“Standard size footprint, one set,” Detective Sam Watson said. “From a mass-produced men’s work boot. I probably have one like that myself.”
“As do I,” Connor said. “And my dad. But neither of us have been up there since Dad put in that ladder, which would be about two months ago. Stairs to an unused level isn’t exactly a priority around here, but Dad got it on sale and it didn’t take long for him to install it. I can’t say if anything’s been moved or is missing, Sam, as I didn’t have a close examination of the room and I didn’t open any boxes. Ralph said he didn’t want anything, so I left it until I have time to dump it.”
I put the tea on the table. Sweet iced tea for the men, a hot version for me to calm my shaking nerves.
Someone had been in our house. At least twice. While I’d been tucked up in my soft warm bed with my cat. I finally told Connor I’d thought I heard someone moving around upstairs last night. Grim faced, he phoned his dad and confirmed that the older Mr. McNeil had not been in the upstairs room for months.
It was possible that the men Connor had hired to do the things he wasn’t qualified to do—electrical and plumbing and the like—had been poking around. But unlikely. And definitely not in the middle of the night.
Connor had then unofficially called Sam Watson. “If you’ve got a few minutes, Sam, I’d appreciate you dropping around.”
The detective had been at home, relaxing with his wife, and he arrived quickly. No one would ever mistake Sam Watson for anything but a cop. He’s in his late forties, rapidly moving into his fifties, lean and fit with a face full of crags, a square head topped by a severe crew cut, nose like a hawk’s beak, and gray eyes as piercing as those of the bird. He’d worked for the NYPD for many years and those eyes had seen it all, but they still found joy and laughter in life. He accepted a glass of tea with a warm smile. “I’ll admit it looks as though someone has been up there recently, but I’ve seen plenty of cases where appearances can be deceiving. These old houses are mighty drafty, and sand has a way of getting into everything and wind blows things around. As for the sounds you heard and the photos you took in the living room …” He shook his head. “It could be just about anything, Lucy—the wind in the roof, a trick of the light.”
“I know that,” I said. “It’s just—”
“Just you don’t like the idea of an intruder. I get it.”
The doorbell rang, and Connor pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll let them in.” Sam Watson had suggested we get the locks changed immediately, and Connor had called the locksmith. Ralph Harper had given us what keys he had to the house, but over the years a lot of duplicates could have been made and passed around.
“You’re sure you checked the pantry on Tuesday night?” Sam said to me.
“Absolutely positive.”
“And the ladder was in place?”
“I didn’t even know there was a ladder until about an hour ago. When it’s down, it’s kinda hard to miss.”
The edges of his mouth twitched, and he stood up. “You get those locks changed and you’ll be fine. This house has been empty for a lot of years, although Ralph kept a sharp eye on it, and it’s obvious you’re living here now, but some kids aren’t all that bright. Not on a beach at night with too much booze in them. If you sense anything else again, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call me, Lucy. I mean it.”
“Thank you.” I walked Sam to the back door. The locksmith was crouched next to it, screwdriver in hand, overseen by Connor. We said our good-nights, and the detective left. Connor put his arm around my shoulders. “I should have done this soon as we took ownership. Sorry, Lucy.”
“Heavens, Connor. You and your dad have done so much.” I smiled up at him. “If you hadn’t fixed that hole in the roof, we might have had intruders rappelling down.”
He chuckled and kissed the top of my head.
I tidied up the kitchen and went to bed with Charles and my copy of this month’s book club selection. I read to the accompaniment of men’s voices and footsteps, and finally Connor came into the bedroom. “All done,” he said. “New locks on every door. Every window secured. I put a set of the new keys on your key ring.”
I laid my book on my lap and held my place with my finger. “I can’t help wondering, Connor—what would someone want in our house?”
“Let’s hope no one wanted anything. Other than a couple of what might be footprints or might not, no one left anything behind or other evidence of their being here. The print in the upstairs room could have been left by Dad, who forgot the one time he popped in to have a look for something, or a contractor checking for a line. You say you heard something up there last night, but—”
“But I have to agree that I was likely imagining it. My dreams, maybe, picking up on what had happened the night before.”
He reached out one hand and ruffled my hair. I put my hand on his and smiled at him.
And all was right with the world.
Friday night, as scheduled, we went to Connor’s parents’ house for dinner. “I’ve scarcely seen you or my son, never mind my husband, since those renovations started,” Marie said when she called to invite us. “I promise not to talk wedding details, if you’d prefer not to.”
She might have promised, but it was a promise she couldn’t keep, and after dinner we sat down with a pad of paper and started drawing up the guest list from Connor’s family and family friends while Connor and Fred went over their own plans to get started on the new deck tomorrow. It would be a big deck, wide and partially covered, encompassing the entire front of the house and stretching halfway down both sides. A covered deck with a roof extending off the one over the main level is an integral part of the unpainted aristocracy design. For now, Connor planned to replace the open stretch at the front of the house so we could enjoy it as soon as summer arrived. He’d finish the sides and the cover as time and money permitted.
Fred attempted, and failed, to smother an enormous yawn, and Connor and I took the hint. “Morning comes early,” Connor said.
“Do you have any plans for tomorrow, Lucy?” Marie asked as we walked to the door. “Perhaps,” she added hopefully, “we could go over that list again and maybe look at invitations?”
“Saturday’s a working day for me, remember,” I said.
Her face fell. “Of course. I forgot.”
“Why don’t I see if Aunt Ellen and Josie are free on Sunday next week? You could come for lunch, and we can start some serious planning.”
She kissed my cheek lightly. “That would be lovely.”
“Lunch sounds good to me,” Fred said. “You don’t suppose Josie could grab a few leftovers from her place, do you?”
Connor laughed. “Josie never has leftovers, Dad.”
We said our good-nights, and Connor and I drove home in companionable silence. It was a cloudy evening, and as we approached the limits of Nags Head and our house, the darkness was broken by the rhythmic flash—2.5 seconds on, 2.5 seconds off, 2.5 seconds on, 22.5 seconds off—of the great first-order Fresnel lens atop the Bodie Island Lighthouse, protecting ships from the Graveyard of the Atlantic as it has for many long years and would all through the night.
“Do you miss it?” Connor said in a soft voice.
“Living at the lighthouse? I do, sometimes. I miss not having to worry about forgetting something at home. I miss the library at night, when no one else is around. Did I ever tell you that I believe the characters come out of their books when no one’s there and gather to exchange their news? Sometimes, when I was alone at night, I almost thought I could hear them.”
“You never told me that,” he said. “But I’m not at all surprised to hear it. The upstairs room at the front of the house would make a nice library.”
“It would,” I said. “On a cold or stormy day, I could sit up there, reading and staring out to sea and dreaming.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do with it,” he said as he turned the car into the driveway, parked behind my little teal Yaris, and switched off the engine. We have a garage, but it’s so full of construction supplies and equipment, there’s no room for cars.
The light at the top of the steps to the back door was on, as was the one over the kitchen entrance. The wind was high, and we could hear the steady sound of the surf beating against the shore. I took Connor’s hand as we walked toward the steps and he balanced his keys in the other hand. He unlocked the door and stepped aside to allow me to go ahead. As I switched on the hall light, I could feel Charles winding himself around my legs, meowing a greeting.
“It’s still reasonably early,” I said. “I’m going to finish watching that program I started the other night. Do you want to join me?”
I don’t own a TV and Connor’s big-screen was hanging on a friend’s wall until we have a place to put it, so we watched movies on my iPad in bed or, if Connor wasn’t interested, I sat at the kitchen table.
“Join you in the middle of your show? No thanks. I’m going to turn in early. Dad’s due here at seven thirty so we can get started, and you know my dad …”
“A seven-thirty start means he’ll be here at quarter to seven wondering why you’re not ready yet,” I said. “I won’t be long. Probably watch enough to get through one cup of tea. Calm down, Charles. I fed you before we went out. I distinctly remember opening the can, so you can’t pretend I forgot.”
Charles did seem agitated tonight. He paced and whined and pressed himself against our legs as we walked down the hallway.
Connor and I kissed at the kitchen door, and he continued on toward the bedroom. I stood where I was and watched for a moment, smiling at the sight of his broad back, slim hips, and long legs.
Charles yowled.
I went into the kitchen.
My scream had Connor practically flying down the hallway.