Charlene and I were once again standing at the window, trying not to be seen as we watched the police cruiser pull away. “Everything okay?” Charlene asked me. Her bright blue earbuds were draped around her neck, running to the iPhone she kept in her pocket.
“As okay as can be. Watson is sure interested in my mother’s behavior.” Despite what Butch said, I was still worried that Watson wasn’t focusing hard enough on other suspects.
“You’re worrying for nothing, Lucy,” she said. “He’s asking you about your mother because you’re in a position to know. He’s not going to ask you about people you don’t know, now, is he?”
“No, but . . .”
“No buts. Here, listen to this. I downloaded this new album this morning. Take a listen—you’re going to love it.”
Before I could protest, she was pushing buttons on the phone and stuffing the earbuds into my ears. I was hit by a blast of noise I didn’t like to call music and a man chanting hideous poetry in a repetitive monotone.
“Uh,” I said.
She pressed the phone into my hand. “Keep it for a while. I’ve been doing some research for a couple of California grad students on shipping along this coast during the early eighteenth century, and need to give them a call. You have to get down and dirty and into the music to appreciate it. A couple of bars don’t give the full effect. If you like it, I’ll include it in the bunch of CDs I’m putting together for your mom.”
She walked away, her shoulders and hips bopping to the memory of the tune. I waited until she disappeared before whipping the earbuds out of my ears. The full effect, I did not need. Her taste in music was dreadful, but her love of it so infectious I would pretend I’d listened to it.
Ronald had warned me that Charlene gave everyone rap CDs for Christmas. And then she spent the month of January asking which track they’d liked best. Fortunately, rap singers rarely gave concerts in the Outer Banks, and we could usually come up with an excuse not to accompany her to Raleigh for a performance.
I realized I was smiling. This was why I loved this library so much.
I stopped smiling as the door slammed open and Bertie marched in with a face that would frighten small children.
“Problem?” I asked, probably redundantly.
In answer she tossed a copy of the local newspaper onto my desk. It was folded open to the third page, to the op-eds.
PROMINENT LOCAL BUSINESSMAN CALLS FOR CLOSING OF LIGHTHOUSE LIBRARY, screamed the headline.
Heart in my mouth, I scanned the page.
Once again, tragedy has struck at the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library, this time taking the life of beloved Outer Banks native, mother, and grandmother Karen Whiteside Kivas. When will the mayor and townspeople realize that, aside from being a waste of hardworking taxpayers’ money in these difficult times, the remote location of the lighthouse is a danger to innocent women working and visiting there, particularly at night? Although we might wish that only well-meaning vacationers came to enjoy the benefits of our spectacular coast and beaches, in these lawless times the dregs of the city can also be found among us. As a library, the spectacular historic lighthouse is nothing but a drain on the funds of this town. If it were turned into an income-generating tourist attraction, not only could everyone enjoy its historic beauty, rather than members of a select special-interest group, but funds could be raised to install perimeter lighting, hire guards, and implement other safety measures to protect the women and children who would enjoy visiting in complete safety.
The horrible piece was signed Douglas Whiteside.
I looked up. Bertie’s face was beet red and a vein pulsed in her throat. For a moment, I thought she might be about to have a heart attack.
“Rather harsh,” I said.
“Harsh! I cannot believe Doug Whiteside has turned the death of his own sister into a political campaign attack ad. His concern for the safety of innocent women is pure bunk. Note the campaign slogans slipped in: hardworking taxpayers, special interest groups, income generating.” She was so angry I thought she might spit. “As if readers are a special interest group. As if we insist that anyone who wants to come in and tour the lighthouse has a library card!”
“He doesn’t say anything about running for mayor.”
“Of course not, this is the opening salvo. He’s found his issue to run against Connor with. Everyone knows Connor’s a big supporter of the library.”
“People won’t vote for Doug because of this, will they? We’re popular with tourists as well as locals. We’re always busy.” I glanced around the empty room. “Well, except for today.”
“You meet the people who use the library, Lucy. Our patrons and our friends. Yes, we have plenty of friends. But there are some people who don’t see the value in libraries. Particularly not one like this that could be turned into something income generating.”
I thought of Norm Kivas, who saw no need to take his grandchildren to the library reading group.
“The death of Karen has opened a whole world of possibilities for Doug Whiteside and his supporters. Now he can hit the campaign trail insisting that the library is not only a waste of money but out-and-out dangerous.” The indignation dropped from her voice. “You don’t feel unsafe here, do you, Lucy? If you don’t want to continue . . .”
“No! Not for a moment. I’m safer here than I was in my apartment in Boston. My place is four flights up in a building with four-foot-thick stone walls, with one door and one iron-barred ground-floor window.” I didn’t bother to mention Louise Jane’s hints at things that could move through walls, for whom lack of doors and windows was not an obstacle.
“If I was a nasty-minded person,” Bertie said, “I might think Doug Whiteside had murdered his own sister to further his political ambitions.” She stormed off down the hallway to her office, her long, colorful skirt swirling around her ankles.
She’d left the newspaper on my desk. Maybe I was a nasty-minded person, but I was thinking precisely that.
Two of our regular patrons came in, staggering under the weight of the books they were here to return. They plopped the volumes down on the desk. These women were lifelong friends, but they never exchanged their reading material. Ann Atkinson loved science fiction, the more military-focused the better. The top of her pile was a Tanya Huff, the cover illustrated with hard-bodied men and equally hard-bodied women bristling with weaponry. Brenda Morrison adored cozy mysteries. She’d taken out the full set of Erika Chase books: Siamese cats, glasses of sweet tea, and stately white verandas.
Brenda saw the newspaper on the desk, still open to the op-ed page. “That Doug Whiteside’s a fool. As if this town couldn’t get on without this library.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” I said. “I hope you’ll remember that at election time.”
“I heard rumors Doug’s going to run for mayor,” Ann said. “I’ve no worries. Connor will whip his butt.”
“Wouldn’t mind whipping Connor McNeil’s butt myself,” Brenda, who had to be at least seventy, said.
Her friend roared with laughter and they went to select more books.
I felt color rise in my cheeks and gratefully answered the ringing phone. “Bodie Island Lighthouse Library. Lucy speaking.”
“Time for drinkies!”
“Hi, Mom.”
“What time do you finish work?”
“We close at five on Saturdays.”
“Is today Saturday?”
“Yes. What’s up, Mom?”
“Your delightful friend Theodore is coming by for drinkies later. I thought you might like to join us.”
“Theodore is neither delightful nor my friend.”
“Time you made friends, then, dear. See you at six.” She hung up. I had not agreed to go. About the last thing I felt like was drinkies with Mom and Theodore. And since when did my mother use words like “drinkies,” anyway? I debated phoning her back to say I had other plans. Then I reconsidered: I hadn’t had a chance to speak to Theodore since the night Karen died. He’d been at book club. He was observant, what nasty-minded people would call “nosy.” He might have noticed something. Something the police hadn’t thought to ask. I decided one drink at the hotel couldn’t hurt.
The phone rang again.
“Bodie Island—”
“Hi, Lucy.”
“Connor. We were . . . uh”—I glanced at Ann and Brenda, each trying to convince the other to, just this once, try a different type of book—“talking about you.” Despite myself, I blushed. “If you want to talk to Bertie, she’s in her office.”
“I saw her at the meeting earlier. It’s you I want to talk to, Lucy. Are you free for dinner tonight?”
“That’d be nice.”
“Can I pick you up? Say around six thirty?”
“I’m supposed to be having a drink with my mom after work. Why don’t you join us? You can meet my mother.” My hand shot up to my mouth as soon as I realized what I’d just said. “I don’t mean that you need to meet my mother, I mean—”
“I’d like that, Lucy.”
“Can you make it quarter to six?”
“Sure. See you then.”
I put down the phone. When I looked up again, Ann and Brenda were grinning at me from over the tops of their piles of books. “Now,” said Brenda with a laugh, “I wonder who that might have been.”
“He of the nice butt, perhaps,” Ann said.
My face burned.