A Dark and Stormy Murder (A Writer's Apprentice Mystery) Page 4

  I waited until the lady in front of me had been served. Then I scooted up and was greeted by a woman whose nametag said “Marge B.”

  “What can I do for you, sweetheart?” she asked.

  “I’d like a book of stamps.”

  “Just one?”

  “Yes—they’re so expensive now, aren’t they?”

  Marge agreed. “Yeah—the post office just can’t seem to get in the black, no matter how many times they raise the darn price. I remember when stamps were five cents, that’s how old I am.”

  I smiled. “You don’t look old. Blue Lake must agree with people—you all look youthful.”

  This pleased Marge. She leaned in and said, “Aren’t you from here, hon?”

  “No—I’m from Chicago. But I’m staying out here for the time being.” I decided to venture into a confidence. “In Graham House.”

  Now Marge’s brown eyes were downright curious. “Really! Is that so! And are you a relative of Mrs. Graham?”

  “No—I’m actually going to be her assistant.”

  “Oh! Well isn’t that nice! She could use one, I’ll bet! I mean, she’s getting up in years, right? But still writing, God bless her. Good for her. And how nice to have a pretty young lady in town. What is your name, dear?”

  “It’s Lena. Lena London.”

  I could tell that Marge was stowing away that information. She ran a hand through her curly more-salt-than-pepper hair and adjusted some colorful cheaters on her nose. “London. What a fun last name. Like that writer, when we were kids in school. The one who wrote about being lost in the Yukon, or about wild dogs and wolves.”

  “Jack London.”

  “Yeah, he’s the one!”

  “No relation,” I joked. “Although I’m a writer, too.”

  “Are you now? Well then you have the perfect job, don’t you?”

  “I think so. I’m very excited to be working with Mrs. Graham.”

  She handed me my stamps, and I paid her. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Uh . . . B—”

  “I’m Marge Bick, hon. My husband and I own the store. Just call me Marge.”

  “Thank you, Marge. The store is great.”

  Marge inclined her head, accepting the compliment. “We like to think it’s unique. And the locals love us because we have everything they need. Not necessary to go to those big horrible strip malls.”

  “They are horrible,” I agreed. “And you really do seem to have everything. Well, thanks, Marge. I have Mrs. Graham’s dogs outside, so I have to get going.”

  “Have you tried the Schuler’s?”

  “What?”

  “We sell ice cream up front. It’s from Schuler’s Creamery, over in Daleville.”

  “Oh—sounds yummy. I’ll check it out.”

  I did, not because of an insatiable sweet tooth, I assured myself, but because I was a woman of my word. Near the register was a glass window with several flavors of Schuler’s ice cream, and I ordered a French Vanilla cone. While I waited, I eavesdropped on two men behind me. One wore a flannel shirt and jeans and looked rather scruffy; the other wore a red ski-lodge type sweater and brown corduroy pants. Both seemed to be in their twenties. “Listen, if you don’t want to do it, then just give me back the cash.” This was from the guy who looked like the host of a holiday Christmas special.

  “I said I’d do it. Just stop pressuring me and give me time to do it right, man.” This was the flannel shirt guy.

  “Fine. I’ll call you tonight, and it better be done.” Ski sweater huffed out of the store. I sent a sympathetic glance to flannel shirt, which he ignored. He left the shop a moment later.

  “Here’s your cone.” This from my server, a young man who looked to be about nineteen or twenty and sported a sad little mustache with about seven hairs in it.

  “Oh, thanks! It looks delicious!” I beamed a smile at him, but he remained stone-faced. He wore a salmon-colored turtleneck and a pair of jeans. None of the guys here seemed particular about fashion.

  I marched out to the waiting dogs, licking at my cone. My assessment of Blue Lake so far:

  Women = friendly and nice.

  Men = rude and dismissive.

  I said as much to the dogs as I un-looped their leashes. It was very difficult to hold the pups and eat my cone, and I was passionately interested in doing the latter, so I sat on a bench to eat more carefully. The dogs sat in front of me, not bothering to pretend that they weren’t equally interested in my food.

  “Fine—you can split the very last part, but until then it’s mine. You hear me?”

  They clearly did; their ears were huge.

  Schuler’s ice cream was delicious; I knew that I would be back at Bick’s if only for this particular treat. I wolfed down the cone with embarrassing speed, breaking the last part in half for the shepherds, who ate their pieces with what seemed like gratitude, although I might have been projecting that emotion onto their long-nosed faces.

  Finally we made our way down the rest of the street, encountering two restaurants (Chinese and Italian), a tiny diner called Willoughby’s (whose window sported a sign alerting me, in faded blue lettering, that they were open for breakfast and lunch only), a bookstore, and a little second-run theater before we crossed over and came up the other side of Wentworth, back in the direction of the bluff and Camilla’s place. Here we passed a hair salon, a jewelry shop, a secondhand clothing store, a tiny food market, a Mexican restaurant, and a computer store. At the mouth to one little cobbled alley was a sign that said “This Way to the Lakeshore!”

  I paused, then turned to a woman walking past. “Excuse me—if I go down here, I’ll get to Blue Lake?”

  She smiled. “Oh, yes. You’ll be right by the dock, and if you go around that you’ll get to the shore at the bottom of the bluff. You can climb up any number of stairways to get up to the houses. It’s a fun route to take.”

  “Thanks.” I watched her walk away and dart into the jewelry store.

  While I stood there, another woman appeared next to me. She was the woman I had seen talking to Mr. Bick, asking for the Farberware. She was youngish, with red hair and a dusting of freckles across her attractive face. She held the same little boy in her arms, and a slightly older little girl stood next to her, clutching the hem of her shirt. “Hello,” the woman said, her face earnest.

  “Hello.” Chalk another one up for friendly Blue Lake women.

  “I overheard you in Bick’s just now—saying you were living at Graham House.”

  “Oh? Yes, I’m staying there. I’m Lena,” I said, holding out a hand and shaking the tiny fingers of the shy boy who looked at me under his lashes. “Didn’t you buy some pots?”

  The woman laughed. “Yeah. They have to deliver them later, because I can’t hold them and these little stinkers. He’s Tommy, and I’m Lane. And this is Penny.” She hugged the little girl against her with her free arm.

  “Well, hi, everyone. Did you get some of that delicious ice cream?”

  “No, just the cookware and some diapers. Although someone talked me into a candy bar.”

  Penny held up small chocolate-covered hands and smiled proudly at me. Unlike her mother’s, her hair was more of a caramel color, and it shone in the gray light.

  “I like chocolate, too,” I said. “This seems to be a town for chocolate lovers.”

  Lane snorted. “Sugar lovers, you mean. Every other shop is selling fat on a stick.”

  “Well, you look great, so I guess you haven’t succumbed to the temptations of Blue Lake.”

  She smiled uncertainly. “You talk like a writer. Are you a writer, like Camilla Graham?”

  This surprised me. “Yes, that was my major. Right now I’m just working as Camilla’s assistant.”

  “Ah. I worked at the bakery over there until Tommy came along; then my husband and me figured I shoul
d stay home with the kids.”

  “That’s nice. I’m sure your children are glad to have you with them.”

  “I wish I’d known Mrs. Graham needed an assistant. Tommy’s getting older now. Maybe I would have applied—mostly for a way to get to see inside that awesome house!”

  This was surprising, not because Graham House wasn’t an interesting structure, but because it certainly wasn’t the most beautiful dwelling in Blue Lake.

  “It’s very nice,” I said. “But it could use some updating.”

  “Couldn’t they all,” she said with a laugh. Her face was open and friendly. Penny ventured forward to pet one of the dogs, and he licked her entire face with one slurp of his tongue.

  “Gah,” she said in a tiny voice, and it made us all laugh.

  I stole a glance at my watch then. “It was nice meeting your whole family, Lane—what was your last name?”

  “It’s Waldrop. Lane Waldrop. I’m in the phone book. Maybe we could have coffee sometime. There aren’t a whole lot of young people in this town, so it’s nice to meet someone my own age. We could go to Willoughby’s over there, or to Blue Lake Coffee. They roast their own beans, and the coffee is amazing.”

  “That sounds nice! And I’m sure I’ll see you around. I plan to be in town often.”

  “Okay, then. Say bye-bye, Tommy.” The little boy waved, and then he buried his head in his mother’s shoulder. Penny waved, too, but she was looking at Heathcliff and Rochester, who were sniffing at the chocolate on her hands.

  “Leave her alone and be gentlemen. That’s not good for you,” I told the dogs, and pulled them away. I walked on after one final wave to the Waldrops. I hadn’t yet seen the lake up close, and I really wanted to. When Camilla had come in from outside, I glimpsed a stairway in her backyard that probably led down to the water. The rails, if I recalled correctly, had been red; surely I would recognize them if I walked down the beach and studied all of the stairways? And, I assumed, I’d see glimpses of her house, and Sam West’s, between the trees.

  Satisfied, I walked down the little cobbled alley and across a parking lot; I crossed a street called Lakeview and found myself on a small wooden dock that looked out onto the inlet that widened into Blue Lake. To my right, I could see the town curving around the shoreline. To my left was a sandy shore and the colorful bluff. And in front of me, the water undulated and gleamed. The multicolored sailboats I had seen on YouTube dotted the harbor. The air smelled like rain, and Blue Lake glistened in cerulean splendor beneath gray clouds.

  “This is gorgeous, boys,” I said to the dogs. “How do you not walk here all the time?”

  We strolled to the end of the dock and found ourselves on the cool sand; on this we began our trek back to Graham House. We passed several stairways that did not look familiar. I kept my eyes on the lake, which, as it grew wider and more eternal, made me feel that my journey would never end. Walking in the sand was much harder work than walking on the wooden dock had been, and even the dogs were beginning to slow down. I thought I spotted Camilla’s red stairway in the distance, so the dogs and I picked up our pace. A man emerged from one of the stairways and appeared a few yards in front of me. It was the flannel shirt guy from Bick’s Hardware. He marched up to the lakeshore and a small wooden dock, where a white boat was moored. Sailboats dotted the shore as far as the eye could see, their sails a variety of colors, bright against the afternoon sun. He climbed aboard the white boat and went belowdecks, and he didn’t come out again.

  Then, in an instant, the rain came—not with hesitation or an introductory drizzle, but with a full-out, body drenching cloudburst. “Ahhhh!” I screamed, but it was drowned out by a clap of thunder so loud that my startle reflex knocked me right onto the sand. I got up again and pulled the now-willing dogs toward the stairs. They walked with their heads down, shrugging their bodies against the rain and trying to shake off the moisture as they moved. Every minute or so I got an extra blast of wet-dog-scented water.

  “No!” I yelled as we clambered up the stairs, but I was laughing, too, because what else could I do when nature had so effectively humiliated me? The dogs and I were making all sorts of crazy noises as we tried to keep the rain out of our eyes and noses. It was most uncomfortable, but also hilarious and weirdly invigorating.

  By the time we got to the top the dogs were tired and thirsty. I had to knock at the glass doors; luckily Camilla was right there.

  “Oh, you poor dear. I’ve been watching for you. Here—the nice towel is for you. These old ones are for the dogs. I’ll get to work on them.” She began to massage Rochester and Heathcliff, those big babies, who leaned on her and snuffled and closed their eyes under her ministrations.

  I dried as well as I could and left my wet shoes at her doorway. “I don’t think I’m dripping any sand,” I told her. “Let me run upstairs and get cleaned up.”

  “Did you have a nice visit, Lena? Before the storm?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It was actually quite enjoyable.”

  * * *

  I RETURNED TO my room, where Lestrade had not only awakened, but had polished off the food in his bowl and was now taking a bath on the windowsill.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said. “I need a shower and some clean clothes.” I went into the bathroom and disrobed, then hung my wet clothes on a towel bar above a heating vent. I’d have to ask Camilla how to do laundry. Outside more thunder clapped—two large and scary ones, then a smaller, more distant one. I tried not to jump every time I heard the noise.

  I treated myself to my first shower in Graham House. The water pipes made odd noises, but the water was warm and rejuvenating, and there was a delicious-smelling body wash in the bathtub that seemed to have a French name. “Classy,” I said to no one.

  I emerged ten minutes later feeling great. “Lestrade, I am experiencing a certain euphoria.” He gave me a sleepy glance. He didn’t seem angry or agitated. Perhaps Lestrade was one of those cats who just went with the flow of things. I strode across the room and spent a moment petting his silky ears, enjoying his soft fur. Lestrade turned on the outboard motor that was his purr, and I laughed. “I guess you forgive me, huh? You seemed pretty nervous in the car.”

  He turned away from me and looked out the window, where the raindrops on the pane were providing him with quite a show. The rain had lessened a bit, but it was still coming down. I looked out and realized that my room offered not just a view of the lake, but of Camilla’s backyard and red staircase, all the way to the sand below, where I saw something familiar and yet jarringly out of place.

  “What the heck . . . ?” I asked Lestrade, leaning closer and squinting down at the beach. My eyes were probably deceiving me. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check.

  I left Lestrade to contemplate the raindrops, and I jogged down the stairs.

  I walked into Camilla’s lounge and looked around. She wasn’t there. I turned to scan her wall of books, then heard something behind me. I twirled to find Camilla there, holding two canning jars. She had a disconcerting habit of appearing without making a sound.

  “Camilla,” I said. “Do you have pair of binoculars?”

  She didn’t look surprised that I had asked. “Oh, I’m sure I do. I know once I lent them to Bob Dawkins and his horrible son, and they might still be out on the porch near the woodpile. Bob and his son deliver my wood and do odd jobs for me.”

  “And what makes the son so horrible?” I asked, smiling.

  She did look surprised at that. “Hm? Oh, I don’t know, really. That’s just what everyone calls him—Bob’s horrible son. It suits him.”

  “Okay—uh, I guess I’ll check by the woodpile.”

  I went out onto her porch, and there was in fact a giant pair of binoculars sitting on the outer window ledge; I paused to wonder what Bob and his son needed them for. Then I grabbed them, protected from the rain by a large awning, and jogged down the hallway. I we
nt to the back patio doors and out onto the grass behind Camilla’s house. I aimed the binoculars down the bluff and turned the focus wheel until I had centered in on the sand below us. I scanned, looking for a sign of what I had seen farther up. There it was—the purple, red, and blue plaid that I had seen twice that day. The flannel shirt. It was still on the man, but he was lying prone on the sand . . . and he wasn’t moving.

  “Camilla?” I called in a voice that didn’t sound like my own.

  I turned and ran back to the house, calling through the patio doors. “Camilla? Can you come here?”

  She appeared a moment later, her face a question.

  “There’s something on the beach. On the sand. Can you look?”

  She took the binoculars and walked past me to the edge of the bluff. I waited while she searched and focused. “Oh, my,” she said.

  “Do you see him?”

  “That looks like Martin Jonas. Do you remember that Adam said he didn’t show up for work today? He’s not moving at all.”

  “No, he’s not. I’m going down there. Maybe he’s unconscious.”

  “Do that; I’m going to call the police.”

  I ran down the stairs, barely noting that I was being soaked anew, and moved across the empty expanse of sand to the prone form of the man in the flannel shirt. “Sir?” I said. Then, “Martin?”

  There was no response, so I moved closer. He was facedown, and I touched his neck. It felt cold. His hair and clothing were drenched and sticking to his skin. I took him by the shoulders and shook him a bit. “Martin, are you all right?”

  Still no response. I lifted his hand to feel for a pulse, and that was when I noticed blood on the sand; it had not washed away because it had been pooling beneath him, under his chest and arm. “Oh, no,” I said. “What happened?” I was speaking more to myself than to him, but in any case he did not seem to hear me. There was no discernible pulse in his wrist.

  I stood up and took a step back, suddenly horrified to be touching him. I could already hear the sirens blaring; Camilla’s call had gotten a quick response. My eyes felt wet beyond the wetness, and I brushed at them with the back of my hand.