Death Waits in the Dark Page 5

  —From the correspondence of James Graham and Camilla Easton, 1971

  CAMILLA ASSURED ME that nothing in James’s letters was so personal that I couldn’t read it. “He was most circumspect,” she said. “And he knew that my mother liked to read the letters, too.”

  She gave me a pile of envelopes that were all postmarked June of 1971. “That was just after we became engaged, and that was when we wrote the most. I’ll take July. When you find lines of interest, either jot them down or run to the copy machine in my office. We can save them all for Doug, if need be.”

  I sighed. “It seems we are once again looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “We’ve become quite good at it,” she said, smiling.

  “Sam thinks you and I have a psychic connection that makes it easier for us to work out puzzles.”

  She sipped her tea and removed a letter from a thin airmail envelope. “Sam is rather a romantic himself, given to whimsical notions. At least he is since he met you.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” For some reason my face felt hot, and Camilla smirked at me before she looked at her first letter.

  I consulted my own. James had a neat, regular cursive that almost looked military in its precision. The letter was dated at the top (June 4, 1971), and a quick Google consultation told me that this had been a Friday. Perhaps he had sat down to write to his young, pretty Camilla at the end of his work week. In any case, I soon learned that he had an unerring devotion to his English fiancée.

  “My dear, my sweet, my own Camilla,” he began. “As I sat down to write this letter, thoughts of you opened up a vast compartment of memories in my brain, and now it’s as though you’re sitting beside me, so clearly can I see you in my mind’s eye.”

  “He’s quite formal,” I said without thinking. “Loving and affectionate, but stately, like a suitor from the Romantic era.”

  Camilla paused, considering this. “I think one of the things that drew me to him was his courtly air. He looked and sounded like a knight to me. And yes, his letters retained that character. I suppose it stayed with him from his school days, when formality was a requirement.”

  “It’s lovely, actually. So charming.”

  “Yes.” She was concentrating on a letter in her hand and jotting things on a pad. I took this as a sign to get to business.

  I read the whole letter, feeling like a voyeur but also pleased to have this window into Camilla’s past. James reminisced about some things they’d done together on his trip to England (where they had become engaged) and then talked to her about some of his daily tasks. He wrote of a terrier named Edmund who was his constant companion; apparently Edmund had been quite the character, with a smiling face, a high-stepping gait, and a comical bark. At night, James told her, Edmund slept across the top of his bed.

  “Did you get to meet Edmund?” I said.

  Camilla looked up, surprised. “Oh, Edmund! What a sweet little boy he was. Yes, we had him for five or six years before he died. One of those pets you just want to live forever.”

  She looked back at her letter, smiling at her memory of a dog from the past.

  I went back to my letter, in which James spoke of an evening gathering with some of his local friends. I jotted down the names: Adam, of course, who was James’s best friend in Blue Lake. Jane Wyland and her sister, Carrie. Rusty Baxter, who was now chief of police. That one had me pausing for a moment: James had been friends with Rusty Baxter, back when his hair had been truly red! The other people mentioned were Travis Pace, a woman named Karina Thibodeau, and someone named Marjorie Allan.

  I studied my pad; I had met three of the people mentioned and knew who Carrie Wyland was, but three of the names were unfamiliar to me. I waited until Camilla seemed to have finished her letter and then held up my pad. “I’ve got some people here. Who is Travis Pace?”

  Camilla took a sip of tea. “Travis was one of the locals back then. Still lives around here, but he travels a great deal. He owns a restaurant supply chain. He’s quite wealthy, I think. Divorced now, has a few grown children. He too went to school with James, as did Adam and Rusty.”

  “Ah. Okay.” I wrote this down. “And how about Karina Thibodeau?”

  “Karina. I think I remember her.” Camilla leaned back in her chair. “She was a tiny golden-haired thing, had a crush on Rusty Baxter. But Rusty ended up marrying Darlene Hill—remember Darlene? She’s the president of that women’s group who sponsored our book signing for The Salzburg Train.”

  “Oh yes, right. So is Karina still around?”

  Camilla shook her head. “No, she married a few years later, to a farmer. He was from Daleville, but they ended up buying a bigger farm out in Bluefield. I see her in town every now and again, probably visiting family. I think there are still several Thibodeaus in Blue Lake.”

  “Huh.” My eyes strayed to the window, where I could see a young sapling bending under the assault of the wind. Its branches lifted in protest, creating a weirdly human effect.

  I dragged my eyes back to the pad. “And I don’t suppose you know this Marjorie Allan?”

  Camilla grinned. “Yes, and so do you. That’s Marge Bick, dear. She and James grew up in the same neighborhood in Blue Lake. They once played together. Did I never tell you that? Lena, do close your mouth; it’s gaping at me.”

  I snapped my mouth shut. Marge Bick, our town postmistress, wife of Horace Bick, owner of Bick’s Hardware, town gossip but well-meaning friend, had grown up with James Graham. “So—were you and Marge friends?” I asked.

  Camilla shrugged. “Not really. Back then James and I were living half the year in Blue Lake and half the year in England. I got to know people, but not as well as the regulars who were here year-round. And I think Marjorie always saw me as something of an interloper. Not from Blue Lake, not from Indiana, not even from America.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Were you lonely here, Camilla?”

  Now it was her turn to look out at the wind. “Do you know, I don’t think I ever was. I had James, and a lovely house, and the book I was starting to write. It absorbed me. Then I sold The Lost Child, and I never looked back. I had moved on to writing fiction.”

  I put the letter back in the envelope. “Well, what this letter told me was that he genuinely loved and missed you and that sometimes he got together with these friends at a pub called the Mill Wheel. Does that ring a bell?”

  “Oh my, yes. That was a charming little place. It reminded me of little pubs back home. The proprietor died and they ended up revamping it into the building you know today as the Guardian Pub.”

  “Oh! Okay. Sam and I love their sandwiches.”

  “Yes. It’s a nice enough place, but the Mill Wheel had real charm. It’s a shame when little establishments like that die along with their owners. If only they could have kept the place running in honor of Bill. He was the owner—Bill Prentiss.”

  “You have an amazing memory,” I said.

  Camilla’s mouth lifted on one side in an ironic smile. “Some things come back fresh and clear, as though they happened yesterday. Other things feel like a long, long time ago.”

  “What about James?”

  Her eyes moved back to the window. “He’s in the permanent file,” she said.

  * * *

  • • •

  WE BOTH READ several letters and took notes. I learned that James Graham had been a naturalist who loved to observe and detail the changing seasons in Blue Lake, and who was a member of the Indiana Audubon Society. Before his father’s illness, the two of them had regularly hiked together, not just in Blue Lake but all over the United States and on a couple of overseas adventures. His favorite had been a walk they took in the Swiss Alps.

  His letters to Camilla had been detailed, precise, and filled with an obvious love and longing for his young fiancée. They shared a penchant for mystery fiction, American hot dog
s, and all things canine (Camilla had been enthralled with Edmund upon her first visit).

  After three letters, Camilla put her pen away. “I think I must do this in small doses,” she said.

  “Oh, Camilla! Is it—making you sad?”

  “Oh, a little bit. But it’s not that so much as I think I’ll be more effective processing his details a few at a time. Who knows which one will end up being relevant? We should think of these letters as chapters in a book we are writing. The clue lies within one of them—or so we hope. So we mustn’t lose focus.” She stood up and stretched. “You can go run errands and play in your beloved wind, if you like. We can work on the book tomorrow.”

  I had not expected free hours. Camilla laughed at what must have been my bright expression. “Have fun, Lena. I’m going to do some work at my desk and then perhaps take a lovely, luxurious nap.” She put her three letters in a bin that was meant to hold the already-read pile. She seemed to be taking rather long at this task.

  “Camilla? What’s wrong?”

  Her eyes met mine; they were clouded with something that looked like regret. “Oh, Lena. We do read each other’s thoughts, don’t we?”

  “Yes, I think we do.”

  “I’m afraid I’m feeling guilty. Quite guilty, and sad.”

  I stood up and moved to her, slinging my arm around her. “Why? Do you miss James so very much?”

  “No, sweet girl. The fact is that since I heard about poor Jane Wyland’s death I’ve been—relieved. I must admit this: it was relief I felt, and that I still feel. I was so afraid, Lena, not that she had a secret but that she would tell some lie and drag my husband’s name through the mud. I didn’t know how to stop her, and now someone has. Something was tormenting that woman, though, and by all reports she was a good woman. So I feel guilty for my response, and sad that she has died.”

  “That someone murdered her, Camilla.”

  “Yes. It’s all so hard to believe.”

  I squeezed her shoulder. “You and I have helped the police solve a number of crimes in the past few months. I think we’ve got intuition. We’ll use it now to help find the truth for Jane Wyland and to help Doug catch her murderer.”

  “You are so right. This is the gift we can and will give. Thank you, Lena. Now go play in the wind.”

  * * *

  • • •

  ON THE WAY down the bluff I spied a dark-haired girl ascending, kicking at pine cones and looking like a heroine in a novel, framed as she was against the scenic backdrop. “Hello, Star!” I called loudly, hoping my voice would reach her.

  She looked up and brightened; she was a pretty girl, with blue eyes and wavy black hair. “Hi, Lena! Camilla asked if I would walk the dogs. She knows I love them.”

  I moved closer, leaning into the wind. “They love you, too. Are you sure you can handle them? I can barely do it, and you’re tinier than I am.”

  “I’m strong, though!” she said, making an impressive muscle. She wore a gray T-shirt and a pair of jean shorts. “And they know I mean business.” She smiled at me, trying to keep her black hair out of her eyes, just as Doug had done with his hair at the Bayside Cottages.

  “How’s your dad settling in? And how’s the law office?” Luke Kelly, Star’s father, had recently moved his law practice to Blue Lake, and Star, who had been living with her mother, had decided to live with him for the summer.

  She shrugged, looking away. “It’s okay. He unpacked all his books and stuff and he’s already seeing clients. I don’t have much to do yet, which is why it’s good that Camilla offered me another way to make money.” Camilla paid Star ten dollars to walk the dogs for half an hour.

  “There are plenty of part-time jobs to be found in this town. People always want their lawns mowed or their leaves raked or their snow shoveled. Jobs for every season.”

  She clutched her stomach and stuck out her tongue. “Blech. I hate yard jobs. That’s why I’m glad to be able to walk the dogs. Animals are so much fun.”

  “And I’m guessing working in your dad’s law firm will be, too, assuming you want to be a lawyer someday.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t. It doesn’t interest me at all, even though I know Dad is great at it and everything. He’s interviewing people this week to help him with his workload. I know kids in my class who think the law is really glamorous. I don’t see it that way.”

  “Well, you have lots of time to decide on a career.”

  She studied me with her bright blue eyes. “Did you know what you wanted to be at sixteen?”

  I nodded. “I knew I wanted to write, and to be a sort of modern-day Camilla Graham.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Seriously? She was like—your role model?”

  “Yes. And I never dreamed I would meet her in real life. She’s quite famous, you know.”

  “I didn’t. I mean, I heard she wrote books and stuff, but I didn’t know she was like—known worldwide. I’m gonna have to Google her.”

  “You do that. You’ll be amazed.”

  “Okay. Now I better go get the dogs so Camilla doesn’t fire me.”

  “See you around, Star!”

  She waved and headed up the bluff toward Graham House. I walked about twenty more feet down the bluff, then turned in at the curving driveway that led to Sam West’s place. Sometimes I was lucky enough to see Sam standing there on the path, his blue eyes on me, just as they had been on the day we met.

  Nowadays, though, Sam was usually busy, not just with his work as a private investment counselor (his clientele had increased since he had been publicly exonerated for a crime that had never happened—the killing of an ex-wife who was very much alive), but with his recently discovered half brother, Cliff.

  I was thrilled for Sam; he had thought he was without family in the world, and Cliff had emerged as a wonderful surprise. Still, I sometimes missed the days when I had been the only person on Sam West’s mind. For a time, I had been his entire universe.

  I knocked on the door; there was no answer, but I could hear voices in Sam’s backyard, so I walked around the house and found Sam and Cliff pulling up boards on Sam’s back deck. They were both shirtless and sweating, wearing blue jeans and sturdy shoes. Sam paused to gulp down some bottled water and his eyes found me. He set the bottle down and offered me his slow smile. “Hey, beautiful,” he called.

  Cliff looked up and waved. “Hey, Lena.”

  “You guys look busy. I can come back later.”

  Sam shook his head. “Get up here and look at our job.”

  I climbed onto the part of the deck that remained in place and stared at the empty hole they had created. Sam pointed at the wood planks they’d yanked out. “See those? Look at the rot. Cliff showed it to me last month, and we picked this week to replace these boards because Cliff has a couple days off.”

  I turned to Cliff. “So you’re not working with Doug on the Wyland case?”

  Cliff looked regretful. “I requested these two days a week ago. Doug will work on it with Chip Johnson until I come back. And he’ll keep me apprised.”

  “Anything you can tell me?” asked Sam, looking curious. He hated to be left out of the cop stuff that Cliff and Doug shared, especially since they had become a trio of friends.

  Cliff began to pry up another board with a large crowbar. “Not much to tell yet. Except that it’s murder. Doug’s trying to determine people of interest.”

  I moved closer to Sam; his arm slid around my waist in a gesture so automatic he barely seemed to notice it. “Sam, remember yesterday when that woman yelled at Camilla? It was her. She’s been murdered.”

  Sam’s brows rose. “Didn’t she basically threaten Camilla?”

  “Yes. And said she knew some big Graham family secret. Camilla was determined to tell Doug what a perfect suspect she herself was in this crime.”

  “But who wo
uld the other suspects be? Who else would need to cover up a Graham family secret?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I guess we can’t assume that’s why she was murdered, but Camilla and I are reading some old letters James wrote, trying to get a sense of the past.”

  Cliff seemed interested in this. He met my gaze; in that moment he looked very much like Sam. “Let us know if anything looks interesting. Any little detail.”

  “You got it,” I said lightly.

  Sam took another drink of water, then kissed me. “We want to finish this section before we lose the light,” he said.

  “Okay.” I had wanted to tell him about James’s letters, how romantic and sweet they were, and to try to explain to him why I loved the wind so much, why it was like poetry to me. “I’ll let you get back to work. I’m headed into town. Do you need anything?”

  Cliff was already saying something to Sam about the nails they were using. “Hmm?” Sam asked.

  “Nothing. See you later!” I said, waving to them.

  I moved back to the path and turned right, marching toward the foot of the bluff.

  The wind had lessened slightly.

  It was inexplicably disappointing.

  5

  The people you grow up with, Camilla, are the ones you believe will be your anchors through life. They know you and love you well, as you do them. They are the ones you can trust. When you start to wonder who they are, the world holds no guarantees. The earth falls away and you are trying to stand firm on a bog of uncertainty.

  —From the correspondence of James Graham and Camilla Easton, 1971

  THE BEAR IN the lobby of Bick’s Hardware had been there for decades, and I had passed it untold times since my arrival in October, yet I almost bumped right into it when I moved swiftly through the doorway.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I said, straightening the “Bick’s Is Best” sign in his stiff paws. I slowed my pace, but made a determined path to the back counter, where Marge Bick presided over the post office and had an excellent view of her entire store.