A Dark and Stormy Murder (A Writer's Apprentice Mystery) (23 page)

Sam’s brows creased, but Doug shook his head. “So what? That’s an anonymous poster on the Internet. That means nothing.”

“Maybe. But if someone has been detaining her, wouldn’t that be one way to do it? To drug her, or keep her addicted to drugs? I don’t know a lot about it, but ever since I read that post I’ve wondered . . .”

“It would at least be worth checking, wouldn’t it?” Camilla said, her face thoughtful. “If the girl were being drugged, and that blood contained her DNA, then they would be able to determine the drug content as well. Sam, did they give you any information about the blood?”

Sam rustled himself out of some deep thoughts and said, “No. But I will certainly be asking through my lawyer. And you should all know that I have a private detective named Jim Harrigan who’s been looking for Victoria for the last year. He has the picture, too, and he’s currently in Greece, trying to get information. I’m going to tell him everything we came up with.”

Camilla nodded. “Meanwhile, keep us privy to the reports he’s giving you. We may get new insights into the whole thing.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and held up the mug in a sort of grim toast. “We’ll solve this for you yet, Sam. It’s the least we can do.”

We all nodded agreement, including Doug Heller, who made eye contact with Sam, his expression grave and slightly remorseful.

*   *   *

H
ALF AN HOUR
later both men departed and Camilla and I cleared away the dishes and the leftover bread. “Camilla, you are amazing,” I told her. “We never would have had this revelation if you hadn’t sensed something amiss. It’s so subtle, really, when you see the photograph as a whole. But when you study the discrete elements—it’s fascinating.”

“We can say the same thing of your searching online. You and I have, perhaps, that extra sense, attuned to the things that others might not notice. We seek a solution, and our minds are helping us do that.”

I noticed that, despite the late hour, Camilla was walking with a bright energy, and her eyes were glowing. “Camilla—you certainly are spritely this evening. Is this due to a certain lunch with Adam Rayburn?”

She grinned. “Lunch was very nice, but I must confess it’s not Adam that has me feeling so energized right now.” She rinsed out the coffeepot and started to dry it with a dish towel. She turned to me, pot in hand, and I saw her young self in her face.

“The fact is, Lena, there’s nothing so exciting as a real mystery—I’ve always thought so! Don’t you agree?”

20

They met Hermann-Josef at the harbor at midnight. The long-lost brothers embraced, and Gerhard took Johanna’s hand and helped her board the
Pontoporeia
, named for a sea nymph, while a mass of stars glimmered above them. The air was fresh and cold, but their hearts were warm as they contemplated life together in a new land, young and free, with their lives yet to unfurl before them.

As the yacht made its slow, graceful way out to sea, Johanna gave silent thanks that she had summoned the courage to board the Salzburg Train, the first step in a journey that had led her to this place, these people, this chance.

Now another journey would begin, and she had chosen her direction.

—the ending of
The Salzburg Train

C
AMILLA HAD ORDERED
me to sleep in the next morning, assuring me that she would do the same. “It’s the first day you haven’t had some terrible stress weighing down on you, and I want you to relax. Daydream, enjoy the scenery out the window, pet that purring ball of fluff who keeps getting under my feet,” she had said with a smile. “Doug will be doing the morning shift on our latest project, so we have some time to ourselves.”

I woke and did as she advised, stretching out under my warm covers and studying the little cat face of the sleeping Lestrade. The trees outside, growing bare but still adorned by some colorful and determined leaves, bowed to me with the pressure of the wind. I lay back on my pillow and closed my eyes, luxuriating under my comforter. Everything would be better from this point on. I would find ways to spend more time with Sam; my father would come to visit me and tour Blue Lake; Camilla would finish her novel and I would see its publication; and soon, very soon, we would solve the mystery of Victoria West.

My eyes opened again. It was no use; I wouldn’t be falling back asleep. It was best, despite my determination to lie in, to get up and start my day. I reached for my phone and sent a quick text to Sam:
Good morning. I’m thinking of you.

I set the phone down, climbed out of bed, leaving Lestrade to his slumbers, and headed for the shower. Camilla had replenished the fragrant French shampoo, and I indulged in this and some lavender soap while I gazed at distant Blue Lake, and the vast sky above it, through the small shower window.

Downstairs I found coffee and warm muffins on the dining room table. Rhonda was chopping vegetables for a lunch soufflé and singing a song to herself that I thought might be from a musical. I peered into the kitchen and waved at her; she lifted a hand, still singing. I returned to the table and sipped at hot coffee, enjoying the sunlight that speckled the tablecloth.

Camilla did not appear, but I could hear her voice in the office, murmuring into her phone. It sounded like a business call. I glanced at my watch: nine thirty, which meant it was ten thirty in New York.

I took one of the muffins, fat with blueberries, and ate it appreciatively. Then, in a moment of pure decadence, I ate another one. I poured more coffee and took my mug out of the room, down the hall, and to Camilla’s doorway. I peered in; she was off the phone, but studying something at her desk.

“Good morning,” I said.

She looked up and beamed at me. “Oh, good morning! My goodness, if this is what you call sleeping in, you could never be accused of self-indulgence.”

“I couldn’t sleep. But I’m having a lovely morning. Look at the sky today! And Rhonda has already made me fat and complacent.”

Camilla laughed. “Come in, come in, Lena. Pull up the purple chair. I have some questions to ask you. And we have work to do.”

It was quite familiar now, sitting across from Camilla at her large desk, settling into the stuffed chair and readying myself for creative dialogue. “Of course. We need to talk about Victoria. And work on the book, too,” I added hastily.

She nodded. “Let’s do book business first, because I have some pressing deadlines. I’ve gone over the scene you wrote in the Black Forest. I made my own changes, but it’s largely yours. I’m wondering if you might look over a few more scenes in the same way. Discussing them with me, giving me your own take on them.”

I leaned forward. “Of course! I love collaborating with you.”

She nodded, pleased. “I thought you would say that, and I made some decisions based on your past performance.”

The words sounded flattering, yet I felt a stab of fear.
This sounded like an assessment. Was I going to be reviewed? I had been distracted lately, worrying over Sam, badgering Doug, chasing ideas about Martin Jonas and Sam’s wife . . . I had never really had a chance to prove myself under normal conditions. Camilla had acknowledged that yesterday, though; she had told me that she feared I would think Blue Lake was always a place of conflict.

“Uh—what . . . ?” I began.

She pulled a document from a folder nearby. “I just printed this. They sent it from New York this morning and want to know if I need any changes. It’s the cover for
The Salzburg
Train
.”

“Oh, how exciting!” I said.

She handed the paper to me. “Tell me what you think.”

It was beautiful, and the colors were close to what I had imagined: a purpled, twilight view of a delightfully old-fashioned train emerging from a bricked tunnel with a backdrop of beautiful Austrian countryside. The sky was a mixture of blue, lavender, and orange—a poetic vision of day turning to night. The title was one line, spread across the sky, and Camilla’s name was stretched across the bottom, white letters against the dark terrain—

“Oh my God,” I said.

“Do you like it?”

“Camilla—this isn’t right. I—this isn’t necessary.”

“I think it is, Lena. I think we must make our collaboration clear; who knows how much more you’ll do, as the years pass? And you could be publishing your own books in a year or two. This will help with that, don’t you think?”

I stared at her, my mouth open, my eyes warm with tears.

My gaze dropped back to the cover, the beautiful cover, the bottom of which read “Camilla Graham,” and underneath that, in slightly smaller letters, “with Lena London.”

I traced my name with one finger. “It’s beautiful. Wonderful. But you can’t do it. It will make people think that you need someone to help you write your books, and you don’t. This book was the best yet! People will get the wrong idea.”

Camilla shook her head. “No. All sorts of writers work with collaborators. It doesn’t mean they’ve lost their gift. It means they’re open to nurturing new talent.” She leaned forward. “I have loved working with you, Lena. I hope you feel the same.”

“I do! You know I do. I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Will you approve the cover?”

“If you think—”

She shook her head.

“I mean, of course I love the cover. I—I’ll try to earn that credit, Camilla.”

“Of course you will earn it, and have earned it.”

“Thank you.” I wiped at my eyes.

“We will need to do some interviews together. Tour together, although not extensively. I’ve made it clear that I’m too old to travel the world on tours. Some select cities in the U.S. and England, mostly.”

“I’ve never been to England.” My lips felt numb.

“Oh, it’s lovely. I can show you my favorite places.”

“Camilla.”

“Yes.”

I set the picture down on her desk. “I need to hug you now.”

To my surprise, the cool and reserved Camilla Graham
laughed, clapped her hands, and moved swiftly around her desk, her arms open.

I barreled into them, resting my chin on her shoulder. “You are everything I ever dreamed you would be,” I said. “And you have no idea how much I fantasized about meeting you, the person who created so many beautiful worlds for me.”

Camilla kissed my cheek. “You are such a sweet child.”

I stepped away from her. “Will we be working today? Or will we be sleuthing?”

She nodded. “A bit of both. We need to go back over this new edited version—see what we find, and what we might want to change. My editor needs the changes back within the next two weeks.”

“Of course. I’ll spend all day on it, every day. It’s been—a little distracting around here.”

“Yes, indeed. But you can’t work on the book all day. As we established, Mrs. West is in danger. Doug will be involving the police, one hopes, and yet I fear they don’t have the imagination for it. That’s where we come in.”

I nodded, accepting this even as I worried that it wasn’t true, that we wouldn’t be able to help them find Victoria.

“But first, I have one more thing for you.”

“Camilla, really,” I protested. “You’ve already given me a gift I can’t repay.”

She went back to her desk and opened a drawer. She pulled out a book, which she held out to me. It was a hardback copy of
The Lost Child
; it looked like a first edition. “I was signing some books for that waiter from Wheat Grass; Adam brought them over for me, and I did promise, didn’t I? While I was doing it, I thought it made sense to sign this one for you. No one understands my characters
as you do, Lena, especially Colin, my sweet boy. You saw him best of all.”

She handed the book to me, and I accepted it with reverent hands. “Thank you,” I said. It was all I could muster.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’ll be ready to work in just a minute. I just want to put this in my room,” I managed. I escaped upstairs and leaped on my bed, clutching the book like a talisman. I lay for a while, staring at the ceiling, trying to absorb all that had happened.

Then, tenderly, while Lestrade purred beside me with his eyes closed like some wise sphinx, I opened the cover. “To Lena,” it said. “In some ways, you are like the child I never had.” It was signed “Camilla.”

Surely I would wake up and it would all have been a dream: coming to Blue Lake, meeting Camilla, confronting a murderer, meeting Sam West, finding the image of Victoria West, meeting Doug Heller, finding a hidden tunnel. Befriending my idol and finding that I had become as important to her life as she was to mine.

With a sigh, I took the book to my desk and laid it down carefully. I would have to find some beautiful bookends, or a display rack, for something so precious.

On a whim, I picked up my phone. I had a return text from Sam. It said:
Me, too. Keep texting me—it brightens my day.

I wrote back:
Camilla just told me she’ll put my name on her next cover.

Then I dialed my father; there was no answer, so I left him the same message, with a bit more detail, in a voice too high-pitched to hide my excitement. My father would understand; although it was my mother and I who had
shared a love for Graham novels, my dad was the one who had always remembered to buy them as birthday and Christmas gifts for us both. He would understand the significance of seeing his daughter’s name on one of those book covers.

*   *   *

H
OURS LATER
C
AMILLA
and I sat at the dining room table, poring over corrections and making notes. It was painstaking work, but we had found that we could work well together, mainly in a companionable silence, occasionally consulting each other with questions or ideas.

Finally Camilla sat back and removed her glasses, rubbing her eyes. “Oh, my. That might be all I can do until I take a break.”

“Okay,” I said. “Would you like to walk the dogs? Head down to the lake? Hike in the woods, maybe?”

She put her glasses back on; her eyes were still bright, despite the bleary work of editing.

“I’ll let the dogs into the yard for now. We can walk them later. Right now, Miss London, we have some different work to do.” She pushed her manuscript away and leaned toward me, her expression conspiratorial. “We have a real-life mystery to solve.”

“Yes,” I said, thinking of the man down the bluff whose future depended on resolving his past. “We do.”

Camilla Graham placed her hands on the table, palms down, and directed her intelligent gaze at me. “So, Lena. Let’s put our heads together and find Victoria
West.”