The morning news on the radio reported that George Marwick had been arrested and charged with the murder of Karen Kivas. It said nothing about the attempted kidnapping of my mom and the confrontation under the walls of the lighthouse.
I was grateful for that. Crowds of eager crime-scene tourists would not be descending on our library to ask for directions to the exact spot.
By the time Bertie, Ronald, and Charlene arrived the next morning, the police had gone, leaving no evidence of their presence behind. Before turning the sign on the door to OPEN, I told my coworkers what had happened and asked them to keep it to themselves.
“And people think librarians’ lives are dull,” Charlene said. “Speaking of which, I downloaded this new album last night. Y’all are going to love it. Who wants to borrow my iPhone first?”
“No time,” Bertie said, fleeing for her office.
“Kids’ program to prepare,” Ronald said, dashing for the stairs.
As I was the last to respond, the phone and earbuds were shoved into my hand.
And so a typical day at the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library began.
Mom and Aunt Ellen arrived around ten. Last night, I’d stood outside for a long time, watching the police go about their business and waiting until Mom finished her phone call and joined me. She said nothing about what had transpired between her and Dad, and I didn’t ask. She gave me a hug, and let Butch lead her to his car.
“I’m going home, darling,” she said to me now.
“Home as in Boston, or home as in our house?” I said.
“The house. Your father and I have a lot of work to do on our marriage.”
I gave her a big hug. Aunt Ellen was smiling. She might not like my dad, but more than anything, she wanted her sister to be happy.
“Next week we’re going to Paris,” Mom said.
“Paris? You mean you and Dad?”
“Paris first, then Rome and Madrid, and a few days in Mallorca.”
“Does Dad even have a passport?”
“He needed one for that trip to Toronto for the convention last year.”
“Oh, right.” My parents had never, as long I could remember, had a holiday together. I figured time spent in some of the world’s most romantic cities would do them a lot of good.
“Believe it or not,” Aunt Ellen said, “the trip was your father’s idea.”
“Send postcards,” I said.
“Thank you, Lucy,” Mom said. “For everything.”
“Before you go, I have one question. Are you financing Theodore to buy a collection of first-edition Ian Flemings?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“You seemed to be very chummy, never mind plotting something together. I was just wondering.”
“I might have hinted that you were single, and that your father and I are not short of funds. Theodore did not seem to be getting the hint, I must say.”
“Why would you do that? I’m not attracted to him in the least.”
“Perhaps I was hoping that if Theodore expressed an interest in you, you’d flee back home. I was wrong, Lucy. I’ve been wrong about a lot of things. You are obviously very happy here. I’m nothing but delighted for you. Perhaps I can meet your Butch and Connor again another time.”
“They’re not my Butch and Connor,” I said.
She merely smiled, and we hugged once more.
Charlene came running down the stairs. “Thank heavens I caught you before you left.” She stuffed a plastic bag into Mom’s hand. I hid a grin. The bag was full of CDs. “This will help you enjoy the drive home. Be sure and write and tell me which ones you liked best, and then I can make some more recommendations.”
“Thank you,” Mom said in all innocence.
I stood at the door waving as Mom and Aunt Ellen climbed into their cars. Aunt Ellen drove off first, and then the SLK pulled away in a spray of gravel and an enthusiastic tooting of the horn.
Our next visitor was Irene Dawson, the Gray Woman. She was dressed in her habitual color, but she gave me a warm smile as she came in. She carried a briefcase. Gray, of course.
“Good morning, Lucy. Is Ms. James in?”
“She’s in her office.”
“I’ve brought her a copy of my report. The names of my clients will, of course, remain confidential, but the contents are not.”
I showed Irene into the back. She came out a few minutes later, accompanied by Bertie, said good-bye to us, and left. Bertie’s smile faded.
“When I get my hands on Diane Uppiton,” she said, “I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
“Did Irene tell you Diane commissioned that study?” I asked.
“No, but who else? I can’t believe she was prepared to waste library funds in such a desperate attempt to get rid of me.”
“Don’t forget to breathe,” I said, folding my hands into my chest. “Namaste.”
Bertie growled and went back to her office.
“You had some excitement last night, I heard,” Theodore said, rubbing his hands together in glee.
“More excitement than I like,” I said.
“Louise Jane and I wondered where you two had gotten to. We had one drink and then left. I must say, Louise Jane’s conversation can be rather single-minded. Your mother’s all right?”
“Perfectly. She’s gone home to Boston.” I eyed him. “Are you okay with that?”
“Why shouldn’t I be? Your mother’s very nice, but I didn’t expect her to stay any longer.”
“I guess I was thinking . . . about the Ian Flemings.”
His smile stretched from ear to ear. “You heard? Isn’t it wonderful?”
“What’s wonderful?”
“I bought them back. I’m absolutely delighted, my dear, delighted.”
“That’s great. But how . . . ?”
“As you know, my collection is heavy on the classic works of mystery and suspense. Fleming, Hammett, Mickey Spillane—that’s the sort of book I prefer. However, like any serious collector, I occasionally branch out into other fields. A few years ago I bought a first-edition signed children’s book. Not my first choice, but it was the original British edition, and going cheap.”
“And?”
“The book was by a woman named Rowling. She went on to achieve some degree of fame. Only recently did I realize that I own the first in that series.”
It took a minute for the light to dawn. “You mean J. K. Rowling? Harry Potter?”
“The very same.”
“Teddy, how could you, a serious book collector, not have known that J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books are the literary equivalent of the invention of sliced bread?”
He looked down his long nose at me. “Children’s books are not my field of interest.”
“Don’t you ever go to the movies?”
Judging by his expression, the answer was no.
“The sale of that one book was enough to permit me to raise enough to get back the Flemings.”
“That’s wonderful, Teddy.”
“I prefer to be called Theodore.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
“Why did you think your mother was interested? Is she a book collector? She never said. I tried to avoid the subject when we had drinks and then dinner, as I’ve been told that on rare occasions I can talk too much about books. Was I mistaken?”
“No, Theodore, you were not mistaken in the least.”
When he left, still smiling, it was getting on to lunchtime. I debated the merits of going to Josie’s Cozy Bakery and having a roast beef and caramelized onion on a baguette versus nipping upstairs to heat a can of soup. The sandwich would be a lot better, but the soup would give me a chance to finish my book. I didn’t make up my mind fast enough, and Louise Jane caught me at the desk. Unlike Theodore, she was not smiling.
“What’s this I hear about your mother leaving?”
“Yup. Gone home.”
“Are you, uh . . . ?”
“Also leaving? Nope.”
She carried a stack of books in her arms. I read the spines. All ghost stories.
“I was going to lend these to her,” Louise Jane said. “She seemed interested in the paranormal history of this area.”
“Well, she isn’t. Right now, she’s interested in planning a trip to Paris.”
Louise Jane shook her head as she drifted away, clearly confused as to why anyone would go to Paris rather than spend his or her time listening to her talk about ghosts and the efficacy of her grandmother’s spells against them. I hadn’t said anything to anyone about mistaking the Gray Woman for the Lady last night, and I had no intention of ever doing so. If I did, by lunchtime tomorrow, word would be all over the Outer Banks that the ghostly lady of the Bodie Island Lighthouse had saved Lucy Richardson.
I decided to open that can of soup for lunch.
When I was coming down the stairs an hour later, two little girls, all bouncing hair and bright gap-toothed smiles, ran into the library.
“Ronald! We’re here for story time!” the older girl yelled.
“Story time!” her sister cheered.
Ronald passed me on the stairs at a rapid clip. “Jasmine, Savannah, it is so great to see you. Thank you, Mr. Kivas.”
Norm Kivas’s clothes were well-worn but clean and his hair neatly combed. “Karen loved this library,” he said. “So do the girls. I thought I’d better check it out for myself.” He avoided looking at my face.
“Story time begins in half an hour,” Ronald said. “While we’re waiting for the other kids, I’ll help Jasmine and Savannah select books to take home with them. You’re welcome to sit in, Mr. Kivas. See what we do here.”
“I’d like that.” Norm watched his granddaughters disappear up the curving iron stairs, tripping over each other in their excitement. “I’ll be right there.”
When Ronald and the children had disappeared, Norm turned to me. “I hear you’re the one who caught that man. The one who killed Karen.”
“Not me. But I was there.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “If you’re talking to your mom, tell her I’m sorry, will you? I acted badly toward her. I don’t know what I was thinking. The booze thinking, more likely. My daughter told me straight up that without Karen around she needs me to help her with the kids. I’m going to an AA meeting tonight. They say apologies are a good start.”
“I’ll tell her,” I said.
He held out his hand. I took it in mine. Just for something to say, I asked. “How’s Sandy?”
His mouth turned down. “Last night I told her I wasn’t going to inherit anything and instead of going to Jake’s for dinner, I’d throw some sausages on the grill. She walked out of the house without a word.”
Overhead children laughed. Norm smiled, and I said, “Children’s library is on the second floor.”