By Book or by Crook (19 page)

Behind Louise Jane’s back, Charlene stuck out her tongue.

Louise Jane crouched down. She dribbled the crushed leaves onto the floor in front of the Austen cabinet. She swayed back and forth and quietly muttered words I didn’t understand.

Charlene rolled her eyes.

Charles came out from under a shelf. He put out one tentative paw and touched the leaves. He stuck out his tiny pink tongue and licked his foot.

“As I said,” Louise Jane said, “animals are highly sensitive to the paranormal. This cat’s accepting the spell.”

“He’d accept it even more if you mixed in some tuna,” Charlene said.

Ronald stifled a laugh. “You lot can play witches and warlocks as much as you like, but I’m off home. You’ll be all right here, Charlene?”

It was Charlene’s turn to sleep over, protecting the Austen books. And me.

“Yup. I have a friend staying at the house with Mom tonight. See you tomorrow, Ronald.”

“Night, all,” he said, and he left the library.

“Your floor next,” Louise Jane said, getting to her feet.

“I have some work to do,” Charlene said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Louise Jane and I climbed the curving iron stairs, Charles running ahead.

“Aren’t you going to put anything down in front of the children’s library?” I asked.

“I considered that. But I think not.”

“Why not?”

“Overuse of spells ruins the effectiveness.”

“Oh.”

We reached my landing. Louse Jane studied the area around my door. “I’ve saved the most powerful herbs for here.”

It was a whole lot of mumbo-jumbo, and I wondered if even Louise Jane herself believed what she was doing or was simply enjoying making herself the center of attention. I considered telling her not to bother, that I didn’t want—or need—her herbs and spells. But I’d decided it best to let her think I appreciated her helping me. I didn’t need to make an enemy out of Louise Jane.

“My grandmother taught me that there must be total honesty between the practitioner and the patron.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

“Secrecy breeds mistrust. Mistrust breeds doubt. Doubt allows evil forces to enter.”

“I thought you said the ghosts in this lighthouse weren’t evil, just lost.”

“Don’t keep trying to trip me up, Lucy. I did say that about lighthouse keeper’s little boy, and about Frances, the Lady, and it’s the truth. Even the builders and the Civil War soldiers. As far as I know. I hope you’re not . . . naive . . . enough to believe that the only forces at work are the ones that show themselves. No, behind them lurks a deeper, darker, far more malevolent world.”

I couldn’t contain a shudder. Louise Jane couldn’t contain her smirk.

Charles rubbed against my leg, and I was grateful for his warm bulk. The electric white light in the landing was strong, but somehow shadows seemed to have crept into the round corners and between the iron railings.

“I’m going to lay down a protective line in front of your door,” Louise Jane said. “No one will be able to cross it.”

“I hope I can,” I said, with a nervous laugh.

She didn’t bother to answer that.

As she had done downstairs, she took herbs out of her bag and rubbed them between her fingers. She carefully laid a line of dry green leaves across the threshold to my apartment as she mumbled incomprehensible words. Again, Charles stepped forward and sampled the herbs. This time he tasted them twice.

Louise Jane got to her feet. “All done. I just hope . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“What?”

“I’m not all that experienced, you know. My grandmother believes that spell casting can only be learned with age, so she hasn’t taught me much yet. Total honesty, right?”

“Yeah?”

“The spell will keep the spirits from crossing the line. I hope, well, I just hope they’re not
inside
your room right now. If so, they won’t be able to get out.”

“What!”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s still daylight. I hope you opened your drapes this morning. That would keep them away.”

I couldn’t remember if I had or not. Knowing
Ronald had slept downstairs, I’d hurried down with a cup of coffee for him as soon as I was up and dressed.

I was about to protest that I could hardly sleep in a room that
might
have a ghost trapped inside it when I reminded myself that it was all nonsense, anyway. If I didn’t believe ghosts haunted the lighthouse, then I could hardly object to not being adequately protected from one.

“Yes,” I said. “I opened the curtains soon as I woke up, like I always do, to check the weather. Are we done here?”

“Yup. I hope I’ve helped.”

“I guess we’ll see.”

“How long will it be, do you think, before Ronald and Charlene give up playing bodyguard for you?”

“That’s not what they’re doing.”

“Sure it is. For you, for the books. The library. Trying to integrate themselves, show how indispensable they are. Changes are coming, Lucy. There’s going to be a new board, a new chair of the board. Out with the old, in with the new. Bertie can’t last. She’s too old-school. Diane Uppiton and Curtis Gardener have new ideas.”

“The only idea they have is to close us down. Bertie’s going to fight tooth and nail to make sure they don’t.”

“Who told you that? Bertie? Of course she did. She wants you on her side, Lucy.” Louise Jane touched the side of her nose. “A word of warning. Bertie’s going down. She’s made a fiasco of the Austen collection. The cops are after her for Jonathan’s murder. I bet the only reason they haven’t arrested
her is they don’t have enough proof. They’ll get it. And then where will you be, honey? Still, I suppose you don’t really care. After all, you can go back to Boston anytime you like, can’t you? Must be nice not to have roots so deep they tie you to a place, to your family.”

Charles leapt onto the railing and hissed.

Louise Jane gave the cat a filthy look and walked away. Round and round, down the winding iron stairs. I hurried after her, wanting to be sure she let herself out.

The overhead lights on the main floor had been switched off. Soft yellow light glowed in the Austen alcove and from a few table lamps. Charlene was nowhere to be seen.

Louise Jane had her giant purse over her shoulder and her hand on the door. She turned and gave me that crocodile smile. “How lovely and peaceful the library is after closing. The calm before the storm, they say. Are you doing anything tonight?”

“I’m heading out to the market now. I’ll pick up a few things for dinner and just stay in.”

“No after-hours parties with the
favored
staff?”

So this was it. Louise Jane was jealous that we’d had our little impromptu get-together last night and she hadn’t been included. Considering that it was impromptu and no one had been invited, she was
being rather harsh. I couldn’t be bothered to explain. “Good night, Louise Jane.”

She waved her fingers in farewell and sailed out the door.

I locked it firmly behind her, and then went upstairs to change out of my work clothes and get my purse.

I stood on the wide landing at the entrance to my apartment—my beloved lighthouse aerie. I studied the line of dried plants in front of the door. Had something disturbed them in the short time I’d been downstairs?

Now I was being fanciful. Louise Jane was no practitioner of white magic. She was a spiteful, jealous woman trying to scare me out of my job and my new home.

Nothing more.

I would not be scared.

N
evertheless, I stepped carefully over the supposedly protective line of herbs. As soon as I was inside, I checked the window. Despite my determination to be scornful, I was relieved to see that I’d opened the curtains this morning.

I took off my work clothes and slipped into comfortable shorts, a Harvard tank top, and flat sandals. I shook my hair out of the clip at the back of my head and arranged my curls into a ponytail. Last night’s pizza had been the end of my groceries and I needed to stock up. Having such a small fridge and no stove made it difficult to plan meals in advance.

I gave the room one last glance—trying hard not to check in the corners—and left. I stepped over the herbs and locked the door.

I drove into Nags Head and picked up a few basic items. Tonight’s dinner would be a Lean Cuisine, something I could heat in the microwave. I studied the little box. It had been a stressful day. Maybe I’d need two packages. A very stressful day. Into the shopping basket went a container of Butter Pecan Häagen-Dazs.

I loaded the groceries into my car and pulled out of the parking lot. I decided to drive down Virginia Dale Trail, the more scenic route along the
oceanfront, rather than take the highway all the way back to the lighthouse. The sky to the east was dark as night fell over the sea, while the west was ablaze with oranges and reds. The ocean side of Virginia Dale Trail is almost all rental properties, big beach houses perched on stilts, brightly painted or gray and black with age, with outside staircases, numerous levels, and high decks to catch the view. On the land side, the houses are still mostly rentals, but the few permanent homes are indicated by a mailbox at the end of the drive or an attempt to make a scrap of garden in soil that’s almost entirely sand. I slowed to allow a large delivery truck to turn out of a narrow street that dead-ended at the beach. Off to my right, the land side, I saw a familiar figure emerge from a small house. The house had been painted baby blue, but the paint had peeled badly in the salty wind and not been refreshed. Several of the railings protecting the deck on the second level had fallen away and been patched with plywood. The plywood was stained and cracked, indicating it had been in place for a long time. The front steps tilted ominously. The whole place had an aura of neglect and decay.

But I was more interested in the resident and what he was carrying than in the house. Theodore Kowalski, and a cardboard box. The sort of box, I thought, in which books were packaged and delivered. I might not have paid him any mind if not for the way he glanced up and down the street as he came out the door. He hurried to his car and shoved the box into the trunk. Then, with another furtive glance, he leapt into the driver’s seat.

I was partially hidden by the truck, which was
having considerable difficulty making the tight turn. Finally the truck straightened out, the driver gave me a wave of thanks, and I could carry on. Up ahead, Theodore’s car was signaling a right-hand turn. Without even considering what might be the wisest course of action, I put my foot on the gas and the Yaris shot forward. I was in time to see him turning onto the Croatan Highway, heading north, back toward Nags Head, Kill Devil Hills, and Kitty Hawk. I reached the turn at the same time as there was a break in the heavy traffic and fell in behind Theodore.

What on earth am I doing?
And why was I doing it? For all I knew, he was going to visit his mother and would lead me on a merry chase. I decided to follow as far as Kitty Hawk and the bridge across Currituck Sound to the mainland. If not for the furtive way Theodore had put that box into the trunk, I would have honked my horn, waved, and gone home to eat Lean Cuisine and Häagen-Dazs.

Theodore was a cautious driver; otherwise I doubt I’d have been able to follow in the heavy traffic. He kept to the right lane, going exactly the speed limit. I followed, trying to keep a reasonable distance back. I was helped by the approaching night, as long as I kept my eyes on his rear lights. My brightly colored car did not exactly blend in, but Theodore didn’t appear to be watching to see if he were being followed. Cars swept past us. He signaled a lane change as we approached Kill Devil Hills, and I did the same. Soon the left indicator flashed again. He had to wait for approaching cars to clear the intersection, and I found myself sitting right behind him. I pulled down
my sun visor, not knowing if that would cover some of my face or not. The approaching traffic cleared, and he made the turn into a side street, the teal Yaris almost on his bumper. Theodore drove slowly past a small strip mall and pulled into the loading area behind the shops.

A single car was there. Its headlights flashed. I glided to a stop at the side of the street. It was almost dark now, the back of the stores lit by powerful security lights. Theodore parked beside the waiting car, a gleaming black Cadillac Escalade. Interior lights came on as the two men got out of their cars. They shook hands, exchanged a few words. Then Theodore was bending into his car, taking out the box, and carrying the box to the SUV, the back of which had been popped open in anticipation. As I watched, he opened the box and lifted out a book. The other man bent to examine it.

Sense and Sensibility! Pride and Prejudice!
That rat was selling the books. Bertie and I had been wrong. He must have hidden
Mansfield Park
in my room, intending to come back for it later. He’d probably offered the entire set to this . . . this . . . person, but his plans had been foiled when we changed the locks and set up a twenty-four-hour guard in the library. I was out of my car and running before I knew it. I flew across the street; an approaching car blared its horn and slammed on brakes. A woman leaned out and yelled something quite rude.

“Stop!” I cried. “Those books are stolen property.”

Both men turned. Theodore saw me and his mouth went slack with shock. The other man, dressed in crisp khaki pants and a blue golf shirt,
just looked confused. I had the presence of mind to whip my iPhone out of my shorts pocket. I waved it in the air. “I’m calling the police.”

A head popped out from the back door of one of the shops. “What’s going on out there?”

“What the hell?” the man caught red-handed receiving stolen goods said. “Who are you?”

“A concerned citizen,” I replied. “Those Austens have been stolen.”

“Austens?”

“Lucy,” Theodore said, “go away.”

“I certainly will not. Give me the books.”

“I don’t know anything about stolen books.” The man backed up, lifting his hands into the air. “I’m not getting into that, Kowalski.”

“This is all a misunderstanding,” Theodore protested. He wasn’t wearing his tweeds today, just a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. The ordinary clothes made him look smaller, diminished. The aristocratic English accent had been replaced by a plain North Carolina one.

“The only
misunderstanding
,” I insisted, “was you thinking you could get away with it. I demand you show me the contents of that box.”

“Gerry, wait right there,” Theodore said. “I’ll be more than happy to show this young lady what I have.”

My confidence was beginning to waver. Theodore wasn’t trying to bluff his way out of it or throw up a smoke screen of obstruction. He waved the book in my face. The cover was a rather dull gray dotted with, of all things, red hearts.
Casino Royale
by Ian
Fleming. Underneath lay
Live and Let Die
, the cover a garish pink mess.

“Oh,” I said. Despite my embarrassment, I was still able to reflect on how much cover design had changed over the years. For the better.

Theodore pulled out the books one by one, showed them to me, and put them on the clean floor of the Esplanade’s trunk. Most were James Bond novels, as well as a few midcentury spy books by lesser-known authors. With every volume I felt myself deflating. Finally he lifted the box, turned it upside down, and gave it a good shake. “Do you want to search it, Lucy? Look for hidden compartments?”

“Sorry.”

“So, you’re not saying these books are stolen?” Gerry said.

“Uh, no,” I said.

He shook his head. Theodore began packing the books back in the box. Gerry handed him an envelope. “Nice doing business with you, Kowalski. You know what I’m after: the full set of first editions. Keep me in mind if you run across any.” He turned to me. “And that’s not Austen, in case you’re thinking of accusing me next time.”

“Sorry.”

With a shake of his head, he got into his SUV and drove away.

I gave Theodore a sickly grin. “Sorry.”

“You thought I’d stolen the books from the library and was selling them?”

“Well, yeah.” I shoved my phone into my pocket.

Theodore let out a long sigh. “I won’t mention this to anyone if you don’t. My . . . circumstances have been somewhat reduced lately, and I’m forced to sell parts of my collection. I don’t want to, but I have little choice. I went to a book show in Raleigh the other day and met Gerry. He’s looking to buy, and I want . . . I need to sell a few things.”

“I’m sorry,” I said once again.

He looked so sad, defeated almost. “I really loved those Ian Flemings. I’d prefer people don’t know. It’s only a temporary development, I’ll be back on my feet soon.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank you.” He got into his car and drove away.

I started on the carton of Häagen-Dazs Butter Pecan while still parked on the side of the street.