Booked for Trouble (14 page)

“I know.” Feeling a tiny bit better, I gave him a smile, and we walked out of the break room together. If Butch was telling me to be on my guard, then he had to believe the killer was
not
my own mother.

C
harlene and I were once again standing at the window, trying not to be seen as we watched the police cruiser pull away. “Everything okay?” Charlene asked me. Her bright blue earbuds were draped around her neck, running to the iPhone she kept in her pocket.

“As okay as can be. Watson is sure interested in my mother's behavior.” Despite what Butch said, I was still worried that Watson wasn't focusing hard enough on other suspects.

“You're worrying for nothing, Lucy,” she said. “He's asking you about your mother because you're in a position to know. He's not going to ask you about people you don't know, now, is he?”

“No, but . . .”

“No buts. Here, listen to this. I downloaded this new album this morning. Take a listen—you're going to love it.”

Before I could protest, she was pushing buttons on the phone and stuffing the earbuds into my ears. I was hit by a blast of noise I didn't like to call music and a man chanting hideous poetry in a repetitive monotone.

“Uh,” I said.

She pressed the phone into my hand. “Keep it for a while. I've been doing some research for a couple of California grad students on shipping along this coast during the early eighteenth century, and need to give them a call. You have to get down and dirty and
into
the music to appreciate it. A couple of bars don't give the full effect. If you like it, I'll include it in the bunch of CDs I'm putting together for your mom.”

She walked away, her shoulders and hips bopping to the memory of the tune. I waited until she disappeared before whipping the earbuds out of my ears. The full effect, I did not need. Her taste in music was dreadful, but her love of it so infectious I would pretend I'd listened to it.

Ronald had warned me that Charlene gave everyone rap CDs for Christmas. And then she spent the month of January asking which track they'd liked best. Fortunately, rap singers rarely gave concerts in the Outer Banks, and we could usually come up with an excuse not to accompany her to Raleigh for a performance.

I realized I was smiling. This was why I loved this library so much.

I stopped smiling as the door slammed open and Bertie marched in with a face that would frighten small children.

“Problem?” I asked, probably redundantly.

In answer she tossed a copy of the local newspaper onto my desk. It was folded open to the third page, to the op-eds.

PROMINENT
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN CA
LLS FOR CLOSING OF L
IGHTHOUSE LIBRARY
, screamed the headline.

Heart in my mouth, I scanned the page.

Once again, tragedy has struck at the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library, this time taking the life of beloved Outer Banks native, mother, and grandmother Karen Whiteside Kivas. When will the mayor and townspeople realize that, aside from being a waste of hardworking taxpayers' money in these difficult times, the remote location of the lighthouse is a danger to innocent women working and visiting there, particularly at night? Although we might wish that only well-meaning vacationers came to enjoy the benefits of our spectacular coast and beaches, in these lawless times the dregs of the city can also be found among us. As a library, the spectacular historic lighthouse is nothing but a drain on the funds of this town. If it were turned into an income-generating tourist attraction, not only could everyone enjoy its historic beauty, rather than members of a select special-interest group, but funds could be raised to install perimeter lighting, hire guards, and implement other safety measures to protect the women and children who would enjoy visiting in complete safety.

The horrible piece was signed
Douglas Whiteside
.

I looked up. Bertie's face was beet red and a vein pulsed in her throat. For a moment, I thought she might be about to have a heart attack.

“Rather harsh,” I said.

“Harsh! I cannot believe Doug Whiteside has turned the death of his own sister into a political campaign attack ad. His concern for the safety of
innocent women
is pure bunk. Note the campaign slogans slipped in:
hardworking taxpayers
,
special interest groups
,
income generating
.” She was so angry I thought she might spit. “As if
readers
are a special interest group. As if we insist that anyone who wants to come in and tour the lighthouse has a library card!”

“He doesn't say anything about running for mayor.”

“Of course not, this is the opening salvo. He's found his issue to run against Connor with. Everyone knows Connor's a big supporter of the library.”

“People won't vote for Doug because of this, will they? We're popular with tourists as well as locals. We're always busy.” I glanced around the empty room. “Well, except for today.”

“You meet the people who use the library, Lucy. Our patrons and our friends. Yes, we have plenty of friends. But there are some people who don't see the value in libraries. Particularly not one like this that could be turned into something
income generating
.”

I thought of Norm Kivas, who saw no need to take his grandchildren to the library reading group.

“The death of Karen has opened a whole world of possibilities for Doug Whiteside and his supporters. Now he can hit the campaign trail insisting that the library is not only a waste of money but out-and-out dangerous.” The indignation dropped from her voice. “You don't feel unsafe here, do you, Lucy? If you don't want to continue . . .”

“No! Not for a moment. I'm safer here than I was in my apartment in Boston. My place is four flights up in a building with four-foot-thick stone walls, with one door and one iron-barred ground-floor window.” I didn't bother to mention Louise Jane's hints at things that could move through walls, for whom lack of doors and windows was not an obstacle.

“If I was a nasty-minded person,” Bertie said, “I might think Doug Whiteside had murdered his own sister to further his political ambitions.” She stormed off down the hallway to her office, her long, colorful skirt swirling around her ankles.

She'd left the newspaper on my desk. Maybe I was a nasty-minded person, but I was thinking precisely that.

Two of our regular patrons came in, staggering under the weight of the books they were here to return. They plopped the volumes down on the desk. These women were lifelong friends, but they never exchanged their reading material. Ann Atkinson loved science fiction, the more military-focused the better. The top of her pile was a Tanya Huff, the cover illustrated with hard-bodied men and equally hard-bodied women bristling with weaponry. Brenda Morrison adored cozy mysteries. She'd taken out the full set of Erika Chase books: Siamese cats, glasses of sweet tea, and stately white verandas.

Brenda saw the newspaper on the desk, still open to the op-ed page. “That Doug Whiteside's a fool. As if this town couldn't get on without this library.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that,” I said. “I hope you'll remember that at election time.”

“I heard rumors Doug's going to run for mayor,” Ann said. “I've no worries. Connor will whip his butt.”

“Wouldn't mind whipping Connor McNeil's butt myself,” Brenda, who had to be at least seventy, said.

Her friend roared with laughter and they went to select more books.

I felt color rise in my cheeks and gratefully answered the ringing phone. “Bodie Island Lighthouse Library. Lucy speaking.”

“Time for drinkies!”

“Hi, Mom.”

“What time do you finish work?”

“We close at five on Saturdays.”

“Is today Saturday?”

“Yes. What's up, Mom?”

“Your delightful friend Theodore is coming by for drinkies later. I thought you might like to join us.”

“Theodore is neither delightful nor my friend.”

“Time you made friends, then, dear. See you at six.” She hung up. I had not agreed to go. About the last thing I felt like was
drinkies
with Mom and Theodore. And since when did my mother use words like “drinkies,” anyway? I debated phoning her back to say I had other plans. Then I reconsidered: I hadn't had a chance to speak to Theodore since the night Karen died. He'd been at book club. He was observant, what nasty-minded people would call “nosy.” He might have noticed something. Something the police hadn't thought to ask. I decided one drink at the hotel couldn't hurt.

The phone rang again.

“Bodie Island—”

“Hi, Lucy.”

“Connor. We were . . . uh”—I glanced at Ann and Brenda, each trying to convince the other to, just this once, try a different type of book—“talking about you.” Despite myself, I blushed. “If you want to talk to Bertie, she's in her office.”

“I saw her at the meeting earlier. It's you I want to talk to, Lucy. Are you free for dinner tonight?”

“That'd be nice.”

“Can I pick you up? Say around six thirty?”

“I'm supposed to be having a drink with my mom after work. Why don't you join us? You can meet my
mother.” My hand shot up to my mouth as soon as I realized what I'd just said. “I don't mean that you need to meet my mother, I mean—”

“I'd like that, Lucy.”

“Can you make it quarter to six?”

“Sure. See you then.”

I put down the phone. When I looked up again, Ann and Brenda were grinning at me from over the tops of their piles of books. “Now,” said Brenda with a laugh, “I wonder who that might have been.”

“He of the nice butt, perhaps,” Ann said.

My face burned.

A
s the clock crawled toward closing time, I began to worry that I'd made a mistake asking Connor to join me for a drink with Mom. I didn't quite know what my relationship with our handsome mayor was. He liked me; I liked him. Were we dating? We'd gone out a couple of times. We'd exchanged good-night kisses. But nothing more. I'd also gone out with Butch. Nothing more there, either. I'd been with Ricky for as long as I could remember. At the ripe old age of thirty, I was new to this dating thing, and found it quite confusing.

Although, I thought, as Connor smiled at me across the threshold of the library, I could get used to it.

I'd decided to wear the dress I'd discarded the night we'd had dinner at Jake's. It was a cheerful yellow with short sleeves, a deep neckline, and a soft skirt that flowed around my knees. When I'd been in college, my roommate's birthday gift to me was to have my colors done at a fashionable dress shop. I'd been told that with my black hair and a complexion that tans well, I'm a winter and thus yellow is “my” color.

Charles watched from the bed. I held up a necklace in
one hand, a soft black scarf in the other. “You choose,” I said. He tilted his head to the right.

The necklace it would be. Charles had excellent taste.

Last of all I slipped on my best shoes. Black sandals, with straps the thickness of dental floss and heels so high it should be illegal to wear them. I hated them. I could barely stand upright in them, and by the end of the evening my feet are on fire. I wear them because they're Jimmy Choos, cost me five hundred bucks (I must have been out of my mind), and make me look as though I have long, sexy legs.

“How do I look?” I asked the cat.

He washed his whiskers.

I'd left my phone on the window ledge, where it sometimes got a weak signal. As I picked it up to slip into my purse, it beeped with an incoming text.

Josie:
I'm escaping the oven! Beach tomorrow?

Me:
You can count on me!

During the day, Charles wanders the library, greeting patrons and accepting compliments. When I go out in the evening, I leave him in my apartment, with a clean litter box and a full food bowl. Tonight, as soon as I opened the door, he dashed between my ankles and was downstairs before I could stop him.

I teetered carefully after him.

He was at his post on the shelf closest to the door as a knock sounded.

I took a deep breath and opened the door. Connor's eyes lit up as he saw me standing there, and I was pleased I'd gone to the trouble to dress up. He looked suitable for meeting his date's mother, in crisply ironed gray slacks and an open-necked blue shirt.

Charles meowed. Connor gave him a scratch behind the ears in return.

I'd come to realize that Charles was a superb judge of character. He clearly liked Connor. Then again, he liked Butch, too. No help there.

The night air was warm and the sky clear, but the wind was rising. “Storm coming,” Connor said as we drove to the hotel.

We stopped at a red light, and Connor turned to look at me. “You remember the ball on Thursday?”

“Yup,” I said, frantically mentally flicking through my wardrobe. Did I have anything suitable to wear to a ball? And would it be a real ball, like something out of
Pride and Prejudice
, or just a fancy name for a cocktail party?

The car behind us honked to tell us the light had changed.

Mom and Theodore were seated in the hotel's lobby bar when Connor and I arrived. Mom's manners were always impeccable, so I was the only one who noticed that she wasn't at all happy that I'd brought a guest of my own.

Theodore was in his full eccentric book-collector garb of belted Harris Tweed jacket and large spectacles. He leapt to his feet and said, in his proper English accent, “Connor. Delighted you could join us. Lucy, now I know from where you get your radiant beauty.”

Mom preened.

The waitress bustled over and asked what we'd like to drink. Mom chose a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Theodore asked for a pint of Guinness. Connor ordered an orange juice, explaining that he was driving, so would save himself for wine with dinner. I followed Mom's lead and also asked for a white wine.

“Did you see Louise Jane today?” I asked Mom, sounding perfectly nonchalant.

“She phoned this morning. She seemed to have had
some idea we had an appointment, and apologized for canceling.”

“That's good.” I leaned back in my chair.

“So we arranged to get together Monday afternoon.”

“I—”

Mom changed the subject. She was good at that. “Theodore has this wonderful idea—”

“Now, now, Suzanne. Let's not bore the young people,” Teddy, who was only slightly older than me, said.

“I don't think book collecting is boring,” Mom said.

“I read something quite scandalous in today's paper,” Theodore said. “Connor, you must have seen Doug Whiteside's letter. What's your take?”

I eyed my mother. Book collecting? Since when did Mom have the slightest interest in books? She had served on the library board in our town and was still with the Friends of the Library group. More because it was socially required for a woman of her position, I always thought, than because she cared about the library. Although she did read a fair amount. Bodice-ripper time-traveling romances when no one was looking, historical tomes when they were.

And why was Theodore not only not talking about his favorite subject but actively turning the conversation away? A nasty feeling began to creep through my bones.

“I've no comment,” Connor said. “Doug Whiteside is welcome to his opinion.”

“You don't think it's gauche of him to tie his political ambitions to his sister's death?” Theodore asked.

The edges of Connor's mouth turned up. “I'll admit that it's obvious someone else wrote that letter for him. I've never known good old Doug to use such formal language.”

“You mean like a campaign manager or press person
or something?” I said. “That would mean he's pretty much committed to throwing his hat into the ring.”

“Why are we talking politics?” Mom said. “Nothing drearier than politics. Particularly for the council of some insignificant small town in the back of nowhere.”

“I quite agree, Mrs. Richardson,” Connor said.

“Connor here is our mayor,” Theodore said. “Didn't you know that, Suzanne? I should have introduced you properly.”

The waitress chose that moment to arrive with the drinks. We gratefully began rearranging napkins and cutlery. Mom's eyes flickered between Connor and me. “The mayor,” she said once the waitress had departed. “How . . . nice.”

Theodore plunged into a discussion (lecture?) about the police investigation (incompetent), the composition of the library board (inept), the general state of literature in the modern world (tragic). Everything, in fact, except book collecting.

Mom drank wine and watched Connor. Connor tried to look fascinated by Theodore's ramblings. I downed my own drink in record time. “Where has the time gone?” I said when I could get a word in. “We'd better be off. Thanks for the drinks, Mom. I'll call you tomorrow.” I made a show of gathering up my purse. Connor pushed his chair back. “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Richardson.”

“Shall we have another round, Suzanne?” Theodore said. He began to get to his feet. “I'll fetch it. Oh, I keep forgetting. In America, the waiter comes to the table.” As if he hadn't been born and raised in Nags Head and gone to UNC. He plopped back down.

“Don't be in such a hurry, Lucille,” Mom said. “Why don't—”

“Evening, folks.” George, manager, appeared at our table. “Everything being taken care of here?”

“Yes,” we chorused.

George smiled at Mom. “Glad to hear it. I'm going off duty now, and wanted to make sure you're happy, Sue, before I head off for my dinner.”

“Dinner,” Mom said, leaping to her feet. “What a delightful idea. Won't you join us, George? You've met my daughter, Lucy. And her . . . uh . . . friend.”

“Mr. Mayor,” George said.

“George,” Connor said.

Neither of them was rude enough to mention that the last time they'd spoken was when my mother had created a scene with Karen Kivas in the hotel lobby.

“The restaurant here is superb,” Mom said. “No need for us to go out. Table for five?”

George, manager, looked as though he'd just had a visit from the tooth fairy. “It would be my pleasure to dine with you nice folks.”

“I'm not sure,” Theodore said. “I might . . . uh . . . have an appointment.”

Mom linked her arm through George's. “Come along, everyone. Dinner's my treat.”

“I've remembered,” Theodore said. “That appointment is tomorrow night.”

“Theodore, why don't you escort Lucy through to dinner? Oh, dear. We seem to be unbalanced in terms of gender. Can't be helped. Come along, everyone.”

Theodore held out his arm. I glanced at Connor. He threw me a quick wink.
Mothers!
it seemed to say.

The Ocean Side Restaurant is all starched white linens, polished silver, sparkling glassware, and soft candlelight. The low lighting went a long way toward hiding the
chipped baseboards, peeling plaster, and tattered rugs. The room looked full to me, but at one word from his boss, the maître d' whisked us to a large round table by a window. George beamed from ear to ear. He couldn't take his eyes off Mom, as if he was amazed that this woman was on his arm. Mom looked pretty good in high-heeled silver sandals, a shimmering silver sheath with matching jacket, diamonds in her ears, and a long silver chain around her neck.

Theodore and I followed Mom and George, and Connor brought up the rear. I felt as if I were in a George Bernard Shaw play, the understudy thrust onto the stage at the last minute, who'd forgotten who she was supposed to be.

“Your mom's very nice,” Theodore said in something resembling his own North Carolina accent.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Having dinner,” he said.

“I mean meeting with my mother. I can't think that you have anything in common.”

“Over there, isn't that Bertie waving at us?”

I looked. The woman trying to catch the waiter's attention was about twenty years old and looked as much like Bertie as I did.

When we arrived at the table, Mom directed everyone to their seats. She insisted that I take the best view, out the wide French doors overlooking the softly lit boardwalk that led through swaying ocean grasses toward the beach. Theodore was told to sit on my right. Mom took the chair at my left, placing herself between Connor and me. George sat across from me.

As we unfurled our napkins and accepted menus, George told us that the hotel would be having a memorial service for Karen tomorrow. “Not everyone can take the time off to attend the funeral, so I thought something
small and intimate here, for her hotel family, would be appropriate.”

“That is so thoughtful of you, George,” Mom said. She gave him her full-voltage smile. I wondered if he would melt under the strength of it. “Lucy, why don't you come with me?”

“I don't—”

“Theodore will be coming, of course. He can pick you up and bring you.”

“What?” Theodore pulled himself out of his inspection of the menu.

“We're not part of Karen's hotel family,” I said.

Mom waved that inconsequential detail away. “We'll have a bottle of red wine. George, why don't you select something? I'm partial to an Oregon Pinot Noir.”

The meal dragged endlessly on. The food varied between delicious (the lamb shanks) and barely edible (the overboiled frozen vegetables). Mom turned to Connor and kept up a stream of mindless chatter. Any good dinner party hostess would know to lean back in her chair so as to not block the people on either side of her with her body. Mom seemed to have forgotten that rule tonight. I was left to talk to Theodore and George.

I was annoyed, but I understood why Mom wanted to separate me from Connor. If I was dating Connor, I'd be less likely to return to Boston and the hypothetically waiting arms of Ricky. But I could not comprehend why on earth she seemed to be trying to shove me in Theodore's direction. Unless he had convinced her he was a man of money and influence. I didn't see him doing that. Teddy might enjoy playing the distinguished scholar, but that was as far as his pretense went. He never pretended to have money he didn't. I knew he'd recently had to sell
a much-loved set of first-edition James Bonds because he was short of funds.

The penny dropped. I interrupted him in midsentence. “Do you have your eye on any new books?”

“As a matter of fact I do.” He lowered his voice. “I'm sure you remember that unfortunate incident with the Ian Flemings.”

He was referring to the time I had accused him, in front of a prospective buyer, of stealing several Jane Austen first editions. Nice of him not to mention that. “Yes.”

“They're on the market again. At a reduced price. The gentleman who purchased them from me has found himself temporarily embarrassed, financially speaking.” His eyes drifted over my shoulder. They settled on my mom, laughing at some pearl of wisdom from George, manager. “I'm raising the funds to buy them back.”

Funds. My mother.

Okay, that explained what Theodore was doing here. It didn't explain why Mom would let him believe for a second that she'd lend him money to buy rare books. At that moment she turned to me with a beaming smile. “Enjoying yourself, dear?”

I couldn't say no, now, could I? “This lamb is beautiful.”

“Our chef sources everything locally,” George said, glad to be allowed the chance to say something. “We're very lucky to have her.”

“I'm sure,” Mom said, “luck had nothing to do with it. Good management is never a matter of luck.” She lifted her wineglass in a private toast.