Death with a Dark Red Rose

by Julia Buckley

  Belinda, her blond hair slightly tousled, looked at her brother with concern. She touched his shoulder. “Carl, you know that Doug is doing his best.”

  He shook his head; the vulnerable, boy-like look was back on his face. “I need someone who knows about mysteries. Not just cases.”

  Camilla held out her hand. “Carl, would you like some tea? Why don’t you come into the kitchen back here, and we’ll talk about Luis? I’m so very sorry to hear about your friend. And what a good friend you are to him, to seek justice with such passion on his behalf. I’m sure he would be grateful.”

  Carl took her proffered hand; he seemed to be grasping it tightly. “Thank you,” he said. His eyes were wet, but he maintained a dignified demeanor as he followed her into the kitchen.

  I held Belinda back. “Is he okay?”

  She nodded. “He took the news hard, but he was calm. He’s just so determined! He wouldn’t let up about me bringing him out here, and I finally gave in. I hope Camilla doesn’t mind. I know she probably just got back.” Her green eyes were worried.

  “She did. But she wanted to meet Carl anyway, and I think she admires him for being so devoted to Luis. It will be fine.” I put an affectionate arm around her, then patted her hair back in place. “Listen, there’s something you should know. It’s why I was calling Doug in the first place, because he and Camilla go way back.”

  Her eyes widened. “Is something wrong? Is she all right?”

  “She’s great. She and Adam got married on their trip. A super-private wedding, just them, in a church on a bluff in the woods.”

  Belinda beamed. “Married!”

  “I still can’t totally believe it. I never had a clue. Never heard either of them making arrangements or saw them exchanging secret glances or leaving documents lying around. But I guess I’ve been distracted with my own wedding plans . . .”

  “This is wonderful,” Belinda said. “They’re perfect together. Oh, this is such good news! What did Doug say?”

  “I didn’t tell him yet. He was—I think he had just heard about Luis’s car. So my news—Camilla’s news, really—had to go on the back burner.”

  “Yes, well. Hopefully you or Camilla can tell him soon. I’ll keep quiet about it.”

  “We can tell him together. I haven’t told Sam yet, either, because he’s in no shape to hear anything.”

  “Still feverish?” she asked as I led her toward the kitchen.

  “Yes. I’m hoping he’ll be better tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure he will be,” Belinda offered, ever loyal.

  We reached the kitchen and sat down at the table. Adam and Camilla were ministering to Carl, who sat across from us like a dispirited scarecrow. Camilla set a cup of tea in front of him, and Adam had retrieved the tin of cookies and set some on one of Camilla’s serving plates.

  Carl thanked them politely, and Camilla sat down across from him. “Tell me what you think I should know,” she said in a soothing voice. She looked perfect, just as she looked on the jackets of her books: authoritative, gray-haired and wise, intelligent, curious, and somehow forgiving.

  Carl leaned toward her as a plant does to light.

  12

  When in doubt, write in a stranger.

  —From the notebooks of Camilla Graham

  “FIRST OF ALL, he never would have left home,” Carl said. “That’s just not true.”

  “Did Belinda tell you what his wife said in the coffee shop?” I asked.

  Belinda, who had sat down next to Carl, shook her head. “No, I didn’t see Carl until later, and then we got distracted with some—family things.”

  Carl turned his thoughtful green eyes on me. “What did she say?”

  “That her husband had been kicked out for cheating on her.”

  “No.” Carl didn’t even bother to get upset. “That’s not true. The last time I saw him, he was going on about what a good wife she was. He bought her some kind of little bracelet.”

  A little bracelet. He had asked me about mine, the one Sam had designed with such love . . . “A charm bracelet?” I said.

  “Yeah. With tiny figures and stuff on it. He was excited to give it to her. And it wasn’t a guilty cheating gift. He just liked to bring her things.”

  “So if Elena lied, there are a few possibilities,” I said. “She could have just been lying to save face. If Luis walked out on her and she didn’t want to admit that, for example. Then she might say she threw him out, or she might manufacture the cheating story.”

  Carl shook his head. “He didn’t walk out on her.”

  Camilla said, “Then there must be some other reason why Elena lied. Why she was so certain that he wouldn’t come home.”

  We sat there, contemplating the dark possibilities. Carl took a bite of his cookie, rather absently, then said, “Almond extract. But also cinnamon, and cloves. And nutmeg.”

  Adam, leaning against the counter, grew alert. He said, “That’s spot on! You have a discerning palate.”

  Belinda said, “Carl is a chef. He is so, so talented with food and making food.”

  “Is that right?” Adam was ever the businessman, and he dearly loved his restaurant, Wheat Grass. “I happen to be looking for a new sous chef. My Andre can’t function well without a couple of them, and one has just given us her two weeks’ notice.” He looked at Carl. “Do you have restaurant experience?”

  Carl looked surprised, and Belinda said, “Carl, Mr. Rayburn is the owner of Wheat Grass.”

  Carl’s eyes grew huge. “Wheat Grass? That’s one of my favorite restaurants! My mom would always take me there on my birthday!” He looked at his sister, then at Adam. “I can’t believe I’m meeting two famous people!”

  Adam grinned. “Hardly famous, but thanks for the compliment. So—do you have experience?”

  Carl shrugged. “I worked at a place in California for a while, but it was just a diner. I got good reviews, though. I can show you. And I cooked for my mom and dad.”

  “I see.” Adam’s enthusiasm waned slightly.

  Carl sat up. “I can make something for you now. To show you what I can do.”

  Adam looked at Camilla; clearly he wanted to see Carl at work. She waved her hand. “Go ahead, dear. We don’t have much on hand, but make use of whatever you can find. We can talk while you work.”

  “If it works out, I would love to work for you and tell Plasti-Source where they can go,” Carl said, standing up and moving to Camilla’s refrigerator.

  Camilla and I exchanged a glance. “We’ll want you to stay at Plasti-Source for at least a little longer,” she said. “To get some information. Our man on the inside.”

  “Like in the movies,” Carl said, digging around now in the mixing bowls under her sink.

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  In moments, Carl had assembled an array of bowls, some milk, cream, eggs, various cheeses and spices, and some bacon. “I’ll make a quiche,” he said. “Is that okay?”

  “Fine.” Adam’s reticence was rapidly being replaced by fascination. As I had seen in the cabin, Carl’s various gestures in a kitchen were compelling, like a food ballet. He had already passed into a zone that made him seemingly oblivious to the rest of us. He moved back and forth, pouring, measuring, whipping, all with deft, sure movements. His work had a machinelike regularity, but his natural grace saved him from looking robotic.

  Adam moved back to the table, pulling a chair up next to Camilla’s, and murmured, “What have we here?”

  Belinda leaned in and whispered, “I think cooking is good therapy for him. He’s so upset, but he finds it really soothing to make things.”

  By the time Carl had poured his quiche into two pie pans and eased them into the oven, Adam whispered, “I must have him. Andre will be beside himself with joy. He told me he longs for a protégé, and I think I just found him.”
Carl was still busy, this time with cleaning up. He was singing softly to himself; I thought I recognized the tune.

  “Is that song—a million years old?” I asked.

  “Not a million,” Camilla said, her brows furrowed in a faux frown.

  “Really,” Adam agreed, also feigning disapproval. “It’s called a torch song. And the one Carl is crooning is one of my favorites. It’s called ‘I’ll Be Seeing You.’”

  “Oh yes. So romantic,” Camilla added, touching Adam’s hand.

  I stared at her. “What have you done with Camilla?”

  She sniffed. “You have read my books, haven’t you, Lena? I’m a romantic at heart.” She smiled at me, then turned to Belinda. “Why does young Carl like the music of a bygone era?”

  Belinda had found a stray napkin and was folding it into an accordion shape. “My parents had a CD with all the great ones. Carl’s been listening to them since he was a baby. It’s his favorite music.”

  Carl seemed to be finished tidying; he stopped singing and turned to us with a mildly surprised expression.

  “Did that take long? It didn’t feel that long.”

  It had been about half an hour, but Adam said, “No, it was perfect. You are adept in the kitchen.”

  “I learned a lot from the cooking shows,” Carl said. “I’m self-taught, but I’ve read a lot of books.”

  “Come back and sit with us while your quiche bakes,” Camilla said. “Lena and Belinda have to tell you about their visit to the game store. Or did you already tell him?” Camilla asked Belinda.

  Belinda shook her head. “No, I haven’t yet. Carl, we talked to the two guys at Blue Lake Games. What were their names, Lena?”

  “Uh—Perry and Adam. No, Perry and Alan.”

  “Yeah, I know those guys,” Carl said.

  Belinda looked at me, so I took up the story. “They said Luis came in after work a few nights ago. I’m guessing it was the night he—disappeared.”

  Carl’s lips thinned. We feared we knew what had happened to Luis that night.

  “Anyway, they said that Luis had been agitated and ‘disillusioned,’ and he mentioned Uriah Heep—”

  “Who?” asked Carl.

  “He’s a character from a Dickens novel called David Copperfield. There’s also a British band named that, and Alan thought Luis was talking about the band. But Camilla thinks he was referencing Heep in the novel. He pretended to be humble and good while secretly stealing from his employer.”

  “What?” Carl sat up straight.

  Camilla said, “I know it will be hard to go to work knowing about Luis. But I’m assuming they’ll be told tomorrow, and I would love for you to tell us whatever reactions you note. See what you can see. That’s all.”

  Carl nodded. Belinda was studying his face with a concerned expression. His green eyes did seem to have hardened and aged in the few minutes of conversation.

  Adam said, “My Lord, something smells good.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Carl, can we taste these when they’re finished?”

  “Of course,” he said, looking slightly distracted. “I made them for you. It’s Mrs. Graham’s food.”

  I darted a look at Adam, whose cheeks reddened ever so slightly. Camilla said, “I do go by the name Mrs. Graham, in honor of my past, but I am also Mrs. Adam Rayburn.”

  Belinda got up and rushed around the table to give Camilla a hug. “Oh, congratulations, Camilla. And you, too, Adam. You two are perfect together. I hope you’ll be very happy.”

  “We are,” they said in unison, and they laughed as they gazed at each other.

  I said, “Camilla—in terms of your novels—I mean, going forward—”

  Adam held up a hand. “Camilla the writer will always be Camilla Graham. She’s mostly Camilla Rayburn on paper. That’s fine with me. She’s wearing my ring, and that’s all I really need.”

  “You talk like a lovesick boy,” Camilla joked.

  “I have felt like one for the past several years,” Adam said. Camilla kissed him on the cheek, and he looked pleased as a cat on a heat vent.

  Carl got up to check on his quiche, then sat back down. “Ten more minutes,” he said.

  It was disappointing, the thought of waiting for the delectable quiches, but soon enough he had taken them out and put them on the counter to cool. Adam had opened a window above the sink about an hour earlier to let in some fresh fall air. Now it almost felt like sensory overload to smell the buttery, bacony quiche along with the scent of the trees and someone’s distant wood-burning fireplace, and to see the glimmer of starlight in the darkness outside the window as a contrast to our unlikely little group of late-night-snack companions, sitting together under the bright kitchen chandelier.

  Carl finally cut up his quiche and served it on some of Camilla’s good china (he assured her he would wash the dishes).

  I divided my attention between my own plate and Adam’s face. He poked at the quiche first, checking its consistency, and made a pleased little grunting sound. Then he forked up a sizable bite and put it in his mouth. By then we were all watching him chew, waiting for his verdict.

  He swallowed and turned to Carl. “Is this from a recipe? Something you have memorized?”

  Carl shrugged. “No. I just like to improvise. I’ve seen lots of different chefs make stuff, but then I get my own ideas about what to add or subtract.”

  “It’s delicious. Amazing, really. If you want a job at Wheat Grass, you have it.”

  “Oh man!” Carl jumped out of his seat, spun around, clapped his hands, and sat back down.

  Belinda giggled. “Oh, Carl—the perfect job! And you can stay with me at the house!”

  Carl looked at her, his green eyes solemn. “I would like to, until I find an apartment. I can save up some money that way.”

  “Your old room is basically the same; I haven’t done much refinishing in there,” she said.

  “That’s good,” he said. “Thanks to all of you.”

  He offered up one of his rare and beautiful smiles. We were all still eating, and I was hoping for a second piece, as I had hoped for more of Carl’s caramel apples. Belinda said, “Carl, what was that song you were singing earlier? Adam and Camilla liked it.”

  In a surprising response, Carl started to sing it for us, in a sweet, clear voice. He crooned about an unnamed person who was no longer there, and how the speaker of the song would see that person everywhere. It was exquisite, heartbreaking. Perhaps we were all thinking of someone we had lost, and by the time his voice tapered off, we all had tears in our eyes, including Carl.

  Camilla wiped at her ducts with a tissue. “Oh, sometimes a sad song can be so satisfying, can’t it?”

  Belinda stiffened beside me, and then she screamed.

  I looked up in time to see the face at the open window, white in the darkness and eerily familiar, and I screamed, too.

  “A man,” Belinda said, pointing.

  Adam was up in an instant. “Which way did he go?”

  “Toward the east lawn,” I said.

  Carl leaped up and grabbed a rolling pin. “I’ll come with you,” he said.

  “Good lad,” Adam told him, and they raced out of the room. Seconds later, we heard the front door open and close.

  Camilla looked at me with her dark purple eyes. “Did you recognize him?”

  “I think I did. But I’m not sure. He was only there for a second—”

  “Like a nightmare face!” Belinda said, her arms wrapped around herself in a defensive posture.

  We sat in tense silence; the breeze from the open window seemed cold now, not invigorating but invasive. I stood, moved swiftly to the sink, and cranked the window shut.

  Five minutes later the men were back, their faces bright from the cold. “We saw him running,” Carl said. “He got into a dark car and
it drove away.”

  “A dark car,” Belinda said, looking at me.

  I felt my first inner shiver then.

  I studied her face. “A car was waiting. So . . . two people at least. And one waited while the other, what? Was sent to look in our window?”

  “Something odd about it all,” Camilla said, frowning. “We need to call Doug.”

  “Taking care of it,” said Adam, his phone already out. He marched into the hallway to speak to Doug away from the group.

  I turned to Belinda. “Your boyfriend to the rescue,” I said. “How many times have we called the Blue Lake police in the past year? I certainly didn’t expect that, when I came to this quiet house on the bluff.”

  Belinda nodded. “Doug needs to know all of this. He’s got to have all the puzzle pieces.”

  “As does Camilla,” I said. “They can exchange notes.”

  Adam’s voice drifted down the hall. “Doug! I’m glad I caught you.”

  Belinda and I smiled at each other. “And speaking of boyfriends,” I said. “I’m going to go up and check on mine.”

  13

  Celia wondered if she could count on the man who had danced with her. Hadn’t she seen real concern on his face? But he had been a stranger. She felt that somehow, some way, her brother would realize she was in trouble and find a way to help. Somehow, Richard would come for her. As time went by, though, she realized the truth: she would need to save herself.

  —From Danger at Debenham Station, a work in progress

  SAM HAD ONCE again thrown off his covers. I put my hand on his forehead; it was warm, but perhaps not hot. Hope sparked within me. “Sam?” I whispered. At the sound of my voice, Geronimo and Arabella stirred in the nest they had made near Sam’s shoulder.