By Book or by Crook (6 page)

“Y’all having a little conclave?” Watson asked.

“We’re enjoying a late breakfast,” Aunt Ellen said. “In a public place.”

“Getting your stories straight?”

“I do not care for that implication, Detective.” Aunt Ellen rose to her feet and glared down at the six-foot-tall detective. She could stretch her five foot four to a considerable height.

Butch threw a pleading glance at Josie and an embarrassed smile at me. He shifted from one foot to the other.

Watson pointedly checked his watch. “I believe we have an appointment soon, Ms. James.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good.”

At that moment the couple at the table next to ours got up. They crumpled their napkins and gathered their dishes to put in the bussing tray.

“Let’s sit right here. I’ll guard the table,” Watson said, “while you go to the counter, Greenblatt. Coffee for me. Black. Oh, and one of those pecan tarts if there are any left.”

“I have to get to work.” Josie pushed back her stool. “Pecan tarts don’t make themselves.”

Ronald and Charlene got up also. I stuffed the last piece of scone into my mouth.

We headed en masse for the exit.

“I’ve an idea,” I said to Bertie, as we stepped out into the heat and sunshine and exhaust fumes. “Watson said I could use the main floor of the library. I’ll bring down the books, arrange the display, get everything ready for tomorrow. Would that be okay?”

She beamed at me. “Much more than okay. Thank you, Lucy.” She’d said almost nothing as we discussed what might have happened last night. She had to be dreadfully worried.

I watched her head for her car, and I was determined more than ever to help this woman who had put so much trust in me.

O
n Saturday morning, we were preparing to open the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library on its usual schedule.

I took a deep breath, expecting a stream of chattering patrons to enter. Many of them, I was sure, would come here to see the Austen collection. We had advertised the exhibit extensively throughout the Outer Banks. But a good many would probably be interested in having a peek at a crime scene, too.

They were to be disappointed.

The rare-books room had been cleaned up, all evidence of police activity removed. All evidence of Jonathan Uppiton also, thankfully, removed. A thick chain had been strung across the bottom of the back steps with a sign that read
PRIV
ATE. STAFF ONLY
.

In light of the recent murder and ongoing police investigation, Bertie and I had decided to delay the initial meeting of my book group. We wanted to attract readers, not the ghoulish.

Bertie, as well as Ronald and Charlene, had arrived early, anxious to show that the library was
back to normal. The four of us had taken a moment to admire the display.

The first-edition books themselves were in a tabletop cabinet bought specifically for this purpose. We would take them out if asked, but always handle them ourselves. No ice cream–fingered children or sticky-fingered book collectors would be allowed to touch them. A red velvet rope of the sort found in museums and art galleries was strung across the alcove. It wouldn’t keep anyone out, but was intended to serve as a polite warning.

The notebook lay open at the front of the cabinet. It would not be handled, except for every morning when Bertie would turn one page. It’s hard for me to describe the feeling I had when I carried that notebook down (after the police told me they were finished). I had been alone in the library, and had slipped on a pair of white gloves and curled up in a deep wingback chair to read it. The handwriting was small, the dark ink fading, the words crossed out in many places, the topic mundane. A chronicle of the day-to-day activity of a woman’s life.

But what a woman.

And what a life and legacy.

Surrounding the cabinet, I’d arranged a selection of Jane Austen novels available for circulation, as well as various biographies and critical works. A separate bookshelf was devoted to other greats of nineteenth-century English literature, including the Brontë sisters, Mary Shelley, and Thomas Hardy. Another bookshelf was set aside for contemporary adaptions such as
Bridget Jones’s Diary
by Helen Fielding. That display included DVDs: not only film
versions of
Pride and Prejudice
and
Sense and Sensibility
, but Austen’s life or legacy in movies such as
Austenland, Becoming Jane,
and
Clueless
.

Bertie’s idea when obtaining the collection had been to use it as a springboard to discuss the ways in which enduring literature still had relevance for today’s world.

On the alcove walls, I’d hung a couple of cheap prints of English pastoral scenes. The sort of thing I imagined Miss Austen would have seen in her daily life.

I had done, if I do say so myself, a pretty good job.

“Did you tell Detective Watson about Theodore?” Charlene whispered to me. “About seeing him heading upstairs moments before Mr. Uppiton was killed?”

“Yes.” I’d had my formal police interview yesterday, right here in the main room of the library.

“What did he say about that?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing at all. I suspect Detective Watson keeps his cards close to his chest.”

“Quarter to nine. We need some music to lighten the mood. I’ll see what we have.”

Bertie might have looked like she was totally calm and back to her normal self, but it was a clear sign of her inner turmoil that she didn’t even order Charlene to turn off her musical selection. Thus we were entertained by 50 Cent until it was time to open the doors to the public. I attended to that, while Ronald switched off the CD player. And, I noticed, hid the CD under a stack of back issues of
Library Journal
.

Connor had been one of the first to arrive. He made a big show of greeting Bertie with a kiss on the cheek and gave a spontaneous speech, ensuring that everyone knew it was she who was responsible for the coup of bringing this priceless collection to the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library.

The speech might not have been entirely spontaneous, but it reflected well on him that he was prepared to so publicly declare his support for Bertie.

He admired the display, greeted patrons, and then got into the line at the circulation desk, where I was busy checking out books. Expecting them to be popular, we’d bought additional copies of Miss Austen’s books, as well as borrowed what we could from libraries all over the state, but at this rate the shelves would be empty by lunchtime.

When it was Connor’s turn, he put a paperback copy of
Pride and Prejudice
on the counter. A scene from the Keira Knightley movie illustrated the cover. “For the daughter of a friend,” he said. “She loved the movie but says books are boring. I’m hoping to change her mind.”

“Tell her to drop by on Monday afternoon. I’m giving a talk on books to movies especially aimed at young women.” That had been Bertie’s idea, and I was planning to spend my Sunday watching movies while trying to think of something to say to encourage teenage girls to read.

“I’ll do more than that,” he said. “In fact, I’ll bring her myself. Are you free for that dinner tonight?”

“Uh . . .” I said.

“You close at seven, right? So why don’t I pick you up at eight?”

At that moment Connor pitched forward across the counter. The book flew into my lap. A man, with forearms that looked as though he spent his days hauling in fishing nets, had slapped our mayor on the back. “Whoa there, Mr. Mayor,” the fellow bellowed. “Don’t you be getting friendly with all the lovely young ladies, now. Leave some for the rest of us.” He tossed a DVD of
Emma
onto the counter.

“George,” Connor said. I handed him the book.

The man chuckled again. “Don’t you be tellin’ folks that I’ve taken out that ladies’ movie there. My reputation won’t stand it, but the wife’s at work and she asked me to come in.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Connor assured him.

“Can we speed this up a bit?” whined a voice from farther back in the line.

“Eight o’clock,” Connor said to me as the fisherman led him away.

“Now that I’ve got you here, Mr. Mayor, I’ve been havin’ trouble with . . .”

They reached the front door, and Connor stood back to allow his companion to exit. A woman pushed her way past them.

“Louise Jane,” Connor said politely. “How nice to see you.”

“Humph,” she said.

“’Scuse me, ’scuse me.” Louise Jane’s shadow, Poor Andrew, followed in her wake.

I came out from behind the circulation desk. “Can I help you?”

“I hardly think I need anyone
new
to show me around this library. Is that it?” Louise Jane and
Andrew approached the alcove. A couple of older women, tourists judging by their sunburned noses and plaid shorts, were shoved aside.

Louise Jane put her hands on her bony hips and studied the display. The alcove lights had been switched off, as the cabinet had an interior light of its own that lit up the books and the notebook beautifully. She turned to me, her long nose wrinkled in as much distaste as if Charles had been allowed to use the Austen notebook for his litter box. “This is the best you can do?”

“What do you mean? I think it all looks great.”

“You would.” She opened the cabinet door and stretched her hand toward the notebook.

“Don’t touch that!” I intended the words to come out like a command, authoritative, leaving no doubt as to who was in charge. Instead they were more of a squeak.

Louise Jane snorted. Andrew tittered.

She picked up the notebook.

What was I to do? Wrench it out of her hands? Wrestle her to the ground in a fight to the finish? While Poor Andrew kicked at my shins?

“Put that down,” said a voice that truly was authoritative.

Louise Jane dropped the notebook. I tiptoed around her, reverently returned the book to its place, and closed the cabinet doors.

“Really, Louise Jane,” Bertie said. “I thought you,
of all people
, would know better than to touch an old book with your bare hands.”

Louise Jane flushed.

“Louise Jane doesn’t need to be lectured by anyone,” Andrew said. “Do you, Louise Jane?”

“Of course not. If
she
hadn’t made such a fuss about it. Bertie, when I heard the good news, that you’d been released from police custody . . .”

The listening tourists gasped.

“I thought I’d drop by to talk about my job.”

“Oh,” said Bertie, “you found a new job. How nice.”

“I mean, my job here. Now that Jonathan Uppiton is . . . well, no longer chair of the board, obviously you’ll be reevaluating his decisions.”

“Louise Jane,” Bertie said, with a heavy sigh, “this is not the time. Have some respect. The man isn’t even buried yet.”

The tourists’ ears twitched.

“You might be prepared to allow this library to fall into rack and ruin, but I . . .”

Bertie walked away.

People were lined up at the circulation desk, waiting to have their books and movies checked out. Ronald and Charlene were nowhere to be seen, but I stood firmly in front of the display case. I didn’t trust Louise Jane not to make another grab for the notebook.

“Don’t consider this matter finished.” She sailed out of the library like she was on a billionaire’s yacht heading for the open ocean. Poor Andrew bobbed in her wake like a rubber dinghy.

B
y three o’clock things were slowing down. Those eager to see the Austen books, the murder scene, or both, had left, and the after-work and after-beach traffic was yet to arrive. During the summer months, for the duration of the Austen collection, we would open for extended Saturday-evening hours.

I took advantage of the lull and went to the staff room for a short break. Charlene was our reference librarian, but I’d soon learned that here everyone pitched in to help one another, and she offered to staff the desk for fifteen minutes and keep a watchful eye on the alcove. Charles was curled up on the tattered couch. He opened one eye, no doubt hoping a cat treat would fall from my pocket. The patrons generally adored seeing a library cat here, and the children in particular made a fuss over him when he strolled up to the second level and settled into a beanbag chair or on a child’s lap to listen to Ronald read a story. He slept and ate in the break room, and his litter box was kept in the tiny staff restroom,
along with the cleaning equipment. He wandered the library at will.

I wasn’t accustomed to cats. In our house we had dogs, usually a bichon frise or something equally small and fashionable for Mom, and a German shepherd or something equally manly for Dad. The dogs occasionally even got on.

At first I’d largely ignored Charles, until I took him up to my room the night of the ill-fated reception. Last night, when I’d mounted the stairs at the end of the day, he’d followed. He inspected the kitchen for food, and, finding none (because I’d returned his bowl and bag of kibble to where they belonged), gave me a look of such sheer disappointment that I gave in and trudged back downstairs to collect his things.

And thus, without my intending it, Charles set up housekeeping in my fourth-floor aerie.

Ronald sat at the table, flicking through a children’s publisher’s catalog, when I came into the staff room. “Still busy out there?”

I plugged in the kettle. “It’s slowed down quite a bit. Charlene’s watching the store for me.”

He glanced at his watch. “The preteen reading group’s coming at three-thirty. I’m not looking forward to it. All they’ll want to know are did I see the body and was there a lot of blood and were my fingerprints taken.”

“Bertie has barely stuck her head out of her office all day. She says she can’t face any more questions. Charlene found a couple of people in the act of climbing over the sign saying the upper level is out
of bounds. Not to mention Louise Jane picked up the notebook in her bare hands.”

“Bertie has got to be worried sick.”

The kettle switched itself off and I poured boiling water over a tea bag in a souvenir mug from an ALA conference in Chicago. I’ve never developed a taste for iced tea. I like it piping hot and fresh. I added my customary half spoon of sugar and stirred. Then I tossed in a heaping one.

It had been a rough day.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Ronald said. “About that night. Trying to remember where everyone was and what they’d been doing.”

“Me, too,” I confessed.

“If only Bertie hadn’t allowed herself to get so mad at Uppiton.”

“That’s not really fair. He annoyed everyone. Even his wife . . .” I stopped.

“What about her?”

“I can’t believe I forgot. So much was going on that evening even before the killing and I had so many new people to meet, it’s all somewhat of a blur. Mrs. Uppiton. She threatened her husband. Her soon-to-be-ex-husband, now late husband, that is.”

“She did?”

“I heard her myself.” I tried to dredge up that horrid scene. She’d accused me of having designs on her husband and then . . . “She said she’d dance on his grave.”

“A figure of speech.”

“I wonder. I should probably call Butch.”

“Not Detective Watson?” Ronald’s eyebrows wiggled.

I flushed. “Him, too.”

I pulled my iPhone out of my skirt pocket. A spot next to the wall, near the sink, could get a signal. By now, I had Watson (and Butch) on speed dial. Watson answered with his usual less-than-cheerful greeting. “What is it now, Lucy?”

My information, it seemed, wasn’t all that new. Other people had overheard the altercation between Diane and Jonathan Uppiton and reported her threat to the police.

“Thanks for calling,” he said, sounding as if he didn’t mean it.

We closed the library at seven, and I hurried upstairs to change for my dinner date.

Is it a date?
I pulled everything out of my closet while Charles watched. Aside from beach attire, work clothes, and dresses suitable for an evening at Mother’s club, I didn’t have much. I couldn’t wear the yellow dress again.

I tossed a black dress onto the bed. Perfectly suitable for attending a librarian convention.

Charles meowed. I looked at the dress again.

It was unadorned, cut without much shape, but made of excellent linen. If I wore it with the black leather belt that had come with the yellow dress, it would give me some much-needed curves. But stark black seemed so . . . Boston. I eyed a three-quarter-sleeved yellow sweater, cropped at the waist, that I’d bought for something to throw on over shorts if a summer evening turned cool. The sweater would give the outfit a pop of color.

Perfect.

Next I eyed my collection of footwear. Those heels looked back at me.

What the heck?
I wouldn’t be walking anywhere. Connor was picking me up here.

I called good night to Charles as I sailed out the door on my killer heels. Killer in more ways than one. The cat wished me a good evening. Either that or he was complaining about the quantity of food left out for his supper.

I love libraries at all times, but never more than when they’re empty. Empty of people, that is. Then I can imagine the words whispering to each other, sharing stories, making up new ones. Sci-fi chatting to romance; American history exchanging views with Brazilian politics; Vietnamese cookbooks swapping tips with Indian. And my beloved mystery characters listening in on everything, perhaps taking notes.

I had switched off all the main-floor lights, leaving only the ones in the alcove on. The Austen books fairly glowed. The shelves of books intended for circulation were almost empty. That was a good thing. Bertie hoped to introduce Austen to the general reading public as not just some old writer or the inspiration behind a few movies, but as the author of books that could still be enjoyed. Loved, even.

All was quiet. The shelves were straight, everything on the circulation desk neatly laid out waiting for the rush to resume on Monday. Small blue lights glowed on the computers and the printer. The first-order Fresnel lens flashed in its rhythm. The
light had been designed to be cast far out to sea, so in here, far below, it didn’t get overly bright.

A car turned into the parking lot, the noise of the engine breaking the silence, the headlights breaking the soft twilight. I hurried outside to meet Connor. He got out of his car, a shiny, two-seater blue BMW, and held open the passenger’s door for me with a low bow and twinkling eyes. I was glad I’d gone to some trouble to dress nicely. His shirt was open-necked, but he wore it under a sharply pressed gray suit with a thin blue stripe, and shiny black loafers.

On the drive to the restaurant we chatted comfortably about the early success of the Austen exhibit.

Jake’s Seafood Bar was located on the west side of the highway, set well back from the road in a large, spacious parking lot. It faced Roanoke Sound and Roanoke Island beyond, where lights all along the shore were coming on against the dusk.

Connor pulled the BMW into a spot near the entrance. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to wait for him to come around and open the door, but decided that was too formal for me in any event, so I leapt out almost as soon as the engine stopped.

As expected, the restaurant was decorated in a fishing motif, and was Outer Banks casual. The dining room was full of laughter, low conversation, soft light, and delicious smells.

“Evenin’, Connor,” the smiling young waitress said. “I’ve reserved you a table outside, if that’s okay.”

“Lucy?”

“That would be perfect.” It was a warm evening, and I knew I’d be comfortable in the yellow sweater.

She picked up menus and led us across the busy dining room, through the open glass doors, and out onto a spacious deck. Theodore, the book collector Bertie had warned me about, was at a table by himself, head down, peering through his plain-glass spectacles at the volume propped up against the salt cellar in front of him. As I passed, I took a quick glance at what he was reading.
Moby-Dick.
He didn’t look up, didn’t seem to notice us as we passed. He shoveled food into his mouth mechanically, as if he were doing so only to add fuel to an engine, rather than eating for the enjoyment of the meal. He was guzzling up a big bowl of seafood bouillabaisse, and I wondered whether he’d purposefully ordered something that didn’t have to be cut up. That way he could devote one hand to eating and one to turning the pages.

Diane Uppiton was also here, accompanied by the man she’d been with at the ill-fated reception. Her eyes flicked over me and she pointedly looked away.

The hostess showed us to a table set for two tucked against a wood railing, and told us our waiter would be by shortly.

Once we were seated, I whispered to Connor from behind my menu. “The grieving widow doesn’t seem to be so grieving.” Diane wore black trousers and a deeply cut blouse in a rather startling shade of red. A heavy red glass necklace plunged into her décolletage, and matching earrings swung at the sides of her neck.

“Despite what Diane had to say at the party, she and Jonathan never exactly had the best of marriages,” Connor whispered back. “I can’t remember
ever seeing them doing anything but sniping at each other. His main interest in life was the library, and she resented it. When she left him, we all wondered why she hadn’t done it years ago. Or why he hadn’t left her.”

“Do you think she stands to inherit anything?”

“I can’t say. He wasn’t a wealthy man, but he seemed comfortably off. The house they lived in was left to him by his parents, so she had no claim to it. At least, when he was alive.”

“She threatened him at the party. I told Detective Watson that, but he said he’d heard it from a lot of people.”

“She left him in a fit of temper, and when she calmed down and went back, Jonathan wouldn’t take her. He wasn’t a nice man, Lucy. I think he rather enjoyed the attention her histrionics brought him and the chance to cut her dead. With what he thought was withering wit and everyone else just thought was mean.”

“Can I get you folks something to drink?” the waiter, a handsome young man with bronzed skin, sun-bleached hair, and a Minnesota accent asked.

“Go ahead, Lucy,” Connor said. “I’m driving so I’ll just have a sweet tea, thanks.”

I ordered a glass of Chardonnay.

A soft wind blew off Roanoke Sound to caress my cheeks and ruffle my hair. The patio was illuminated by white globes strung from posts on the railing and the covered area of the outdoor bar. A blaze of lights from Roanoke Island shone on the still waters of the Sound, and the white light of the fourth-order lens
of the Roanoke Marshes Lighthouse, a modern reproduction, flashed in the distance.

We looked across the water for a few moments in comfortable silence.

“A lighthouse,” Connor said at last, as the Roanoke light flashed, “is a truly marvelous thing.”

“Beautiful,” I agreed.

“So much more than that. At the Currituck Light they have a saying on the wall I always remember: ‘to illuminate the dark space.’ That doesn’t seem so important in today’s world, where there are so few truly dark spaces. Particularly along most of the coast of North America. Lights on the Eastern Seaboard are so bright, some cities scarcely have night anymore. But in the old days, the days before electricity? Imagine being out to sea, in a warship powered only by wind, or a small fishing boat on a cloudy night—no radio, no satellite guidance—with a storm raging all around. And then, in the distance, that flash of light. And you would know you were not alone.”

“I see what you mean.” I smiled as I remembered my fourteen-year-old self. Part of the reason I’d liked Connor was that he didn’t seem at all like the boys back in school. Even then, Connor McNeil thought about things like lighthouses almost as much as he did baseball or fishing. Nice to see he hadn’t changed.

“The first lighthouses were buckets of flaming coal or pitch hauled up to the top of a long pole, calling fishermen or sailors home. But these big lights, they were built for the aid of men one would never know. Ships passing in the night, far out at sea.
Keeping strangers safe. Because it was the right thing to do. I try to remember that sometimes, when I get caught up in a petty political battle.”

“I bet it’s not easy,” I said, “being the mayor in a small place like this. Everyone wanting to tell you their problems.”

“Not easy, no. But I love this place, and I like to think I’m giving something back to the community.”

“You’ve always loved it,” I said. “I remember that, from when we were kids. I couldn’t imagine having such an attachment to a place. My father’s family’s lived in Boston since before the Revolution, but he’d move in a shot if he could make more money someplace else.”

He smiled. “My family’s been here on the Outer Banks since the 1700s. The men went to sea, the women worked at fish plants, down through the generations. Perhaps that’s why we have such an attachment to the lighthouses.”

“You didn’t become a fisherman, though, did you?” Connor’s accent was deep and Southern, but there were no rough edges to it. He sounded as if he’d been raised in a plantation house. “What have you done with yourself since that summer? On your way to becoming the mayor?”

“That’s a lot of years to cover in one night, Lucy. No, I didn’t really fish, other than high school and college summers, working on charter boats. My parents wanted more for me than that. I’m an only child. My mom made sure I concentrated on my schoolwork. You must remember that I was the dorky kid sitting at home on a Saturday night, poring over
books, while the other boys rode their bikes through town and took girls to bonfires at the beach.”