“All right, Lena Lee. I am flattered to hear that you have read my books.” Her voice was soft, gentle, and did indeed have a trace of the British accent that I had always imagined.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I’ve read every one. I was reading The Lost Child today when my friend Allison called.”
“Oh, indeed? And I suppose Allison gave you an idea of what I am looking for? A ghost writer, in a sense—someone who can help me brainstorm, and who can even write for me when I’m in a slump. I’d need you to be a bit of everything, I’m afraid. But I can pay you well, if you suit my needs.”
“I would love a chance to try, Mrs. Graham.” My voice quavered only slightly. I realized that I was clenching my fists, and I forced myself to relax.
“Oh, call me Camilla, dear.”
“Camilla,” I said, grinning like a maniac at Lestrade, who sat on my coffee table washing his face.
“I’ve read your book, Lena, so I know you can write. The question is, would you be willing to write as me, knowing you wouldn’t get the credit? Aside from a vague mention of you in the acknowledgments, of course.”
“That’s a fair question. I certainly want to publish my own books one day. But I would view this as an apprenticeship. Every apprentice has much to learn, and if I had the whole population of Earth from which to choose a mentor, I would choose you.”
There was a pause. Then her voice, sounding amused. “Normally I disapprove of flattery. But since your adulation is a quality that will benefit us both, I am relieved to hear it.”
“Ah,” I said, then glared at Lestrade, angry at myself for the dumb response.
“I can tell in an instant whether you will work out or not,” she said. “And I suppose it’s not fair to put you on the spot this way. But I must ask you: who is your favorite character in The Lost Child?”
“That’s an easy question,” I said without thinking. “My favorite character is Colin, the boy. He comes alive on the page like no one else. He’s real to me in a way that none of your other characters are. I love him,” I said.
There was another pause; then her voice, slightly sad, was back: “You’re hired,” she said.
* * *
I DROVE TO Blue Lake one week later. Camilla Graham had informed me that, if in fact we felt we were well-suited to working together, it would be best if I lived in her residence, as our working hours might vary. I had agreed to this, and Allison, while initially disappointed, had warmed to the idea of me living with Camilla. “It will give me a chance to visit you both at once,” she said.
Allison had assured me that Blue Lake, Indiana, was not generally a tourist town, although it had all the things that tourists liked: charming little shops on a curving, oak-lined main street; enchanting lakefront cottages, painted in bright, sun-warmed colors; a variety of sailboats floating gracefully in the little harbor; and an assortment of friendly locals and delightful eccentrics who would make a visit memorable. The lake itself dominated the scenery, serenely whispering against the docks and reflecting the sky in its cool depths; but the sandy beaches were generally untouched by outsiders’ footprints, aside from the few who had found it and hoarded it for their own vacations. The truth, she said, was that Blue Lake didn’t need tourists. Most of the cottages were owned by people who returned each year to spend their summers on the water, and the rest of the year the residents lived their quiet and unassuming lives, enjoying a jewel of a town that was generally hidden from the rest of the world.
I had studied some people’s vacation videos on YouTube and gotten quick glimpses of Blue Lake. It seemed perpetually sunny and beautiful, yet quiet and restful, too. I was pleased to think that, assuming my little trial period turned out well, I might be living permanently in this endearing town. Unlike its appearance in the videos, Blue Lake today sat under a sky both ominous and beautiful: dark blue and gray patches swirled with strange striated cloud formations. An increasingly cool breeze slipped through my window, sometimes laced with mist. Clearly a storm was coming.
I contemplated this as Lestrade and I drove down the last leg of Green Glass Highway, waiting for the turnoff onto Sabre Street, which would take us into downtown Blue Lake. I reached over to pat the top of his carrier (a rather old model, passed down from my parents), and somehow it popped open. In a flash Lestrade was out and hanging from the ceiling of the car, his claws making a ripping sound. I veered briefly into the oncoming lane as I tried to swat him down. “Lestrade! Aw, crap. Lestrade, come on!”
He streaked around the car in a sudden panic. I pulled over onto the pebbled shoulder of the road, put on my flashers, and climbed out of the driver’s seat to try to retrieve him from the back. The last thing I needed was an unruly animal making a scene when I got to Camilla’s. I leaned in, trying to grab my gray and white fur ball, but somehow Lestrade wiggled under one of the seats, just out of my reach. “Gosh darn it, you little pill. Get out here,” I ordered, as though I believed that for the first time in history a cat would do what its owner asked.
“Need help?” a voice asked from behind me, floating somewhere above my posterior, which, along with my dangling legs, would have been the only visible part of me from outside the car. I wriggled back out and faced a man in a tan jacket and a pair of blue jeans. He was blond-haired and square-jawed, like a Norwegian clothing model, but not quite as tall as a Viking. His hair was slightly mussed by the cold fall breeze.
“Um. Not exactly. My cat burst out of his carrier and seemed bent on making me crash my car, so I thought I’d try to wrestle him back inside.”
He nodded at me, as though this were a common problem and he was experienced at helping people with it. “Sure. I have a cat, so I get it.” His eyes were an alluring shade of light brown—or maybe they just seemed that way in the sun. “Where is she?”
“It’s a he. His name’s Lestrade. And he’s under the passenger’s seat, the little traitor.”
He looked surprised and shot me a smile, which came with a pair of impressive dimples. “You like Sherlock Holmes?”
“Who doesn’t?” I was distracted, fearing that I’d be late and Camilla would judge me based on my lack of promptness. “I think I might just leave him where he is. I’m supposed to meet someone—”
“You from Blue Lake?”
“No. I mean, I might be moving there, if this job works out, but my cat is determined to ruin it for me.”
He nodded. “We’ll have him out in a jiffy. Give me one sec.” He went back to his car, which he had pulled up right behind mine on the gravel. I hadn’t even heard it.
“Here we go,” he said, back in what seemed like less than a minute. He opened my passenger’s door and bent down; thirty seconds later he stood up, holding Lestrade, who looked quite peaceful and was letting the man pet his head. “Cute guy,” he said. “But sort of huge. I’m surprised he was able to squeeze under that seat. Maybe in Blue Lake he’ll get a little more exercise. You guys from the city?”
“If by the city you mean Chicago, yes, we are. And thank you so much. Let me grab his carrier.”
The handsome Norwegian stranger watched me, half smiling, as I retrieved the elderly carrier and held it open. He slid Lestrade inside, and the cat didn’t resist one bit.
“How did you do that?”
He grinned; he had a nice mouth. “Catnip. I left a little for him. He’s gonna get sort of high in there.”
I giggled, then looked at my watch. “Thank you so much, for everything, but I have to run. I have a job interview, and I don’t know how much longer it will take me to get to Blue Lake—”
“You’re here,” he said. “Turn left about two blocks up, on Sabre. I bet you’ll be right on time.”
“Thanks for your help. I appreciate it,” I called over my shoulder, and climbed into the car.
2
The train hissed to a stop in Munchen, where the rooftops glinted in the twilight, and she realized with a
jolt of disbelief that she was finally here: no longer could she rely on the family who seemed distant now in space and memory. She was here, alone, and the pale faces on the platform seemed as cold and unfriendly as she had imagined them bright and welcoming.
—from The Salzburg Train
CAMILLA GRAHAM’S HOUSE, what she had called “the big gray Gothic monstrosity on the hillside,” stood out on a bluff, visible as I entered the town. It was true that the house did resemble the type of building that might grace the cover of one of her suspense novels, especially under this moody sky, but it had a certain battered glamour that I admired on sight.
I followed the directions I had programmed into my phone, turning at the foot of a hill and taking a long, unpaved road that wound upward through the colorful autumn trees, their bright leaves in stark relief against the metallic sky. Then I saw mailbox that read “Graham House” and realized I had reached my destination. I pulled up to the long, wide porch, partially obscured in shadow despite the sporadic sunbeams, and parked near another car, which sat with its nose toward the porch.
Turning off the ignition with a sigh of relief, I looked at Lestrade, who licked at the remaining bits of catnip.
“We’re here, buddy. I never thought I would meet Camilla Graham—not in a million lifetimes.”
Lestrade looked at me then with narrowed green eyes, clearly not impressed by my enthusiasm.
“Okay, I get it. I’ll let you out.” I stepped out of the car and went around to retrieve Lestrade’s carrier. Then, encumbered by his weight, I started moving toward the entryway. It was a grand affair of a porch with stone balustrades flanking long, wooden steps to a doorway under a gray-marble arch. Despite the weird pre-storm light, the porch was dim, as though Graham House had its own weather system. I lifted a large wolf’s head knocker and rapped twice on the mahogany door. Dogs barked within, and I heard claws scrabbling inside the carrier; my cat was smooshing himself into the back of his den in a preemptive move. “I’m sure they’re friendly,” I murmured.
The door opened and Camilla Graham stood in front of me, flanked by two large German shepherds. One of these canines was baring his teeth at me. I said, “Hello, Camilla.”
“Lena. How nice to meet you. Come right in. Ignore Rochester there; he’s a show-off. He’s harmless as a lamb.”
Rochester neither looked nor sounded harmless, and he kept up a low growling as I moved gingerly into a long front hallway, also dim. To the right was a large, shadowy staircase, and to the left was a doorway into what seemed to be a wide sitting room. Dominating this space was a huge stone fireplace, currently lit and crackling away. I could feel its warmth even in the hall.
Camilla looked as I had expected, except smaller and slighter. I had anticipated a tall woman, but she couldn’t have been more than about five foot four, which meant that I had a couple of inches on her. Her hair was gathered into her traditional chignon, but some strands had fallen out and lay in wisps around her heart-shaped face, which bore only minimal wrinkles. She was wearing a large pair of glasses that magnified her eyes and made her vaguely frightening.
She pointed at the cat carrier. “That little fellow is probably afraid of the dogs. If you’d like to let him explore your room, it’s at the top of that stairway there. Perhaps you can get settled, and then come meet me in the library.”
“Yes, that sounds great, thanks.” I moved swiftly, wanting to get Lestrade, who was deathly silent, away from the growling Rochester and his companion. I started up the stairway; it was a long journey. Suddenly I felt that I was Jane Eyre coming out to Thornfield Hall for the first time. This house had a similar gloomy grandeur; it was ill-lit and papered in an antique style—a prime place to begin a time travel experiment. I had always admired the Gothic mysteries written by Camilla Graham, and now, I realized with a start, it was as though I was in one.
The room at the top of the stairs was large and airy. I put the carrier on the bed, shut the door to keep out the dogs, and set Lestrade free. At first he did nothing; just stayed frozen inside his safe house. Eventually, though, his curiosity got the better of him, and he stepped out for a tentative examination of the large bed. The quilt was patterned with blue roses and white camellias; in fact, the whole room was decorated with blue and white accents, which gave it a cool feeling. The bed was in the center of the room, right beside a large window that provided an amazing view down the autumnal bluff; Blue Lake itself was visible in the distance, shining like a sapphire belt on the horizon. To my right were a beautiful walk-in closet and a small bathroom.
“Our own bathroom, Lestrade! How nice is that!” Lestrade was making dough on a pillow, which was a good sign. He seemed to be adapting to the move.
On the opposite wall was a gorgeous double-length desk with a multitude of drawers. “Ahhh,” I moaned. I had always loved desks, and this one was clearly an antique—a grand cherrywood affair with a built-in light, a wide glossy surface writing area, and a multitude of drawers.
I told Lestrade I would return and ran down the stairs to get the rest of my things. Camilla had disappeared, so I was uninterrupted as I made my trips up and down. I didn’t think I had packed much, but it took quite a while to unload the car, and then I spent about fifteen minutes trying to put things into some kind of order—hanging up clothes in the indulgence of a closet, setting up my computer on the big desk, putting out my few knickknacks on the dresser and side tables. Lestrade, free and pleased, had fallen asleep on the bed pillow. I set up his litter box in a far corner of the bathroom and put out his food and water in bowls next to the big desk; then I tiptoed out and shut the door so that he would be undisturbed by Camilla’s giant guard dogs.
One of those dogs met me at the bottom of the stairs. I was fairly sure it wasn’t Rochester; this one seemed to have a whiter face (and possibly a meaner one). Now it stood growling at me, showing all of its teeth in a most intimidating way. I froze. “Camilla?” I said quietly, not wanting to call too loudly and potentially enrage what already seemed like a man-eating creature.
We faced each other for about five minutes. I spent the time wondering if I remembered how to treat a dog bite, and contemplating just how deep I thought those impressive teeth could sink into my flesh. Distantly I wondered if Camilla had been abducted by aliens or swept away by pirates. Surely she should still be in the vicinity of her office, where I had left her?
A knock on the front door interrupted my panicked thoughts and made me jump. Without waiting, the visitor entered on his own and called out. “Camilla? Oh—hello.”
The other German shepherd, Rochester, strolled over to sniff at the newcomer’s outstretched hand. The man was tall and thin, with gray hair and wire-rim spectacles. He wore a Harvard sweatshirt and a pair of khaki pants. “Hello,” I said. “Do you happen to know this dog, and might you persuade him to stop trying to murder me?”
The man laughed. “Heathcliff, come here. Come here, boy. Are you baring your scary teeth at the nice young lady? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” Heathcliff turned away from me and practically bowed in front of the stranger, making little snuffling sounds that were the equivalent of dog humility.
“Liar,” I mumbled.
“What’s that?”
“Thank you very much for rescuing me. He’s quite intimidating when he tries.”
The man set down a bottle of wine he’d been carrying and began petting one dog with each hand. Both canines looked pleased about it. “I’m Adam Rayburn,” he said.
“I’m Lena London. I just got here today.”
“Oh, really! You’ll have to come out and visit us at the restaurant—I’m the owner and manager of Wheat Grass, out near Green Glass Highway. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it?”
“Actually, I passed it on my way into town this morning.”
“Ah, I see. Are you a relative of Camilla’s?” His face was perhaps more curious than was appropriat
e, but then again, I didn’t know how well they knew each other.
“I work for Camilla, as of today. I suppose she’ll tell you more about it.” And if Camilla didn’t choose to, I certainly wouldn’t.
“Of course, yes. Is she around?”
“I’m not sure. She didn’t come when I called her about the dog, and—”
Just then we heard what sounded like a door closing, and some footsteps coming back into Camilla’s sitting room. She appeared in the doorway and peered at us; her hair looked rather windblown, and she was holding a couple of logs in her hands. “Oh, hello, Adam,” she said. Her manner was cool, yet friendly; I admired the way she could be detached without being rude. “What brings you by on this nice fall day?”
Adam Rayburn leaned forward, his face eager. “I got that new wine I told you about. I thought I’d bring you a bottle so you can see if you like it.” He set it on a sideboard in a shadowy corner.
“Well, that’s most generous of you. Thank you so much indeed.”
He petted her dogs some more; they now looked almost puppyish in their devotion. Camilla smiled down at them. “Well, Adam, I have some work to do. Lena here has been hired on to be my invaluable assistant, and we must sit down and evaluate the state of things.”
“Of course, of course,” Rayburn said briskly. “I have to run anyway. Martin Jonas never showed up today, so we’re short a server. Well, I hope we’ll see you down at the restaurant soon.”
“I daresay you will,” Camilla said regally, and Rayburn took the hint, saying his good-byes and making a quick exit. I watched him for a moment through a lead-paned window next to the door. He descended the steps in what seemed a dejected manner. Had we somehow disappointed him?
“Are you ready to have our meeting, then?” Camilla asked me.
I turned and nodded. With a strong sense of the surreal, I followed her through the dark hallway and into the sitting room with its crackling fire. At the far end of the room were some tall glass sliding doors, out of which was a view similar to the one from my bedroom window. The sky had grown a tinge darker. The other walls were lined with books, and a huge desk dominated one side of the space. Camilla went to sit behind this, and I sat in a purple armchair facing the desk.
A Dark and Stormy Murder (A Writer's Apprentice Mystery) Page 2
