Death with a Dark Red Rose

by Julia Buckley

  “No—a really high fever! Is there something going around?”

  “There’s always something going around. But there is a virus right now that people are getting. Fever is the main symptom, but also weariness, achy joints, exhaustion.”

  “How long does it last?”

  “He might be down for two or three days. Maybe less. It all depends on his constitution.”

  “I’m just worried it might be something else. Something terrible.”

  “Take a deep breath, kiddo.”

  “Allie, are you on your way to work?”

  “Yeah, I’m in my car.”

  “Do you think you could check on him tonight? Just see if it looks like that virus you were talking about?”

  “Of course I can. As soon as my shift ends. Meanwhile, keep him hydrated and just let him rest. It’s what his body needs.”

  “I hate it. I’ve never seen him sick.”

  “He’ll be okay, Lena. He’s a strong, healthy man who just caught a bug.”

  “I know, I just—I feel anxious.”

  “He’ll be fine. Go take a walk by the lake and then come back to a nice cup of tea.”

  “Yeah, I’m running out for medicine and some coffee. I’ll fill you in tonight about something else that’s going on. It has to do with Belinda’s brother.”

  I heard traffic sounds and a horn honking. “Darn Blue Lake drivers,” Allison murmured. “Okay, that’s intriguing. We should talk about Camilla’s party, too. I need that list of music Camilla likes.”

  “Oh right; I started writing one when I was upstairs. I can finish it while I keep an eye on Sam. I’ll have it tonight.”

  “Good, see you then. Lena? Don’t worry.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I PURCHASED A variety of medicines, not sure what Sam would need, and an amused pharmacist suggested that I might start my own infirmary. I managed a smile and turned to find a gray-haired man with a pleasant face and a basket full of camping supplies, including a kerosene lamp, a gallon of kerosene, some plastic dishware, and a couple of bungee cords. The pharmacy, like every other store in Blue Lake, had unexpected wares, and Sullivan’s had a whole camping aisle. I pointed to the man’s basket. “Ready to escape?” I joked.

  He grinned. “At least for a couple of days. Before it gets too cold to camp.”

  “It got too cold for me about three weeks ago, but I’m not much of an outdoorsman,” I said.

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” he said. “A good night in the elements brings clarity. Helps you make life decisions.” His eyes grew sad when he said that.

  “I get the same effect from eating a pint of ice cream in a dim room,” I joked, and his face lit up again.

  “I’ll have to try it,” he said. “But not this trip.”

  I waved and walked toward the door; the pharmacist said, “That’s a lot of kerosene for one camping trip,” in a jovial tone, and the gray-haired man said something that I couldn’t hear; then they both laughed.

  I returned to the bracing air outside and went to my car. I was only a block from Coffee Dreams; it would be silly to drive that short distance. I stowed Sam’s medicine under the driver’s seat (Doug had assured me that people stole bags from cars on a regular basis, especially if they believed pills were inside those bags) and walked down the leaf-strewn sidewalk to the shop that Camilla said was managed by Luis Castellan’s wife.

  I wasn’t sure exactly what I thought I would accomplish, but the moment I entered the small, attractive space, fragrant with coffee beans and cooked food, I knew that I would at least be dining there. Under the windows was a long, low bookshelf that said, “Take a book, bring some back next time you visit!” I bent down to study some titles and spied two Camilla Graham novels on the shelf. I picked up For the Love of Jane and sat down in a corner where I had a view of Violet Street and of the entire restaurant. A young woman appeared at my table; she was tall and thin with an abundance of blond hair worn in a messy bun on top of her head. This casually chic touch went with the trendy feeling of the restaurant itself, which had that same careless-yet-stylish feel to it.

  She leaned toward me with a practiced smile. “Hi, I’m Jada. What can I get for you today? We have a flavor of the week called Blue Lake French Roast Blend. It’s delicious.”

  “That sounds great. I’ll have a cup of that.” I consulted the little menu that I had barely had time to read and added, “And a cheddar and tomato omelet.”

  “With toast or potatoes?”

  “Toast, please.”

  She pointed at the novel. “That’s a great book! You gonna read it?”

  “I already have. Many times.”

  She leaned in. “I’ll tell you a secret. That author lives here in town.”

  Normally I would just tell her that I was Camilla’s assistant, but today I was lying low. “Really?”

  “Yeah. She’s like the one celebrity of Blue Lake. She’s been here for years. That book is great! So exciting. It’s about this guy who disappears—oh wait! You said you read it.”

  “Yes. But I might reread it. As you said, it’s great.”

  “You got it. I’ll take your menu, and I’ll be right back with that coffee, hon,” she said. She strolled away, checking in on a couple of other tables before she reached the entrance. I glanced at my phone; no texts from Sam or anyone. A Blue Lake Banner lay on the table next to mine; I picked it up and glanced at the headlines, which told me of a shake-up on the school board and of protesters at a town council meeting. The name “Plasti-Source” jumped out at me, and I read the whole article, entitled “Blue Lake Locals Protest New Factory at Council Meeting.”

  More than fifty Blue Lake residents spoke out at a town council meeting with concerns about a plastics plant to be built on Route 14. Plasti-Source, a relatively new company with locations in four states, has been ordered to halt construction while the council investigates claims that the company does not follow EPA regulations in its waste disposal practices. Edward Grange, company president, assured residents that the company met “a rigorous environmental checklist” and that locals should not be concerned. Philip Enderby, the vice president of Plasti-Source, passed out pamphlets explaining their quality control and the careful process they used in disposing of any potentially harmful chemicals combined with polymers to create their trademarked plastic products.

  Grange agreed that they did occasionally use toxic chemicals in the production of their unique plastic products. “But many plants throughout the world use toxic substances,” he said. “It is merely a matter of remaining responsible and adhering to federal guidelines.”

  Enderby and Grange remained on hand after the council had adjourned, speaking personally to concerned residents. Randolph Brett, a thirty-year Blue Lake resident, said that his fears had been assuaged by Grange and Enderby. “They said that this plant will meet all safety procedures, that it will be open to public tours, and that they will be happy to address citizen concerns at any time.”

  The Blue Lake Plasti-Source plant is expected to resume construction in early November.

  I set the paper aside, wondering if Doug and Cliff had been at that meeting. The doorbell jangled; a young man in a dark jacket entered wearing a hopeful expression. He spoke to Jada in a low voice and she called, “Elena? Your interview is here.”

  I sat up straighter at the name but made sure to keep my eyes down when Elena Castellan came from the back room and introduced herself, shaking the young man’s hand. “Let’s sit at a table and talk,” she told him. “You can fill out the form there.”

  They chose a booth two tables away from me, but there was no one in between us, so I could hear relatively well. I had looked up while they were settling into their seats to determine that Elena was young—perhaps late twenties or early thirties—and that she had shoulder-length dar
k hair and large dark eyes. She wasn’t thin, like Jada, but curvy and attractive. She wore a wedding and engagement ring on her left hand.

  At first Elena asked job-related questions. When are you available to work? Do you have another part-time job? Do you have any experience in the restaurant industry? Are you a coffee lover?

  Then, apparently while he was filling out his application, she spoke more generally, telling him that the store had opened in 2015 and that she was the second owner. That they had some competition in Blue Lake, but they also had a loyal clientele. “Our coffee is the best,” she said. “Word spreads. We’re doing better than ever before, which is why we need more help.”

  She cleared her throat; Jada came by to pour them both some coffee. She waited while he took a sip. “What do you think, Kevin?” Elena asked.

  Kevin knew his role. “It’s amazing,” he said. “Worth the price.”

  Elena laughed. “I happen to agree. Okay, I’ll take that form when you’re finished. Do you need some more time?”

  “I’m just about done.” Kevin scrawled something on the page. I picked up my phone and began to scroll through Instagram, trying to look busy. Jada had brought my coffee, and I sipped it with an absorbed expression. I was starting to think that my visit had been pointless, and I was itching to return to Sam, but then Kevin spoke again.

  “I happen to know your husband,” he said, in the tone of one trying to ingratiate.

  Her tone was cool. “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I guess he and my brother went to college together. They lived in the same dorm and everything. You’ll have to ask him if he remembers David Spellman.”

  “Isn’t that something? What a small world. I will certainly ask him that.”

  “Dave says he’d love to get together with him, talk about old times. I can give you his cell number to pass on.”

  “Sure, sure.” She seemed to be hesitating—determining her next move? “My husband and I aren’t actually cohabitating right now,” she finally said. “Some disagreements.”

  This was a blow to Kevin, who clearly thought he had this job in the bag. “Oh wow. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I glanced up as she lifted her shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “What can you do? These things happen. Especially when your husband cheats on you with someone from his work.”

  “Oh man,” Kevin said, clearly regretting his choice of conversational topics. “I can’t believe Luis would do that. Kevin always said he was such a straight arrow of a guy.”

  Elena’s sadness sounded forced. “I always thought so. That’s why I married him. Anyway, water under the bridge.” She paused. “Thanks for coming in, Kevin. I’ll give you a call this week after I do a couple other interviews.”

  Kevin seemed to deflate. This wasn’t a good sign. “Yeah, great. Thanks, Elena.”

  She stood up and went to the back with her sheaf of papers. Jada brought my food, and I tore into it, suddenly ravenous.

  Ten minutes later I was finished eating; I left a tip for Jada on my table and paid my bill at the register with Elena herself. “Everything okay?” she asked.

  I was retrieving my credit card from my wallet; I looked up to find her dark eyes studying me. “Everything was delicious. I couldn’t help but overhear that you might be hiring? I have a friend who’s looking.”

  Her eyes had a flat look. “Oh? Well, have them come in, fill out an application.”

  “Thanks! I’ll pass that on to them.”

  “What’s the name? I’ll be listening for it.”

  I paused only a fraction of a second, then said, “Kurt Saylor.” My ex-boyfriend, safely in the past and out of Blue Lake, seemed a safe choice.

  “I’ll be on the lookout for Kurt.” She didn’t smile, but she gave a sort of nod. “Be sure to return to Coffee Dreams. Have a good day.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Miss London.”

  Of course. My name was on my credit card.

  “Thank you,” I told her. She smiled then, but only with her mouth. Her coffee-colored eyes retained a lackluster and watchful quality, and I was sure they were still gazing at me as I turned and walked toward the door.

  * * *

  * * *

  I CALLED DOUG from my car.

  “Doug Heller.”

  “I just had breakfast at Coffee Dreams. Elena Castellan runs the place.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “I’m not sure what I thought I’d find. On the one hand, she just seemed like a regular person. She was interviewing someone, and I sat there eavesdropping for nebulous reasons.”

  “Just naturally nosy, pretty much,” Doug joked.

  “I guess. She did tell him that her husband didn’t live with her because he cheated on her with a woman from his work. From Plasti-Source, I guess.”

  “That’s not what she told me this morning,” Doug said. “She said they had a fight.”

  “Huh. I mean, I guess she could have been embarrassed to say it to you. She did say they had been fighting, right? But why would she say it to a total stranger, then? He said his brother was college friend of her husband and he wanted to get together with him. Maybe she felt obligated to say that she couldn’t arrange that. We need to ask Carl if this matches what he knows.”

  “Hmm. Interesting.”

  “I will say—” I hesitated. It was hard to put my finger on what bothered me about Elena Castellan.

  “Yeah? I’ve been waiting for your ‘on the other hand.’”

  “She gave me a weird vibe. I felt uncomfortable. She’s hiding something.”

  “Okay. Your instincts tend to be good. I’ll find a way to visit her again, ask some more questions.”

  “Hey, there was a newspaper in there. Did you know about some town council meeting about Plasti-Source?”

  Doug cleared his throat. “Yeah. Rusty was there.” Rusty was the police chief.

  “They said some people were concerned about them getting toxins into the environment. I don’t know what form that would take. Would they dump it into the soil? Into the lake?” Either possibility was upsetting.

  Some static buzzed on the line, so Doug’s voice was harder to hear when he said, “I don’t know. I’ll try to find out.”

  “Okay. Anyway, I just thought I’d mention the whole Elena thing. Maybe Luis isn’t who Carl thought he was.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Thanks, Lena. I hear you and Belinda are doing some sleuthing later. Is Sam joining you?”

  “No—he’s suddenly sick. He has a terrible fever. I’m going to check on him now and bring him a tiny pharmacy.”

  Doug paused. “That’s weird. He was fine yesterday.”

  “I know. But these viruses appear when they appear, right?”

  “Tell him I said to get well soon.”

  “I will. Thanks. Let us know if you find Luis.”

  Even as I said it I felt a sense of doom. The pendulum Sam had spoken of in the car, that Blue Lake pendulum that perpetually swung between sadness and celebration, loss and gain, had swung back to the negative side. Life felt oddly disjointed without Camilla in town, Sam was inexplicably sick, and poor Luis had disappeared from his own life.

  Uncertain of my emotions, I started the car and made my way back to Green Glass Highway, where I would be able to glimpse the lake, a sight that always managed to restore my equanimity.

  8

  She wondered, years after the event at Debenham, if she could have avoided her fate simply by taking an earlier train.

  —From Danger at Debenham Station, a work in progress

  SAM WAS ASLEEP when I got back, but now his fever was making him feel hot; he had flung off all of his covers and his face was flushed. I rushed to the bathroom and dampened a cloth with cool water, then came back to Sam and placed the cloth on his head. He opened his eyes and said, “Yuck. I’m boiling.”
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  “Keep this on; I want to bring this fever down. Let me take these socks off, too.” I went to the foot of the bed and began tugging at his running shoes and sport socks.

  “Find anything good at the coffee place?” he asked, his eyes closed.

  “Not really. I brought you some medicine.”

  “I’ll take it later,” he murmured. He was falling back asleep.

  “Do you need anything?”

  “Geronimo,” he murmured. “Arabella.”

  “You want me to feed them?”

  “Bring them over. They’re lonely.”

  Those sweet words made me want to yank him into a sitting position and hug him tightly. Instead, I sat beside him and stroked his hair. “Okay, I’ll get them. Let me freshen your water.” I took his glass and walked to the bathroom, where I refilled it from the tap. I returned to Sam and said, “Drink a little bit. Allison says I need to keep you hydrated.”

  I pulled on his arms until he was sitting upright, then held the glass while he drank a few sips of water. He fell back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Keep those covers off. When you wake up, I’ll take your temperature again and give you some more pills. Okay? Just rest for now.”

  “Hmm.” He was already halfway out.

  “I love you,” I murmured.

  Sam snored slightly.

  I backed out of the room and went down the stairs, where I found the dogs waiting. I let them into the backyard and prepared an early lunch for them, then texted Belinda. Sam is sick, but I guess I can sneak out for an hour or so. Come pick me up at around two.

  She sent back a thumbs-up emoji, and I set down the phone. I put the dogs’ food on the floor and let them back in; they bounded to their bowls with puppyish enthusiasm but proceeded to eat with a delicacy that always surprised me.

  I scanned the room for Lestrade, who was in one of his favorite spots, the kitchen windowsill, from which he would keep track of all manner of birds, insects, and sunbeams. He turned to give me a bored but affectionate glance.