A Dark and Stormy Murder (A Writer's Apprentice Mystery) (6 page)

It was clear that Camilla had not lost her gift for writing, and this made me happy. She had long been my idol, but for a very powerful reason: opening a Camilla Graham novel was like stepping into a wonderland.

5

She had been in town less than a week when she realized that something evil lurked beneath the gingerbread facades and cobbled lanes.

—from
The Salzburg Train

I
WAS DOWNSTAIRS
early the next morning; Allison had texted me the night before and asked if I wanted to meet her for breakfast before she went to work. She was a nurse, and she worked at the emergency room of St. Francis Hospital. I explained my plans to Camilla, who sat drinking coffee at her desk. “I sent you some notes last night,” I said. “And I will finish the book when I return.”

She waved a hand. “That’s fine, dear. The schedule can be fluid as long as we find time to work each day. Meanwhile, tell Allison I said hello.”

“I will—thank you.”

I donned my warm jacket and scratched the heads of the disappointed dogs, who had clearly been hoping for a walk. “Later, guys, I promise,” I said, and I slipped out the door. I almost tripped over a bald man in a fleece jacket who was kneeling on Camilla’s porch, bisecting a
two-by-four with a handsaw as the board sat propped on a small sawhorse. A younger man with dark hair and a long, thin nose held one end of the wood, keeping it steady.

“Oh, hello,” I said. “Doing some porch repairs?”

The older man spared me a quick glance. “Who are you? The niece?” he said.

“Um—no. I’m Lena London—I’m Camilla’s new assistant. Does she have a niece? I didn’t—”

The younger man assessed me with widely spaced gray eyes. “What are you assisting her with? She doesn’t do anything. Just sits in her big house.”

I disliked him instantly, and then it hit me: I was meeting the legendary Bob Dawkins and his horrible son. Camilla was right about the latter—the name suited him. “Camilla is one of the most famous suspense novelists living today. Writers all over the world wish they could do what she does.”

Bob’s horrible son snorted and wiped at his long nose with a gloved hand. “Yeah. Drinking tea and writing about people drinking tea.” He slapped his father’s arm and got a laugh out of the older man.

“You are utterly underestimating the woman for whom you work,” I said coldly. “But I realize that not everyone can find the mental stimulation that you do, cutting your boards in half.”

My sarcasm was lost on them; in fact, they seemed to puff up slightly, their faces smirking, as though I had given them a compliment. Bob Dawkins became a fraction more human. “Watch your step on those stairs. The bottom two are rotten, and they won’t be fixed for another hour or so.”

I wondered if they were charging Camilla more than was necessary; yet she didn’t strike me as the sort of
woman who would suffer fools gladly. “Thanks,” I said, my tone still cold. I moved quickly down the stairs and onto the path. I could still hear the two of them reminiscing about the terrible joke Bob’s son had made.

“Books about people drinking tea,” Bob said, and they both laughed.

I made a mental note to ask Camilla to consider firing them, and then purposely put them out of my mind so that I could enjoy the day. The sun had returned to Blue Lake, and I was getting my first glimpse of fall as the light shone through the multicolored leaves rustling above me. The forested bluffs and the town below them glittered like gold.

Inspired by the beauty, I made rapid time down the path and onto the main street, where I quickly located the diner Allison had recommended—the one called Willoughby’s. I reached it, recognizing the sign I had seen in the window the previous day, which read “Attention: we have delicious food, and we hope you’ll visit us for breakfast or lunch. Willoughby’s is not open for dinner!”

I opened the wooden door, and a tiny bell jangled at my entrance. I was in a small room with delightful décor that made it seem I was being given intimate access to someone’s private dining room. Polished wood tables sat at regular intervals, each sporting a bud vase with a yellow rose. Family pictures and wooden plaques with famous sayings filled the walls. A young woman in a red gingham apron approached me. “Are you dining alone today?”

“Uh, no—I’m meeting a friend. Can I have a table for two?”

“Sure! How about there by the window?” She pointed out a narrow table with a view of the street, where the yellow rose and its crystal vase shone in a bright sunbeam.

“Perfect, thank you.”

“Can I get you something to drink while you wait, hon?”

“Some tea, if you have it.”

“Sure.”

I sat down and looked around me. The restaurant wasn’t full, but there were ten or fifteen people scattered around the room in various-sized groupings, and based on their relaxed body language, they all seemed to be regulars. The waitress, whose nametag said “Carly,” was quick and efficient; she was back with a pot of tea in less than a minute, and then she swept through the tables—dropping off creamers here, ketchup there, and a bill somewhere else.

The doorbell jangled and I looked up to see not Allison, but Sam West, looking a bit disheveled but somehow even more handsome because of it. Carly was at the door in a moment, and he murmured something to her; she led him to a table near mine, also by a window.

He saw me when he was halfway to his chair and lifted a hand. “Hello, Lena. How are you this morning?”

It was surprisingly pleasant, coming from the man who had been so rude the day before. “I’m fine, thanks. Meeting a friend for some breakfast.”

“Enjoy,” he said, and then he disappeared behind a large red menu that bore a giant, gold-embossed “W” on the front.

I took a deep breath and relaxed into my chair, taking pleasure in the preparation of my tea. I took it with a bit of cream and two sugars, and I enjoyed the ritual of making it almost as much as the act of drinking it. I was stirring in the sugar when I noticed a sort of rustling in the room; I looked up to see that a great deal of attention was being focused on Sam West. The diners were observing him
while trying not to appear to be doing so. Suddenly a variety of people were pretending to look at art on the wall, or searching for something outside the window where West was sitting, or, in the most brazen cases, merely staring directly at West.

If he knew it was happening he pretended he did not, but continued to peruse his menu, which lay on the table now, with a relatively serene expression. I realized that I, too, was staring. I looked down at my tea, my face red with indignation on his behalf. What must it feel like to be West in a town this small? Why would he stay in a place where the populace believed the worst of him? Camilla had expressed nothing but sympathy for West, and had sniffed indignantly at the thought that he could be a murderer. And after all, West’s wife was only missing—why would everyone assume that she was dead?

The waitress appeared at West’s table, and he gave her his order in a low tone.

My phone buzzed on my table; I had received a text. Sighing, I realized this meant that Allison was probably running late, but when I clicked open the message I saw that it was worse:

“Lena, so sorry—there was a car accident and I’ve been called in early to help the emergency staff. Can we reschedule?”

“Oh crap,” I said, apparently more loudly than I’d thought, because I glanced up to see Sam West grinning at me.

“Problem?” he said.

I sighed and texted back, assuring Allison that we could meet later. How stressful to have a job like that, when one had to be called in to witness terrible things. But in addition
to that, I had a very selfish response. I’d had so much to tell her . . .

“It can’t be that bad,” West persisted, his eyes bright. Clearly I was providing his morning entertainment.

I shrugged. “My friend can’t make it for breakfast. No big deal.”

He was up in an instant and moving toward my table; then he was sitting across from me. I realized my mouth was hanging open, and I clamped it shut.

“I can’t let you eat alone,” he said. “That wouldn’t be hospitable—seeing as you just got to town.” He smiled again, and with a rush of admiration I realized that a smiling Sam West was far, far preferable to a scowling one.

“Well, thanks. I’m not big on solo dining.” I stole a glance at the faces in the room: they weren’t hiding their interest now. I was aware of many sets of eyes, some shining with interest, some narrowed with hostility.

“You always make this big an impression?” I said lightly.

“You get used to it.” He looked out the window as he said it. “I suppose Camilla has filled you in on the reason for my celebrity status?”

“Only minimally. She told me of an unfortunate label you’ve earned in town, and she scoffed at it.”

Carly the waitress was back with Sam West’s coffee. She didn’t bat an eye at his change of location. She set it down in front of him, and I ordered a waffle with extra butter. She jotted it down and said, “Your breakfasts will be out in a jiff.”

We thanked her, and she whisked off again to make her rounds. I wondered if she had sore feet by the end of the noon rush.

Sam West opened a creamer packet and poured it into his coffee; he stirred it in with a thoughtful expression. “Camilla is a good woman. I respect her.”

“That seems to be mutual.”

He nodded. “Has Camilla hired you, then? Is this a permanent position?”

“It seems to be a good fit.”

“Good, good.” He took a sip of his coffee and ran a belated hand over his disheveled hair.

“I’m very excited about her latest book. It’s spectacular, as they always are.”

His eyes met mine for a moment. “How did she happen to find you?”

“It’s a strange story,” I said.

“I’d love to hear it,” said Sam West, leaning back in his chair with his coffee cup.

So I told him: of my lifetime devotion to Camilla’s books, of my friendship with Allison, of Allison’s marriage and relocation, and then of Allison’s life-changing phone call and my own unexpected move. “So, in the end, it can’t be called anything short of serendipity,” I concluded.

“Indeed. As though you were destined to meet this woman you idolized.”

I felt the hugeness of my own smile. “I still can’t believe it, to be honest. That I’m living in her house, and reading her work in progress, and dining with her at mealtime.”

“Except today.”

“Today I was supposed to meet Allison and fill her in on everything.”

“And here I thought it would be a young man meeting you here.”

“I don’t know a soul in this town, aside from Camilla, you, and Doug Heller.”

West’s face grew shuttered. “Ah, yes, Detective Heller.”

“You two don’t seem to like each other.”

“We don’t.”

Carly appeared with a plate of eggs, sausage, and hash browns for West and a preposterously large waffle for me. I was torn between greed and embarrassment. West saw my expression and laughed—a surprisingly youthful sound.

I rolled my eyes and then grabbed the syrup, which I slathered over the divine-smelling waffle. “Why are you at odds? Does he suspect you of something?”

West speared some eggs with his fork and ate them. Then he said, “Let’s just say he’d prefer that a man with my reputation not sully his idyllic little town.”

“It’s not his job to make assumptions.”

“No, but he has to save the populace from me. He stakes out my place sometimes.”

I had been about to consume my first bite, but I paused. “That’s an invasion of your civil rights.”

He smirked. “I should hire you as
my
personal assistant. You’re very persuasive.”

I ate a piece of my waffle, then a few more pieces. “God, this is good.”

“You make eating look like a very pleasurable experience.”

“I refuse to be self-conscious. I’m going to eat this whole giant waffle in front of you. However, I will offer you one bite.”

“And I’ll take it,” West said, surprising me. He sliced off a corner of my breakfast with his fork and shoved it into his mouth. “Mmm. You’re right.”

He smiled at me, and I realized that his eyes were a truly beautiful shade of blue. Something twisted in my stomach—a familiar feeling that had me panicking and seeking a conversational topic.

“Anyway, back to Allison. I had a million things to tell her, and now I don’t know when I’ll get to do it.”