The cop guarding the entrance to the lighthouse lane flagged me down as I pulled off the highway. I had the top of the SLK down, and the officer recognized me. She greeted me with a low whistle. “Nice wheels.”
“Yup.”
“How much do you make as a librarian, anyway?”
“Not enough to afford this car. It’s my mother’s. You know I live here, so can I go in?”
“Yeah.” She waved me through.
Police vehicles still filled the parking lot, but Karen’s Neon had been taken away. A woman clad head to foot in a white gown, booties, and cap climbed out of the back of a van as I drove up. I avoided glancing around the side of the lighthouse. I spared a thought for my jacket. Even if the police did return it, there was no way I would ever wear it again.
Bertie was at the circulation desk, working on the computer. She waved at me as I came in and pointed down the hallway. I could hear low voices and cabinet doors being opened. “What are they doing?” I asked.
“Searching.”
“For what?”
“Karen was last seen here, in the library. They’re in the break room now, and will be doing the third-floor meeting room next. They tried ordering me to go home, but I said I wanted to keep an eye on the place. The library is my responsibility. I’ve been told I have to sit here or in my office. No place else.”
“Can I go upstairs?”
“You’ll have to ask. Oh, and Diane Uppiton just called.”
I groaned. The only reason Diane, one of our library board members, would call Bertie would be to cause trouble. “Let me guess. She heard about the death.”
“On library property. To a library patron. She is horrified at this development. Unfortunately the board meeting’s tomorrow, and I’m sure this . . . incident will be brought up.”
“It shouldn’t reflect on the library,” I said. “None of us can be blamed. Did you know Karen well?”
Bertie tapped her fingers on the desktop. “She was a regular patron. Brought her children, and then her grandchildren, to the library over the years. I had no opinion one way or another.”
Hardly a ringing endorsement.
“I thought I heard your voice, Lucy.” Watson’s head popped around the corner. “I need to interview you. We’ll use your office, Ms. James.”
It was not a question, but Bertie answered as though it had been. “That’s fine.”
Bertie gave me an encouraging smile, and I fell into step behind the detective. Sad to say, Watson knew the way to Bertie’s office. Butch and two other people were coming out of the break room as we passed. A woman nodded to Watson, and said, “Finished in there. Third floor next.”
“Good,” Watson said. “Greenblatt, you’re with me.”
I didn’t want to sit in Bertie’s place, so I took the visitor’s chair. Watson seated himself behind the desk, and Butch leaned up against a wall, arms crossed over his chest.
“Tell me everything you did this morning,” Watson said. “Until you phoned nine-one-one.”
There wasn’t a lot to tell, and I related the story quickly. I’d risen at my regular time, dressed and eaten my breakfast, and then come downstairs intending to start work. I stepped outside, as I usually did, to check the weather and take a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet. I’d noticed an unusual amount of bird activity. I investigated. I found (and here I had to stop for a moment and swallow) Karen.
“Did you hear anything in the night? People around, cars driving down the lane?”
“No. But it’s quiet in my apartment. Solid stone walls, you know.”
“When Officer Greenblatt left the library, Karen Kivas was still here. Along with you and your mother. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else remain behind?”
I thought. “George Marwick, from the Ocean Side Hotel, wanted to give Mom a lift, but she told him she had her own car. So he left.”
“When was that?”
“We’d come downstairs, but not put away the dishes yet. He left about ten minutes before Karen. Maybe. I can’t be positive about all the timing. . . .”
“Your mother and Mrs. Kivas had been cold to each other during the book club meeting.”
“I told you. They had a silly spat but made up.”
“So you say.”
“Yes, I do say. They were great buddies when they left.”
“Ah yes, when they left. Together.”
“I mean . . .”
“You didn’t see either of them drive away?”
“No.”
“So you don’t know if they left immediately, or perhaps stood and . . . chatted . . . for a while longer.”
“No.”
“Your mother says there were no cars in the parking lot other than your Yaris and what she presumed was Karen Kivas’s car. She drove straight back to the hotel and went to her room. No one at the hotel can verify what time she came in.”
“It’s not a prison. People are not required to check in and out.”
“True.”
“Look, Detective. My mom and Karen had an unpleasant encounter earlier at the hotel. My mom apologized yesterday evening. Karen accepted her apology.”
“So you say.”
“I do say!”
“But no one else can verify that. Everyone we’ve spoken to”—Butch shifted uncomfortably—“says they were cold and distant. Hostile almost.”
“It happened! My mom’s a nice person.”
“So’s my mom,” Watson said. “Tell me again about this encounter Monday afternoon. At the Ocean Side Hotel.”
“We ran into Karen in the lobby as I was leaving.”
“Your mother and Mrs. Kivas had words.” It was not a question. “Tell me about that.”
“Karen recognized Mom from years ago. They said hi. That’s all.” I shrugged, and checked my watch. Totally nonchalant. “Will you look at the time? Your forensics officers will be finishing upstairs now. Shall I go up and tell them you’re free?”
“No need for you to act as my appointments secretary, Ms. Richardson.”
“I’m only trying to be helpful.” I threw a glance at Butch. He caught my eye and gave his head a slight shake. He was telling me, I assumed, to stop making things worse.
“As you won’t admit it, let me tell you what others observed Monday,” Watson said. “Your mother was rude and insulting to Ms. Kivas. Ms. Kivas was threatening in return. Does that sound about right?”
It came as no surprise to me that the cops were intimately acquainted with all the gruesome details of that hideous confrontation at the hotel Monday evening. Everyone in the vicinity had been enthralled, and no doubt happy to explain to the authorities, in great detail, what they’d heard.
“Well, yes, but only for people who don’t know my mom. She doesn’t do rude and insulting, you see. If she’d really meant to be rude—”
“Mrs. Kivas was heard to say that she knew something Mrs. Richardson wouldn’t want to become general knowledge. I believe the word ‘thief’ was mentioned. Do you have any idea what she meant?”
“No. That’s gossip, hearsay, isn’t it? You can’t use hearsay.”
“We’re not in a court of law, Lucy. I can ask whatever I want. Is she a heavy drinker, your mom?”
“Certainly not!” The picture on the wall behind Bertie’s desk was of a woman doing a Downward Dog on the beach at sunrise. Bertie was a yoga practitioner and instructor. She practiced its calming rituals every day. I stared at the poster, trying to soak up some of that calm. It wasn’t working.
I must have been doing it wrong.
“Three glasses of wine in quick succession with nothing to eat,” Watson said.
“We had something to eat. Bruschetta and calamari. Delicious.”
“You had bruschetta and calamari. Your mom’s plate was unused.”
I never liked having servants. I always suspected they were spying on me and laughing about me behind my back. Case in point: the hotel employees sure seemed to be keeping track of us. I imagined them in the kitchen, gossiping about the rich old broad who was vacationing alone and drinking so much her daughter had to take her car away.
“That’s uncharacteristic of my mother. She rarely drinks.”
“Is that so? I’ve found that folks often behave in unexpected ways when they have more to drink than they’re used to. Quick to take offense, sometimes. Even to lash out.”
“I didn’t mean she never drinks. I just meant, before dinner, without dinner, instead of dinner. I . . .”
“Thank you, Lucy. You’ve been a great help.”
“You mean we’re finished?”
“Yes.”
“You mean I can go?”
“Yes, Lucy,” Butch said. This conversation had made him almost as uncomfortable as it had made me.
I got to my feet. “I’m having dinner with my mom and the family tonight. Can she leave the hotel?”
“I’ll talk to her about that,” Watson said cryptically. “By your family, do you mean Amos O’Malley?”
“He . . . uh . . . might come.”
We were interrupted by a light knock. A cop popped her head in. “Detective. We’ve found something upstairs.”
Watson got to his feet. “You’re excused,” he said to me again.
We left the office. I headed for the main library, and the three cops took the stairs, fast. I was so curious I almost followed, but self-preservation took over.
“How’d it go?” Bertie asked.
“Not well. They found something interesting upstairs. I wonder if Karen left something behind after book club. It can’t be her purse. It was outside this morning with . . . uh . . . with her.”
“Let’s hope that, whatever it is, they can use it to sort this mess out. I have a library to run.”
“I’m going to check my phone for messages. Be right back,” I said.
I stepped outside and pulled out my iPhone. As soon as the No Service notice disappeared, the phone beeped, telling me I had a voice message.
“Lucy! Something dreadful has happened. Call your father. No, call Amos. I think . . . I think they are going to arrest me.”
Mom.