Booked for Trouble (7 page)

“You still haven't told me why you're asking all these questions, Lucy.”

“Karen died yesterday.”

“Wow! What happened? We saw her just last night.”

“I don't know.” I explained about Karen's body being found on the lighthouse grounds. “The police are there now.”

Josie leaned back in her seat. “I feel bad about saying mean things about her.”

“You were more honest that way.” I licked the tip of my index finger and ran it through the remaining crumbs on my plate.

“There's more to this than your curiosity. Spill, Lucy.”

“Is your dad in town? I mean, he hasn't gone to Louisiana to visit his family or anything?”

“Yes. And no. He's home.”

My uncle Amos was a lawyer. He'd cut back on his workload in the past year, easing himself, he said, into retirement. He'd once been one of the top criminal lawyers in the state. “I might need to have him on speed dial. It turns out that my mom knew Karen back in the day and they had an unpleasant encounter recently.”

“How unpleasant?”

“Mom was rude, and Karen threatened her.”

“Threatened her. How?”

“Something about some secret Mom wouldn't want to get out.”

“Yeah, I noticed they weren't exactly friendly at book club.”

And that was the problem. Everyone had seen them being cold and distant. And no one, except me, had seen them make up.

“Forget about it,” Josie said. “Karen was all talk. She'd never do anything to ruin her poor-little-me image.”

“Mom wouldn't know that.”

“You can't be thinking . . .”

“I'm not thinking anything. But Detective Watson is. And Mom didn't help her case by treating him like the hired help. I'm surprised she didn't tell him to use the servants' entrance. What a mess.”

“You want another coffee?”

“No. I'd better get back to the library. See what's happening there.” I dug my phone out of my purse and checked to see if I'd missed any calls. Nothing.

A family tumbled into the bakery. Mom, Dad, teenagers, preteens, grandparents, and an aunt and uncle or two. They were dressed in an assortment of brilliantly colored clothes and all had sunburned noses. “You have work to do. I've taken enough of your time.”

My cousin gave me a radiant smile. She reached across the table and patted my hand. “Anytime, sweetie. You know that. I'll call Dad right now. Tell him he might be hearing from you. Just as a precaution. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

Josie rose to her feet in one graceful motion. “Are we still on for dinner tonight?”

“Unless I hear otherwise. Watson told Mom not to leave the hotel, so we might have to change the venue. I'll let you know.”

Josie raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. She went back to her ovens and dough.

I went back to my work.

T
he cop guarding the entrance to the lighthouse lane flagged me down as I pulled off the highway. I had the top of the SLK down, and the officer recognized me. She greeted me with a low whistle. “Nice wheels.”

“Yup.”

“How much do you make as a librarian, anyway?”

“Not enough to afford this car. It's my mother's. You know I live here, so can I go in?”

“Yeah.” She waved me through.

Police vehicles still filled the parking lot, but Karen's Neon had been taken away. A woman clad head to foot in a white gown, booties, and cap climbed out of the back of a van as I drove up. I avoided glancing around the side of the lighthouse. I spared a thought for my jacket. Even if the police did return it, there was no way I would ever wear it again.

Bertie was at the circulation desk, working on the computer. She waved at me as I came in and pointed down the hallway. I could hear low voices and cabinet doors being opened. “What are they doing?” I asked.

“Searching.”

“For what?”

“Karen was last seen here, in the library. They're in the break room now, and will be doing the third-floor meeting room next. They tried ordering me to go home, but I said I wanted to keep an eye on the place. The library is my responsibility. I've been told I have to sit here or in my office. No place else.”

“Can I go upstairs?”

“You'll have to ask. Oh, and Diane Uppiton just called.”

I groaned. The only reason Diane, one of our library board members, would call Bertie would be to cause trouble. “Let me guess. She heard about the death.”

“On library property. To a library patron. She is horrified at this development. Unfortunately the board meeting's tomorrow, and I'm sure this . . . incident will be brought up.”

“It shouldn't reflect on the library,” I said. “None of us can be blamed. Did you know Karen well?”

Bertie tapped her fingers on the desktop. “She was a regular patron. Brought her children, and then her grandchildren, to the library over the years. I had no opinion one way or another.”

Hardly a ringing endorsement.

“I thought I heard your voice, Lucy.” Watson's head popped around the corner. “I need to interview you. We'll use your office, Ms. James.”

It was not a question, but Bertie answered as though it had been. “That's fine.”

Bertie gave me an encouraging smile, and I fell into step behind the detective. Sad to say, Watson knew the way to Bertie's office. Butch and two other people were coming out of the break room as we passed. A woman nodded to Watson, and said, “Finished in there. Third floor next.”

“Good,” Watson said. “Greenblatt, you're with me.”

I didn't want to sit in Bertie's place, so I took the visitor's chair. Watson seated himself behind the desk, and Butch leaned up against a wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“Tell me everything you did this morning,” Watson said. “Until you phoned nine-one-one.”

There wasn't a lot to tell, and I related the story quickly. I'd risen at my regular time, dressed and eaten my breakfast, and then come downstairs intending to start work. I stepped outside, as I usually did, to check the weather and take a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet. I'd noticed an unusual amount of bird activity. I investigated. I found (and here I had to stop for a moment and swallow) Karen.

“Did you hear anything in the night? People around, cars driving down the lane?”

“No. But it's quiet in my apartment. Solid stone walls, you know.”

“When Officer Greenblatt left the library, Karen Kivas was still here. Along with you and your mother. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else remain behind?”

I thought. “George Marwick, from the Ocean Side Hotel, wanted to give Mom a lift, but she told him she had her own car. So he left.”

“When was that?”

“We'd come downstairs, but not put away the dishes yet. He left about ten minutes before Karen. Maybe. I can't be positive about all the timing. . . .”

“Your mother and Mrs. Kivas had been cold to each other during the book club meeting.”

“I told you. They had a silly spat but made up.”

“So you say.”

“Yes, I do say. They were great buddies when they left.”

“Ah yes, when they left. Together.”

“I mean . . .”

“You didn't see either of them drive away?”

“No.”

“So you don't know if they left immediately, or perhaps stood and . . . chatted . . . for a while longer.”

“No.”

“Your mother says there were no cars in the parking lot other than your Yaris and what she presumed was Karen Kivas's car. She drove straight back to the hotel and went to her room. No one at the hotel can verify what time she came in.”

“It's not a prison. People are not required to check in and out.”

“True.”

“Look, Detective. My mom and Karen had an unpleasant encounter earlier at the hotel. My mom apologized yesterday evening. Karen accepted her apology.”

“So you say.”

“I do say!”

“But no one else can verify that. Everyone we've spoken to”—Butch shifted uncomfortably—“says they were cold and distant. Hostile almost.”

“It happened! My mom's a nice person.”

“So's my mom,” Watson said. “Tell me again about this encounter Monday afternoon. At the Ocean Side Hotel.”

“We ran into Karen in the lobby as I was leaving.”

“Your mother and Mrs. Kivas had words.” It was not a question. “Tell me about that.”

“Karen recognized Mom from years ago. They said hi. That's all.” I shrugged, and checked my watch. Totally nonchalant. “Will you look at the time? Your forensics officers will be finishing upstairs now. Shall I go up and tell them you're free?”

“No need for you to act as my appointments secretary, Ms. Richardson.”

“I'm only trying to be helpful.” I threw a glance at Butch. He caught my eye and gave his head a slight shake. He was telling me, I assumed, to stop making things worse.

“As you won't admit it, let me tell you what others observed Monday,” Watson said. “Your mother was rude and insulting to Ms. Kivas. Ms. Kivas was threatening in return. Does that sound about right?”

It came as no surprise to me that the cops were intimately acquainted with all the gruesome details of that hideous confrontation at the hotel Monday evening. Everyone in the vicinity had been enthralled, and no doubt happy to explain to the authorities, in great detail, what they'd heard.

“Well, yes, but only for people who don't know my mom. She doesn't do rude and insulting, you see. If she'd really meant to be rude—”

“Mrs. Kivas was heard to say that she knew something Mrs. Richardson wouldn't want to become general knowledge. I believe the word ‘thief' was mentioned. Do you have any idea what she meant?”

“No. That's gossip, hearsay, isn't it? You can't use hearsay.”

“We're not in a court of law, Lucy. I can ask whatever I want. Is she a heavy drinker, your mom?”

“Certainly not!” The picture on the wall behind Bertie's desk was of a woman doing a Downward Dog on
the beach at sunrise. Bertie was a yoga practitioner and instructor. She practiced its calming rituals every day. I stared at the poster, trying to soak up some of that calm. It wasn't working.

I must have been doing it wrong.

“Three glasses of wine in quick succession with nothing to eat,” Watson said.

“We had something to eat. Bruschetta and calamari. Delicious.”

“You had bruschetta and calamari. Your mom's plate was unused.”

I never liked having servants. I always suspected they were spying on me and laughing about me behind my back. Case in point: the hotel employees sure seemed to be keeping track of us. I imagined them in the kitchen, gossiping about the rich old broad who was vacationing alone and drinking so much her daughter had to take her car away.

“That's uncharacteristic of my mother. She rarely drinks.”

“Is that so? I've found that folks often behave in unexpected ways when they have more to drink than they're used to. Quick to take offense, sometimes. Even to lash out.”

“I didn't mean she
never
drinks. I just meant, before dinner, without dinner, instead of dinner. I . . .”

“Thank you, Lucy. You've been a great help.”

“You mean we're finished?”

“Yes.”

“You mean I can go?”

“Yes, Lucy,” Butch said. This conversation had made him almost as uncomfortable as it had made me.

I got to my feet. “I'm having dinner with my mom and the family tonight. Can she leave the hotel?”

“I'll talk to her about that,” Watson said cryptically. “By your family, do you mean Amos O'Malley?”

“He . . . uh . . . might come.”

We were interrupted by a light knock. A cop popped her head in. “Detective. We've found something upstairs.”

Watson got to his feet. “You're excused,” he said to me again.

We left the office. I headed for the main library, and the three cops took the stairs, fast. I was so curious I almost followed, but self-preservation took over.

“How'd it go?” Bertie asked.

“Not well. They found something interesting upstairs. I wonder if Karen left something behind after book club. It can't be her purse. It was outside this morning with . . . uh . . . with her.”

“Let's hope that, whatever it is, they can use it to sort this mess out. I have a library to run.”

“I'm going to check my phone for messages. Be right back,” I said.

I stepped outside and pulled out my iPhone. As soon as the No Service notice disappeared, the phone beeped, telling me I had a voice message.

“Lucy! Something dreadful has happened. Call your father. No, call Amos. I think . . . I think they are going to arrest me.”

Mom.

I
was staring in shock at the phone in my hand when Watson ran out of the library, Butch hot on his heels. Watson was good at hiding his feelings, but Butch wasn't. The look he threw me was positively stricken.

Whatever they'd found upstairs had to do with my mom. I ran after Watson. “What's going on? You have to tell me what's happened. I know it's about my mother.”

Butch got into the driver's seat of the cruiser. Watson stopped, his hand on the door. “There's been a development. Your mother's not under arrest at this time, but she is being brought into the station. You might want to alert Amos O'Malley. I'm going there now. You can follow us if you want.”

He got into the car and they sped away.

I ran back into the library. “What on earth?” Bertie said as I charged past her. I dashed down the hall and into the break room, where my purse and car keys were. Good thing I had the SLK; if any cop dared to try to pull me over, I'd just lead him to the police station.

“Gotta go,” I yelled to Bertie.

I leapt into the SLK and tore down the lighthouse
road in a spray of gravel. I sped down Highway 12 to the Croatan Highway. I didn't put the top down, and I didn't notice the scenery. I am well aware that it's highly dangerous to phone and drive at the same time, but I threw caution to the wind and called Uncle Amos. I told him what I knew—precious little—and he said he was on his way. I threw the phone onto the seat beside me. There'd been an accident on the Croatan by the outlet shops, and traffic slowed to a crawl. Up ahead I could see the red top of a fire truck and numerous flashing red lights. I pounded the dash in frustration. I inched the car forward and, when I figured I could make it, swung onto the verge of the road, squeezed past a van piled high with camping equipment and kids, and pulled into a driveway. I made a U-turn and edged back onto the highway, trying to squeeze the SLK through the double row of cars. If the SLK had been an inch longer, I wouldn't have made it, but eventually I was through. Taking my life in my hands, I shot into the briefest gap in the southbound traffic, speeding up as it escaped the bottleneck. Back toward the lighthouse, and then a sharp left into Virginia Dare Trail, and heading north again. Traffic was heavy as everyone tried to avoid the accident, but at least it was moving.

I can't say why I was in such a mad rush. It was unlikely that a mob of irate townsfolk had gathered outside the Nags Head police station with torches and pitchforks, intent on dragging Suzanne Wyatt Richardson off to an impromptu hanging. I shook away an image of Detective Watson standing on the steps, shotgun balanced loosely in his arms, pushing the brim of his hat back and telling them to “go off home now, folks.”

Whatever they'd found upstairs had to have been
about Mom, but I couldn't imagine what it could possibly have been and what was so important about it that Watson immediately sent people around to arrest her (sorry—take her in for questioning). It all happened so fast; there must have been cops at the hotel. I'd seen an officer there earlier, talking to Dowager Countess Wannabe who was missing her granddaughter's birthday present. Had that officer then gone to talk to Mom? Had he been asking her about book club last night, and had Mom said something so stupid and condescending he thought she was confessing?

I pounded the dashboard once again.

It seemed like years, but was probably only ten minutes before I pulled into the Nags Head police station. If Butch and Watson got stuck on the Croatan, I might even be here ahead of them.

I ran into the building and demanded to see Detective Watson immediately.

All my hurrying had been for naught, as I was politely, yet firmly, told to take a seat. I then sat worrying and fuming for a good fifteen minutes until Uncle Amos strolled in. Tall and lanky and slow-moving with a deep Louisiana accent, he always reminded me of Gregory Peck in
To Kill a Mockingbird
. I had as much confidence in my uncle Amos as I did in Atticus Finch. And that was a comforting thought.

He said nothing to me but gave me a nod before speaking to the receptionist. He was told to come on in. I was not.

More worrying. More fuming.

Fortunately, I always have a book buried somewhere in the depths of my bag. When I calmed down enough to realize that all I could do was wait, I pulled it out. I
hadn't yet started
The Haunting of Maddy Clare
by Simone St. James. A good ghost story seemed to be exactly what I needed right now. I'd been carrying the book around for a while. I wasn't superstitious, not in the least, but Louise Jane's stories of the lighthouse's history of hauntings had put me in the mood to
not
want to delve into a tale of the wandering undead before falling asleep. Even with the mighty Charles to protect me.

I hadn't phoned my dad. I probably should, but I figured I'd wait until I found out what was going on. It might be better if Uncle Amos called him, lawyer to lawyer. Although Dad was a corporate lawyer, and I didn't think he'd stepped foot in a courtroom since articling, he'd still know all the jargon and get mad at me because I didn't.

A steady stream of people came in and out of the police station. Feeling like a high school girl hoping for a date, I kept checking my iPhone, thinking that I might not hear it ring if Mom got the chance to make another call. Nothing. No encouraging text messages, either. Finally, the door to the inner sanctum opened. Out came Uncle Amos and my mom, followed by Detective Watson. I leapt to my feet.

Mom was pale and her face drawn into dark lines, but her Ralph Lauren jacket and pants were as immaculate as they had been this morning and scarcely a hair was out of place. She said not a word to me, but marched out of the police station, head high and back straight. Uncle Amos jerked his head in my direction, telling me to follow. I ran after them into the hot, bright sunlight. I couldn't have been in the police station as long as I thought I had.

“I came in the SLK,” I said. “Do you want it?”

“Yes.” Mom dug in her bag and brought out an enormous pair of Armani sunglasses. “That was quite the most embarrassing experience of my life. One I hope never to repeat. Thank you, Amos, for coming down. Can you take Lucy home?”

“This isn't over, Suzanne,” Uncle Amos said.

She shrugged. “It is for now. I need to go back to the hotel and lie down. What time is our dinner reservation, Lucy?”

“Dinner?”

“You made the reservation, didn't you?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Dinner's a good idea,” Uncle Amos said. “We need to talk this over.”

Mom held out her hand. “Keys.”

I gave them to her. “Seven o'clock at Jake's. I'll pick you up at ten of.”

“I'll drive myself.”

“I'll pick you up.”

“If you must.” She headed toward her car. Then she stopped and turned around. “Did you call your father?”

“Not yet. I thought I'd wait until I could tell him what was happening.”

“Good. Don't bother him with this.”

“I still think—” Uncle Amos said, but Mom was walking away.

Amos and I exchanged glances, and then we walked to his car.

“I've just remembered,” I said. “My car's at the hotel. Can you drop me there instead of at the lighthouse?”

“Of course,” he said.

“What happened?” I asked once we were seated in Uncle Amos's comfortable Camry.

He pulled into traffic. “We'll talk about it at dinner, but it doesn't look good. I don't know if your mother's putting up a brave front—the Wyatt girls are good at that—or if she genuinely doesn't understand. I wish I could call your dad, but she ordered me not to.”

“They didn't charge her with anything, did they? She wouldn't be out this fast, not for a murder, if they had.”

“She's not to leave Dare County.”

“Why? What could they possibly have on Mom for the death of Karen? The very idea's preposterous.”

“We'll discuss it at dinner,” Uncle Amos said. “When Suzanne can give me a full explanation. At this time, she's not been accused of murder. Only of theft.”

For a moment I thought he was joking. But there was no smile on his face or twinkle in his eyes. “You can't be serious.”

“Your mother owns a beach bag? A big white canvas one with a blue sailing ship on it?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen it recently?”

“Last night. She brought it to the library in case she wanted to select some books for the rest of her vacation.”

“Did she take it with her when she left?”

“I don't know.” I thought. “Now that you're asking, I don't remember seeing it again.”

“It was found in the third-floor room of the library. On the floor behind a pile of chairs.”

“Karen folded the chairs and stacked them. Maybe she pushed them against the wall and didn't notice the bag was still there. Why does this matter, Uncle Amos?”

“Inside the bag, they found a necklace. A diamond-and-gold necklace.”

“So, my mother owns lots of nice things.”

“Unfortunately, the necklace didn't belong to her. It had been reported stolen from the Ocean Side Hotel just a few hours earlier. Your mother insisted she'd never seen it before.”

*   *   *

I drove back to the library in a daze. Bertie was in the break room, pouring herself a drink of water. She took one look at my face and handed the glass to me. I downed it in one go. “What's happening, honey? Here, sit down.”

I dropped into a chair. Charles leapt into my lap. He rubbed his big white-and-tan head against my chest. I scratched his throat and felt some of the tension dissolving from my shoulders. “What a mess.”

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, Lucy. Do you need to take some time off?”

“No. I mean, I don't know. I might have to, although I'd prefer to keep working.”

Bertie was my aunt Ellen's closest friend. I'd quit my job at Harvard and fled Boston after turning down Ricky's marriage proposal. I'd come to the Outer Banks, wanting to be cosseted and pampered by my family while I decided what I was going to do with my life. Instead, Ellen had invited her best friend to tea, and by the time tea was over, I had a job at the Lighthouse Library. “I simply don't know what's going on,” I said to Bertie now. “Karen's dead. And my mom's been questioned about, of all things, theft.”

Bertie's eyebrows twitched, but she made no comment.

“That's all I know. We're having dinner at Jake's tonight, so I'm hoping to hear more. Mom doesn't seem to be worried, but Uncle Amos is.”

“It's almost three. Why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off?”

“Thanks, Bertie, but work is always better than worry.” I gave the cat a scratch behind the ears. “Isn't that right, old boy?”

Charles purred in agreement. I reluctantly lifted him off me and set him on the floor.

“In that case,” Bertie said, “stay in the main room. I want to be sure that one of us has an eye on the Austen collection at all times.”

“You can't think the cops are going to take the opportunity to snatch a book.” I said, shocked. “Anyway, isn't the cabinet locked?”

“They took all my keys. Who can say in what heart lurks a ruthless bibliophile?”

She wasn't joking.

“We have a bit of financial leeway, Lucy. If you need some time to look after your mother, I can afford to ask Louise Jane to fill in temporarily.”

I left without commenting on that. No way was I was prepared to let Louise Jane get another crack at replacing me.

If I hadn't been worried about my mom and upset over the death of one of our patrons, I would have enjoyed the rest of the workday. Nothing like an empty library to allow one to work in peace. The police had told Bertie and me that as long as we stayed away from the third floor, we could go about our business.

Watson and Butch did not return, but other officers and various personnel kept coming and going throughout the afternoon. Around five o'clock, a dark van pulled up and a stretcher was unloaded. Bertie and I stood at the window and watched as Karen Kivas's body was
taken away. A woman I didn't know, identifiable by the badge pinned to the belt beside her holster, came in and told us they were finished. She handed Bertie her keys.

“Can we open the library?” Bertie asked.

“Detective Watson sees no reason why you can't get back to business tomorrow. We've marked off the side of the building and don't want anyone venturing there.” She gave me a steely-eyed stare.

No worries there. I had no interest in going back to that spot.

Bertie called Ronald and Charlene to tell them to come in tomorrow. She took the opportunity to get to her yoga studio early, and left me browsing publishers' catalogs, checking out what was new for the winter.

By six fifteen Charles was leading the way, tail held high, up to our lighthouse aerie. What a day, and it wasn't over yet. My book nook beneath the window looked mighty inviting, but instead I attacked my closet. I'd planned on wearing my new yellow dress, bright and light and flowing. Something fun yet suitable for dinner with the family. But now it didn't seem as though summer fun was going to be the tone of the evening.

I pulled clothes off hangers, held them up against me, and then tossed them onto the bed. Josie would be wearing something perfect for the occasion, yet drop-dead sexy at the same time. I'd learned long ago not to even try to compete with Josie, and had been much happier for it. Just as well I was the librarian and she the baker. She could tell whether the dough needed more salt by a look, but whenever I cooked, I had to taste everything. I could only imagine what I'd weigh if I worked in a bakery.

With that cheerful thought, I selected a plain black linen dress and a navy blue scarf.