Death with a Dark Red Rose

by Julia Buckley

  Doug gave me an approving glance. “You’re right. I asked about that today, and the big bosses had changed their story. Said initially they weren’t concerned about his absence because they heard a rumor that Luis was unreliable. Word had been going around the office that Luis was on the outs with his wife and that he may have left town. The bosses weren’t basing their decision to dismiss on his actual performance—they were basing it on hearsay. Essentially, they believed the worst and were ready to fire him when he returned. That was from the big boss, Edward Grange. And his VP, Phil Enderby, seconded him. They didn’t impress me as good people, but they were probably just thinking of their business.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” said Camilla.

  Carl had been silent through this whole conversation, taking people’s dishes and washing them. Camilla’s counter gleamed, and there was no evidence that Carl had made a meal at all except for a plate with a few last pieces of quiche. I got up and went to the counter while Doug and Cliff interrogated Adam about what he had seen outside.

  “Carl, that quiche truly was delicious. You are such a talented cook,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said. He wasn’t smiling, and I thought I knew why.

  “Will you put aside one of those pieces for Sam? He’s sick upstairs, but he asked me to save him one.”

  “Sure. I’ll wrap them all up for him.” He opened the cabinet where Camilla had plastic wrap and tin foil and removed some Reynolds Wrap.

  “How did you know where that was?” I asked. It had taken me a full week to figure out the layout of Camilla’s kitchen.

  He shrugged. “I memorized everything while I was cooking. It’s pretty organized.”

  “You Fraileys have really detail-oriented brains,” I said.

  This earned a smile. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

  I studied him until he looked at me. His green eyes held pain and something else—something hard and determined. “Are you okay, Carl?”

  His expression reminded me of the cowboy in every Western who realizes that he will have to fight alone in order to save the town. It made me nervous. “I’m fine,” he said. “But I have to get going. I have work in the morning. I’m going to give notice.”

  “Good. That’s good. Luis wouldn’t want you there anymore, would he?”

  He finished wrapping the food and turned to put it in the refrigerator. His back was to me when he said, “I think I know what Luis would want.”

  14

  The night sky outside her window brought her a paradox of hope and despair. Hope, a scattering of light and beauty in the speckling of stars, and despair in the vastness of it all, suggesting that she was an infinitesimal thing, never to be found in a universe of the lost.

  —From Danger at Debenham Station, a work in progress

  EVERYONE LEFT A few minutes later. Belinda was taking Carl home with her, and he paused in front of Doug and Cliff on the way out the door. “Are you guys going to come back to Plasti-Source now? To talk to the big bosses again?”

  Doug thought about this, nodding. “I do want to go back. Keep the pressure on, see if anyone says something different. So, yeah, we’ll be there bright and early.”

  Carl smiled. His expression was almost serene, and definitely secretive. “Good,” he said. “I’ll be on the lookout for you.”

  They moved out the door, still talking, and Camilla shut it after them. “Oh my,” she said. “What an evening.”

  The unexpected events did not seem to have exhausted her; Camilla found any sort of mystery invigorating, and now her mind was clearly working out the possibilities. A glance at Adam told me that he understood this, too. “My dear wife,” he said, bending to kiss her. “I think that you and Lena will want to talk about this turn of events. I’m going to deal with the dogs and then head up to bed. You know I’m an early riser.”

  “I do, dear. I’ll be up soon.” She smiled after him and then turned to me. “Oh, Lena, what have you stumbled upon this time?”

  “What?”

  “Luis. This poor young man. I fear that this is going to be a case of wrong place and wrong time.”

  “Why?” We were still standing in the front foyer as she gestured to her right, and we moved into her living room and sat on the couch.

  She sighed. “Because this Luis, who was not known to any of us and yet was our neighbor—who did in fact take part in a book club with you and Belinda—was just a nice young man. I think Doug will find he didn’t have dark secrets, wasn’t in some drug deal or dastardly plot, wasn’t cheating on his wife.”

  “He just made the mistake of working at Plasti-Source, that’s what you’re saying.”

  She leaned back into the cushions. “That is what I’m saying.”

  “You’ve said that from the start. And it’s the only thing that makes sense. But why? This is a respected company with many locations. Well, sort of respected. John had mentioned in our text chain that the one in Chicago had an unsavory reputation, at least among the locals. And Belinda said there was some evidence of lawsuits, things suppressed . . .”

  “We’ll want to find out what was suppressed,” Camilla said.

  “Meanwhile, I guess it’s all in the hands of our local police.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  She looked disappointed, and I laughed. “Speaking of Nancy Drew. But you are far more sophisticated. You’re not Miss Marple, either, because you actually hate knitting.”

  With a shrug, she said, “I don’t hate it. I just wish I liked it more. It’s such an attractive hobby, and I do wish I could make things. Big mufflers for Adam, or pretty gloves for you.”

  “You can buy those on Etsy. But no one has your particular creative skill. The New York Times said that you were ‘unmatched’ as a suspense novelist.”

  “Leave it to Lena to memorize my blurbs.” She stifled a yawn, and I stood up.

  “I have to go check on Sam, and you probably want to go off to bed, too. But I’ll be ready bright and early to talk about our new mystery and about your writer’s book. Part memoir, part writer’s manual, is that right? I had some ideas about how you could combine the two.” I held out my hand to help her off the couch, which was so absorbent and comfortable it was sometimes hard to extricate one’s limbs.

  “I’m glad. Yes, morning tea and toast and teamwork.”

  “There’s the name of the book,” I joked.

  Camilla giggled again. Her dogs came trotting in and we petted their big heads; their ears were cold from their recent visit outside. Adam had turned out the kitchen lights, and the distant Blue Lake glimmered outside Camilla’s kitchen window. How irresistible it was, that lake, the backdrop of all life in this town.

  Camilla said good night and went upstairs, the dogs at her heels.

  I moved closer to the window, lured as always by the vision of the sky and water beyond the casement. The serenity I normally felt in contemplating the view was marred by the memory of the face we had seen only briefly, but which brought a sinister reality and a jarring encroachment on our privacy. Whoever had stood there, in Camilla’s autumn flower bed, had not been there for friendly reasons. And how long had he been outside? Had I in fact seen him moving around hours before he appeared in the window just before Adam and Camilla arrived, when Heathcliff and Rochester had growled into the darkness? If so, what had he been doing out there in the dark?

  I shivered and turned away from the window. Doug had told us, before he left, that he would have patrols driving up the bluff road for the rest of the night, just to be sure all was quiet.

  I went to the hallway and turned off the last remaining light, then used the light on my cell phone to illuminate the stairs to my room. I was afraid I would have to turn poor Lestrade away at the door to keep him from the kittens, but he wasn’t anywhere in the hall. Camilla had confided that she feared Lestrade had cornered a mouse so
mewhere because she had seen him move furtively down the basement stairs. “Enjoy your mouse pursuits,” I whispered, and I entered my room, shutting the door carefully.

  Sam stirred in the bed. “Lena?”

  “Hi. Let me just get in pajamas, and I’ll join you.” I went into my little bathroom, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and changed into my flannel night attire.

  Sam was only half-conscious when I climbed under the covers. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said groggily. “You could catch something from me.”

  “It will be fine,” I said, feeling his forehead. Warm and a bit clammy. “Like I told you. You’re never going to be alone again.”

  “That’s my worst fear,” he said sleepily. “Being alone. Being utterly alone.” Then he was asleep, snoring slightly. I stroked his hair and then flopped back on my pillow, consumed by a sudden sadness.

  How impossible, really, to learn that your entire family has died, as Sam had learned when he was nineteen years old; to learn that not just one beloved person, but three, had perished, and that the unit you had been a part of for almost twenty years had been destroyed? How unmoored, how lonely, would that feel? And how would one recover?

  This was what Sam West had faced in the still-formative years of his life, and he had survived, learned strength, kept his goodness. He had not hardened into a cynic or a misanthrope; he was a man of great sensitivity. A man who had proposed to me in the most beautiful way possible. A man who had saved kittens from homelessness and now worried over their welfare. A man so devoted to his brother that he called him every day.

  I slung an arm over him and hugged him against me.

  Allison was right, I was a worrier, and my mind kept working over the idea that Sam had become sick very suddenly. It wasn’t likely that someone had poisoned him, but the idea of poison was frightening. What if someone’s food or drink were poisoned? Generally, people trust those who serve them food. We eat what we’re given, drink what we’re offered. We would never consider the idea that someone might have put something noxious within, something that could attack our organs or our cells, some substance that, once consumed, could not be removed or expunged. Something that would bring a terrible death.

  I sat up and rubbed my face. Why did I make myself think these things? Sam was already getting better. I ran my hand lightly over his shoulder, his arm, his hand. Then I lay back down and did some deep breathing. Why did I even think of poison? I realized in an instant that it was Plasti-Source, and my fears, conscious or unconscious, that they were poisoning the water we all drank. It wasn’t really about Sam at all, but I did have a fear of poison.

  Before I drifted into sleep, I recalled what Sam had said about the pendulum of Blue Lake and its momentous movement back and forth. At one extreme, the dreaded swing brought suffering and heartache; at the other, it brought extreme happiness. Was this really a phenomenon of this magical little town? Or was it just a reality of life, the yin and yang of existence? Did it somehow change with the ebbing and flowing of the waves?

  I thought I could hear the waves now, splashing against the shore at the foot of Camilla’s long back stairway, the red stairs built into the rocky bluff.

  Instead of counting sheep, I imagined that I was moving down those red stairs, closer and closer to the sound of the water, one step after another, descending into darkness and uncertainty . . .

  My eyes opened wide. The intruder at the window probably hadn’t come through the front yard at all; that way he would risk detection. Perhaps, after alerting the dogs earlier in the evening, he had darted away, or been picked up by his friend in the dark car and made his way back to Wentworth Street and the sandy beach of Blue Lake. From there it was far more likely that he had climbed the stairs behind Camilla’s house. He could have feigned a walk along the beach and then darted up the stairs and straight to the kitchen window. His accomplice would have been instructed to wait in front again in case the person had to make a quick departure. The stairs wouldn’t work, because people from the house could give chase and eventually catch him on the beach. No, he needed that getaway car to be at the ready.

  Which meant that at least two people were concerned about what was said inside Camilla Graham’s house—and mine.

  15

  It’s almost impossible to write a suspense novel without a scene in which someone follows someone else. We are ever dogged by the footsteps of The Other.

  —From the notebooks of Camilla Graham

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING I woke up to find Sam gone. I sat up, shocked, and saw him sitting in a chair across from the bed and petting Lestrade, who sat peacefully in his lap.

  “Sam! What—why is Lestrade in here?”

  Sam shrugged. “He was mewing out in the hall. I opened the door and he strolled in, discovered the two visitors, jumped about four feet in the air, then ran to the windowsill. Eventually he came down and sniffed them, and now they’re friends.”

  “Wow. Okay—and why are you out of bed?”

  He stretched his legs, and Lestrade stayed in place, buoyant as a passenger on a boat. “I woke up and had some energy. I took a shower, snuck downstairs, and said hi to Camilla; she gave me some coffee and a sweet roll and a piece of Carl’s quiche.” He pointed at his coffee and a crumb-covered plate sitting on the table beside him. “Then I came back up and watched you sleep. You were having a dream, and it was making you jump sometimes.”

  A hazy memory returned to me. “Someone was chasing me. I was thinking about those stairs last night—how the visitor probably came up that way. The image was in my brain, I guess.”

  He grinned at me. “Your hair is all messy. I think you were doing a lot of tossing and turning.”

  “I’ll bet I look great,” I said drily.

  “You do.” He reached out to reclaim his coffee cup. “I feel about eighty percent today—well enough to go home and get some work done—but I was ordered by a no-nonsense Camilla to remain here for another day of recovery.”

  “I agree with her wholeheartedly.”

  “I bow to the wisdom of the two most important women in my life.” He took a sip of coffee. “So I guess I’ll be lying low, playing with the cats, helping you and Camilla with whatever you need.”

  “That’s wonderful. It will be fun, all of us together in the house like a patchwork family. Camilla and Adam and you and me.”

  His blue eyes met mine. “There’s another reason I’m glad to be staying close, obviously. If anyone lurks around again, I want to be here and ready to act.”

  “Good. Although I’m guessing that Doug and Cliff will find out a lot at Plasti-Source today, don’t you think?”

  “One can hope.”

  “Camilla called it from the start. Every element ties back to that company. I remembered that the man I saw in the window looked like one of the men we saw on the side of the road when we came back to town. Remember those two guys?”

  “You mean the ones we saw going into the woods?”

  I had forgotten them. “No—we saw them before we even picked up Doug. Although I still wonder—”

  “Oh, you mean Furtive and Unfriendly, outside the Plasti-Source skeleton! Yeah, I recall them. It seemed like one of them took a picture before they left. And that gives me a really bad feeling. They looked like people trying out for the role of Hoodlum Number One.”

  The cats took this moment to do some reorganizing. Lestrade jumped off Sam’s lap and leaped up on the bed to demand my allegiance. I petted the ruff of his neck, and he purred.

  Geronimo, who had been invisible up until now, emerged from beneath the bed to find the bottom of Sam’s jeans, which he tested with his claws. “Where’s Arabella?” I asked.

  “She’s in the bathroom, in front of the heat vent. It is pretty chilly out there today. I checked the thermometer downstairs and it said forty-six.”

  “Oooh. That means a sweater.
” I gave Lestrade one last pat and climbed out of bed. “And a hot shower.” I bent to kiss Sam’s cheek, and then I felt his forehead. “You feel good; I’m so glad. I was irrationally worried about your fever.”

  “It didn’t feel great, but I’m glad it only lasted a day. It could have been way worse.”

  “I know.”

  He slid an arm around my waist. “You made it all bearable. Another reason why I’m marrying you.”

  “To have a permanent caretaker?”

  “To have you in my life.”

  The expression in his blue eyes was somewhere between grateful and yearning.

  “Me, too.” It was an inadequate response, but Sam knew the emotion behind it.

  “Take your shower, then. I’ll see you downstairs.”

  I looked dubiously at the kittens. “Do you think we should let them out? Now that Lestrade has accepted them?”

  “Why not?” he said. “Let them explore. I think you’ve learned you can trust the barking beasts to be accepting.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  Sam went to the door and opened it. “They’ll follow me, I’m sure.” He went out into the hall and proceeded to the stairway. The kittens stared after him for a time from their respective places. Then, as if by agreement, they started creeping toward the door, their bodies crouched low. On the verge of escape, they paused to sniff the door frame; then they went prowling out into the hall.

  Lestrade had assumed an extremely relaxed position against one of my pillows. He’d seen the rest of the house. It was time now to reclaim the territory of my bedroom, and he seemed smug about being able to do just that. He looked at me through slitted eyes and purred his approval.

  “Oh, Lestrade. I remember when you were the new cat, and I was the visitor to this place. There was no Sam, no anyone except Camilla, and I found her rather—strange, at first. Look how far we’ve come.”

  Now his eyes were fully closed.