“Oh, it’s hard to choose. Maybe Death at Seaside. They’re all great.”
“You are too kind,” said Camilla, glancing at her menu.
Grant hovered. “I actually have one of them in back. I don’t suppose—would it be intruding if I—”
“I’ll be happy to sign it, dear, if that’s what you mean.”
“Thanks! That would be so great. I’ll wait until you’re finished with your meal and everything. Let me get those drinks!”
Camilla held up a hand. “Would you tell Adam Rayburn we’re here, please?”
“Mr. Rayburn? Uh—sure. Sure thing.” He darted away, and I studied my menu, suddenly hungry again.
“I think I’m going to start with soup. They have split pea. The weather is so unfriendly today, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Blue Lake wind chills break weather records every year. And we’re famous the world over for our record snowfalls.”
“Wow—something to look forward to.”
She laughed. “I’ll have soup, too. And maybe this cod sandwich.”
“And I’ll go with the Reuben.”
When Grant returned, we gave him our orders and handed him our menus. Seconds later Adam Rayburn almost burst out of the back, his eyes raking the room. He saw us and brightened, then immediately seemed to deflate. I was starting to think that Rayburn might be the weirdest person I’d met in Blue Lake—and that was saying a lot.
He made his way to our table and grinned. “You made it! Is Grant taking good care of you ladies?”
“Oh, yes. Would you like to join us for a moment, Adam?” Camilla said.
He glanced at his watch, then at the door to his kitchen. “Perhaps for a moment, yes. I—we had agreed on Thursday, and tonight I have a bit of a—”
“We won’t keep you long. It’s just that we’ve had some interesting things happening up at the house, as you know. First Lena received unexpected visitors. Then she was nearly mowed down in the night by an intruder in the darkness. Doug Heller came to investigate and found that we have been housing the equivalent of a drug lab in our home, and the only man we’ve linked to the crime so far has mysteriously gone silent and hired a lawyer. Doug says he’s hired someone expensive.”
“Unbelievable,” said Adam, shaking his head as he took a seat at our table.
“Martin Jonas was killed, perhaps by the very people running this lab. We’re wondering, Lena and I, if he had a crisis of conscience. Perhaps some members of his group didn’t want him to have a conscience. Or perhaps they had a conscience, too, but felt trapped by circumstances. Perhaps they made a mistake long ago, and have had to cover it up ever since.” Her look was searching, incisive.
Adam nodded. “That may well be. Poor Martin.”
“So we were trying to think of something that might connect it all. Who knew Martin Jonas? Who could provide Martin Jonas with a cover that might conceal his ‘real’ job? Who might be wealthy enough to pay for Dave Brill’s expensive lawyer so that Dave wouldn’t be tempted to share information with the police?”
“And what did you decide?” Rayburn asked, his eyes flicking to the kitchen as a waitress came out with a full tray.
“Well . . . you came up as a possibility.”
Rayburn’s eyes returned to us, wide with shock. We had all his attention now, and Camilla met his gaze. I admired the way she held her ground, although a red mark appeared on each of her cheekbones.
“I—?” He left his mouth open, as if uncertain what sounds should come out of it. “Are you suggesting that I had something to do with the death of poor Martin?”
“We’re trying to put together a puzzle,” I said.
He didn’t even look at me. His eyes were on Camilla. “And you think that I, the wealthy restaurateur, might spend a large sum to silence a low-life drug dealer?”
For the first time, Camilla seemed to falter. “I didn’t think it, until Lena and I were talking, and we realized how often you had been coming over. And how curious you seemed about the house, what Doug was doing—what the police were doing. How—present you were.”
Rayburn barked out a short laugh, but his eyes held something like despair. “Oh, yes. I’ve been present. I’ve been present for longer than you’ve even noticed, Camilla. I’ve used every possible excuse to get your attention, as a matter of fact.”
I saw it all then in a flash of insight. Rayburn bringing over a bottle of wine “so you can see if you like it.” Rayburn with a sheaf of flowers that he insisted were extras. Rayburn asking for a tour of Camilla’s house. Rayburn asking Camilla to dine with him at his restaurant.
Camilla saw it, too, and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment or some emotion I could not name. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”
He slumped back in his chair. “I thought enough time had gone by. He’s been dead almost three years, Camilla. I thought that was—an appropriate period of mourning. I thought maybe you—might have room in your life.”
Suddenly I was a most uncomfortable third wheel. I slid to the edge of my chair, hoping to escape, but Camilla said, “Do stay there, Lena. Don’t be silly.” She had regained some of her composure, and now she flashed a gaze at Adam Rayburn. I wasn’t sure if it held disdain or pity or gratitude, or a mixture of them all.
“Adam, perhaps we can talk about this later. I intend to keep our date for Thursday, as we planned. I apologize that we—seem to have misinterpreted your actions.”
Rayburn had endured enough. He stood up, and his emotions, too, seemed a jumbled mixture. He was angry, but his eyes were still hopeful, I thought. “Yes, later. Good night, Camilla.” His voice was cool, and he walked away without looking back.
I stole a glance at Camilla, who sat in silence, processing the interaction. I gave her time. Our soup came, and I studied mine with great concentration, blowing on it and taking a first delicious sip out of my spoon. After a couple of minutes my eyes returned to Camilla, and she sent me an almost mischievous smile. “Do you know, Lena, that in my youth I had more than one man in love with me?”
“Apparently you have one now, as well.”
“Will wonders never cease,” she murmured. “How blind was I? I had briefly suspected, after he had dinner with me the other night—”
I remembered how she had looked almost dreamy and happy at our little cupcake date. That had been the night she’d had dinner with Rayburn.
“—and then I told myself I was being a fool.”
“Trust your instincts, Camilla.”
We grew silent again. Grant brought our sandwiches, and we tasted them and proclaimed them delicious. I finally said, “Do you feel anything for him?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve always been friends—he and James and I. So we—have a certain intimacy that goes back many years. And he’s a good-looking man.”
I had never thought about this, but in many ways Rayburn was, in fact, attractive. “Yes,” I agreed.
“But, Lena, I’m sixty-nine years old. I think I’ve passed the expiration date on things like love and romance and all the drama they entail.”
“Have you? Because a man just walked angrily away from your table, holding his heart in his hand. You had just hinted that you thought he might have conspired in a murder. If that’s not drama, I don’t know what is.”
“Oh, my.”
“And if you have your mother’s longevity, then you have several more decades to contemplate the way Adam Rayburn seems to feel about you.”
She studied me for a moment with her intelligent eyes.
Then, finally, she said, “I will give that some serious thought. Now eat your sandwich. If Adam didn’t have something to do with the death of Martin Jonas—and I am most relieved to realize he did not—then we still need to know who did.”
“Yes. I wish all of this were over. Or that it had never happened at all.”
; She nodded and waved to Grant, our waiter, who was standing near the kitchen doorway. Camilla made a motion to suggest she wanted to pay the bill, and Grant disappeared.
“Camilla, you must let me pay for dinner. You’ve treated me to everything since the moment I got here.”
Instead of arguing with me, she studied me again. I realized I was growing to love Camilla’s face, especially her shrewd eyes. “All right. Thank you, Lena. That is most generous of you.”
“Hardly generous, but a nice opportunity to thank you—for everything. Despite everything that’s happened in this town, I love it here, and I love Graham House, and I most especially love working with you. In some ways—I hope you don’t mind my saying it—you remind me of my mother.”
“Why would I mind? It’s a compliment, I’m sure. And where is your mother residing these days?”
“She died, years ago. Cancer. My father is remarried and lives in Florida.”
She put a hand on one of mine. “You must miss her very much.”
“I do, but the pain isn’t fresh anymore. Sometimes, now, I’m just happy to think of her. And that she’s with me all the time.”
“I know she is. Because if I were your mother, I would certainly want to visit you after I died. You are a very loveable young woman, Lena London.”
Grant appeared at our table to find me dabbing at my eyes with my cloth napkin. I held up my hand for the check, and he gave it to me. While I was signing the charge slip, he produced a worn paperback for Camilla, along with a pen that said “Wheat Grass” on the side. The book was, in fact, Death at Seaside. I hadn’t read that one in a while, and seeing the cover, with its tossing waves, made me want to rediscover it.
Grant was effusive in his gratitude. “Thank you so much, Ms. Graham! It is such an honor to meet you, and I’ll treasure this inscription. I wish I had brought one of my hardbacks.”
Camilla smiled. “Have Adam bring a few to me at the house. I’ll sign them and send them back. He can be our courier.”
“Oh my gosh—thanks! It truly is an honor. I just want to say—your books just—transport me to another time and place. I hope you write a million more.”
Camilla thanked him again, I handed him the leather folder with the signed charge slip inside (along with a healthy tip for Grant), and we gathered our coats. Apparently, though, Grant wasn’t finished speaking. “Oh, and I just wondered what you thought of your notorious neighbor!”
“I’m sorry?” Camilla’s voice was cold now. A queen displeased by a subject.
“Oh—it’s just—Adam mentioned once that Sam West was your neighbor. I wondered what you thought about the latest news. You being a mystery writer and everything.”
“What latest news?” I said sharply.
“That he’s been arrested. I just heard it on the radio. They said they have enough evidence to prosecute him for the murder of his wife.”
15
For a long time she existed without living, working at the local bakery and paying the baker’s wife half of her wages for a cot in the room behind the business and for meals twice a day. She waited for a word from Gerhard, or for any sign that he was still alive and perhaps coming for her. Despite all of her vigilance, when the sign came, she was not ready.
—from The Salzburg Train
WE LISTENED TO the car radio and heard the dreadful details. Sam West had been taken into custody early that evening. Police were not saying what evidence they possessed, but they were confident that West would be found guilty of his wife’s murder when the case went to trial—and the state’s attorney did intend to prosecute Sam West to the fullest extent of the law. West’s lawyer, in turn, said the arrest was a travesty of justice, and that if he had anything to do about it, West would soon be free.
“Ridiculous,” Camilla said. “Poor Sam.”
“I need to text him,” I said. My head felt strange, as though it were filled with roaring ocean waves.
“You can’t, dear. If he’s under arrest, they take those things away, don’t they?”
“Oh, God. This is terrible. What can we do, Camilla? Can’t we do something for him? You’re famous. What if you gave the police a comment, saying you are confident that Sam West is innocent?”
“My dear, that would accomplish nothing at all. No one cares what an old novelist thinks. The police are supposedly basing this on evidence, though I find the appearance of the blood quite suspect.”
I turned to her. “Yes! So do I! Why do you think so?”
“Lena—please. We can’t help him if we don’t live. Keep your eyes on the road and try to calm down.”
I had driven us in my car, and now I stared ahead into the darkness, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry. I just—this is such bad news. I don’t know what to do with it.”
“Neither do I. But Sam has a good attorney and a fine mind. He’s trying to work this out, too. He has been for a year.”
“But now the whole world will be against him. You know how willing people are to believe the news headlines. To think the worst.”
“And why don’t you think the worst? What makes you defend Sam so strongly?”
I stole a glance at her and saw curiosity in her eyes. “Because—because I met him. And I saw his pain and misery, but I didn’t see cruelty or jealousy. And when he spoke of his wife—he was worried about her. That’s authentically innocent. If he had killed her, he’d want to place the blame on her, or deny that a crime had been committed. That’s what the others do—the men who really did kill their wives. I’ve seen their faces on television, and I’ve seen Sam’s face, and Sam’s is good.”
I felt on the verge of tears again.
“I agree, Lena. I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
We pulled onto the gravel road that led to her house, and I realized that I hadn’t checked on Sam’s house recently. The thought of doing it in the dark didn’t appeal to me; I made a note to check it the next morning and water all of his plants.
“He has plants, Camilla. He cares for them and . . . nurtures them.”
“Yes.”
“I’m curious, though. Why isn’t his family speaking out on his behalf? Surely they can’t believe he’s guilty?”
Camilla sighed. “So he didn’t tell you that part of his history.”
“What?”
“It’s sad. I’m not sure you can handle much more sadness.”
“What is it?”
“When Sam was twenty-two, his parents and his younger sister boarded a plane bound for Massachusetts; they intended to visit some colleges. She was seventeen, and starting to plan her future.”
“Oh, no.”
“The plane crashed. It was Flight 427—do you remember that, on the news? But you would have been only about, what—twelve or thirteen years old.”
“Everyone aboard was killed. I do remember. They were searching the water for survivors.”
“Sam was orphaned, and Wendy was his only sibling. But this is what I want you to see—he’s remarkably strong, Lena. He’s weathered it all and remained a good person, under the veneer of cynicism.”
I parked in front of the house and stared at its dark outline. “Thank you for telling me.”
We went inside, and the dogs greeted us with their predictable merriment. Camilla said, “I’ll let them out.”
“I think I’ll head upstairs, Camilla. Thank you for your company.”
“Thank you for dinner,” she said. “Things will look brighter in the morning.” Her expression was comforting, and yet I was not comforted.
Upstairs I found my room empty—Lestrade was on some evening prowl. I sat at my desk and gazed at my notes, my laptop, my phone.
I picked up the cell phone and sent a text to Sam West. I didn’t know if he could read it, but I wanted him to know he had my support. In a world of people out to believe the wors
t of him, I believed the best.
Restless, I dialed my father’s number. He picked up on the second ring and said, “There’s my long-lost girl! How’s the new job going?”
“Oh, Dad,” I said, half in tears.
“Whoa! Take a deep breath. Let me get my glass of wine. Okay, there we go. Now start at the beginning.”
I talked to him for two hours: about Camilla, about Martin Jonas, about Doug Heller, about Allison, about Sam West.
“Wow,” he said at last. “And I thought things were complicated with your plant scientist.”
“Kurt?” With surprise, I realized that Kurt had practically been wiped from my memory banks by a couple of weeks in Blue Lake. “Yeah, you’re right—Kurt was ultimately less complicated. But also less worthwhile.”
“Do you want us to come up there? We can stay in a local B and B or something. Just be around for moral support. Tabitha would love that. She misses you as much as I do.”
“You are the sweetest dad in the world. Maybe we can plan something like that for spring. It’s too cold right now, and it’s getting colder. You guys stay warm in Florida, and let me finish this first project for Camilla, and then—yes, I would love it if you came up here.”
“You just let us know. We can take vacation days and make arrangements on short notice.”
“I will. And thanks, Dad. I feel better just talking to you.”
“Meanwhile, I have to be a father and say that a murder was committed in that town, and I’d prefer if you don’t wander around alone. If you go out, go with other people. Okay? Will you promise me that?”
“I promise, Dad.”
By the time I hung up I did feel more peaceful, and more optimistic that things would resolve themselves. Martin Jonas’ killer would be caught, and Sam West’s lawyer would prevail.
In the meantime, I had my own job to do, and perhaps it would be best if I focused on that. I looked out into the darkness and saw that it had begun to rain. In a burst of visuals, I recalled the storm that had brought me to Blue Lake: the bulging clouds, gray over tossing water; the anxiety over my meeting with Camilla; Doug Heller, blond and handsome on the side of the road; Martin Jonas facedown on the sand; and Sam West, his blue eyes concerned, standing in the drizzle and thinking his private thoughts.
A Dark and Stormy Murder (A Writer's Apprentice Mystery) Page 19
