various docks around Blue Lake.”

“Disturbing,” Camilla said, sipping her coffee, “not just that they were there, but that I never suspected. It explains some of the dogs’ behavior, though.” She looked at me. “That night they woke you up wasn’t the first night they’d gone down there to the office, sniffing around. And yet I never heard a thing. To be honest, if Martin hadn’t been killed, I doubt I would have thought twice about it. I would have figured I had vigilant dogs who were perhaps overeager. Or that they smelled a deer or a raccoon or something.”

“Thank God the tunnel has been found, and exposed, and the proper people have been arrested,” I said. “You did a great job on this, Doug.”

His face reddened slightly, and he swept some crumbs off the table, his eyes cast down. “All in a day’s work.”

“Not really. You came to Camilla’s place at all hours, more than once, despite all the other things you had to do. We’re in your debt.”

“We are, Doug,” Camilla said warmly.

“You’ve been helping me since the second I came to town,” I said.

Camilla leaned forward. “I haven’t heard this story!”

“He got my cat out of his hiding place in my car so that I wouldn’t be late for my date with you. My interview, I mean.” Doug finally met my eyes with his wise brown ones. “So I guess you owe me one, Lena.”

“I guess I do.” I grinned at him. “Meanwhile, what will happen at the station?”

Doug stretched and yawned. “Don’t know, don’t care. Today is my day off, and my colleagues will be handling things for the time being. Dawkins has already been transferred out of our jurisdiction, to the county lockup.”

“Well, you should enjoy the time with a good book. I recommend the novels of Camilla Graham.”

Doug brightened. “That’s a great idea. I’ve read two of them, but there are lots more I still need to read. What do you recommend?”

“Have you read her first?
The Lost Child
? In many ways that’s my favorite.”

“Mine, too,” Camilla said.

*   *   *

C
AMILLA AND
I
agreed to meet and work that afternoon, so I spent the rest of the morning at Allison’s house, since she too had the day off and we hadn’t found much time to hang out together. Now we lounged lazily on her couch while I filled her in on the last of the Martin Jonas story.

“It’s unbelievable. First that this sort of crime would happen in idyllic little Blue Lake, but then that those guys were so cruel and heartless.”

“Not so unbelievable, I guess. All you have to do is read the headlines every day.”

“No, don’t get all depressed on me. This is our fun day!” Allison said with her usual bright and happy demeanor. “What should we do? Make chocolate chip cookies? Take a walk outside? Get addicted to a Netflix series? What are you doing?”

I was scrolling through pages on my phone. “Talking about headlines got me thinking. I want to see what they’re saying about Sam West today.”

Allison jumped up and put her hands on her hips. “What is it with you and this guy, Lena? He’s been arrested, for gosh sakes! What more evidence do you need that he’s guilty?”

“Guilty of what? They don’t even have a body. For all we know his wife is still alive.”

Allison gave me a pitying look—the kind that Doug Heller had given me on the day he took Sam away.

“You don’t believe me? When have you ever known me to be illogical?”

She sat back down on the edge of the couch. “Never.”

“Something doesn’t fit, Allie. I’ve never once thought he was guilty—not once. Camilla doesn’t think so, either. And when you read this blog that one of her friends wrote—hang on. Can I use your laptop?”

“Sure.”

I set down my phone and went to her computer, where I pulled up the blog called
A Fashionable Life
. Allison moved next to me, curious.

I pointed to Taylor Brand. “This was her best friend—or so she says.”

“She seems kind of into herself,” Allison said.

“That’s what I thought! But look—here’s the post she put up right after Mrs. West disappeared.” I showed it to Allison and watched her read it.

“So what? She’s upset.”

“But she says that Victoria had talked about getting away. And look at the comments down at the bottom. This anonymous person said that they should “‘follow the money and the drugs.’”

Allison snorted. “Yeah—and another anonymous person says that he’s a wizard and he put a spell over everyone
so they could no longer see her. Look—it’s right here.” She pointed to another comment.

I sighed. “The fact is that no one knows the truth, including the cops, which means they have no right to be holding Sam West.”

Allison’s hand on my shoulder was gentle. “They have
evidence
, Lee.”

I said nothing.

She scrolled up the blog, waving her hand at all the entries. “Look at this—so many times she posted about her friend. Don’t you think if Victoria were still out there she would have contacted Taylor?”

“I don’t—wait! Go back. Two or three entries back—I want to see that picture. The one with their heads together. There. I’ve never seen that picture before.”

Allison studied the image. “So? She looks a little different, doesn’t she? Neither of them have any makeup on. What, do grown women still have slumber parties?” she said scornfully. Then her face changed, in typical Allison fashion, and she beamed at me. “We should have a slumber party!”

I laughed in spite of myself. “Wait—don’t scroll away. There’s something about this picture that’s so familiar . . .” I leaned in. It was a shot of Victoria West and Taylor Brand, both looking a few years younger, their heads together in a typical “girlfriends” pose. Brand’s dark hair contrasted with her friend’s reddish, silky locks. They looked as though they had taken the picture in the early morning, or on some weekend getaway that didn’t involve glamour. It was a rather sweet picture in its innocence and sincerity. West’s face looked different than it had in other pictures I had seen. “Oh my God. Allie. Oh, God.”

“What?” She leaned in. “What’s going on? It’s just a picture, Lee.”

“Wait. Wait.” I minimized the blog and started Googling some of the search terms I had used days earlier. “It’s got to be one of these. There was this festival, this giant festival full of boats . . .”

I felt Allison staring at the side of my face, but I kept looking. “No, it’s not this site. Okay, wait—I think it’s this one. But if this is the case—oh my God—these search terms themselves could be a clue! Yeah—see these people? It’s this big yacht festival. I was researching it for Camilla. It’s got to be here—I know I saw it—okay, here. Here it is. That’s her. Look at this woman.”

I pointed out the woman I had seen while doing yacht research; she had reminded me of Sam West’s wife, but I hadn’t really thought about it at the time. And I hadn’t really thought about what I’d typed in to bring up the image until I recalled it today. “Look, Allie.”

Allison sat stiffly. “She’s a woman on a yacht.”

“Look at her face. Let me zoom in.” I did, and then I moved the image to the side of the screen and brought back the blog picture. “Look at them together.”

She leaned in closer. “Wow. They do look similar. But lots of women look like that. Red-haired, beautiful, snooty-looking. Straight teeth, good skin, blah blah. That’s how they end up on yachts.”

“Look at the mole. Or I guess it’s more of a birthmark, right? That’s what I see now in the picture of Victoria West. A little birthmark on her chin, almost shaped like a heart. Now look at the woman on the yacht.”

Allison’s eyes widened. “It’s not just the birthmark. One of her teeth is slightly crooked. Do you see it, there? And
there.” She pointed at the yacht page, then looked at me. “What have you found here?”

“I’ve found Victoria West.”

She shook her head sadly. “But it doesn’t matter. Maybe she was off on some yacht years ago, but why would that matter now?”

My heart pounded in my chest; I was barely conscious of my words as I said them. “Look at the date on the website. That yachting festival happened eight days ago. That’s Victoria West. She’s alive, and she was in Greece one week ago.”

We stared at each other in silence for a minute. “What now?” Allison asked.

I stood up. “Doug Heller has the day off. I’m going to pay him a visit.”

*   *   *

H
ELLER ANSWERED HIS
door wearing sweats and holding a beer. “Lena? What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“No. Can I come in?”

“Sure.” He stepped back and allowed me into his kitchen, which was small and bright and spare.

His blond hair was slightly mussed, and his gold brown eyes were more than curious; I could see, at a glance, that he wondered if I were pursuing a romantic liaison.

“I need you to look at something.”

“With pleasure,” he said, grinning at me.

I smiled back, nervously. “On the laptop.” I set it up on his little wood table and brought up the two windows. “I need you to look at these images.”

He focused in and frowned. “Victoria West. Why, Lena?”

“Just hear me out, Doug. First of all, would you agree that this is the same woman?”

He sat and studied the pictures with close attention. Whatever he might think about Sam West or my “weird” obsession, he was still a cop first, and I was showing him evidence.

Finally he leaned back. “I would say yes, this is the same woman. The mark on the chin is distinctive, as are a couple of other facial features.”

“Okay. Then consider this. The picture on the left, according to the blog, was taken in 2014. The picture on the right was taken last week.”

“What?” He had been looking at me, but now he grabbed the laptop, pulled it closer, and clicked around to look at the posted dates. “This is impossible. How would they not have found this?” Then he looked suspiciously at me. “How did
you
find this?”

“It was an accident. Sam told me that his wife used to say she wanted to sail away from it all. I guess in my mind I thought of yachts, because she hung around with a wealthy set. So then Camilla was asking for ideas about her book, and I said what about yachts, and then I was doing research for her. It was just the vaguest thought that became a link. Just something she once said, and something I pictured, and then a website. Total serendipity. Sort of.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, I was using all sorts of search terms relating to yachts. But I guess I still had Sam’s wife on my mind, so one of the things I Googled was ‘yachts’ and ‘Nikon.’”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “It was on my mind. It wasn’t related to Camilla’s book, but it was in my head, how she said she’d
sail away, and how she had been typing the word ‘Nikon’ into her phone. So I just typed them both in at one point, and that’s what came up.”