Death Waits in the Dark

by Julia Buckley

  “I can’t even express, Lena—the horror of Doug’s phone call. I raced down to the church and they were just pulling you from the car. I heard you screaming when I opened my door. I’ll hear it forever.”

  I sat up a bit straighter with the realization that despite my physical pain, Sam’s trauma may have gone deeper. He had suffered too much loss, too much conflict. He was like a soldier forced to look once again at war. “Hey,” I said, leaning my head against his arm. “I’m stronger than you think.”

  “Good.”

  “Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been wishing I could spend more time with you, and I assume you’re going to be visiting me a lot.”

  “You assume correctly.”

  “So I am deputizing you. I am going to work on this case in bed, and Camilla will work with me, and now so will you. It will do you a lot of good to feel like you’re in control. To catch this person and make him answer for what he’s done.”

  “For what he almost took from you. From me. From all of us.”

  “Yes. Will you help?”

  “I will. Give me a task.”

  “First, grab that bag on the table there. Adam brought it, and it’s full of food. You’re going to eat some of it because I don’t think you’ve eaten in a while. Then we’ll go to step two.”

  Sam stood up and retrieved the bag. The moment he opened it the room became fragrant with the smell of good food. He found a leftover container with a tin lid and opened it to reveal some sort of delicious-looking pasta. “Do you want some of this?” he said.

  “I just had a meal—the unhealthiest food ever. In a hospital. So I’m full for now. But I’ll enjoy watching you eat, my Sam. Poor baby.”

  He took a bite, then several, and we both realized that he was starving. He held up a hand. “Okay, I admit it. I don’t take care of myself while under stress.”

  I sighed. “Eat it all. You know we never even got to properly celebrate your birthday last month? You were too busy taking care of Cliff. You’ve spent far too much time sitting in hospital rooms and at the bedsides of convalescents. I had all these fun ideas, but they sort of went by the wayside.”

  He sent me an intense blue stare. “There will be all my other birthdays.”

  “Yes. I promise.” I looked back at the giraffe. “For some reason he looks like a Lester. I guess that’s his name. Lester the giraffe.”

  Sam was eating again, but he smiled while he chewed and gave me a thumbs-up.

  Camilla walked in then, holding her box of letters. She greeted Sam with her usual affection, and I said, “Sam’s going to help us, Camilla.” I sent her a beseeching glance and willed her to read my mind, which she did.

  “You will be a godsend, Sam. Lena and I were taking our time with these, but it’s clear now that we need to look through them more quickly, and with your help we can cover more ground.”

  “I’m glad to do it,” Sam said. He finished the last bite of his pasta and got up to throw away the container; he washed his hands in the little bathroom and then returned to his seat. “Okay, ready.”

  Camilla opened the box and took out the notebooks she and I had been using. “Sam, I’ll give this to you because I don’t know how well Lena can write notes with only one hand. Lena, if you find something you can call it out and we’ll write it down.”

  “Good idea,” I said.

  Camilla handed small piles of letters to both Sam and me, and we got to work, Sam sitting on the wide window ledge and Camilla in a chair near my bed.

  I looked at both of them, pleased to have them in my room, relieved that my surgery was over and we could concentrate on the task at hand. A beam of sun appeared on my bedcovers, and I studied it, feeling warm and heavy-lidded. Camilla said, “She’s getting drowsy now,” and I closed my eyes, allowing my head to relax into the pillow.

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN I WOKE they were still there, looking studious, scrawling notes in the silent room. I cleared my throat and they looked up and smiled at me. Sam jumped forward to offer me some water out of the big hospital cup, and Camilla patted my feet. “How long was I out?” I asked.

  Camilla looked at her watch. “About two hours.”

  “Oh no! Did you find anything?”

  Camilla shrugged. “This and that. Sam and I were just about to compare notes.”

  Sam sat back down in the window and the light made his brown hair look almost blond. “I did find something that might be significant,” he said with a certain reluctance.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He looked at Camilla. “You came here in late September to get married, did you not?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  He picked up a letter from his pile. “This one came to you in August. It suggests that James was actually supposed to visit you in England about a month or so before your journey, to help you make arrangements before you flew out.”

  Camilla frowned, thinking back. “Do you know—yes, I believe he was. Not a necessary trip, but we were both so lovesick that I think we manufactured reasons why he had to come out, even though I was coming to America soon.”

  Sam looked down at the letter. “But it says here that he didn’t come.”

  “No, he had to cancel. It was something with his father, wasn’t it? He was so ill at the time.”

  Sam shook his head. “He says that he didn’t have the money for the journey. He had put aside enough for his ticket and his stay at a hotel, but he spent it.”

  Camilla’s voice was toneless when she said, “Read it, Sam.”

  He lifted the letter and read the words of James Graham: “‘I know how crushing this will feel; I am unbearably disappointed myself. But right now most of my ready cash is going to Dad’s medical care, and I found myself with an unexpected expense—a large one—and I won’t be able to make the trip. Please forgive me, Camilla. As it turns out I must fund the journey of someone else. It’s a long story which I can share in more detail when you arrive, although I doubt I’ll want to revisit this particular page in my history. I am so sorry, my love. More than you know.’”

  Sam looked up at Camilla and me but waited for Camilla to speak. She said, “What is the date of that letter?”

  Sam consulted the paper in his hand. “August twenty-fifth.”

  “And when did Carrie leave?” I asked.

  Camilla smoothed her skirt. “It must have been around that time. She was gone when I arrived a month later. Had been gone for weeks.”

  “Might James have funded her trip to Chicago? Perhaps set her up in an apartment there?” Sam asked.

  Camilla and I exchanged a glance, and she nodded. “I think it may well be the case.”

  Sam said, “Do you mind if I ask a couple of blunt questions?”

  “We’re here to find the truth,” Camilla said placidly.

  Sam looked at me, and I nodded. “I think we have to consider two things: first, why did James feel obligated to give his own money for Carrie’s journey?”

  “And second?” Camilla asked.

  Sam looked at the floor. “Is it only for the missed visit that he is apologizing? Or is it for something more?”

  Camilla surprised me by smiling. “I’m fairly certain I know the answer to that question, but this is good. This gets us closer to the truth. Let’s go on the assumption that James funded Carrie’s journey out of town. He used the money he would have otherwise spent on a visit to me, knowing that he would see me within the month. But I have questions of my own: Why was sending Carrie away so urgent? Why couldn’t she have stayed in Blue Lake?”

  I rustled in my bed. “The people at the restaurant were hinting that she was pregnant. Was there such a stigma on pregnancy in 1971 that a woman would want to leave town?”

  Camilla nodded. �
��Oh, I think so, yes. And this town—lovely as it is—is rather narrow and provincial, even today. The poor girl would have wanted to go somewhere she could start anew. Perhaps tell people she was a widow. Avoid judgment, if in fact pregnancy was the cause of her flight, and if in fact she kept the baby.”

  I thought about this. “Camilla, you posed an excellent question in the restaurant. You told Rusty Baxter to find out if Carrie had indeed given birth to a child. If they knew that, they could do a DNA test and figure out the child’s father.”

  Sam shook his head. “First of all, even if there is a child, there’s no counting on his or her cooperation. Second, what would it prove even to find the child’s father? How would that bring us closer to a murderer? At most, wouldn’t it just cause some awkwardness for someone?”

  I leaned back and thought about this. There was of course still the possibility that James Graham had fathered Carrie Wyland’s alleged child, and that this was the deep, dark secret to which Jane Wyland had been alluding. Camilla believed that James would not have betrayed her in this way. So if another man in Blue Lake had fathered the child, why would that matter? Why would James feel obligated to get Carrie out of town? And why, at this late date, would the man care whether he was exposed as the father or not? The child, if it existed, was an adult now. I looked at Camilla. “It would still be good to know if there was a baby. We should deal with facts.”

  She nodded. “I agree. I’ll see what I can find out. In fact, I think I’ll pay a visit to Rusty Baxter. He seemed a bit reluctant to bring all this up again, didn’t he?”

  “They all did,” I said. “I wonder why.”

  “We also need to talk to Adam,” she said. “He must remember this. He was James’s best friend.” For a moment her face looked soft, childlike, with a slight downturning of the mouth. A vulnerable moment. “I’ll ask Adam about his availability. Perhaps he can visit us tomorrow. You’ll be coming home, I think, and it would be a good distraction. You should rest for the first few days, and I know that goes against your nature.”

  I shrugged.

  Camilla stood up with her box. “Sam, I’ll claim those letters and your notes, if you please.” He handed them to her. “Lena, you can keep the letters I gave you; I’ll pick them up tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll be going home. Star walked the dogs earlier today, but they’ll need to go out in the yard, at the very least.” She gave me a kiss and squeezed my hand, then walked toward the door of my room with the box of her husband’s letters.

  I sat up straight. “Camilla!” I almost shrieked it, and she turned in alarm.

  “What is it?” She and Sam were both looking around, trying to find something that might have hurt me.

  “You and I are both assuming that whoever hit my car was trying to prevent us from digging into Jane’s allegations.”

  “Yes,” Camilla said.

  “So I was the only one hurt, but I wasn’t the only target! You should not be driving around alone. I can’t believe I let you do it before now.”

  She thought about this; she looked at Sam, who nodded at her and said, “She’s right. For the foreseeable future, neither of you should travel alone. I’ll go with you, Camilla.”

  “Nonsense. I can call Adam.”

  Sam shook his head. “I have to pick up some things anyway and make a couple of phone calls.”

  I pointed at the door. “Yes, both of you should go. I think I’m almost ready to sleep again, and if I don’t doze off I can read the letters or watch that TV there. It’s okay. I’m out of danger,” I said.

  “We need to call the police,” Sam said. “When we’re not here, a police officer should be.”

  Camilla agreed with this, and moments later they were on a call with Doug, who was apparently persuaded by their urgency. Sam hung up. “Chip Johnson is on his way. Camilla and I will stay here until he arrives.”

  I sighed. “Chip Johnson is annoying.”

  “We’ll have him sit outside the room,” Camilla said with a little smile.

  * * *

  • • •

  CHIP WAS ACTUALLY nothing but professional. He arrived, checked in with me, and planted himself in a chair just outside my door. The nurses brought him coffee, and he refrained from flirting with them (for the most part). Now and then I heard the comforting squawk of his radio or the deep murmur of his voice, and this lulled me into a relaxed state. Just before I fell asleep something occurred to me. I stiffened and sat up with a crucial bit of knowledge—a name? a face?—and then it was gone.

  What had I remembered with such suddenness, and why had it just as suddenly drifted away? I tried for a moment to bring it back, to concentrate it into being, but I was simply too tired.

  I lay back on my pillows and attempted a gentle flexing of the fingers on my newly repaired arm. They worked.

  Listless, I looked at the window, where the summer sun was back in full force and revealing every dust particle floating in the air. I watched as those tiny particles drifted, weightless and free, until the sun found my face and I closed my eyes against the brightness, then descended into a darker place.

  10

  Have you ever felt as though something dark is hovering over your life? Today has been strange from the start, from the dead bird I found near my car to the oppressive looming clouds that seemed to intensify with each passing hour. It feels like the setting of a Poe story, this creeping darkness. I need you to be here, my love. The light in my darkness, the brightness in my storm.

  —From the correspondence of James Graham and Camilla Easton, 1971

  THE NEXT DAY a physician’s assistant settled me in a wheelchair and piloted me to a room on the second floor, where a cheerful gray-haired receptionist ushered me into an office, and Dr. Salinger, with much jovial conversation and a light touch, put a bright red cast on my arm.

  “For the Fourth,” she said. “Tomorrow! You can paint stars and stripes on it.” Her short blonde hair was slightly mussed, but somehow it looked fashionable.

  “And you said it has to stay on for a month?”

  “We’ll check it at that point, yes. Then we’ll determine whether or not you still need the cast.”

  “I want to thank you, Doctor. I know it was not a pretty sight. It’s amazing, the work you do.”

  She patted my cast-free arm. “It’s rewarding. I love to mend what is broken. Now, you can mostly do what you always do, but you need to keep the cast in the sling most of the time. That will stabilize it and advance healing. You’ll adapt to being a one-armed woman in no time, and the time will fly. Really, all the worst is behind you.”

  “You’re very persuasive. You should do TED Talks about positivity and healing and things.”

  “I’ve done one!” she said, her face bright and surprised. “But it was about the various types of fractures and new possibilities for treatment.”

  She was fussing with my sling now although our appointment was essentially over. I ventured to verbalize what I’d been thinking. “Doctor—what would you say about a person who intentionally crashes a car into people—intentionally runs them off the road? Do you think he has to be insane?”

  For the first time her smile disappeared. “I can’t guess at the person’s mental state, but I can tell you from my experience of treating the injured that you don’t have to be insane to commit acts of violence. There are all sorts of motives for that. But make no mistake about it—an act like that, assuming it wasn’t accidental, results from extreme emotion. I would guess anger, fear, or hate. But that’s for the police to figure out.” She helped me back into the wheelchair, even though I was capable of walking. “Hospital policy,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.” She nodded at me, her face encouraging. “Meanwhile, Lena, you can go home within the hour. Have some lemonade, start getting out your sparklers and your face paint, and prepare for a nice Fourth of July.
You can certainly go out, have fun, do whatever. Just be gentle on that arm, all right? I’ve got all my instructions written on your release forms.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  She ran an assessing hand over the cast she had made, then nodded. “Good. Ready for action.”

  * * *

  • • •

  A FRIENDLY ATTENDANT named Carlos wheeled me back to my room to wait for Sam, who had not yet arrived. Chip Johnson sat in his chair in the hall, looking at his phone.

  “Thanks for doing this, Chip,” I said. “I know it’s not the most exciting duty.”

  “It’s been great,” he said, smoothing his skinny mustache. “I got to sit on my butt. My favorite thing.” He grinned at me, and I warmed toward him slightly.

  Carlos wheeled me into my room and I stood up, thanking him. He waved and backed out with the chair, and I started to gather the few things that Camilla had brought me, putting them one-handed into a bag. I heard a woman’s voice out in the hallway—a familiar voice. I turned to see Isabelle Devon, my old high school friend, looking tall and dark and lovely, and walking toward me with arms outstretched.

  “Isabelle!” I shouted, shocked.

  She hugged me gingerly. “My poor little Elle,” she said, taking me back to the days of school when she, a junior, had decided to take Allison and me, mere freshmen, under her wing after we shared a class together. She used to call me “Little Lena,” which she had then shortened to “L.L.,” and that to “Elle.” She mothered me during a time when I had lost my mother, and I had always looked up to her.

  “What are you doing here? Did you come to town to apply for jobs?”

  She took the things from my hand and began to pack my bag for me. I sat down in the chair that Sam had spent two days in. “I did visit the local animal hospital, on Allison’s recommendation, and guess what? I’m hired. I already worked a shift while the doctor in residence ran some errands. He had two staff people leave—I guess they wanted to move out of Blue Lake—and he was in dire straits. So I already met a Blue Lake cat who is expecting kittens, and a Blue Lake rottweiler who tore a toenail, and a Blue Lake resident who sprained his wrist.” She grinned at my surprised expression. “This is an eccentric little town. But I gave him some advice, then suggested the emergency room or his doctor’s office. Then the boss came back and was very happy with me.”