Death in Dark Blue Read online

  “Because Taylor’s blog went viral.”

  “Exactly. I don’t know what these reporters look like, but I’m sure I will soon. And then I can warn you away from them.” He saw my dejection and stroked my hair. “We’ll find ways to be together. We just have to be sneaky for a while. You didn’t tell anyone about us, did you?”

  “There’s no one to tell. I mean, Camilla knows, but that’s just because she has eyes. She was smirking when I left this morning, so I’m sure she knew I was going to meet you. And Allison knows, because I had to get her permission to use her house. Now that she believes you’re not a murderer, she thinks our story is very romantic.”

  “And our town police hero knows, because he wanted you himself. Though I admit he was relatively gracious in defeat,” Sam said.

  “Doug didn’t want me, exactly,” I said.

  Sam sent me a disbelieving look.

  I shrugged. “You would think I was a supermodel, or something.”

  “You’re better than a supermodel. You’re lovely in a very real way, with your silky chocolate-colored hair, and those big brown eyes. And you have a large, beautiful heart.”

  I batted my lashes, and he laughed. Then he grew sober. “Will Allison keep quiet about us?”

  “She wouldn’t tell them if they camped out on her lawn. She’s beyond loyal.”

  “Great. And I know Camilla won’t. And believe it or not, I trust Doug Heller to be discreet, too.”

  “Of course he will. He’s a cop; they don’t like the press nosing into their business as a general rule.”

  I moved away from him for the first time, reluctantly, and went to Allison’s kitchen table, where I sat down. “So why didn’t you find Victoria? I thought you said you and this detective of yours had a lead.”

  He followed me and took the chair opposite mine. “We did. We were working on the assumption that Nikon was the name of the yacht, and we actually found a yacht called Nikon; we traced it to the Canary Islands. We made a variety of complicated arrangements with authorities in that region. Essentially we lied and said that we had to get news to someone about a death in the family. They finally boarded the yacht, only to find that Victoria wasn’t there—just a rich family and some of their friends. That took more than a month: hunting it down and getting that close, and then . . . nothing.”

  “Could there be other ships called Nikon?”

  “Probably. That was the only yacht we found. Jim is still in New York, pursuing more leads. He’s spent endless time on this, and it’s really become an obsession. I trust him to stay on it, and to keep me informed. There are only certain places that yachts can even travel right now—the Bahamas, the Caribbean, Thailand, Malaysia, Australia . . .” He ticked them off on his hands.

  “But in Greece too, right? My father and Tabitha went out there for their honeymoon, and that was in winter. And they sailed. It was the Alkyonides—supposedly a time during December and January when the weather is surprisingly warm and mild.”

  Sam raised his eyebrows. “So right around now, huh?”

  “Yes. You can sail, and my father said that it was much better than sailing in the summer, because the weather was less hot and just very pleasant.”

  “I’ll talk to Jim about that.” He had a certain urgent look that worried me.

  “But you’ll stay here now, won’t you?”

  He reached across the table and took my hand. “I will. Because I have a girlfriend, and I really need to devote some time to getting to know her better. God knows I think about her just about all the time. I have a lot of questions. I wrote them down while I was in New York.”

  I smiled. “Yeah? Tell me one of your questions.”

  He took a little notebook out of his shirt pocket and opened it. Sure enough, there was a list written there, with numbered items jotted in small, neat script. “We’ll start with an easy one. Number thirteen: did you ever have a pet?”

  “Besides my cat, Lestrade, you mean? I don’t think you’ve met him yet, but you need to! And then there are my surrogate pets, Rochester and Heathcliff.” Those were Camilla’s big German shepherds. “As a matter of fact, I did. When I was seven I received a kitten named Smoky for my birthday. My mother gave in to my endless pressure to get me a feline friend. And later we found a stray dog who won our hearts, so he ended up living with us for ten years. His name was Faust, because my mom loved literature and was a fan of the play.”

  “You have some great memories of your mom,” he said gently. He knew that my mother had died when I was a teenager.

  “Only happy memories. Give me another question.”

  He consulted his notebook. “Name of your first boyfriend?”

  “Sam West,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I know I can’t be the first, so just break it to me gently.”

  “Okay. Charlie Baird. I chased him until he agreed to kiss me, and we held hands all through recess. That was in the first grade. After that day I think we agreed to see other people.”

  Sam laughed. “I don’t feel too threatened by Charlie Baird.”

  “You don’t need to feel threatened by anyone.”

  “Who was there before me? Just before?”

  I sighed. “His name was Kurt Saylor. He’s a botanist and researcher. We were together for a year, and then he ended it.”

  “And do you miss him sometimes?”

  “When I think of him at all, I wonder what drew me to him in the first place. Now he just strikes me as cold and mean.”

  Sam absorbed this, and I poked his leg with my booted foot. “Get to a fun question.”

  He smiled into his notebook. “Okay. What’s your secret indulgence?”

  I thought about this, admiring his blue eyes. “You are my indulgence, and I am being forced to keep you a secret.”

  “True. What else?”

  “Um. I would say chocolate, but that’s not a secret.”

  “And waffles,” said Sam West. He had won me over with waffles, as we both knew.

  I reached out and played with the tips of his fingers. “I suppose my secret indulgence is reading in bed. And sometimes eating when I do it.”

  “That’s cute.”

  “What’s yours?”

  He thought about this. “Salted pretzels. I keep bags of them in my desk drawer. I have trouble stopping at one bag. Oh, and this.” He took out his phone, clicked a few buttons, and then held up a photograph of me. He had taken it before he left for New York; I was standing under one of the trees that lined his long driveway. We had met in this very spot and disliked each other on sight. In this photo, though, I was smiling and shading my eyes with one hand. “I probably look at it one hundred times a day,” he said lightly.

  I studied the picture for a minute, then saw that he was looking at it, too, with an expression that made my heart beat faster.

  “Sam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will we ever find her?”

  “We will. And soon. Doug says the CIA is involved. They’re concerned about fraud.”

  “All these people looking for one woman, and yet somehow they can’t seem to succeed.”

  “They will. We will. Very soon, Lena.” He stood up and walked into the hallway; when he returned he was holding his coat. “But I have to go, and we have to stay away from each other. Maybe we can arrange a few clandestine meetings, but we have to be very careful about it. Even this one—I have a bad feeling.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I parked my car far enough away, and your car shouldn’t matter, because Allison is your friend and you’ve been seen here before. I just worry about those watching eyes.”

  “I didn’t see anyone at your house when I drove past.”

  “It won’t last.”

  “You’ve become a cynic. That’s what they’ve done to yo
u.”

  “I’ve become a realist. And I know what reality is, because I’ve lived it.” I went to him, and he pulled me into his arms. “I am so very glad to see you. You know that, right?”

  “I know.”

  He kissed my head, then put his nose in my hair. “What is that fragrant shampoo? You smell like some rare flower.”

  “I don’t know. Camilla put it in my shower stall. It has a French label—Amour Interdit—whatever that means. I don’t know; I took Latin in high school.”

  Sam’s laugh had a tinge of sadness. “I minored in French. Your shampoo is called Forbidden Love. Apropos.”

  I sighed and watched him put on his coat. “Before you go,” I said. “Let me take a picture of you that will be my secret indulgence.”

  He smiled at me, and I captured it with my cell phone camera. I looked at the picture to make sure it wasn’t blurry, and found that it contained the essence of everything that made Sam attractive—his blue eyes, his messy brown hair, his slightly dimpled smile.

  “We’ll text each other,” he said, blowing me a kiss. “That will make it easier.”

  He went out the back door and slipped into the trees behind Allison’s house. In a moment it was as though he had never been there.

  2

  Her mother had always quoted an expression which, loosely translated, meant “Danger wears a cloak of silence.” And it was true that she did not hear danger approaching.

  —From Death on the Danube

  I STOPPED AT Bick’s Hardware in town, as I had promised, to pick up Camilla’s mail. Naturally Marge Bick was full of her usual gossip about reporters and Sam West and various scandalous townspeople. She paused as she handed me the bundle of envelopes. “I hope Mrs. Graham isn’t sick or anything?”

  Always looking for information, I thought darkly. And yet Sam and I both acknowledged that Marge Bick could be quite handy for our purposes. “No, just not willing to come out on such an unfriendly day. I don’t mind it so much because I just got these nice warm boots, and it keeps the snow and moisture away.”

  “Nothing like the proper clothes for the weather,” Marge said, nodding her approval. “Oh, and I almost forgot. There’s a box, too. Now I’m not sure you can carry it all.” She went into her back room and returned with a medium-sized parcel. She set it on the counter with a bang, and said, “It’s a bit heavy.”

  I glanced at the return address and saw that it was from Camilla’s New York Publisher, Carthage House. My hands shook slightly as I reached for the package.

  “Are you okay, hon?” Marge Bick’s eagle eyes had noted my trembling.

  I hefted the box. “Oh, yes. I can carry this with no problem. My car is right out front.”

  “All right then. Shaky hands mean not enough food—didn’t you eat breakfast?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I forgot to do that this morning. I guess I need some protein, huh? Okay, thanks, Marge.” I put the letters on top of the box and started to turn away, but then had a thought and turned back. “Hey—those reporters you saw in town—what did they look like? In case one of them comes snooping around Camilla or me, I want to be prepared.”

  She nodded. “One was a bald guy. Sort of good-looking. Older than you, but not old. Maybe fortyish. The other one was kind of medium—not noticeable—what’s that word?”

  “Nondescript?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. He almost looked like a guy wearing a disguise. A thick head of brown hair, medium build, glasses, mustache. Hard to see his eye color behind the glasses. They both asked a lot of questions about Sam West.” She held up a hand before I could say anything. “Which I did not answer. I told them they were reporters and they could figure it out for themselves. I did say that we all felt really bad for being suspicious of him, and that they should leave him alone.”

  I nodded approvingly. “Thanks for that, Marge. Camilla and I feel the same way.” I waved and lifted the box again. I wanted to toss it in the car and rip it open, but it was Camilla’s to open, not mine. She had told me that the advanced readers’ copies of her book The Salzburg Train would be coming soon—that they had in fact been rushed through for Camilla’s approval in a matter of two months. I wanted so desperately to hold one of those books in my hands—not only because I had read it and had helped Camilla edit the whole thing, nor because she had long been my favorite author and this was a much anticipated new book, but because she had put my name on the cover as a collaborator. “With Lena London,” the books would say. And suddenly there would be people all over the world who would see my name, in large, mysterious font and purple-blue letters.

  My hands were still shaking slightly when I got back to Camilla’s and bounded up the stairs. I barely managed to get the door open while still holding box, mail, and purse, and then slammed the door with my foot and ran to Camilla’s office. She was there, at her desk, massaging her forehead. “Hello, Lena! How was your—I mean, how were your errands?”

  “You can stop pretending; I know you know where I went.”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly where you met him, but yes, I figured you would be hunting down our handsome neighbor once he was back in town.”

  I sniffed. “I didn’t hunt him. I’m not a stalker. I went to see him in secret only because he doesn’t want reporters knowing about me.”

  “Very wise, I must say. Ah—do you ever get headaches between your eyes? I believe it’s from removing my glasses and then replacing them all day long. Curse my nearsightedness.”

  “I’ll get you some Advil,” I said. “But first, I have a present.” I set the mail and the package down on her desk, and she smiled.

  “Oh, lovely. But to be honest, dear, I’ve gotten so many of these, they’re not as exciting as they used to be. You open the box. In fact, I’m going to film you doing it on this ridiculous phone Gabby sent me, and she can have the footage for the website.”

  “Gabby” was Gabriella Carr, Camilla’s publicist. “Thank you,” I said. “I’d love to!”

  Camilla handed me a pair of scissors and got out her phone. She had recently learned to use it much more effectively because she’d been dating a man who was tech-savvy, and he showed her all kinds of things that she had previously dubbed “stupid.”

  I opened the scissors and slid one blade slowly along the tape line, making sure not to press too deeply and potentially gouge a precious book cover. I opened the box flaps, moved some tissue paper aside, and saw them, gleaming like amethysts in a treasure chest. The cover was purple-blue, and in the center image, a black train barreled through the Salzburg twilight; in the backdrop were the twinkling of city lights; in the foreground, mysterious blue-black scenery and glowing fireflies. “Oh, my!” I said, slipping my hands into the box and pulling out a thick paperback book. “It’s beautiful!” I sniffed at the cover, breathing in that new book smell.

  “Read us the cover,” said Camilla, grinning and holding up her phone.

  “‘The latest suspense novel from the great Camilla Graham doesn’t disappoint.’ That’s the blurb from Kirkus Reviews. And under that is the quote from Publishers Weekly: ‘Gripping and riveting!’ And then, of course, it says The Salzburg Train, by Camilla Graham.”

  “And what does it say at the bottom?”

  “‘With Lena London,’” I said, grinning at her.

  “Look at the biography page. How do you like that?”

  I flipped to the back, to a page that read About the Authors. At the top there was a recent photograph of Camilla; she was sitting at the very desk where she stood now, with the sun on her face, contemplating her computer. It was a great shot. “That’s a nice picture of you,” I said. The photography credit read Adam Rayburn. He was Camilla’s boyfriend, and the proprietor of one of the best restaurants in Blue Lake. “I didn’t know Adam was such a good photographer.”

  “He manages to make me not feel s
elf-conscious,” she said.

  “And then there’s this bio of you that we signed off on last fall.”

  Further down was a picture of me, posed on the bluff just beyond Camilla’s driveway, with a backdrop of vibrant autumn color. I was smiling slightly, almost mysteriously, and my eyes looked just to the left of the camera. It was a good photograph; Camilla had insisted on hiring a local photographer to take a series of shots, and we had both liked this one best.

  I felt a sudden burst of good feeling. “Oh, it’s just beautiful. A wonderful book, a genius of an author, a great title, a beautiful cover . . .”

  “You’re going to run out of adjectives,” Camilla said wryly.

  “May I keep one, Camilla?”

  She clicked off the camera and set the phone down.

  “Of course, Lena. That box is half yours. We’ll have to decide what to do with them all. The publicist will send them to all the likely places, of course.”

  “I’d like to send one to my father.”

  “Naturally. You must send it out today.”

  “And—can I give one to Sam?”

  She came around the desk and gave me an impulsive hug—a rare thing for the reserved Camilla Graham. “You are adorable, with your wide shining eyes. You help me remember the old days, with my first sales and first publications. How bright everything was then.”

  “Well, there must be a lot of joy in being who you are now—a queen of suspense with millions of readers who wait on every book. I’m one of them,” I said.

  She shrugged, amused, and went back to her desk. “To be honest I don’t think of myself very often as the author Camilla Graham, even though I spend so much time writing. And, not to be a joy killer, but I’ve been focusing on the work we have to do.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I’m more and more concerned about Victoria West.” She looked up sharply. “Is this too hard to think about—given your feelings for Sam?”

  “No, of course not. I feel badly for her, if in fact she is in some kind of trouble.”