On the way back to the lighthouse, Theodore didn’t bring up the subject of the Ian Flemings. He was smart enough to know I might not approve if I thought he’d approached my mom for money. Instead he told me that Tess of the D’Urbervilles wasn’t his favorite Thomas Hardy and he’d been disappointed when it was chosen at book club, but he didn’t like to overrule the less literary among us. How about a rip-roaring adventure yarn next? He suggested Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson.
Outside Nags Head, Highway 12 runs along the shore and through the Hatteras National Seashore. It’s a long way to the next town, tiny, picturesque Rodanthe. At night the road’s dark and quiet. A single vehicle passed us, throwing light into the interior of our car. I glanced at Theodore. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, his hands firm in the acceptable ten-and-two position on the steering wheel. If my mom, for some completely unknown reason, was intent on setting me up with Theodore, the poor guy didn’t know any more about it than I did.
He didn’t get out of the car to see me to my door, but watched until I was safely inside. Charles greeted me with an indignant hiss. He seemed to be objecting to having been locked out of the apartment without any dinner.
“Your fault,” I said, following him upstairs.
Once I’d taken care of Charles’s culinary needs and prepared myself for bed, I powered up my iPad to check for messages. I was surprised to see the screen fill with e-mails from the members of my book club. The subject line on them all was “Karen.” Louise Jane seemed to have started the thread. I opened the message. In Louise Jane’s abrupt style it said:
I want to meet to discuss the death of Karen after last week’s book club. Clearly the police aren’t up to the job. Monday noon at the library. Third floor.
Aside from the fact that Louise Jane had no business taking over the meeting room without checking with us to see if it was available, I wasn’t pleased. What was she up to now?
The rest of the e-mails were some variation of “I’ll be there.”
Which reminded me that nothing more had been said about the memorial service at the hotel tomorrow. I didn’t intend to go. I wanted to go to Karen’s funeral, which hadn’t been announced yet, but I was hardly a member of her “hotel family.” I remembered that George had been about to fire Karen on the steps of the hotel after her altercation with Mom. Some family.
I closed the iPad and climbed into bed. I was in the middle of the Simone St. James book. I glanced around my apartment, looking into the dark corners. Not that it had any corners, since it was a round room. Charles kneaded at the quilt, preparing to settle down.
I opened the book and began to read.
I put it down.
Books. Theodore. He’d seemed quite sure he’d be able to recover the set of first editions he’d had to sell recently. That had to mean he’d come into some money. It made no sense to me that Mom would offer to help him out. Unless . . . unless it was part of a business deal.
You bring my daughter back to Boston and I’ll buy your books for you.
If so, she must have explained his part of the deal pretty obliquely. Teddy had scarcely been attempting to charm me. Tonight, he’d shown as much interest in my life as he usually did. Meaning absolutely none. He wasn’t a stupid man; in fact he was very intelligent. Just socially awkward and obsessed with books. And inclined to have sticky fingers around other people’s collections on occasion.
Not that anything’s wrong with being obsessed with books. I’ve been accused of that myself.
Not the sticky fingers part, though.
Then again, when carried to extremes, obsession does have a way of overcoming scruples and values. How much did Theodore want those James Bonds back? It must have hurt him enormously to have to sell them. To see them passing into other hands. And then to hear they were back on the market only a short time later?
How far would he go to recover them?
Would he steal?
Would he kill?
I thought back to book club night. Theodore had been sitting beside Aunt Ellen. Ellen sat next to Mom. He was close enough to Mom’s beach bag, particularly before the meeting, when everyone was getting drinks and pastries, or when they were preparing to leave. Had Theodore stolen the necklace and slipped it into Mom’s bag, intending to get it out of the hotel that way and later recover it at book club?
No, that wouldn’t work. Theodore wouldn’t have been searched leaving the hotel. If he’d had the necklace on him, he could’ve simply walked out with it.
Had it happened the other way around? Had Theodore taken the necklace and brought it, concealed on his person, to book club? Did Karen Kivas see him take it? Did she confront him and tell him what she knew? Did she convince him to slip it into Mom’s bag so it would be discovered and returned to its owner?
My heart almost stopped beating.
Did Theodore tell Karen he was going to return the necklace? And then kill her because of what she knew?
If that was what had happened, then he’d killed Karen for nothing. He didn’t have the necklace. But other than the aforementioned sticky fingers, he was no experienced criminal. He would have acted in panic, and then seen the prize slip between his fingers.
I clutched the quilt to my chest. Theodore had driven me home. He’d sat in his car in the parking lot when I let myself into the building. I hadn’t checked to see if he’d driven away.
Was he out there now, in the dark, watching my window? Waiting until the light went out?
Something moved behind my head. I screeched. Charles’s tan face and dark brown ears appeared.
Okay, maybe tonight wasn’t the best night to read a ghost story.
I switched out my light. Charles’s warm bulk curled up against my side and he purred.