A Dark and Stormy Murder (A Writer's Apprentice Mystery) (3 page)

Camilla suddenly came out of her reverie. “So.” She clapped her hands. “Here’s a schedule—let’s see if you can
live with it. I’ll need you to start the book today. Or tonight. I assume you’ll want to see the town, so arrange things to your satisfaction, but try to finish reading some or all of the book so that we can meet in the morning. At that point I’ll need your notes: what works, what doesn’t, which characters jump off the page, as you said Colin did in
The Lost Child
.” Her face softened when she said it.

I was tempted to ask her why that one question had been important enough to get me hired or fired, but it didn’t seem the time to do so. “That sounds fine.”

“And then, once I get your diagnosis for the book, we will know how much work needs to be done—by you and by me.”

“All right. I can’t wait to read the book—and Salzburg! What a wonderful setting. You’ve never set one there before, although I recall one in Vienna.”

“Yes. I visited Austria once, when I was in my twenties, and I never forgot its beauty. It was very—” A phone vibrated on the desk, and Camilla picked it up with a disgusted expression. “Excuse me,” she said. “I hate cell phones, but my publishers rather demanded that I have one.” She clicked it on and said hello. Her eyebrows rose and she stood up. “Yes, I know that,” she said. Her voice was cold. “Kindly do not call me on this phone unless it’s absolutely necessary. Yes, of course. Well, you can talk with John Kendall about that. That’s what I pay him for. Good—that will be fine. Good-bye.” She hung up the phone and wandered away from me, toward the back doors, where she stood looking at the view. Her body, from this distance, seemed old and frail. She wore a pair of black pants with a white blouse and a bright blue sweater; it looked chic, yet comfortable. I had always pictured her wearing silk and attending literary salons. Yet, now that I was here,
I couldn’t imagine Camilla Graham anywhere other than in this gloomy antique of a house.

“I have a few things to do,” she said, still looking out the window. “So if you’d like to take that manuscript upstairs and then show yourself around, that will be fine. I can have dinner ready for you at around seven, if that’s all right? Or were you planning to eat with our friend Allison?” She turned to face me again, suddenly looking more cheerful. The thought of Allison would cheer someone up; Allison is like a ray of sunshine.

“She’s busy tonight, but I’m hoping to dine with her later in the week,” I said. “So yes, thank you, I’d be happy to have dinner here.”

“Of course. I have meals served by Rhonda, a cook from here in town, and I’ll be sure she knows to make enough for two from now on.”

“Thank you.” She had looked away again; perhaps she was distracted or uncomfortable with the newness of my presence. I waited until she made eye contact. “Camilla—I’m very happy to be here. I really appreciate the opportunity.”

She smiled. “I think you might be just what this dark old place needs. The light of youth and beauty.” She looked sad then; I thanked her for the compliment and took my leave, feeling suddenly like an intruder.

Upstairs I set the manuscript on my big desk, holding it as I would a sleeping child. I wondered suddenly if she had copies; surely she worked on a computer, and not a typewriter? Of course. I had seen the computer on her desk. This wasn’t 1975, although I had seen enough pictures of Camilla from that era, posing in a tasteful tailored suit and looking quizzically at the camera. In those shots it had
indeed been a typewriter in the photo, and she and her Underwood had seemed like ideal companions.

Lestrade was still asleep; I had a sudden memory of the blond man saying that the catnip would make the cat high, and I giggled. I wondered who the stranger was and realized, with a bit of regret, that I should have introduced myself. How rude he must have thought me to have accepted his help and then simply driven away.

I shut Lestrade in the room and made my way down the dark stairwell. What the house could use, in my initial estimation, was a lot of white paint on the dingy walls—something to bring in the sun (surely there would eventually be sun?) and cast out the gloom.

The two shepherds were waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, but they weren’t growling now. Their heads were cocked, as though they wondered what I was up to. I realized that they were rather young, because there was still something puppyish about their energy and their big feet and heads. “Hello,” I said. In response, two tails pumped with great energy.

“You guys know I’m going out alone, right?”

Again, the happy tails.

I sighed as I stepped off the last stair and moved past the dogs, back to Camilla’s study. She was there, at her desk, but not really doing anything. She seemed to be in deep thought.

“Camilla? I’m sorry to bother you, but I thought I’d check out the town, and the dogs seem to think they’re going with me. Would you like me to walk them?”

She brightened so much that for the first time I saw evidence of the beauty that I had always admired on her
book covers. “Oh, that would be fine! I used to walk them so much more, but lately I’ve been—distracted. They’ll enjoy it, and they’re fun companions. No one will bother you while you’re walking those two.”

I was sure that was true, but I did wonder about the rain. “Do you think we’ll beat the storm?”

She peered out the window. “I don’t think it will roll in for another hour or two.”

“All right, then.” I put on my jacket; Camilla directed me to the wall hook where two red leashes hung, and I clipped them on to my new friends, who were suddenly so cute I couldn’t recall why I’d been afraid of them. They were cavorting like lambs as they waited for me to open the giant door so that we could take our leave.

“Good-bye! We’ll be back in an hour or two!” I called. I barely managed to close the door behind me before the dogs tore across the wide porch and headed for the steps. I had the weird sensation that I was water-skiing on land, holding my reins with great concentration as I tried to contain the power beneath them.

We ran through Camilla’s wide yard and back to the tree-lined, pebbly road whence I had come. For the first time I was truly able to appreciate the splendid Blue Lake scenery, and the town I saw in glimpses between the large trees, lying in wait at the bottom of the bluff. In my mind thoughts bounced around, disjointed. I wasn’t sure what emotion I was feeling; certainly there was an odd disappointment that Camilla had not immediately become my best friend and confided all her hopes and dreams in me (as possibly I had daydreamed she would). And yet I could not contain the euphoria that stemmed from the reality that I had met my idol, that I was going to live in her house,
that her newest manuscript sat on a beautiful cherrywood desk in my room—my room!—awaiting my notes.

My feet moved to the rhythm of my one coherent thought: I met Camilla Graham. I met Camilla Graham. I met Camilla Graham. I felt a very fine mist against my face, but it was exhilarating rather than off-putting. Something about fall air always speaks to my soul, and I felt alive in a new way, ready to grapple with the world and win.

The dogs, still straining at their leashes as we marched down the slope, led me toward a wide, shady driveway that seemed to slope up toward a more modern-looking house. This, I supposed, was Camilla’s closest neighbor.

Without warning, a man emerged from the end of the driveway, lighting a cigarette as he walked, one hand on his lighter and the other cupped around his cigarette to keep away the wind. He saw me just as I saw him; I made a startled noise, and he narrowed his eyes at me in displeasure.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

The dogs began to growl.

3

He scowled at her, his dark hair hanging too low over his forehead to be respectable. He wore the disinterested expression and the easy stance of a hero or a rogue—but surely he could not be both, and she feared he was the latter.

—from
The Salzburg Train

I
WAS MUTE
for a moment, shocked by his rudeness. He was scowling in an unattractive way, and yet despite that I could tell he was good-looking, in the way of a rugged journalist or an Indiana Jones sort of adventurer. In fact, he wore a Jones-type leather jacket and a pair of blue jeans. He could have been anywhere between thirty and forty; it was hard to tell when he was scowling.

“I’m taking a walk,” I finally said. “I happen to be your neighbor. I’m staying with Camilla Graham, who lives—”

He started, turning more fully toward me and flicking some ash from his cigarette. “You’re staying with Camilla?”

“Yes. She just hired me as her assistant. My name is Lena London.” I put both leashes into my left hand so that I could offer to shake his hand with my right.

For a moment I thought he wasn’t going to shake it. He
finally did, but he remained unsmiling. “You—took me by surprise. I bought this house for its privacy, and yet people find their way up to this path: young lovers, wandering children, people gaping, trying to get a glimpse of—well, in any case, you certainly belong here if you live at Graham House.” He finally offered me a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, which were a rather startling blue.

“Yes—I was going to give myself a little tour of the town. I just arrived a few hours ago, and it’s all brand-new. I’d like to familiarize myself with everything.” Then, wanting to draw attention to his rudeness, I said, “I didn’t catch your name.”

He took a drag on his cigarette and then blew some smoke up toward the sky. “My name is Sam West.” He watched me out of the corner of his eye, as though expecting some kind of reaction. What did he want me to do, tell him how beautiful his name was? People here were weird.

I forced myself to appear cheerful. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I think I may have been elected as a dog-walker, so you’ll probably be seeing me around.”

He nodded. “Thanks for introducing yourself. Now I won’t have to worry that you’re an intruder or an autograph seeker.” He said the last two words with particular bitterness.

“Do people want your autograph?” What I meant was,
Think much of yourself?

He sniffed. “Not if I can help it.”

That didn’t make sense. He couldn’t control what people wanted. As far as I could tell, Sam West was bitter, yet narcissistic, and convinced that everyone was in love with him.

“It seems quiet up here. I’ll bet people will leave you alone, for the most part.”

He nodded with an almost sarcastic expression. “You would think.”

A voice inside me told me to stop arguing and walk away. But there was something about this man I couldn’t figure out. “From what I’ve seen so far, Blue Lake seems to be exactly as quiet as you’d like it to be. I don’t hear one sound right now—not even dogs barking.”

He nodded and smoked some more, clearly enjoying his cigarette. Finally he said, “You’re right, it’s a quiet town. But it’s not a private town. You can’t escape from your neighbors—Lena, is it?”

I nodded.

“Haven’t you ever heard that Sartre quote—‘Hell is other people’?”

I had, in a college English class. “That seems rather extreme. Even Sartre didn’t mean it the way people interpret it, did he? It was more about his belief that we cannot escape the gaze of others, which inevitably shapes the way we see ourselves.”

He sniffed. His face was bitter. “Right. We cannot escape the gaze of others. And if that gaze is an unfriendly one, then we are forced into a different kind of self-contemplation.”

I decided to leave him with his cigarette and his bad attitude. I was in quest of friendlier people. “Yeah, I guess. Well, I’d better get going. The dogs are eager, as you can see. Calm down, Heathcliff! Nice to meet you, Sam.”

He raised a hand, I suppose in a sort of good-bye wave, but it looked like a weird blessing.

I continued walking, tugged along by the dogs. I peered back once to find West looking at me, his face pensive. His
brown hair was flecked with a few gray hairs at the temples, and now those glinted like silver threads in the weird light.

Rochester and Heathcliff, glad to be moving again, tore down the rocky road and then turned left onto a smoother thoroughfare—the main road that led downhill and into town. I maneuvered the dogs onto a sidewalk and enjoyed the view, still buzzing from the many encounters of the day.

On the main thoroughfare, called Wentworth, I struggled to hold the dogs and to get my bearings. It was a quaint street, with bright red benches set at intervals for weary travelers, and tubs of yellow and orange marigolds scattered throughout the doorways of shops. “Nice!” I said to my companions. They seemed to agree; they yanked me forward with energy. We passed a little Laundromat and a shop called Blue Lake Coffee; someone opened the door, and I got a delicious whiff of earthy, dark-roasted beans in the grinder. Definitely a must-visit, but not with dogs. I moved on, past the tiny, two-storied Bright’s Flowers, which had a brick facade with a little Juliet-style balcony that sported flower boxes bursting with an attractive array of purple fountain grass, florist mums, small white pumpkins, and—something I recognized only because my ex-boyfriend had been a botanist—variegated Japanese sedge. The boxes were a compelling advertisement for the business itself, because I wanted to buy all of those plants and create my own luxurious autumnal boxes. I wondered if Camilla would let me hang one from my window.

Moving along, I passed Glenda’s Baked Goods. “No!” I said aloud to the smell of chocolate that lured me. The dogs didn’t even acknowledge me, which was not a good sign.

At mid-block I reached Bick’s Hardware. Allison had told me about this place, and suggested that I would find “literally anything” I needed within its walls. Curious, I decided to peek in for a moment. I tied the dogs’ leashes to a convenient streetlamp pole. To my surprise, they were polite about this; they both sat down and panted at each other, seemingly ready to wait for me. I opened the big wood doors and passed through a little foyer in which there were three gumball machines and a large fake grizzly bear who held a sign in his giant paws assuring me that “Bick’s Is Best.” I moved into the main, high-ceilinged room and breathed in the smell of cedar.

I did a quick visual scan; my eyes didn’t know where to land. Bick’s Hardware had shelves that went from the floor to the ceiling, and they all seemed to be packed to capacity. As I watched, a tall, thin man in a blue flannel shirt, jeans, and green suspenders came marching down the first aisle with a big ladder.

A young woman with bright red hair stood at the foot of a shelf filled with pots and pans, holding a cute titian-haired boy. The proprietor set up his ladder and said, “Which one, dear?”

“The Farberware fifteen-piece. It seems kind of high up there, Mr. Bick.”

“Oh, I’m old, but I’m spry,” said Bick, and proved it by whisking up the ladder, swift as a monkey, and claiming the large box of pots and pans, which he slung on one narrow shoulder before he zipped back down. It was terrifying.

I darted down a different aisle before Mr. Bick offered to risk his life for me.

I actually needed some postage stamps, but I doubted
that a place like this would have them—and yet, as my eyes perused the signs above the aisles, I saw some stenciled lettering on the back white wall that said, “U.S. Mail.” It was starting to look as though Bick’s housed the town post office. I moved toward the back wall, passing through a giant display of shower curtains and then, inexplicably, stuffed animals.

I got into the little postal queue, centering myself behind a woman in a dark gray Notre Dame sweatshirt and light blue jeans. She had bleached-blonde hair with dark roots. I continued to peruse the store, noting a promising-looking spinning rack full of journals and a large book display that spanned several shelves. In an instant I liked Bick’s much better.

I waited until the lady in front of me had been served. Then I scooted up and was greeted by a woman whose nametag said “Marge B.”

“What can I do for you, sweetheart?” she asked.

“I’d like a book of stamps.”

“Just one?”

“Yes—they’re so expensive now, aren’t they?”

Marge agreed. “Yeah—the post office just can’t seem to get in the black, no matter how many times they raise the darn price. I remember when stamps were five cents, that’s how old I am.”

I smiled. “You don’t look old. Blue Lake must agree with people—you all look youthful.”

This pleased Marge. She leaned in and said, “Aren’t you from here, hon?”

“No—I’m from Chicago. But I’m staying out here for the time being.” I decided to venture into a confidence. “In Graham House.”

Now Marge’s brown eyes were downright curious. “Really! Is that so! And are you a relative of Mrs. Graham?”

“No—I’m actually going to be her assistant.”

“Oh! Well isn’t that nice! She could use one, I’ll bet! I mean, she’s getting up in years, right? But still writing, God bless her. Good for her. And how nice to have a pretty young lady in town. What is your name, dear?”

“It’s Lena. Lena London.”

I could tell that Marge was stowing away that information. She ran a hand through her curly more-salt-than-pepper hair and adjusted some colorful cheaters on her nose. “London. What a fun last name. Like that writer, when we were kids in school. The one who wrote about being lost in the Yukon, or about wild dogs and wolves.”

“Jack London.”

“Yeah, he’s the one!”

“No relation,” I joked. “Although I’m a writer, too.”

“Are you now? Well then you have the perfect job, don’t you?”

“I think so. I’m very excited to be working with Mrs. Graham.”

She handed me my stamps, and I paid her. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Uh . . . B—”

“I’m Marge Bick, hon. My husband and I own the store. Just call me Marge.”

“Thank you, Marge. The store is great.”

Marge inclined her head, accepting the compliment. “We like to think it’s unique. And the locals love us because we have everything they need. Not necessary to go to those big horrible strip malls.”

“They are horrible,” I agreed. “And you really do seem to
have everything. Well, thanks, Marge. I have Mrs. Graham’s dogs outside, so I have to get going.”

“Have you tried the Schuler’s?”

“What?”

“We sell ice cream up front. It’s from Schuler’s Creamery, over in Daleville.”

“Oh—sounds yummy. I’ll check it out.”

I did, not because of an insatiable sweet tooth, I assured myself, but because I was a woman of my word. Near the register was a glass window with several flavors of Schuler’s ice cream, and I ordered a French Vanilla cone. While I waited, I eavesdropped on two men behind me. One wore a flannel shirt and jeans and looked rather scruffy; the other wore a red ski-lodge type sweater and brown corduroy pants. Both seemed to be in their twenties. “Listen, if you don’t want to do it, then just give me back the cash.” This was from the guy who looked like the host of a holiday Christmas special.

“I said I’d do it. Just stop pressuring me and give me time to do it right, man.” This was the flannel shirt guy.

“Fine. I’ll call you tonight, and it better be done.” Ski sweater huffed out of the store. I sent a sympathetic glance to flannel shirt, which he ignored. He left the shop a moment later.

“Here’s your cone.” This from my server, a young man who looked to be about nineteen or twenty and sported a sad little mustache with about seven hairs in it.

“Oh, thanks! It looks delicious!” I beamed a smile at him, but he remained stone-faced. He wore a salmon-colored turtleneck and a pair of jeans. None of the guys here seemed particular about fashion.

I marched out to the waiting dogs, licking at my cone. My assessment of Blue Lake so far:

Women = friendly and nice.

Men = rude and dismissive.

I said as much to the dogs as I un-looped their leashes. It was very difficult to hold the pups and eat my cone, and I was passionately interested in doing the latter, so I sat on a bench to eat more carefully. The dogs sat in front of me, not bothering to pretend that they weren’t equally interested in my food.