Even Charles was asleep when my alarm went off. I briefly considered giving up my mission and going back to sleep, but my better nature (or maybe just stubborn curiosity) got the upper hand and I struggled out of my lovely warm comfy bed. Charles opened one eye and promptly closed it again.
Aaron had told me that Ralph Harper liked to have his breakfast at the Shrimp Shack on the days he was taking out his boat. Most fishing charter boats, I knew, left harbor at five. Shudder. I guessed that Ralph would get his boat ready for the day, and then leave his crew to wait for the clients, while he went for his breakfast. Meaning, he’d be at the Shrimp Shack around four thirty.
Therefore, so would I. If he wasn’t there today, I’d just have to try another approach.
Shower, makeup, and proper clothes could wait until later. I splashed water on my face, gathered my hair into a ponytail, pulled on jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers and headed out.
The sun wasn’t even up yet when I drove toward town, and there was no traffic on the highway. I turned left at Whalebone Junction and crossed the low bridge onto Roanoke Island. A few cars joined me—fishing people, I suspected. Who else would be foolish enough to be up this early?
I’d looked up the Shrimp Shack last night before going to bed and jotted down some directions. They were located near Pirate’s Cove Marina, where Ralph kept his boat. I found the restaurant with no trouble, parked close to the doors, and got out of my car. I took a deep breath and went in. I was immediately overwhelmed by the scent of frying bacon, warm toast, and sizzling grease. Yummy.
A wall of glass specked with salt spray overlooked the edges of the marina. This was obviously a place that catered to the serious fishing crowd. The photos of men (and a very few women) that lined the walls were packed so closely together I could scarcely see the cracked and peeling paint beneath. The tabletops were scarred and the red vinyl seating at the booths was so badly worn and torn in some places that the stuffing poked out.
All the booths were taken by a mixture of genuine old salts and tourists trying to pretend they were serious fishermen in their brand-new clothes and clean hats.
No one so much as glanced up from their food when I came in.
“Be with you in a sec, hon,” the waitress called as she came out of the kitchen, bearing a tray loaded with plates piled high with eggs and bacon or stacks of pancakes.
The booths were full, but there were still some empty stools facing the long counter. My luck was in. I spotted my quarry by himself, next to an empty seat.
I waved cheerfully to the waitress and crossed the room quickly. “Is this seat taken?” I asked Ralph.
He grunted without looking up from the magazine propped beside his plate. A quick glance showed me pictures of big fish leaping out of the water. I hopped onto the seat and grabbed the menu standing between the ketchup bottle and the napkin dispenser. I opened the menu and pretended to study it. Then I, ever so casually, turned to the man beside me. “Oh, hi. I didn’t notice you there for a moment. Ralph, right?” I smiled.
He turned his head. “Yeah.” He studied my face. “How ya doin’, Lucy?”
I was momentarily taken aback that he knew my name. “Good. I’m good. Thanks. I didn’t get a chance to say hi the other night in the lighthouse parking lot.” I continued to smile. I decided it would be best not to mention the circumstances of our meeting. Ralph Harper looked, I thought, a lot like Gandalf the Grey in the Lord of the Rings movies. Long shaggy gray beard touched with the memory of youthful black, equally long and shaggy hair, and eyebrows that might well have a life of their own. His face was a deep nutty brown, as craggy as a walnut shell, evidence of a life spent on the sea. Aunt Ellen had said he’d been in school with Will Williamson. If I hadn’t known that, I’d have said the fisherman was a decade older. His eyes were a soft blue-gray, the color of the ocean as the fog began to lift.
He gave me a smile that made me think of Gandalf when he looked at the hobbits, not as he faced the fire-breathing Balrog. “Sorry for not being more polite that evening. Had things on my mind. I’d heard you’d come back. I was glad of it.”
“Come back?”
“To the Outer Banks. You’re a sea woman, Lucy. You need to be here.” His voice was deep and rolling, like waves crashing into the rocky shore in a storm.
“I’ve lived in Boston all my life,” I said.
He studied my face. “And in all your life in Boston, how many times did you go to the beach?”
“Uh . . .”
“Do they even have a beach in Boston? No matter, you couldn’t hear the sound of the waves from where you lived or worked, you couldn’t pop down to the beach any time you had the inkling to get the sand between your toes and let the surf wash away your troubles. Might as well have lived in Kansas for all the attention you paid to the sea.” Ralph shuddered at the very idea of landlocked Kansas. “No, you belong here, Lucy. I’m glad you realized that.”
I was stunned. He seemed to know a lot about me. And it was true. To me, the Outer Banks was the beach; it was the sea. Boston was where I went to school and later where I worked. I enjoyed going down to the Charles River for a walk at my lunch break, and I’d often meet friends for dinner in a restaurant or bar overlooking the water. But it wasn’t the beach, and the ocean was never more than a pleasant background view.
“Can’t say I’ve seen you in here before. What brings you in today, Lucy?”
“I couldn’t sleep, so wanted to go out for a drive. Someone told me this is a good coffee place.”
Ralph lifted his cup. “If you like it strong and not fancy.”
“Ready, hon?” The waitress stood in front of me, pencil poised.
Ralph was having fried eggs, sausages, hash browns, and wheat toast. My stomach turned over. I didn’t think I could face that much food this early. “Just coffee please.”
She reached for the pot and poured me a cup. Ralph’s concentration returned to his breakfast and his magazine.
Okay, the “fancy running into you here” routine wasn’t working. I’d have to try the direct approach. “Actually, Ralph,” I said. “I was wanting to talk to you.”
“Figured it was somethin’ like that,” he said. “Shoot, young lady.”
“Will Williamson.”
“Figured it was that too,” he said, slicing off a hunk of sausage and popping it into his mouth. “Knew him when we were kids. He was a miserable boy. Didn’t change much when he grew up.”
“You helped rescue him the night of the big storm.”
“Shoulda let him drown. Probably woulda if I’d known it was him.” He turned to look at me. The eyes were still warm and blue. “Nah. Man takes an oath to the sea, gotta fulfill it.”
“Oath?”
“The sea is a beautiful mistress, but her rages are terrible to behold. She can turn from one face to another fast as a man can blink. I was just a boy when my father told me we never were to let her claim a man, not if we could save him. We fear her and respect her always, but never let her think she can defeat us. That’s the only thing she respects in return.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is the Sound part of the sea? I braced myself to run as he focused those intense blue-gray eyes on me. But instead of seeing a storm raging in their depths, I saw waters so calm a toddler could play in them. “The cops spoke to me, Lucy. Asking my whereabouts after I spoke to Will that night. I told them: I went home to my bed.”
“Can your wife verify that?” I said, feeling bold.
“Never married. I have my mistress. She’s a harsh one, but a loving one all the same.” He waved his hand toward the window. Outside, boats bobbed gently in the protected waters of the marina. It was still dark, but lights lined the wharf and were on in many of the big charter boats as they prepared for a day’s fishing. “Don’t matter. That Sam Watson, he knows how things work around here. A waterman isn’t out prowling around in the middle of the night. Morning comes early.” He wiped up egg yolk with his last piece of toast. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, young lady, I got to get going. We leave five o’clock on the dot, whether all the customers have arrived or not.” He threw money on the counter and swung off his stool, the lightness of his movements a sharp contrast to his wizened appearance.
“Will got nothin’ but what he deserved.” Ralph looked down at me. I sucked in a breath, wondering if he was about to confess. “I wasn’t surprised to hear Will had been found on the water. He disrespected the sea awful bad that night. But she takes care of herself. She don’t need no help from me nor any man. You have a nice day, Lucy. Coffee’s on me. You want to go out on a boat one day, let me know. I’d be happy to take you, ’cause I know you for a water woman.”
He left, rolling from side to side as though he was already feeling the swell of the ocean beneath the boat decks.
It wasn’t even five thirty when I got home. I climbed out of my clothes and climbed back into my bed. But sleep didn’t come. Ralph had moved up on my suspect list. I decided that it wasn’t impossible to think that he, on discovering that the sea didn’t have any particularly malicious feelings toward Will Williamson, would have to be the one to give her a helping hand. Everyone I’d met seemed to like Ralph, and someone had said he was a gentle soul. That might have been true, in the past, but was his grip on reality slipping a bit? Not to mention that Wanchese Marina, from where Will had departed on his last journey, is not far from Pirate’s Cove, where Ralph keeps his own boat.
After an hour of staring at the ceiling and thinking about murder, I got up for good. I fixed myself a breakfast of yogurt, granola, and berries. The conversation with Ralph had been interesting, and perhaps illuminating, but I did have other suspects to consider.
As I ate, I poked around on the Internet, trying to find out what I could about Doug Whiteside’s assistant, Bill Hill. The Internet may sometimes seem to be the source of all knowledge, but that can also mean way too much knowledge. With a name as common as Bill Hill, I got millions of hits, including a Bill Hill Road in Connecticut. I tried narrowing my search down to North Carolina, and then to Nags Head, and came up blank. I tried Doug Whiteside of North Carolina and my computer screen filled with pages of data. I clicked on images and was overwhelmed with pictures of Doug’s beaming face. As I’d hoped, Bill was in several of them, sticking faithfully to the background. One newspaper photo had been taken at a fund-raiser at a local golf course, and this one featured Bill with his arm around the shoulders of a woman with a strained smile that failed to reach her eyes. The caption read, “Whiteside’s friend and campaign manager William Hill and his wife, Jill, greet guests.”
Armed with that small amount of knowledge, I finished breakfast, rinsed my dishes, and Charles and I went downstairs to work.
I took advantage of a brief lull, before the crowds started to arrive, to check the library’s circulation files. As I’d dared hope, we had a patron by the name of Jill Hill, although she’d last taken out a book about three months ago. Judging by the books she borrowed, her interests leaned heavily toward gardening and Native American history. I glanced around the room. No one was requiring my attention. I grabbed the phone before I could think better of it, and placed a call. It rang several times, and then a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”
“Is this Jill Hill?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“This is the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library calling. I wanted to let you know that your book on . . . the currents around the Outer Banks has arrived.”
“Book? You must have the wrong number. I haven’t visited the library for some time.”
“Perhaps it was delayed,” I said, “or your husband requested it? Do you have a . . . uh . . . boat?”
“My husband and I own a small boat, yes, although he doesn’t have much time to get out fishing these days. He doesn’t use the public library. Obviously there’s been a mistake. Good-bye.”
I heard the click of the receiver being replaced. I let out a long breath. So, Bill Hill did have a boat. His wife hung up before I’d been able to find out where the boat was kept. Wanchese Marina maybe? I could hardly call her back and ask. I drummed my fingers on the desktop.
Had Billy murdered Will with or without Doug’s knowledge? Had his wife, Jill, been an accomplice? Had she followed in their boat to take Bill back to town once the deed was done?
Had Bill and Jill Hill killed Will?
I was debating phoning Detective Watson to ask him if he’d checked up on Billy when a smiling man, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a lurid Hawaiian shirt, asked me if I could recommend a nice place to take his wife to dinner. By the time I’d given him directions to Jake’s Seafood Bar a line was forming at the desk, so I went back to work. When I had time to think about it again, I decided not to call Watson about Billy. What could I say but that I suspected a man who lived in Nags Head of being a ruthless killer because he owned a boat? I’d have to think up a more subtle way to let the detective know Bill Hill would be worth investigating.
Stephanie phoned a short while later to invite me around for dinner that night.
“I’d love to come,” I said. “Time?”
“How about six?”
“We close at five on Mondays so six would be perfect. I’ll see you then.” I hung up with a smile. I was looking forward to seeing Stephanie.
After closing, I went upstairs (love that commute!) to feed Charles and to change. At quarter to six when I came back down, everyone had left and the library was settling quietly into the night. Apart from my Yaris, two other cars were in the parking lot: a beat-up old van over by the boardwalk and a nondescript beige sedan tucked into the trees in the loop where the driveway curves back on itself.
I got into my car and headed into town. The sedan pulled out behind me and followed, staying behind in the turns, and keeping well back in the light traffic heading into Nags Head. I paid it no mind.
When I got to her house, Stephanie explained that she wasn’t much of a cook. Luckily, her mom shouted instructions from the living room, so she’d managed to throw together the ingredients for a curried chicken casserole with rice, which she served with a tossed salad of kale and arugula. The meal was delicious and I told her so. By unspoken agreement, we kept away from the topic of Will Williamson and his untimely demise. Dessert was a selection of tarts from Josie’s Cozy Bakery, served with a tub of vanilla ice cream. I said the time-honored words of “not for me—thanks” before allowing myself to be persuaded to have “just one.”
“I don’t know if it’s my place to say anything,” I said, scraping the last drops of ice cream off my plate, “but I think it’s something Steph should consider.” I looked at Pat.
“Go ahead,” she said.
“Will’s son by his first wife is named Michael. He lives in Raleigh, but he’s in town now, making the arrangements. I’ve met him and I think he and Steph might like to meet.”
Stephanie leaned forward, her face lit by excitement. “My brother.”
“Half brother,” Pat said.
“What’s he like?” Stephanie said.
“Ordinary guy,” I said. “Seems nice enough. He’s a bank manager. Divorced, no kids. He’s staying with Marlene at the house Will rented, although they’ll probably be evicted soon. If you’d like to meet him, I can arrange it.”
I glanced at Pat. Her face was still. She said nothing.
“Mom?” Stephanie said. “Would you mind?”
Pat shook her head. “You do what you want to do, dear.”
“I would like to meet him. Imagine, my brother. Does he look like me?”
The resemblance was strong. I decided to play that down. I studied my friend’s face as if I had to give it some thought. “The eyes are similar. You probably want to meet in a neutral place the first time. Why don’t I call him tomorrow, suggest he come to the library in the afternoon? You can go for a walk on the boardwalk or find a quiet alcove. Then, if you want to, you can go for coffee or something. Can you get away?”
“Mom, would you mind? Just an hour or so. If we want to talk more, we can arrange another time.”
“That would be fine, dear. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired.”
I pushed my chair back. “I’ll let you know what he says. I need to be going too. Thanks, Steph. Dinner was great.”
“I’ll make a cook out of her yet,” Pat said with a soft smile. I didn’t blame Pat for being wary of her daughter meeting Will’s son. It was bound to disrupt the close relationship between the two women. But Stephanie deserved to know her family, and Pat was smart enough to recognize that.
I said my good-byes and walked out into the soft night air. I drove toward home deep in thought about Stephanie and Pat and Michael and Marlene. Even if the police never charged Stephanie with the killing of Will, if they didn’t arrest someone else, the cloud of suspicion would hang over her for the rest of her life. She was already getting grief from her employers about it. I wanted to help, but I didn’t know what else I could do. I’d tried, but all of my poking around had come to naught. Maybe it was a random thing after all. Maybe an old enemy from Alaska had followed Will here, and had slunk off back to wherever he’d come from. Maybe we never would know what had happened that night and William Williamson would join the cold case files deep in the police station archives.
I turned at Whalebone Junction and all but one car dropped away. No traffic was coming toward me. I drove carefully, keeping an eye out for deer. A burst of light flooded into my car, bouncing off my rearview mirror directly into my eyes. The vehicle behind was coming up fast and had turned its high beams on. I slowed slightly, intending to let him pass. To my surprise, he slowed also, but he didn’t turn his lights down. He was way too close, almost sitting on my bumper. I glanced in my mirror but could see nothing but white light. What an idiot, I thought, and probably drunk at that. I was planning to report it to the police as soon as I got home when a shock ran through the car and up my spine. He’d hit me! The car dropped back, and I took a deep breath, trying to keep myself calm. Almost home, Lucy. Almost home. The car accelerated again, and hit me again, harder this time. I swallowed panic and fought to keep my little Yaris on the road. I was approaching the turnoff to the lighthouse and all I wanted to do was run home, but I didn’t dare make the turn. I could not lead my pursuer down that dark and lonely dead-end road, although nothing much better lay ahead of me. I was heading into the wilderness with a maniac close behind me. My phone was in my purse, and I’d tossed the purse into the passenger side footwell. I was gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were turning white. Another jolt traveled through me as my car was rammed from behind again.
What was he, if it was a he, playing at? He had to be trying to force me off the road. I didn’t dare contemplate why. The ground on either side of the highway was completely flat, so flat that in high winds waves washed over the road. There are no cliffs. If I went off the road, all that would happen would be that I’d sink a few inches into sand or muddy marsh grasses and get stuck. The car pulled back slightly as we came into a straight stretch. Instead of bracing myself for another blow, I steadied the Yaris as best I could and dove for my purse. I grabbed the bag and then the steering wheel. My car was fairly new and the alignment was perfect. I was still safely on the road. I opened my purse and fumbled around, trying to find the phone. Papers, notebook, pens, wallet, lipstick, sunglasses, compact, hairbrush, the book I’d grabbed after being stuck in the police station without anything to read. I could have wept. All the detritus of my life lay at my fingertips but not my phone. Up ahead, the dark night broke as a set of lights came into view. It was impossible to tell how far away the approaching car was. A mile maybe? This, I decided, was my chance. I’d make a U-turn, try to follow the other car, and alert them to my distress. Then to my overwhelming relief I found it. My fingers closed on the hard case of the iPhone. I pulled it out and swiped the lock screen. My hand shook so badly, I missed the EMERGENCY call button.
The car behind me pulled back. For a moment, I dared hope he was giving up, leaving me alone, but then it accelerated, and I knew he was aiming to hit me for real this time. I put my foot on the gas. I was going too fast to make a safe U-turn, but what choice did I have?
My headlights caught a dark shape at the side of the road to my right, emerging from a scruffy patch of stunted trees. It turned, and bright eyes reflected light back at me. It leaped into the air, directly in front of me. I screamed, and instinctively wrenched the steering wheel to the right. I felt my tires sink into soft sand. The car following me shot past. It squealed to a stop and began to turn.
The brakes of the truck coming toward me groaned as the driver slammed them hard, trying to avoid the leaping deer. The animal disappeared into the night, and the truck tumbled off the highway, coming to rest almost exactly opposite where I was. All the doors flew open and to my infinite relief four men jumped out. The vehicle that had been after me flew down the center of the road and its rear lights faded away.
I clambered out of my car on shaking legs.
“Are you okay? Is anyone hurt?” The men surrounded me. Four men. Young, strong, men. They were dressed in overalls, orange vests, and heavy boots. A work crew heading home at the end of the day.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just a bit shook up. Are you all okay?”
“I didn’t hit it,” one of the men said. “Gave me a heck of a shock though. Blasted deer.”
“Oh, please, Ray. You’ll use any excuse to come to the aid of a pretty young lady.”
The men laughed. I laughed too. I laughed so hard, I couldn’t stop. The men watched me through eyes full of concern. I gulped and fought to swallow tears.
“You don’t look like you’re stuck too hard,” Ray said. “We should be able to push you out. Are you able to drive?”
“I . . . Yes, I’m fine, but I am a little unsteady. That was a close call.” In more ways than one. “Would you mind following me home? It’s not far. I live at the lighthouse.”
“You live at the lighthouse? You must be Lucy. My mom visits your library all the time. Ruby O’Reilly?”
“Sure, I know her.”
Another vehicle approached, coming from the north. I held my breath, but when it entered into our circle of lights I could see that it was an SUV, not a sedan.
“You need any help there?” a woman called.
“We’re fine. Thanks,” Ray said. I waved in agreement.
She carried on her way with a cheerful toot of her horn.
I climbed back into my car. The engine was still running. I threw it into gear and touched the gas lightly. The right front wheel spun in the sand, trying and failing to get a grip. The men gathered around, bent their backs to my little Yaris, and with one mighty shove, I was free.
I could have wept with relief. I waited while they piled back into the truck and then I led my small honor guard to the lighthouse. The men remained in the truck, and Ray focused his headlights on the path, lighting my way to the front door. I thanked them again, invited them to pay the library a visit sometime, and let myself in. Once I had the door shut and the locks turned, the truck drove away.
Only then did my legs collapse, and I sank to the floor. Charles crawled into my lap and buried his head into my chest while I cried.