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

by Julia Buckley

  “Which was why he said ‘If you don’t want to do it, then just give me back the cash,’” I said. I thought about it. “Did you believe him?”

  His expression was inscrutable. “At this point we have no reason to disbelieve him. We have no evidence—or witnesses—placing him at the scene.”

  “Well, anyway,” Allison said, her tone breezy. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Whose boat was it?” I asked.

  “What?” Doug Heller said, looking slightly annoyed.

  “The boat that I saw Martin Jonas board. Was it his? Maybe the owner of the boat knew something—”

  “Believe it or not, we thought to check out the boat. It is registered to a Mr. Darren Zinn, who does not, in fact, exist.”

  “Oh.” I realized that Doug Heller did not appreciate being told how to do his job, and that I was possibly being rude. And yet I was curious about the case, and about that other case that I didn’t dare question him about . . .

  John rose and peered into the oven in their big brown stove. “Dinner’s just about ready. Allison, if you want to give Lena the tour, Doug and I can set the table.”

  Doug sprang up. “Sure thing.”

  I stood and began to follow Allison, who was already chattering about some décor they had recently changed. I paused when I reached Doug Heller’s side of the table.

  “What happened to your voice?”

  He shrugged. “Some kind of throat cold. Probably from standing on the beach in the rain for about four hours.”

  “Oh, man. We should have brought you all hot coffee. I can’t believe we didn’t think of that.”

  His expression was benevolent. “You had other things on your mind. You sure had a lot happen on your first day in town, didn’t you?”

  “I really did!” I said with feeling. He smiled and reached out a casual hand to touch my arm. It wasn’t a “there, there” pat, though. It was almost . . . proprietary. But then he took his hand away, and I was sure that I must have been mistaken, especially because neither Allison nor John seemed to have noticed anything.

  I followed Allison into her living room, with its tall windows that looked out onto a wooded backyard, and then upstairs to view three large bedrooms and a luxurious bathroom. I struggled with a twinge of envy before I gave myself a stern, internal lecture. I was exactly where I wanted to be. “This is beautiful, Allison.”

  “Thanks. We’re so happy we chose Blue Lake. It’s close enough to Indianapolis that we can still have the big-city experience if we want to go away for the weekend, but it’s rural enough that we can hike in the woods and see the lake without competing with masses of humanity.”

  “I’ve noticed that. It’s a far cry from the Chicago lakefront.”

  “And now we get to be neighbors!” Allison said happily as she treated me to one of her crushing yet enjoyable Allison hugs.

  “It’s kind of unbelievable. A week ago I was still living in the city with no prospects.”

  “Life changes rapidly, doesn’t it?” Her expression lost some of its sprightliness, and I touched her hand.

  “Hey, how is your job going? Is it stressing you out?”

  She shook her head. “Not every day. Some days, yes. Like the car accident day. But overall—I love it. You know me.”

  I did know her. “Come and open your present,” I said.

  * * *

  ALLISON LOVED HER gift, and after we ate her salad and homemade chicken lasagna, she lit the candle and put it on the center of the table, though we had to push it to the side when we chose teams for Trivial Pursuit. No one was allowed to visit Allison without playing this game—it was her favorite, and she was very competitive.

  “We’re going to do girls against boys, because Lena always gets the arts and literature questions, and I know sports and history. So you guys are doomed,” Allison said, making me high-five her.

  Doug and John exchanged a secret glance. “Yes, she’s always like this,” John said. “She got the competitive gene.”

  Allison grinned at her husband. “John is more of a pacifist. He’s Switzerland. He actually tries to help other players when they don’t know the answer.”

  “It’s fun that way, too,” said John, running a hand through his chestnut-colored hair. I noted with surprise that his hairline was receding slightly. I doubted it mattered to Allison, who had once assured me that John had good bones and would look very sexy as a bald man.

  “Okay, enough stalling. We rolled, and we’re on blue. Geography. How’s your geography, John?”

  “Great.”

  The two men faced us with steely expressions. Allison handed me a card and I read, “Helsinki is the capital of what country?”

  Allison groaned, and the men said “Finland” in unison.

  “Correct,” I said. “Not very difficult, but correct.”

  “Sore loser,” said Doug Heller, smiling at me.

  I smiled back and tossed my head. “Roll again.”

  They got two more questions right and earned an orange chip. Then it was our turn. As Allison rolled the die, I said, “What do you guys know about Adam Rayburn?”

  Allison paused in moving our piece and said, “Adam? Why?”

  “I don’t know. He comes to Graham House a lot, and Camilla’s invited him for dinner tonight. I just get—sort of a weird vibe from him.”

  “He’s a nice man,” Allison said. “He helped me change my tire once when I was late for work and it blew outside his restaurant. He gave me a muffin, too.”

  John laughed. “You are Allie’s lifelong friend if you give her food.”

  “It’s true,” Allison said, batting her eyes. “But the best gifts I ever got were that gorgeous candle and Doug’s delicious wine.”

  “You were born to be a hostess,” I said dryly.

  Doug Heller had been studying his game piece. “Why does Rayburn give you a weird vibe?”

  “Um—I don’t know. There’s just a certain—urgency about him. Like he wants something. I don’t know what he could possibly want at Graham House. It’s not like it’s built on a gold mine or anything.”

  Heller’s eyes widened, but then he lowered his gaze back to his game piece. “Right,” he said. “Does she get a lot of visitors?”

  “Well . . . yeah. I mean, she’s got workmen who always seem to be on her porch, Rayburn and her chef, phone calls coming from her agency, and her accountant, who was there this morning. Oh, and I met someone at Bick’s who asked if she could come over.”

  “What?” Allison cried, shocked.

  “No, I mean—we were chatting and we said we should do lunch sometime, and she said her house was a mess and could she come up to Graham House. It’s weirdly popular. Even Marge Bick was asking questions about it.”

  “Huh,” Doug Heller said.

  “But I guess when you’re famous, you get a certain amount of—traffic.”

  “Remind me never to become famous,” John quipped. “I like my quiet life with my beautiful wife.”

  Allison blushed and sent him a secret glance that we all saw.

  A phone buzzed, and Doug Heller took a cell from his pocket. “Sorry,” he said. “This is the work number.”

  “Heller,” he said, standing up and moving away from the table.

  “That guy is never really off duty,” John said, shaking his head. “I’m glad I’m in a nine-to-five job.”

  “It’s not nine-to-five at tax time,” Allison said proudly; John was an accountant. It occurred to me then that I could have asked John to look at my contract; somehow, though, I was still glad I had gone to Sam West. It would have been rude to bring the contract to the dinner, asking John to do work when he was busy hosting.

  I found myself wondering what Sam West was doing now in his lonely hilltop house. Was he drinking wine, too, and going over
the pages of my agreement? Or was he working with his clients from his distant location? Perhaps he spent a lot of time on the computer, investing in things. I had no idea, I realized, what that really entailed.

  “Are they sure it’s blood?” asked Doug Heller from the other side of the room. “And when will we know the DNA—okay. And then they need to issue a warrant. I’m not going to act on this unless—all right. Fine. Keep me updated.” He clicked off the phone, but he didn’t immediately return to the table; he just stood at the window and looked into Allison’s now-dark yard.

  “Doug? Everything okay?” Allison asked brightly.

  He turned and strode back toward us. “Yeah. Sorry. Some work stuff that—came up suddenly.”

  “Do you need to leave?” asked John, who clearly loved the cop stuff.

  “No. Not unless they call back. I don’t think this particular—event—will be cleared up for a day or two.”

  “That’s mysterious,” I said. I was playing with the brown chip—the one I wanted to win if I ever got any darn literature questions.

  “Yeah. I’m not at liberty to discuss this one.”

  “So it’s not someone writing his own name on a statue?” I asked.

  His lips twitched. “No.”

  Allison made a huffing sound. “Well, I hope they don’t call you back. I’m serving coffee and dessert soon, and it’s going to take a while for us to beat you guys.”

  Heller clapped John on the back. “A very long while, right John?”

  “Perhaps an eternity,” agreed John.

  “Ha! I landed on the green chip. Read us the question,” demanded Allison.

  * * *

  THE GAME WENT on and on, through Allison’s coffee and apple pie and beyond. I started stealing glances at my watch, and one time Doug Heller saw me do it. He lifted his arms in a stretch and said, “You guys—we might need to call it a draw. I’ve got to be in super early tomorrow, and I bet Camilla has Lena up early, too.”

  Ah—he was offering me a way out—a conspiracy of departure.

  Allison moaned and made disappointed noises, but John was up in an instant. “Let me get you guys some leftovers.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t,” I said. “Camilla’s chef keeps me stuffed as it is. If I’m not careful I’m going to gain a million pounds.”

  For just an instant I saw Doug Heller’s gaze flick over my body, as though he were assessing any potential weight gain. “I doubt that very much. I’ve noticed that you walk about four times as fast as the average human.”

  “What?”

  “Oh yes, she always has,” Allison agreed. “Kids used to joke about it in school.”

  I turned to her in surprise. “They did?”

  “Rob Stallman called you Lena the Lively.”

  Doug laughed. “Yeah, I think you’ll safely burn up all your extra calories.”

  I lifted my chin. “In that case I shall take home a piece of pie.”

  They all laughed at me, but I was already dreaming of my sinfulness: I would eat it in my bed as a midnight snack and let Lestrade lick the plate of crumbs at the end.

  * * *

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER we were calling our good-byes, and Doug Heller said he would walk me to my car.

  “Are you afraid I’ll be accosted?” I asked lightly.

  “See, there you go, talking like a writer. Does that mean mugged?”

  “Yes, sort of.”

  “No, I don’t think you’ll be accosted, but I’m a gentleman, and I like to walk ladies to their cars.”

  “Lots of ladies, I’m sure.”

  “Not so many. And none so pretty as you.”

  We had reached my door, and I fumbled for my keys in the dark. “That was quite a line, Doug Heller.”

  “Yeah. But it was true,” he said in his hoarse cold voice.

  I dared a glance up at him and saw that I had not been imagining things; Doug Heller wanted something to happen between us. Had he known, somehow, that Allison would be inviting me? “Well, thanks. That was sweet.”

  I was grasping the door handle when he stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Lena, one thing. I know this will make you mad, but I have to say it.”

  “What?” I peered at him in the dark driveway; he looked handsome and mysterious under Allison’s back porch light.

  “I know you’ve made friends with Sam West. No, don’t say anything yet. The thing is—I know things that you don’t. And I’m telling you, as a friend, that you should keep your distance from him. I’m asking you to.”

  I took a deep breath. “I appreciate that, but I have to tell you that Sam West has been nothing but kind and helpful to me. And at no point did he try to murder me.”

  “It’s not a joke, Lena.”

  “I know. But I also know that man has been through a lot, and no one has proven that anything happened to his wife, and I’m not going to contribute to the general cruelty to which this town has subjected him.”

  “No, of course you aren’t. Because you’re Lena London, and you do your own thing.”

  “Damn right.”

  “That’s why I like you,” he said.

  “Stop turning everything into a compliment. I’m trying to be indignant here.”

  “Sorry.” He leaned in, blocking out the light, and treated me to a moonlit glimpse of his brown eyes. “I’ll say good night then, Lena.”

  “Good night.” He walked away, and I watched him recede into the darkness.

  I climbed into my car, relieved to be out of the cold air, and let it warm up for a few moments. I switched on the radio; I hadn’t grown familiar with the Indiana stations yet, so I never knew exactly what I was going to hear when I spun the dial. Tonight I heard A Great Big World singing “Say Something.” There in the cold dark the song seemed especially melancholy.

  I pulled out, singing along, because that’s what I did when the radio was on, and wondering if it were just the song making me feel sad. Or perhaps I sensed even then that something was terribly wrong.

  9

  On nights such as this, in darkness like this, one could lose her way.

  —from The Salzburg Train

  BACK AT CAMILLA’S I crunched over the pebbles of the driveway and parked my car; it felt weird and unfamiliar in the windy dark. I wondered what I had done on nights like this in past Octobers, which now seemed as distant in time and space as the stars that glimmered above Blue Lake. Those stars were much brighter and more plentiful here, and I had a stronger sense of the universe as the context for my existence, making me feel large by association and miniscule in contrast. Disjointed philosophies floated in my head, but in my weary state I could not process them all. I climbed the stairs and opened the door with the spare key Camilla had given me.

  There was a small light on in the hallway; it seemed to be on a timer. Other than that, the house was black. Camilla was an early riser, so it didn’t surprise me that she had retired at—I consulted my watch—just after midnight.

  I started climbing the stairs. They creaked eerily in the tomb-like space, and my imagination began to tell ghostly stories. Something brushed against me, feather-light and horrifying, and I almost screamed until I saw that Lestrade was climbing the stairs with me, his weird eyes switched to night vision and glowing like green stones.

  “You scared me,” I hissed in the dark, and he started to purr.

  We made it to my room unscathed, and I switched on the bedside lamp. Lestrade jumped onto the bed, mewing now and then to tell me about his evening. “That’s interesting, but I have to get ready for bed. You can relax out here.”

  He did, stretching out full-length and displaying his fluffy white belly. I went into the bathroom; despite Camilla’s wonderful heater, the room felt cold, as did the tile walls and—I found to my great displeasure—the toilet seat.

  I dressed qu
ickly in my flannel pajamas. These had been a Christmas gift from my father, and I loved them. They were cocoa brown and covered with books of all sizes and colors. They also happened to be toasty warm. I donned some fuzzy socks to complete the ensemble, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and flicked off the bathroom light.

  Lestrade was already in a light doze, but he got up to let me pull back the covers and turn off the light; then he rearranged himself along my side. Lestrade was good at gauging the spots that would bring him optimal warmth.

  “You’re a silly boy,” I said, stroking one of his soft ears. “But I’m glad you’re here. Do you like this big old house? Do you feel at home here with your scary dog friends?”

  He purred and rubbed his head against me, then relaxed into slumber. Cats do that so easily. Human beings, on the other hand, often find themselves staring at the cracked white ceiling, unable to sleep no matter how many sheep they count. Some of those sheep morphed into the various residents of Blue Lake, whose faces were surprisingly clear in my memory . . .

  I must have slept eventually, because when I woke up it said three A.M. on the bedside clock, and it was clear that something had changed.

  Lestrade was at the door, for one thing, listening with his ears twitching. I heard another sound, soft and menacing, which I realized was the growling of the dogs. Something was wrong; I felt that reality in the dark like a physical presence. I was out of bed in an instant and looking for a weapon. A cast-iron doorstop in the shape of a cow sat to the side of my door near the heating vent. I picked this up and opened the door slowly, peering into the hallway.

  A shadowy form loomed before me, and my breath caught in my throat until I realized that it was Camilla, bearing no doorstop but touching the heads of two very attentive German shepherds, the best weapons in the house.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, my voice hushed.

  “I don’t know. The dogs woke me. They normally sleep through the night,” she said. “I think I might need to investigate.”