Death Waits in the Dark Page 23

  I smiled and looked up into his blue eyes. “I don’t need a ring, but I’m sure it’s beautiful and I will love it.”

  He pressed his mouth against mine, and I didn’t pull away until I heard footsteps marching toward us across the grass: Doug and Cliff, wielding their own fire extinguishers. “Take it inside,” Doug said, grinning at us.

  Suddenly Graham House was filled with light. I heard a hint of music and saw people moving around. “I’m in pajamas,” I said. “Are they throwing an engagement party in there? And if so, what if I had said no?”

  “We all would have gone home,” Cliff said, dousing the fire in the first barrel.

  “Don’t destroy the lettering,” I said. “I’m going to turn those into planters or something. I want to save them forever.”

  Sam kissed my hair. “I am a happy, happy man.”

  The scent of the lake reached us on a fresh breeze. Somehow the stars seemed to glow even more brightly once Sam’s firelight was extinguished. They hung above us like diamonds that had spilled out of the waxing gibbous moon. I lifted my fiancé’s hand and kissed it. “And I’m a happy woman. Let’s go in so I can put on some clothes to attend my own engagement party.”

  We began to walk across the grass, accompanied by two jocular policemen and two excited dogs.

  In the doorway of the house I saw Camilla Graham, watching and waiting to celebrate with us. My free hand was in Sam’s, so I nodded at her.

  She waved, and I remembered with a new burst of joy that we had a novel to finish writing, and that we would most likely get back to it in the morning.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of

  DEATH WITH A DARK RED ROSE

  the next Writer’s Apprentice Mystery . . .

  A reader wants a heroine she can understand, admire, aspire to be. But a reader also wants to see that main character as an extension of herself. If the heroine confronts a murderer, the reader does so as well, as the heroine’s loyal companion in that story. The average reader is just as good and clever and brave as the person she chooses to follow into a literary adventure, and a good book helps her (or him) come to that realization.

  —From the notebooks of Camilla Graham

  NOSTALGIA ISN’T A phenomenon reserved exclusively for those in later life; it can take a person of any age by surprise, simply by reminding them of what once was, and is no more. Walking through Blue Lake, Indiana, on a crisp October morning made me feel nostalgic for a Lena London of the past, a Lena who would never exist again. That Lena had entered town under a dark cloud, full of fear and wonder at the idea of meeting her new employer (and idol) Camilla Graham. That Lena had been surprised to meet a young police detective on the side of the road, and then later at the site of a murder, and had been initially suspicious of his charm. She had disliked the local recluse, Sam West, on sight, but grew troubled when she learned his tragic story. And she had been glad to know that at least one person in town, her best friend from high school, Allison Branch, would always love and protect her.

  Now, almost a year later, standing on a scenic overlook that let me admire the sun-dappled town and the glorious lake (which did in fact look very blue today), I realized how different my life had become—drastically, irrevocably different. Camilla Graham, my unknown employer, had become my family, my dear friend and confidant. Doug West, too, that wonderful police detective who had solved several mysteries in town since my arrival, was like my brother, and his girlfriend, Belinda, a genius of a research librarian who had helped me solve two very personal mysteries, was like a sister. Allison had proven her friendship to me time and again, most recently when I was recovering from a terrible injury, and she had nursed me both physically and emotionally. All of my Blue Lake friends had become a sort of family in one way or another. Most significant of all, Sam West, the scowling, unfriendly neighbor of one year ago—the man who had been accused of murdering his own wife, and later of murdering his wife’s friend—was in fact a sweet, kind, gentle, generous, and sexy man. He stood beside me now, not as a friend or a neighbor, but as my fiancé. I glanced down at the ring on my left hand, and at the scar on my left arm, partly visible now that I had pushed up the sleeve of my sweatshirt; it was more than six inches long when totally uncovered. Some memories stayed with you, imprinted on your very skin . . .

  “Are you having one of your deep-thoughts meditations?” asked Sam, studying me with his lovely blue eyes. “Because you’ve been awfully quiet, and I thought we were going to make some wedding plans while we walked.”

  “Sorry. It’s been almost a year, did you realize that? It struck me this morning when I put Lestrade’s vet appointment on the calendar. Almost a full year in this town, and a lot of turbulent water under the bridge.”

  “Very true.” Sam looked out at the lake, but reached out his right arm and pulled me against his side. “But it’s true that sometimes you can come through adversity and find life even better on the other side. How can I complain when I have you? And Cliff? And all these new friends?”

  “You can’t,” I said.

  “Then I won’t.” He leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “Do you want to get married here? Or in Chicago, where you grew up? Or in Florida, near your dad? Or in Indianapolis, where we’ve escaped for some very romantic dates? Or on some far-flung island, like all those trendy people who have ‘destination weddings’?”

  “How do you know about destination weddings?”

  “I’ve done my research. I’m a very thorough person.” He looked at me, all windblown brown hair, deep smile lines, and intense blue eyes, and his second statement seemed somehow suggestive. I blushed, and he smiled.

  I shook my head and looked back at the lake, taking a deep breath of fall air. “Mmm. Someone is burning leaves. I have to tell you—despite everything we’ve been through in this town, I can’t imagine getting married anywhere but here, can you?” I glanced back his way.

  He shrugged and smiled. “Not really.”

  “Okay. One wedding plan decided. It will happen in Blue Lake.”

  “Actually two plans. The first was that we decided who to marry.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “I just like to say it,” said Sam. “I’m going to marry Lena London.”

  I hugged him and kissed his newly shaved cheek. “I like it when you say it, too.”

  “It’s a good thing Cliff and Doug aren’t here. They would find our dialogue disgusting.”

  “Only because they’re jealous. Though God knows why. They both have amazing women in their lives. At least Doug does. Is Cliff still dating Isabelle?”

  “I think so. Or at least they’ve gone on a few dates. They both work weird shifts, which makes it harder.”

  “Love conquers all,” I said.

  “Ours did.”

  I squeezed him more tightly. “That should be in our vows, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely. Along with something about not believing in first impressions, and the importance of cats and dogs in forming a strong relationship.”

  I giggled. Sam had recently become the adoptive parent of four cats, two of whom he gave to his half brother, Cliff (another new addition to his life). Now, between his two cats, my spoiled feline Lestrade, and Camilla’s two dogs, we had been forced to make animals a big part of our daily routine.

  Sam’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out and answered, after kissing my cheek. “This is Sam . . . Hey, Doug, we were just talking about you! What? Okay—yeah, we can do that. No, that’s fine. We’ll be there in ten minutes.” He ended the call, his expression suddenly sober.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. He said he needs our help, and he wants us to come to Belinda’s house.”

  “What? That’s weird. Is he on duty?”

  “I don’t know—wait, yes I do. Cliff told
me last night that he, Cliff, was on duty today because Doug had the day off and was going to take Belinda to Daleville for their Oktoberfest.”

  “Okay, let’s go. We can take my new car—it’s closest.” We moved quickly back down the path until we reached the pebbled driveway of Graham House, where Camilla lived. She was outside now, throwing tennis balls for her German shepherds, Heathcliff and Rochester, who cavorted in the fall air like happy lambs. Camilla looked good. She had new glasses that accentuated her lovely bone structure, and she had been taking daily walks with her devoted boyfriend, Adam, leaving her looking fit and content. She was about to embark on a two-day escape with Adam, in search of togetherness and fall color.

  “Hello,” she said. Then, ever attuned to our feelings, she said, “Something’s up?”

  Sam shrugged. “Doug called and asked us to come to Belinda’s. He sounded a little . . . out of sorts.”

  The dogs were back; they laid slobbery balls at Camilla’s feet, and she picked them up and threw them again. “Go, by all means. Lena knows I was going to have lunch with Adam, anyway. But please do keep me apprised, if anything is going on.”

  I think Camilla saw us all as her Blue Lake children—me and Sam, and Doug Heller and Belinda, and my best friend Allison and her husband, John. We were all around the same age, and we all looked up to Camilla and Adam. If Blue Lake was a kingdom, then they were the king and queen, with their castle at the top of the bluff. “We will, of course,” I said. “And I know we’re back on our writing schedule on Friday, correct? Meanwhile Sam and I will keep an eye on things here.”

  “Thank you. It’s a lovely time to go see the fall color, isn’t it? I think Adam wants to leave by noon. But I’ll have my phone on, and I want to hear everything.”

  “Yes, all right. Have a great time.” I gave her a quick hug, then ran inside to get my keys and purse, and then Sam and I climbed into my new car—a green Dodge Caravan. My father had approved its safety rating (since my last car had been totaled in an accident) and my insurance company had approved the price. I waved to Camilla as we pulled away; the dogs stood at her feet, staring at me with wide, panting mouths.

  Navigating the pebbly downward road, lined with trees dressed in yellow and rust-colored leaves, I stole a glance at Sam. “Any guesses what this could be about?”

  He shook his head. “Truly not a clue. Everything seemed fine last night, didn’t it?”

  We had dined with Doug and Belinda the evening before; Sam had barbecued steaks on his back patio and we ate them in his large kitchen. Belinda had been proud of the potato salad she’d made from scratch, and Doug’s eyes had drifted to her often, just as his hand often found its way into her long blonde hair. He smiled at her whenever she addressed him. It had been very sweet and comforting to see them so happy together.

  I knew the way to Belinda’s house well now; I had visited it first at a July 4th celebration (not a happy evening), but had been back several times since, sometimes in a joining of couples, sometimes just when Belinda and I wanted to chat. On those latter occasions, my friend Allison occasionally joined us. We all had different work schedules, so our social meetings had to be carefully timed. We did a lot of texting.

  By the time we reached Belinda’s subdivision the sky had become slightly overcast. I waited until Sam met my eyes. “Why am I nervous?” I said.

  “It’s fine.” He brooded for a moment before he said, “Although it’s very unusual behavior for Doug.”

  I pulled into Belinda’s driveway; it was covered in yellow leaves from a tulip tree in her front yard. I wondered why the meticulous Belinda hadn’t been out raking them. They were even scattered across the windshield of her car, which sat just in front of the closed garage.

  We got out and went to the door, only to find it ajar. “Doug?” I called, pushing the door open. We entered Belinda’s familiar, airy living room and moved toward the kitchen, where we heard rustling. Doug stood at Belinda’s kitchen island, opening drawers and rifling through the contents. The room was in disarray. Sam looked as surprised as I felt. “Doug?” he said.

  Doug looked up at us, his brown eyes troubled. “Hey—thanks for coming. I need your help.”

  “What’s going on?” I said, setting down my purse and giving him a quick hug.

  “I came here to pick up Belinda. Her car is there, and her door was unlocked.”

  “Maybe she ran a quick errand with a friend?”

  He frowned. “I tried to text her, ask her where she was. That’s when I realized her phone is still here, along with her purse.” He pointed to a little side table which held those items. “And this.” He went to her counter and held up a single long-stemmed dark red rose, fresh and perfect. “This wasn’t here last night when I dropped her off,” he said. “And if Belinda had bought it, she would have put it in a vase.”

  That was true. We all knew Belinda.

  “So if she’s gone on an errand, she’s doing it without money or identification?” Sam asked.

  “Something’s not right,” Doug said. “Nothing’s been ransacked—I made this mess. The house was perfectly clean when I got here, just with a rose on the counter. But she hasn’t been in touch. We should have been in Daleville now, looking at fall color.” He glanced out at some autumn trees rustling near Belinda’s kitchen window, his eyes creased with concern. Then he looked back at us. “I think someone took her.”

  About the Author

  Julia Buckley is the author of the Undercover Dish mysteries and the Writer's Apprentice mysteries. She is a member of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and the Chicago Writer's Association. She has taught high school English for twenty-nine years.

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