Bertie was not pleased, to say the least, when I told her that the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library Classic Novel Reading Club was having an impromptu meeting to discuss the murder of one of the group’s members.
“Here?”
“Here. Noon. Third floor.”
“I don’t suppose I can forbid it.”
“Probably not,” Ronald said.
“You can tell them the room’s booked,” Charlene said.
“That would be a lie,” Ronald pointed out. He was, after all, a children’s librarian.
“Not that I mind lying in a good cause,” Bertie said. “But they’d find me out easily enough. Oh, well. So be it. It’s nine o’clock now. Time to open up.”
The morning was busy. Connor had been a day off in his weather prediction. A storm had moved in last night, bringing strong winds and cold, lashing rain. Not a day to be at the beach. Instead, parents brought their children to the library. Ronald had a program at eleven for preteens on the history of the Outer Banks, and one at three for younger kids on the flora and fauna they might see exploring the beach and the dunes. Charlene showed interested parents our collection of historical maps and rare books, and answered questions about the history of this area.
I checked out books and answered questions about where to go for lunch (Josie’s Cozy Bakery, of course) or dinner (Jake’s Seafood Bar). I kept an eye on the spiral iron stairs leading up through the lighthouse tower. Adults were allowed to go there—the view from the top was magnificent—but unaccompanied children were not permitted past the second floor.
Mrs. Peterson came in, practically dragging a sullen ten-year-old. “Straighten up and put a smile on your face, Dallas. You’re lucky to be able to have this opportunity.” Seeing me watching, she pasted what was probably supposed to be a smile on her face. “Off you go now, honeybunch, and have fun! I’ll be up later to talk to Ronald about that list of books.”
Dallas slouched away. She might have had an iron ball attached to her leg, judging by the way she climbed the stairs.
“Problem?” I asked.
“Of course not,” Mrs. Peterson laughed. “How silly of you to think that. Dallas is such a good reader, you know, that the entire summer reading list Ronald provided her is far below her capabilities.”
I interpreted that to mean that Dallas refused to spend her summer sitting in the house reading under her mother’s watchful eye. No one is more a proponent of getting children reading and involved in the public library than I am, but even I had to think that sometimes Mrs. Peterson went overboard with her girls. Dallas had probably arranged something with friends for today—it was school holidays after all—but her mother insisted on bringing her to the library. It wasn’t as if the entire Peterson brood didn’t almost live here. Mrs. Peterson treated Ronald like a member of her private staff. Unfortunately, Mr. Peterson had squandered what little money they’d had on poor investments, and thus his wife had to get by with no staff at all, never mind the exclusive services of a children’s librarian.
When Dallas’s leaden footsteps had fallen quiet, Mrs. Peterson leaned over the desk, all ready to impart a confidence.
Charles always seemed to know when a non–cat lover was in the building. He left the children’s library and came downstairs. He leapt onto the circulation desk and rubbed himself against the jacket of Mrs. Peterson’s peach suit. She screeched and leapt back. “That cat is a nuisance. I don’t know if I can continue bringing my children here if he’s allowed to remain. When I think of Phoebe’s allergies.”
Phoebe Peterson had never so much as sniffled in Charles’s presence. In fact, she seemed particularly fond of him, and I’d once overheard her telling Ronald, sadly, that their mother didn’t approve of animals in the house.
Charles gave me a smirk and jumped off the desk. He walked away with his tail high and a wiggle to his hips.
Mrs. Peterson dusted cat hairs off her jacket, and continued in a huff, “I can’t believe I was interrogated by the police!”
“They were talking to everyone who was here last Tuesday night.”
“I can only thank my lucky stars that my sweet Charity and Primrose hadn’t come to book club that particular night. They’re at such a delicate age, you know.”
I thought of Charity in particular, a hefty, muscular teenager more interested in sticks and pucks and mitts and balls than in books. Nothing wrong with kids who preferred playing sports to reading, but Mrs. Peterson was definitely pretending (to herself most of all) that Charity was a delicate flower of Southern womanhood.
“Although,” she said with a deep sigh, “it’s unfortunate I had to leave so promptly that evening, without staying to help you tidy up.” Mrs. Peterson always fled before anyone could have the audacity to ask her to put away a chair or throw a napkin in the trash. Tidying up was for the hired help. “I’m a keen observer of human nature, you know, Lucy. I might have been able to tell the police something that more . . . shall we say, self-concerned people would have missed.”
I hid a smile. I would never call Mrs. Peterson self-concerned. But if it didn’t affect one of her five daughters, it simply didn’t exist.
“Poor Christine, struck down in the prime of life.”
“Christine? Oh, you mean Karen.”
She waved her hand in the air. “Yes, of course. They’re saying it was a falling-out among thieves.”
“I think we should leave speculation up to the police, don’t you?”
“Of course. I would never presume to repeat gossip. Why, there’s Lennie Saunderson. I hear her Jeremy failed his exams. And her wanting him to go to med school. I know some excellent private tutors. I’m sure she’d like to hear about them.” And Mrs. Peterson bustled off to delight the hapless Lennie with words of advice.
At a few minutes before noon, the Gray Woman walked in.
“Good morning,” I said.
She nodded. A drop of rain fell off the tip of her prominent nose.
“Can I help you with something?”
“No.” She disappeared behind MORRISON–PROULX. This was starting to get seriously weird, but I didn’t have time to think about her before the book club began arriving. Louise Jane was first, accompanying Mrs. Fitzgerald.
“Josie can’t make it,” Louise Jane announced, shaking water off her plastic poncho. “She’s working, of course.”
“Did you mention this to Butch?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “And I didn’t invite CeeCee Watson, either, in case she tells her husband. The less the cops know, the better. Same for the mayor. But Connor wasn’t here that night anyway.”
Grace looked charming in a pink-and-yellow raincoat and matching rubber boots. She gave me an exaggerated wink. At least someone thought this was funny. My mother was next through the doors, followed by George, manager. He fumbled to close his umbrella, managing to deposit a considerable amount of rainwater on the floor.
“What are you doing here?” I asked my mom.
“Louise Jane phoned the hotel. A message was waiting for me after dinner last night. She correctly assumed that I’d be interested in going over the events of the other night. George kindly agreed to give me a lift.”
Mom smiled as the next book club member arrived. “And here’s Theodore. How nice.” He carried a small black umbrella, wet but neatly furled. He turned to George, still struggling with his. “Need some help with that, old chap?”
“Perhaps you, Lucy, and Theodore might put your heads together and go over the events of that night,” Mom said. “One of you might remember something.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. This was probably not the time nor the place to mention that I had my suspicions about our book collector himself.
Mrs. Peterson joined us. “I was telling Lily here—”
“Lucy.”
“Whatever—that I regret not staying the other night. I would have loved to be able to help the police with their inquiries.”
Mrs. Peterson read nothing but parental-advice books. She was probably not aware that in the British detective novels, “helping the police with their inquiries” referred to a character who was under suspicion.
Our library’s very small, and gets crowded quickly. Which it was now with the book club, various hangers-on such as George, the parents and kids lingering after the children’s group, as well as regular patrons, everyone dripping rainwater onto the black-and-white marble floor.
Bertie came out of the back hall. “What on earth?”
“Bodie Island Lighthouse Library Classic Novel Reading Club and Detective Agency at your service,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said with a giggle.
“This isn’t a laughing matter, Eunice,” Bertie said. “A woman died.”
“We know that,” Louise Jane said. “And we intend to do something about it.”
The non–book clubbers had stopped whatever they were doing to stand and watch. The Gray Woman stuck her head out from behind the stacks. Charlene and Ronald appeared on the stairs.
“Can I be a detective, too?” a cute little girl, all freckles and pigtails, asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Louise Jane huffed. “Come on, everyone, let’s go upstairs.” The crowd surged forward. “I mean everyone I’ve invited!”
“Not so fast,” said a deep voice from the door.
As one, we all turned. Detective Watson filled the entrance, his legs apart and his hands on his hips. “What’s going on here?”
“An impromptu meeting of our book club,” Louise Jane said. “None of your concern.”
“I’ll decide what’s my concern. Any reason Officer Greenblatt wasn’t invited to this impromptu meeting? He’s a member of the club, I believe.”
“I assumed,” Louise Jane said, “he’d be at work.”
“A correct assumption. Officer Greenblatt is, in fact, at work. Outside right now, as it happens, in his cruiser. Ready to take anyone interfering in a police investigation downtown.”
Grace whispered into my ear, “Maybe you could interfere and get to spend some quality time with Butch.”
“Shush,” I said, my cheeks blazing.
“Time for Dallas’s violin lesson.” Mrs. Peterson dragged the girl, who was for once showing some interest in her surroundings, out the door.
“I’m only here to get a book,” Mrs. Fitzgerald lied.
“I have no idea why I’m here,” Theodore said. “I was told Lucy needed me.”
“What?” I glared at my mother. She smiled innocently in return.
“Lucy, honey, do you have that new Threadville Mystery in yet?” Mrs. Fitzgerald, who was totally up-to-date on her cozy reading, asked. “I’ve been waiting for ages.”
“Let me check,” I said, knowing full well the new book wouldn’t be out for another month yet. I bent over the computer.
“If anyone has anything new to reveal about the death of Karen Kivas,” Watson said in a voice that would have reached the back rows of the Metropolitan Opera, “they may tell me about it. Otherwise, leave it alone. The police have the matter in hand.”
“Do you?” Louise Jane protested. “After the death of Jonathan Uppiton, I advised you to bring in a medium. Someone to communicate with the other residents of this building. But you wouldn’t hear of it, Mr. Skeptic. Mr. New York Detective. You refused. And now look what’s happened.”
“Jonathan Uppiton’s murder was solved,” Watson reminded her. “Nothing supernatural about it.”
“My point exactly!” Louise Jane shouted, although I didn’t see that Watson had said anything to support her argument. “We have another mysterious death in the library. Another chance to ask the spirits what’s going on.”
People began murmuring. I heard words like “murder,” “death,” “ghosts.” A couple of parents grabbed their children by the arm and pulled them, protesting loudly, out of the library.
“That’s enough.” Bertie pushed herself through the crowd. “There has not been another death in this library. The unfortunate incident to which you are referring, Louise Jane, happened outside.”
Louise Jane turned to Bertie. “A technicality. You can’t tell me it hasn’t occurred to you that this spate of murders”—another group of parents bolted for the exit, wide-eyed children in tow—“isn’t related to the arrival of Lucy.”
“Hey!” I said.
“What?” my mother said.
For once Bertie was speechless. Detective Watson, however, was not. “That’s enough. Anyone who isn’t here on library business, leave now.” He focused his steely gray eyes on Mrs. Fitzgerald.
“Oh, dear,” she said, “I do think I left the coffeepot on the stove. Getting quite forgetful in my old age. Louise Jane, take me home.”
“I’m not ready—”
“Yes, you are,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said. “I’ll see you folks next week. At the regular meeting.” She clamped her hand onto Louise Jane’s arm and pulled the other woman out the door with considerably more strength than her small frame hinted at. “Suzanne,” Louise Jane called over her shoulder, “don’t forget we’re having drinks tomorrow at six.”
In all the excitement and the mass of people, I hadn’t seen Diane Uppiton come in. I spotted her now as the crowd began to thin out. A highly unpleasant smile was on her red lips. She caught my eye and smirked. Then she plastered on her fake smile and strode across the room, heels tapping on the marble floor. “Bertie, honey. What an unfortunate scene. I sure hope this doesn’t damage the reputation of the library. That’d be a real tragedy.”
Diane couldn’t help herself turning her head toward the stacks as she said that. A glance passed between her and the Gray Woman. I shivered.
Gradually the library emptied out. Book clubbers left, pretending they weren’t at all disappointed in the ruination of their attempts at playing Sherlock. Grace gave me another exaggerated wink. The remaining patrons returned to the stacks.
“That was odd,” my mom said.
“What are you doing being friendly with Louise Jane?” I asked.
“I like her.”
“I don’t want you to like her. My welfare is not her primary concern.”
“Everything I do isn’t about you, Lucille. Come along, George. Clearly we are no longer needed here.”
I was gobsmacked. But I didn’t have the luxury of time to reflect on what on earth Mom was up to now. Watson stepped in front of her. He lifted one hand in the universal stop gesture. “Mrs. Richardson. Nice to see you’re still in the area.”
“I’m enjoying my vacation. And having a pleasant visit with my daughter. Good afternoon, Detective.”
“Now that you’re here, I have a couple more questions about the other night.”
Mom hesitated. “Must I call Amos?”
“That’s up to you.”
George pushed himself between Watson and my mom. “I won’t have the police harassing Mrs. Richardson like this.”
Oh, dear. Watson had kept his voice down. George, on the other hand, was getting indignant. No doubt enjoying the opportunity to rush to the rescue. St. George slaying the dragon that was the Nags Head PD. Heads were once again beginning to turn, Diane Uppiton’s among them.
“I’m not harassing anyone,” Watson said calmly. “Come to think of it, you were here that night, weren’t you, Mr. Marwick? Do you have anything you’d like to add to your original statement?”
George sputtered.
Mom simply walked out of the building. George Marwick scurried after her. Watson made no move to follow. Instead he came over to the circulation desk. He kept his voice low. “No more impromptu book club meetings, Lucy. Leave the detecting to us.”
“I didn’t call it.”
“I know that.” He left.
I didn’t need the help of Sherlock Holmes to figure out how Detective Watson knew what the book club was up to. Someone on the e-mail distribution list must have noticed that CeeCee had not been included and helpfully passed it on. And she’d told her husband.
I was more concerned at what had brought Diane Uppiton here at exactly the right time. Diane, as well as the Gray Woman. My first thought was Louise Jane, causing mischief. But that couldn’t be it. Louise Jane seemed to have called this meeting in all seriousness, not simply grabbing another chance to stir the pot. And hope I fell out of it. All the way back to Boston.
Speaking of which . . . Mom and Louise Jane were meeting again. Mom was getting quite chummy with George, manager. Mom was throwing Theodore at me.
My mother was still under suspicion of murder.
My head hurt.
It was still hurting at five o’clock when we announced that the library was closing. The rain hadn’t let up once, and Ronald, Charlene, and I were on mop duty all day. Parents with small children might have fled at word of a murder on the premises, but suspense and thriller lovers beat a path to our doors. The mystery shelf was looking somewhat depleted by midafternoon.
Once the last of the stragglers had left, I flipped the sign to CLOSED. Before locking the door, I stuck my head out to check if it was still raining. It was. I heard the rumble of engines and, through the mist and driving rain, saw a small convoy of cars coming down the lane.
A gleaming black Cadillac Escalade was in the front, followed by two sedans, and then a battered old pickup truck. A van blazoned with the logo of the local TV station brought up the rear.
“Bertie,” I bellowed. “You’d better get out here.”
“This,” Ronald said over my shoulder, “cannot be good.”
“Oh, no,” Bertie said.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“As Bertie pointed out earlier,” Ronald said, “the lighthouse is on public property. Nothing we can do.”
The cars pulled into the parking lot. A man leapt out of the passenger seat of the Escalade before it had fully come to a stop. He popped open a golf umbrella and held it aloft to provide shelter as a woman climbed out of the back. She was dressed in a crimson suit, a white blouse, and red patent leather pumps. A button was pinned to her suit jacket. Doug Whiteside emerged from the driver’s seat, unfurling his own umbrella. Two men in somber suits got out of the second vehicle. A sloppily dressed fellow emerged from the third car. He was a reporter with the local paper. The TV van disgorged a middle-aged woman done up like a high school girl on prom night and a man who hefted a camera onto his shoulder. The reporter opened a pink umbrella. The camera was draped in plastic. As I’d suspected, the pickup was driven by Norm Kivas, who was accompanied by Sandy, his date from the other night.
Bertie dashed out, heedless of the rain. Ronald, Charlene, and I followed.
Doug Whiteside’s broad smile didn’t reach his eyes as he held out his hand to Bertie. She ignored it. “What’s going on here?”
“Sorry we’re late,” the woman with him said. “The newspaper guy got tied up.”
“Late for what?” Bertie said.
Late for a full house at the library, no doubt.
A police cruiser pulled into the parking lot, and Butch joined our sodden little group.
“Don’t worry, Ms. James,” Billy, who’d been with Doug at Josie’s the other day, said. He held a big bouquet of wilting red roses, wrapped in supermarket cellophane. “Nothing’s wrong. We’ve asked the police to provide some crowd control.” I counted a crowd of less than ten.
“Can we hurry this up?” the TV woman said. “I’m freezing here.”
Billy led the way, still carrying the flowers. Doug took what I assumed was his wife’s arm (she looked suitably politican’s-wife-ish), while the man holding the umbrella aloft slipped and slid in the mud. The party stepped off the path and rounded the lighthouse. We followed. The women’s heels sank into the sodden muck. The TV reporter swore a blue streak. One of the men matched her curses as his leather-clad foot found a hole in the grass. Mrs. Whiteside threw her husband a glare that was not found in the good-politician’s-spouse handbook as mud flowed over the top of her shiny shoe.
Norm Kivas followed, looking as if he didn’t quite know what was going on. He had not dressed for the occasion, whatever the occasion was, and was in clean but well-used jeans and a Steelers T-shirt that was so new it almost shone. A FOR NAGS HEAD button was pinned to the shirt. His woman friend had a similar button attached to her tight T-shirt. She was wearing skinny jeans above four-inch heels. “Norm, honey,” she said, “you didn’t tell me we’d be hiking.”
Rain dripped down my nose. My hair was plastered to my head.
The last of the police tape had been taken away. Nothing remained to mark the place where Karen had died. Doug obviously didn’t know where it was. He looked around, momentarily confused. “Over here, Mr. Whiteside,” Billy said, gesturing to a patch of muddy earth against the round walls. He was about ten feet off. I didn’t bother to point that out. The location had been chosen because it had a nice backdrop of the open field to the marsh.
Everyone took their positions. “Mrs. Whiteside,” Billy said. “If you’ll step over here.” She tiptoed through the grass as though she were keeping an eye out for evidence of a passing dog. The color of the campaign button fastened to her jacket clashed with her red suit. She and Doug held hands. They didn’t bother to look at each other. Billy passed her the spray of flowers and she cradled it awkwardly in her free arm. The newspaper guy pulled out a digital recorder and the camera guy checked his angles. Sandy smiled at the TV reporter. The TV reporter ignored her.
I glanced at Bertie. Her mouth was set into a tight line of disapproval. Butch came to stand beside me. He gave me a smile of hello and a shrug of what-can-you-do.
“Is that on?” Doug asked.
“When you’re ready,” the cameraman said.
Doug checked his tie was straight. He composed his face into serious lines. “One week ago, my beloved sister, Karen, was brutally murdered on this very spot.” Mrs. Whiteside wiped a tear away, barely avoiding sticking a rose petal into her eye. Doug gestured to the expanse of land and sky behind him. “This is a beautiful spot. One of the many wonders of nature to be found on the Outer Banks. Sadly, it is not a place where women can feel free to come and go at night. It is not a place for a library. I’d like to see this wonderful lighthouse and the grounds returned to the people of the Outer Banks, whether visitors or residents. A place where people can relax in safety and comfort.” He paused to wipe at his eye. Bertie huffed. I hoped the microphones would pick that up.
“For the past year, people have been telling me that they want me—no, they need me—to run for mayor. They need someone with a firm hand on the tiller of our community. A firm eye on the hardworking taxpayers’ hard-earned money. For the past year, I’ve resisted. My family, I always said, has to come first.” Doug turned to his wife. He gazed adoringly at her. Billy jerked his head. Mrs. Whiteside suddenly realized she should be gazing adoringly back. She did so, and Doug went on. “But in light of what happened to Karen, Trixie has convinced me that I have another duty. A duty to the memory of Karen, and to all the families of our town.” Trixie smiled bravely.
“Therefore,” Doug went on, “I am here today, at the spot that shall forever be sacred to my family, to announce my candidacy for mayor.” The small group around us broke into applause, making up with enthusiasm what they lacked in numbers. Noticeably, the camera did not turn to pan across the crowd. Doug lifted his wife’s hand. He kissed it and then released it. “I have the pleasure of letting you all know that I have the support of my brother-in-law, Norman Kivas. Let’s do this for Karen, Norm.” Doug stepped to one side, his hand held out. Norm came forward, blinking rapidly. Sandy made to follow. Billy’s arm shot out and caught her at the level of her campaign button. Norm shook Doug’s hand. Then Doug said, “Trixie.” Trixie bent awkwardly—her skirt was too tight—and laid the flowers against the lighthouse wall.
“I will now take questions,” Doug said. “Yes, Miss Lancaster?”
The TV woman held out her microphone. “My condolences on your loss. Are the police any closer to making an arrest in the murder of your sister?”
“I am, of course, only a concerned citizen, the same as the rest of you. I’m not privy to the police investigation, but I can assure your viewers that if they honor me by electing me mayor, I’ll conduct a thorough review of police procedures. Unlike our current administration, I believe in working with law enforcement agencies from all over the area.” Trixie looked adoring. Norm churned up mud beneath his big boots. Norm’s girlfriend pouted.
“Do you plan an increase in the police budget, then?” the TV reporter asked.
Doug laughed. “Unlike the current administration, gouging more money from the hardworking taxpayers isn’t my solution to everything. I’ve already identified places in the police department where we can find efficiencies.”
“Pardon me,” Bertie said. “I have to go and throw up.”
“Do you want me to ask him a question?” Ronald said. “I can point out the popularity of the library.”
“Save your breath,” Bertie said. “These are his tame reporters. They don’t care what you say.”
“You don’t think he has a chance at winning, do you?” Charlene asked.
“I certainly hope not.”
“So do I,” Butch said. “All this talk about efficiencies? Just a fancy word for cutting the police budget by laying off cops.”
“I’m outa here,” Charlene said. “Night, all.”
Ronald walked with her to their cars. Bertie went back inside, emerging a few minutes later with her purse. She also drove away. I stayed with Butch, thinking that Connor would want to know what had happened here.
The TV woman turned to face the camera full-on, while Doug spoke to the newspaper guy. Billy had his hands full keeping Norm’s girlfriend away from the reporters. It wouldn’t do the grieving-husband image any good if the public got a look at her. Trixie wandered around, bored. One of the men held the umbrella over her head and led her back to the car. She gave Butch an approving appraisal as she passed us. Me, she ignored.
Then it was over. The reporters rushed to pack up their equipment and bolted back to their cars. Doug, Norm, Sandy, and the entourage followed. No one was smiling anymore.
Billy spotted me and approached, hand outstretched. “Hi, there. Nice to see you again. Doug, you remember Miss . . .”
“Richardson.”
“Of course.”
“How ya doin’?” Doug also gave my hand an enthusiastic pump. “Billy, give this lovely lady a button from me.”
Billy pulled a FOR NAGS HEAD button out of his pocket. I snatched it away before he could pin it to my chest.
“Lovely spot here, isn’t it?” Doug said. “Don’t you worry for a moment about that killing, Miss Richardson. The police are about to make an arrest. Strictly a personal affair, I understand. Isn’t that right, Officer? I’m a strong supporter of the police. Get rid of political interference and let our heroes in blue, such as this fine fellow here, do their jobs, right? I plan to turn this whole area into an attractive spot so visitors like you can enjoy it in complete safety.”
As if I were standing here, in the driving rain, without an umbrella, dressed in a cotton blouse, a plain skirt, and one-inch pumps, because I was about to head off for a nature hike. “Safe,” I said. “Like Disney World or a zoo.”
Doug beamed. “Got it in one!”
Billy seemed to be more on the ball than his boss. “If the library’s closed to make room for tourist facilities, Doug’ll make sure everyone who works here finds other jobs, won’t you, Doug?”
“Huh? Oh, right. Jobs. Yup, we need jobs. Good jobs. I’ve a plan—”
“I need gas money,” Norm Kivas said.
Billy swung on his heels. “Let me walk you to your car, Norm, Sandy. Mrs. Whiteside’s waiting, Doug. We have the ladies’ tea next. Can’t be late.”
“I’m glad I have your vote,” Doug said to Butch and me. “For Nags Head.”
I didn’t fail to notice Billy reaching into his pocket and pressing something into Norm’s hand. Norm’s girlfriend turned and ran toward us before Billy could stop her.
“Hey,” she said. “Nice to see you again. Remember me? I’m Sandy Sechrest.”
“Lucy.”
“Speaking of jobs, do you have any openings here? I mean, like, at the library?”
“Didn’t I just hear that your pal Doug wants to close the library? That would mean no jobs. For anyone.”
“Oh, heck. It’s all talk. He hasn’t got a chance of winning anyway. I never vote, but I might this time. That Mayor McNeil’s kinda cute.”
Nice to see Connor had the fluffy-headed-bimbo voting bloc locked up.
I studied Sandy. On closer inspection I could see that beneath the excessive makeup, her eyes contained a glimmer of intelligence. “If you’re ever hiring, I’d appreciate a heads-up. I’m not a librarian, but I’m a darn hard worker.” Her smile was genuine.
“I’ll bear that in mind. Why not stop by sometime, have a look around, see what we’re all about here? This is not your grandmother’s library.”
“Thanks. I’d like that. Gotta run. I was kinda hoping to get myself on TV. I guess that’s not gonna happen. See you around.”
Butch and I stood in silence, watching them drive away.
“Rather convenient for good old Doug. Having his sister die that way.” I spoke through chattering teeth.
“You’re absolutely drenched, Lucy,” Butch said. “Let’s get inside.”
“I’m fine.” I rubbed my arms in a feeble attempt to generate some warmth.
The library was deliciously warm, dry, and cozy. I grabbed a shawl from the back of the circulation desk chair. Butch smiled at me. “You do look like a drowned rat.”
Charles shuddered in sympathy and rubbed against my ankles, bringing some circulation back to my legs.
“Not much worse than you,” I said to Butch.
“No, but my job often involves standing in the rain. You better get upstairs and dry off before you catch your death.”
“Don’t worry about me. I never get sick. Are you going to tell Watson what I said? About Doug benefiting from Karen’s death?”
“Yes.”
Charles leapt up onto the desk. He rubbed his head against Butch’s arm, asking for a scratch.
Butch obliged.
“And not only the whole grieving-brother thing, either,” I said. “The flowers were a nice touch. Do you think Mrs. Whiteside is on something? She sure looked out of it to me.”
“Bored to death, most likely. As was everyone else.”
“Family relationships are important in political campaigns. Particularly in close-knit communities like this one. Doug and Karen were, so I’ve been told, seriously at odds for a long time. I’ve also been told that Karen had a mean streak, and wasn’t one to let bygones be bygones. I wonder if she would have done something to sabotage her brother’s campaign. A few well-placed words about family secrets, skeletons in the closet.”
“I don’t know, and neither do you, Lucy.”
“No, but I can speculate to my heart’s content. Doug had two reasons to want his sister dead.”
“Doesn’t mean he did it.” Charles purred as Butch’s big fingers scratched all his favorite spots.
“As for Norm, he’s also benefiting by Karen’s death. For one thing, he’s back in their house, and has a cute young girlfriend. Doug’s paying him to traipse around after him and look suitably grief-stricken. I hope you and Watson haven’t forgotten that Norm was seen the day after Karen’s death dining at an expensive restaurant with that girl, Sandy.”
“We haven’t forgotten, Lucy.”
“In fact,” I went on, as the cold seeped through my light blouse and into my bones, “about the only one who has no reason to have wanted Karen dead is my mother.”
“Lucy, I can’t talk about that with you. Except to say that Watson’s keeping an open mind. Look, you’re shivering all over. You need to get upstairs and have a hot shower.”
“Okay.”
“Can I see you up?” His hazel eyes twinkled. “I can scrub your back.”
“No, you cannot. I have to lock the door after you.”
“You can always lock up first.”
If I’d been Josie, I would have tossed my hair and laughed delightfully and punched him playfully in the arm. But I’m not Josie and blood rushed to my head and my laugh was so strangled I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d begun to perform the Heimlich maneuver.
Charles chose that moment to jump to the floor. Butch leapt back as a mass of tan fur passed in front of his face. “Whoa, I get the hint, buddy.”
This time my laugh was real.
“Come on,” Butch said. “Walk me to the door.” He held out his hand. I took it in mine. It felt warm and solid and safe, very safe. He bent down and gave me a kiss on the cheek. A kiss as light as a drifting feather.
Then he stepped back. “I’ll wait right here, until the door’s closed and I hear the lock turn.”
“Yes, Officer Greenblatt,” I said. “Whatever you say, Officer Greenblatt.”
Butch left and I did as I’d been ordered.
Charles jumped onto the iron railing and escorted me upstairs. I eyed the big cat. Had Charles attempted, like an Austen chaperone, to protect my honor?
Did I want, like an Austen heroine, to have my honor protected?
An image of Connor’s smiling face and sparkling blue eyes popped unbidden into my head.
Who knew life in a library on the Outer Banks could be so interesting?