“Penny for your thoughts,” Connor said.
Blood rushed into my face. “I . . . I . . .” I stuttered.
“I’ll admit, I was also taken aback by Marlene’s apparent indifference to the news of Will’s death, but Sam has a good point. If Will was nothing to her but a meal ticket, she’s going to be more concerned about losing that ticket than anything else. I wonder how Marlene and Will’s son get on. She didn’t mention any other kids from his marriages.”
“She said he had only the one son.”
We came to a stoplight, and Connor glanced at me.
I dragged my thoughts away from admiration of his gorgeous blue eyes, the color of the open ocean on a sunny day. You can be sure that the wives of my three older brothers have ensured that I know everything there is to know regarding the laws of inheritance in Massachusetts, but I don’t know anything about North Carolina. If Stephanie could prove Will was her biological father, might she be in line to inherit something? She might well be. Plenty of wills are open-ended about children and grandchildren. Present and future heirs of my body, and such stuffy legal language.
For a moment, I hoped so. If anyone deserved an unexpected windfall it was Stephanie and Pat Stanton. Then, with a shock, I realized that might not be such a good thing. Not if it gave the police a reason to suspect Stephanie of causing Will’s premature demise.
Connor turned at Whalebone Junction, and the BMW picked up speed as Highway 12 opened up, heading to the remote seaside villages of Cape Hatteras and the end of the road at Ocracoke Island.
“It’s been a good summer,” he said, changing the subject. “The merchants should all be pleased.”
I mumbled agreement. “It gets pretty quiet here in the winter, I guess.”
“Gives us a chance to catch our breath,” he said with a laugh. “And restock the stores.”
I’ve been coming to the Outer Banks my whole life, but I’ve never spent a winter here. My mom and her sister, Ellen, Josie’s mother, were born and raised in Nags Head. Mom moved to Boston when she married my dad, but Ellen stayed and convinced her own husband, my uncle Amos, to open a law practice here rather than return to his native Louisiana. Mom brought my siblings and me down here every summer when we were young. She stopped coming once I was old enough to travel on my own, but I continued to visit for at least a couple of weeks every year. Those long glorious summers on the Outer Banks, wrapped in the loving embrace of Ellen and Amos’s chaotic family, were the best times of my life.
When I broke off with my long-long-long-standing boyfriend, Richard Eric Lewiston III, son of my father’s law partner, and impulsively quit my job, where else would I go but to my favorite place in all the world and into the welcoming arms of my beloved aunt?
And so, here I was, making a new life for myself on the Outer Banks. I turned and looked at Connor. I’d first met Connor the summer I was fourteen and he was fifteen. A walk along the beach. A stolen kiss. We’d gone our separate ways after that, but neither of us had totally forgotten the other. He’d gone to Duke and UNC, became a dentist, and was now the mayor of Nags Head. I’d gotten a master of library science from Simmons, and had worked in the libraries at Harvard.
“So, Dr. McNeil,” I said now, “do you have any thoughts on who might have killed Will?”
“Not a one, but I scarcely knew the man.”
“What about that Ralph guy we met last night?”
“I’ve known Ralph Harper a long time. He’s pretty much a fixture around here. Him and his Old Man and the Sea persona. He wouldn’t care if Will threatened to sue him, but to imply that Ralph had made a mistake on the water? Yeah, that would get him mad. Mad enough to kill? No. I don’t see it. Ralph’s a gentle soul, never been in any trouble. That I know of anyway.
“Where the body was found is puzzling. It’s unlikely to be a random sort of attack, if he or his killer went to the bother of stealing a boat.” The car slowed and turned into the long driveway. Emergency vehicles were still at the far end of the parking lot, near the boardwalk, and I could see Officer Franklin standing guard beside the yellow police tape.
Farther away, a smaller collection of cars was pulled up near the path to the lighthouse. As well as Bertie’s I recognized Ronald and Charlene’s, but there were several I didn’t know.
I checked my watch and was startled to see how late it was. “Oh, my gosh. It’s after ten. I’m late for work.”
“I think they’ll forgive you this one time,” Connor said. He pulled up to the side of the lot, making no move to take a parking spot. “But the budget committee might not forgive me. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t come in.”
“I’m good,” I said. I gave him a smile. He smiled back but I got the feeling his mind was already sorting through numbers and balance sheets, moving on to that budget meeting. This morning, I’d had the most amazing, incredible, wonderful, burst of insight. I wanted to shout it to the world, or at least to Connor.
But the world didn’t seem all that interested. And I didn’t know if Connor even was.
“Have a nice day.” I got out of the car and went to work.
Inside, everyone stopped what they were doing as I came in. What they were doing, I guessed, was speculating about the murder. The main room was packed. Nags Head is a small community, and news travels mighty fast. I wasn’t surprised to see Louise Jane as well as several members of our library board here.
“Oh, good.” Diane Uppiton, board member, turned away from Bertie when she saw me. “Now we can find out what’s going on. Have they made an arrest?”
“I hope so. We have to move into damage control immediately,” said Curtis Gardner, another board member. Unlike what one might reasonably expect, not all the members of the board are enthusiastic supporters of the library. Diane’s goal in life was to see us closed down, and Curtis’s goal in life was to keep Diane happy and thus continuing to fund his taste for fast cars and quality bourbon. I hadn’t seen his Corvette outside, so he must have come with Diane. Diane was the widow of Jonathan Uppiton, late chair of the board. Fortunately for Diane, at the time of Jonathan’s death the couple were separated, very acrimoniously, but not yet divorced. Jonathan hadn’t changed his will, so Diane inherited everything.
Everything, unfortunately for us, except his deep love of the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library.
“Damage control?” Bertie said. “Don’t be melodramatic, Curtis. I told you, over and over, this has nothing to do with the library. Now, if you’ll excuse us, some of us have work to do.”
“It may seem to have nothing to do with the library,” Louise Jane said, “but the spirits can wander, you know. Those Civil War soldiers that protect the lighthouse would have no trouble going out into the marsh. Would they, Lucy?”
“Why are you asking me?” I said.
“You’re the one who lives here.”
“Enough,” Bertie said. “Lucy, run upstairs and get changed out of your hiking clothes. Charlene, watch the desk until Lucy gets back. I will be in my office if anyone needs me. On library business.” She turned and walked away.
“See you later, Louise Jane,” Charlene said.
Louise Jane harrumphed. She didn’t care to be reminded that she didn’t actually work here. Diane and Curtis headed for the exit, and Louise Jane suddenly perked up. “Have you a moment, Diane? I’ve got some great ideas for my Halloween exhibit. Mrs. Fitzgerald thinks they’re great, but I want to be sure they meet with your approval.”
“I don’t . . .” Diane began. Diane had not the slightest interest in the running of the library.
“I’d suggest we pull up a couple of chairs, but we don’t seem to be wanted here. Why don’t we go into town and grab a coffee?”
Diane did, however, have an interest in impressing on us all her importance. “Yes, that’s an excellent idea. We can let these people . . . uh . . . work.” The corner of her lip turned up at the very idea.
I ran upstairs to my apartment. Before I jumped in the shower, I made a phone call. “Hi, Stephanie, it’s Lucy. Did you or Pat hear from Bertie today?”
“She came around to the house, earlier, to tell us that Will Williamson was found dead this morning. Mom’s pretty upset about it.”
“How do you feel?”
“Me? I simply don’t know, Lucy. I should hate the man for the way he treated Mom, for not caring about me. I wish I’d had the chance to tell him what I thought about him. But on the other hand, I can’t help thinking that I’ve lost my father. I’m sad. And I’m surprised that I’m sad. Does that make any sense?”
“It makes perfect sense. I can’t talk for long. I’m late for work as it is. Do you want to have dinner tonight or something?”
“I’m okay, Lucy, but thanks for asking. Mom and I are going to stay in tonight. Another time, maybe.”
“You take care,” I said.
“I will.”
* * *
The morning was busy. Something about police activity and folks needing an excuse to find out what was going on, so they pretended to have been intending to come to the library anyway.
I was on the circulation desk at noon, when Theodore came down the back stairs from the rare-book room. He’d rushed in about a half hour before, saying he desperately needed to consult an old atlas.
“Find what you needed?” I said.
“Jolly good,” he replied. He was wearing a tweed jacket, much too warm for the day.
“Open your coat, please,” I said.
“Really, Lucy, I resent your implications.”
When I first began working here, Bertie had warned me about Theodore. He loved books, the older and rarer the better, but he didn’t always worry about how they came into his possession. Taking books from the library without checking them out, and then hunting them down, was almost a game Theodore and Jonathan Uppiton had played.
Bertie, on the other hand, refused to play.
“Coat,” I repeated.
He did as I asked. I could see no mysterious lumps or excessively full pockets. “Thanks,” I said.
He let out a martyred sigh, and then he leaned over the desk and lowered his voice. “What do you know about the untimely and tragic death of Will Williamson?”
“Nothing.”
“I heard you discovered the body.”
“No. Butch did,” I said, telling the perfect truth.
“I hear the recently departed was at book club the other night. I was sorry I had to miss it. Did he have any interesting insights to offer?”
“About Kidnapped, you mean? Not a thing. He only came because his girlfriend wanted to.”
“His girlfriend? That is interesting. A friend of literature, is she?”
“I guess,” I said, wondering what Theodore was getting at.
“You don’t suppose his demise had anything to do with the book club meeting, do you, Lucy?”
“Of course not,” I said. “How could it? None of us had met Will before last night.”
“You will keep me in the loop, won’t you, my dear?”
“There is no loop in which to be kept.”
He touched the side of his nose and gave me what he thought of as a conspiratorial wink.
I winked back. Let him have his fun.
On his way out, Theodore held the door for Detective Watson, who was coming in. “I need to talk to you, Lucy,” Watson said. Theodore’s ears twitched and instead of leaving he snatched up the nearest piece of reading material. I doubted he was all that interested in the most recent issue of Martha Stewart Living, which was waiting to be returned to the magazine shelf.
“I can’t talk right now,” I said. “Charlene’s gone to lunch. When she gets back she can look after the desk for me.”
Watson gave me a long look. Then he turned around and let out an authoritative shout. “Folks, the library’s closing. Now.”
Heads popped around shelves, and patrons put down books. Theodore looked up from the magazine.
“If you would be on your way, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you,” Watson said.
“Hey!” I protested. “You said we didn’t have to close today.”
He loomed over me, close enough that I leaned back in my chair. He dropped his voice. “I also said that I wanted to talk to you, Lucy. As you cannot leave your work, your work will have to leave you. I don’t want half of Nags Head listening in.” He looked pointedly at Theodore.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll call Bertie to look after the desk.”
“Excellent idea,” Watson said. He put on his crowd-control voice again. “Never mind, folks. Go back to your business.”
The patrons shrugged and exchanged curious glances. “What’s goin’ on out there, Sam?” a man said.
“Police business,” Watson replied.
I picked up the phone and told Bertie what was happening. She said she’d be right out.
“You can tell me, Sammy my boy,” the man said. He gave Watson a wink. “It’ll go no farther.”
“No farther than the nearest bar,” Watson said. “Surprised to see you in a library, Eddie. Regular visitor, are you?”
“Figured it was time to check the place out. Meet some nice-lookin’ ladies.” He smiled at me. I gave him a not very sympathetic smile in return. At seventy years old, with bad hips and a dire shortage of both teeth and hair, Eddie really shouldn’t have been trying to flirt with me.
Bertie said we could use her office. She didn’t need to add “again.” Charles attempted to follow us, but Watson was faster, and the door was slammed shut in the cat’s disappointed face.
I settled myself in the single visitor’s chair and primly folded my hands in my lap and my legs at the ankles. I was wearing a teal sweater and a black knee-length skirt over opaque tights. Very prim and proper and librarian-ish. “How can I help you, Detective?”
“First, Lucy, you can tell me about the relationship between Stephanie Stanton and Will Williamson.” Watson had not taken the seat behind Bertie’s desk.
“Who?” I croaked. “I mean, who?”
“Please don’t play dumb with me, Lucy. Earlier, when the name of your friend came up, you led me to believe you know something about her that I might want to know.”
“I never said—”
“You didn’t have to. We were interrupted, and I didn’t get the chance to ask further. I’m asking you now.”
I took a deep breath. I felt absolutely awful about it, but I had no choice except to spill the beans. “Stephanie is Will’s illegitimate daughter.”
Watson’s face was impassive. I might have told him that they both liked cream in their coffee. “Is this common knowledge?”
“No.”
“Why do you know?”
I tried to come up with some reason that wouldn’t cast suspicion on Stephanie. I simply couldn’t think fast enough under the cool, unblinking stare of Detective Sam Watson. Something about Watson always made me hear the sound of cell doors clanging shut behind me. “I was there when Pat, her mom, told her. Stephanie didn’t know who her father was until . . . recently.”
“How recently?”
“Uh . . . last night?”
“Why not until last night?”
I let out a long sigh. “Will was married when he had an affair with Pat Stanton, Stephanie’s mother. He deserted Pat the moment he found out she was pregnant. He refused to acknowledge paternity, left North Carolina, and never had the slightest thing to do with them. Pat raised Stephanie on her own and never mentioned the rat who’d fathered her. She did a darn fine job, too. Stephanie’s a lawyer. And,” I added, “a wonderful person.”
“All the more reason for me to wonder what happened last night, of all nights, to cause Stephanie’s mother to reveal a secret she’s held for, what, thirty years?”
“Pat was recently in a serious car accident. She was badly injured. She’s going to be okay, but it’ll be a long, hard process. That made Stephanie aware of her mother’s mortality. Look, it was my bright idea to take Stephanie out last night after book club. Let her have some fun, I thought. She had too much to drink at Jake’s, and when she got home, she wanted to know about her father. So Pat told her.”
“You’re sure Stephanie hadn’t known his identity before?”
“Yes, I’m positive. But that doesn’t have anything to do with anything. She wanted to know. That’s all. Wouldn’t you want to know something like that?”
He didn’t bother to comment. “You went with Stephanie to her mother’s house after you left the restaurant?”
“Yes. She had . . . a drink or two, so I thought she shouldn’t drive. I took her home, and came in to say hi to Pat.”
“When did you leave their house?”
“I can’t have been there more than fifteen minutes or so. Bertie offered to help Pat get ready for bed but Stephanie said she’d do it.”
“Bertie? Bertie James was there also?”
“She’d spent the evening with Pat so Stephanie could come to book club. They’re good friends.”
Watson shook his head. “So Ms. James also heard this story about Williamson?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. James didn’t think to inform me of this?”
“Why should she?” I protested. “Nothing that happened last night between Pat and Stephanie, or Bertie and me, had anything to do with the death of Will Williamson. We just happened to be talking about him, that’s all. Gee, you might as well be asking your wife. She was talking to the man at book club too, you know.”
“I have,” Watson said.
“Oh.”
“Is there anything else about Stephanie Stanton you’re keeping from me, Lucy?”
I shook my head. “She lives in Raleigh now, but she’s come home to care for her mom after the accident. She’s a defense attorney.”
“Is that so? Thanks for your time, Lucy. I shouldn’t have to mention that if you think of anything else that might be relevant to this case, you’ll be in touch.” He turned and opened the door. Charles was sitting in the hall, waiting patiently. I knew from CeeCee that her husband was not a cat person. Watson looked down. Charles looked up. His expression indicated that he was no fonder of the good detective than Watson was of him.
I jumped to my feet. “What are you going to do now?”
“Go on a Caribbean cruise,” he said dryly. “What do you think I’m going to do, Lucy? I intend to continue with a murder investigation.”
He walked away. I ran after him. Charles strolled along behind us.
When we got to the main room, Bertie was politely telling the old guy who’d been asking Watson about the case that if he wanted to take out a book, he needed to apply for a library card. Theodore had left.
Watson pulled his phone out of his pocket as he walked out of the library. Everyone stopped whatever they were doing to watch him go.
Bertie gave me a questioning look. I shook my head, and mouthed, “Stephanie.”
“Go,” she said.
I galloped upstairs to get my purse and car keys.
By the time I got outside, Watson and his car were nowhere in sight. I leaped into my Yaris and tore out of the parking lot. Once I reached the highway, I realized that excessive speed was probably not a good idea. Watson was sure to guess that I’d be following him, and he wouldn’t be above asking the traffic cops to keep an eye out for me.
I eased my foot off the gas and proceeded into town at a statelier pace, keeping a sharp eye for cruisers waiting to pounce.
I made it to Pat’s house without incident. Sure enough, Watson’s car was on the street, so I parked behind it and got out of my car. Watson obviously hadn’t broken any speed limits either, as he was still standing in the doorway while Stephanie asked him what he wanted. Pat’s Neon and Stephanie’s Corolla were in the driveway, so Steph must have hitched a ride to Jake’s to pick up her car earlier.
She glanced over Watson’s shoulder and spotted me parking on the street and hurrying up the path.
“Ms. Richardson.” Watson rolled his eyes. “Isn’t this a surprise? Imagine meeting you here.”
“Your visit reminded me,” I said. “I have the book Stephanie asked to borrow the other day.”
“What book?” Stephanie said.
“The library makes home deliveries?” Watson said. “Isn’t that nice?”
I opened my mouth to tell him I was entitled to visit the home of my friend, but snapped it shut when he said, “You’re here now, you might as well stay. Ms. Stanton?”
“Stephanie, who’s there? What’s happening?” Pat called.
“It’s the police, Mom. And Lucy.”
“Let them in, dear.”
Stephanie stepped back, and Watson and I entered. Pat was in the same chair she’d been sitting in yesterday, with a glass of tea and a stack of books resting on the table next to her and a book open on her lap. Sunlight streamed into the room, and something delicious simmered in the kitchen. Tomato soup perhaps. At the scent of food, my stomach reminded me that I’d had nothing to eat since that granola bar with Butch hours ago.
Watson asked Pat and Stephanie their names. They didn’t look at each other or at me. They knew why we were here. Stephanie remained standing, and she did not offer Detective Watson a seat.
“Are you acquainted with a man by the name of William Williamson?” Watson asked.
“Yes,” Pat said. “Although that was a long time ago, and we have had no contact for many years. I heard he was found dead this morning. I assume you’re here about that?” She’d lost a lot of weight since her accident, and her deep brown eyes, so unlike her daughter’s, were eagle-sharp in a face outlined by prominent bones.
“How did you hear?” Watson asked.
“A friend stopped by to tell me. Everyone’s talking about it.”
He nodded, acknowledging her point. “Do either of you want to tell me about your relationship with Mr. Williamson?”
Stephanie glanced at me. I gave her what I hoped was an apologetic smile. It was all my fault that the police had come here. I’d had no choice, but I doubted Stephanie would be in the mood to forgive me. “Because you’re here, Detective,” she said. “I assume you’ve been told that William Williamson was my father. That was in the biological sense only. I never knew him, and he was never in my life or in my mother’s life after I was born.”
“When did you find this out?”
Stephanie gave me a look. “I assume you know that also. Thanks, Lucy.”
“I didn’t . . .”
“If it matters,” Watson said, “Ms. Richardson spoke to me only when I asked. She’s aware of her legal obligation to help the police in cases such as this.”
“I’m a lawyer,” Stephanie said. “I assume you know that too.”
“I do. Now, please answer my question.”
“My mother told me the details of my parentage for the first time last night.”
“The time?”
“Eleven, or thereabouts.”
“Why last night? Why never before?”
“Please, Detective,” Pat said. “This is extremely painful. I’ve kept this secret for many years.”
“It’s okay, Mom. We have nothing to hide and you have nothing at all to be ashamed of.” Stephanie turned back to Watson. In the sort of clipped tones she’d probably use in court, she told him that her mother had come close to death, and if Pat had died, she would have never known who her father was. “So I asked her. And she told me.”
“Had you met Mr. Williamson prior to this revelation by your mother?”
“He came to Lucy’s book club last night.” Stephanie let out a choked laugh. “There he was, my own dad, sitting down beside me and saying ‘nice to meet you’ in a totally bored and disinterested voice, and neither of us even knew. Other than that, I’ve never laid eyes on him.”
Watson glanced around the living room. The house was small, the decor decades out-of-date, the old and well-worn furniture looked like the kind that was cheap even when it had been new. “Were you aware that Mr. Williamson was a wealthy man?”
“I guessed so. He looked prosperous enough—nice clothes, big flashy gold watch. He had a girlfriend about my age, the sort of giggly blond airhead who wouldn’t have given him the time of day if he didn’t have money to spend on her.”
“Did you think you might be in line for an inheritance?”
Stephanie’s back stiffed and she clenched her fists. She faced him, a tiny ball of fury, struggling to keep her redheaded temper under control.
“That is a preposterous suggestion,” Pat said.
“Is it?” Watson said. “What did you do last night, after Lucy and Bertie James left here?”
“I helped my mom get into bed, and then I sat in front of the TV and drank. It was very late when I went to my own bed. I didn’t check the time.”
“Ms. Stanton?”
“As my daughter told you, I went to bed.”
“Did you get up during the night?”
“I did not. I have, you might have noticed”—she grimaced toward her legs, propped up and covered in blankets—“mobility issues.”
“Did your daughter leave the house at any time?”
“No,” Stephanie said.
“No,” Pat said.
“Would you have known if she had, Ms. Stanton?”
The two women couldn’t help exchanging glances.
“Ms. Stanton?” Watson said.
Pat said nothing. Watson let the silence linger.
“My mother’s in some pain from her injuries, so she takes a sleeping pill to help her sleep,” Stephanie said at last.
“Do you have anyone who can account for your movements last night?” Watson said. “After, say, eleven o’clock?”
“No,” Stephanie replied.
“In that case, I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the station with me,” Watson said.
“No!” I said. “That’s ridiculous. I can vouch for Stephanie. She had a drink or two at Jake’s last night. She wouldn’t have been driving. When I left she said she was going to open a bottle of wine.”
“Drunk, was she?” Watson asked.
“Lucy, you’re not helping here,” Stephanie said. “I can’t leave my mother, Detective. You will have to wait until I can call someone to stay with her.”
“Lucy can do that,” Watson said.
“Hey!” I protested. “I mean, I don’t mind looking after Pat, but I . . . have to get back to work.”
“You left your work quickly enough to come here, and uninvited,” Watson pointed out. “Let’s go, Ms. Stanton.”
“Am I under arrest?” Steph asked.
“Not at this time.”
“Lucy,” Pat said, “bring my chair.” The wheelchair was in the corner of the room, where it had been yesterday.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll go down to the station and answer the detective’s questions. He has to spend his time doing something, even though he should be out searching for a killer.”
Watson kept his face impassive.
“As for you, Lucy,” Stephanie said. “You might as well do something helpful.”
“I . . .”
Stephanie headed for the door. Watson followed.
“I’ll call my uncle. Amos O’Malley,” I shouted after them. “He’s a criminal lawyer. He’ll help.”
Stephanie looked over her shoulder at me. “Thanks.”
And they left. Watson shut the door behind him.
“I am so, so sorry,” I said to Pat. “I didn’t know what to do. I had to tell Watson what I knew.”
“Of course you did, dear,” Pat said. “Don’t give it another thought. Stephanie will set everything straight, and that will be that. I suppose I should be grateful that no one can suspect I crept out of the house in the dead of night, drove into town, and murdered a man in cold blood. Believe me—there were times when I wanted to do precisely that, but those times are long gone. When I heard he was back in town, I surprised myself when I realized I had absolutely no desire to see him.”
Here was Pat, her daughter dragged off to the police station to be interrogated about the murder of her former lover, trying to make me feel better. If it was possible, I felt worse.
I was the one who talked Stephanie into coming out for a drink. I was the one with the face so readable, Watson knew I knew something. I dropped into a chair. “This is all my fault.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s all the fault of the person who killed Will Williamson. And we both know that person was not my daughter. Stephanie was making our lunch when you came to the door. I’ll have it now, once you’ve called Amos.”
I fumbled for my phone.
“I’d like you to join me, if you haven’t had your own lunch. In the meantime, I’m going to call Bertie and let her know what’s happening. I have the number of a nursing service here, in case Stephanie is . . . delayed.” Finally, her voice broke. Pat burst into tears.
* * *
The nursing service arrived a couple of hours later, and I drove back to the library, feeling about as lousy as I ever had. Uncle Amos had been in his office when I called, and said he’d go to the police station immediately. In his day, my uncle had been one of the top defense attorneys in the state. He was now easing into retirement, spending most of his time doing less exciting legal stuff, but he was ready to leap back into the fray if needed.
I hoped he would not be needed this time. Not by Stephanie. But I was glad she’d have him on her side, in case worse came to worst.
Bertie was still on the circulation desk when I got back. She took one look at my face and said, “Tea.” She picked up the phone, and a minute later Ronald came jogging down the stairs.
“The YA book club will coming in soon, Bertie, so I can’t take the desk for long.”
“We won’t be long.”
I said, “Where’s Charlene?”
“She’s gone to Manteo for a meeting. With the municipal election coming up, they’re thinking of putting together a display with information about the history of voting rights, particularly for women, and she’s helping them out. Now, let’s get that tea.”
We went to the staff break room. Bertie told me to sit down and switched the kettle on. I have never developed a taste for iced tea and prefer it piping hot. She took a full pitcher out of the small fridge and poured herself a glass while waiting for the water to boil. “What happened, honey?”
I buried my head in my hands. “Oh, Bertie. It’s all my fault.”
“Did you kill Will Williamson?”
I looked up, shocked at the question. “Of course not.”
“Then it’s not your fault.”
“Well, not that part anyway.” Charles had leaped up onto the table, and I gave him a pat. Bertie made my tea and put a steaming cup in front of me before sitting down.
“I told Watson about Will and Pat and Stephanie. I know you were right and that I had to, but I sure didn’t want to and now she’s in trouble. Watson’s taken Steph to the police station.”
“Has he arrested her?”
“He didn’t say so, at least not when I was there.”
“That’s good then.”
“Amos is with her.”
“Even better.”
I sipped at my tea. I was trying to cut back on sugar, but Bertie had put an extra spoonful in. I appreciated it. “I still feel bad.”
“That’s natural enough, honey. Pat thought she was doing the right thing by keeping the truth from Stephanie, but secrets have a way of multiplying when they’re kept secret. Bad things fester in the dark. I have faith in Sam Watson. He’s a good man and a good detective. He’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“This is another blow to Pat and Steph, another crisis they sure don’t need. Someone from the nursing home care service is with Pat now and that has to be costing a lot, particularly if Stephanie has to keep going down to the police station. Never mind that Stephanie’s losing even more time from her work and—”
“I’m going to call Pat’s and my circle of friends. We’ll start doing shifts at Pat’s house. I’ll set up a roster that Stephanie can call upon if she needs to.”
“That’ll be great. You can put me down too.”
Bertie smiled at me.
“But right now, I think I can be put to better use,” I said.
“How?”
“Stephanie didn’t kill Will. You and I know that because we know Stephanie. But even more to the point, I know it because I saw those lights on Monday night, the lights someone put out to trick Will into crashing onto the shore. Marlene saw them too. Even if no one believes us, I know what I saw. Will and Marlene weren’t hurt, but they may well have died, and I’m going to bet that was the intention of whoever did it. Those lights prove that Will’s death wasn’t a random attack or a mugging gone wrong. It means someone had to know, first, that he’d be out in his boat that day, and second, that he’s such a bad sailor he could be fooled by a trick.”
Bertie nodded.
“That someone was determined enough to come back another night to try to kill Will a different way. This time they succeeded. Will Williamson wasn’t a nice man when he was young, and I’m going to assume he never got much better. That means he had enemies. Marlene says everyone loved him, but I doubt that very much. I can’t say I loved him on first meeting.” I thought about the incident with Ralph. If my theory about the lights was right, then Ralph probably wouldn’t have killed Will either. I made a mental note to tell Watson that. “I’m going to find out what I can about who might have had it in for Will. Don’t try to stop me, Bertie; I’m determined to do this. I need to do what I can to help Stephanie.”
“Stop you?” Bertie said. “I think it’s a great idea. As long as you promise me that whatever you uncover, you’ll take to Watson immediately.”
“I promise,” I said.
“Where do you plan to start?”
I drained my teacup and got to my feet. “Marlene. She’s obviously the best person to tell me what Will’s been up to since he came back to Nags Head. I’m going to act on the assumption that there’s a reason he was killed here, on the Outer Banks, and not in Alaska or wherever he was living before.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s almost four now. I’ll head over there when the library closes.”
“Go now,” Bertie said. “I’ll take the desk for the rest of the day.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mean to skip out on work.”
“Take whatever time you need. We can consider this case library business. Pat has done so much for the library over the years that it’s time for us to return the favor.”
I gave Bertie a hug, feeling tears welling up behind my eyes.
When we got back to the main room, the kids were arriving for the YA book club. Some of these teenagers were old enough to drive, but most were being dropped off by parents. The parents were taking the opportunity to gossip about the murder. Ronald, today sporting a tie inspired by the TV show The Big Bang Theory, was going to great pains to inform them that no one had died in the marsh, although the body had been found there.
“Is that true?” I whispered to him. “Have the police found out where he was killed?”
“I have absolutely no idea. We don’t need any more talk of this property being a magnet for murder.” He turned back to the teens. “Time to begin! Let’s head upstairs, everyone.”
Their footsteps clattered on the iron stairs. I had to grin at the range of their attire. Everything from preppy skirts hiked up to the thigh (and beyond), to baggy jeans that left less to the imagination than one might like, to solid black Goth clothes and makeup.
A boy ran past me, one hand struggling to hold up his pants and the other gripping a paperback with a lurid cover of vampire fangs and dripping blood. When Ronald had begun the YA group, he had to argue with parents who wanted the kids reading classics, or at least books the parents thought they should be reading. He pointed out that Young Adult books today had a lot to say about the world in which these kids were growing up, and he wanted the kids to use the books as a springboard to discuss things about their own lives.
As always, Ronald—charming, gentle Ronald—won the parents over. His YA book club was a huge success. Although, I wondered as I saw Charity, the eldest Peterson girl, give the pants-clutching boy an elbow to the ribs with a giggle and toss of her hair, if some of the kids had joined for reasons other than personal improvement and the opportunity to engage in discussion about the state of the world.
Judging by the look on Mrs. Peterson’s face as she watched her daughter, she was thinking the same thing. Poor overprotective Mrs. Peterson was in for a rough few years.