Booked for Trouble (13 page)

“Oh, yes,” the woman said. “I enjoyed spending time at your library. Very unusual setting, isn't it? In that lighthouse. From the outside, it hardly looks like you could fit a library in there.”

“Amazing what can be done with nooks and crannies and careful attention.”

“Someone told me you live there. In a private apartment.”

“Small but cozy,” I said.

“Seems a waste. Wouldn't it be put to better use to expand the collection?”

“That wouldn't be realistic. The apartment's on the fourth level. Too much of a climb for many people. No such thing as an elevator.” Mrs. Fitzgerald, for example, had to be assisted to the third floor for book club. If patrons needed access to volumes kept on the upper levels but didn't have the mobility, we lugged the books all the way down for them.

“Storage, then. Or the director's office. Free up room for books.” She had a way of leaning in when she spoke, as if she were about to impart a confidence. Her eyes were very intense.

This woman had too much time on her hands. She was here on vacation and seemed to have decided to redesign our library rather than go to the beach like everyone else.

“Where are you visiting from?” I asked.

“Iowa.”

“Oh.” I've never been to Iowa. Unlikely I ever will.

She walked away with strong, determined steps, heading for the elevators that accessed the guest rooms on the upper floors.

I realized she'd never told me her name.

Weird.

*   *   *

“It's a crying shame,” Ronald was saying as I came through the front door of the library.

“What is?” I asked. I'd arrived minutes after closing, and my colleagues were gathered around the circulation desk, talking over the day.

“Karen Kivas always brought her grandchildren to
Friday afternoon story circle. She never missed a day. They didn't come today.”

“Karen did just pass away,” Bertie said.

“All the more reason they should have come. The kids have to deal with the death of their grandmother; that's tough. They need the support of familiar routine.”

“Maybe they were busy with something else. Visitation, relatives arriving,” Bertie said.

“I called their mom, Janice, this morning, to say I'd pick the kids up if they needed a lift. Janice works at a shop in Kill Devil Hills, and Fridays were always Karen's day off, so Karen looked after the children and brought them to the library. Janice said her dad was minding the kids today and he'd be bringing them. Norm might not realize the library's important to the girls.”

“Do you know where Norm lives?” I asked, as an idea began to form in the back of my mind.

“He's back in Karen's house, Janice said.”

“That was quick,” I said. “Look, why don't we go around and talk to him? Explain the importance of the routine to the kids.”

“I doubt he'd accept any advice from me,” Ronald said.

“Worth a try,” I said. “I'll even drive you. Your car's still in the shop, isn't it? I'll drop you off at home later, save Nora coming out to get you.”

“You sure you don't mind?” Ronald asked.

“Not at all. We can go right now.”

“That's kind of you, Lucy,” Bertie said.

I accepted the praise without mentioning that I had an ulterior motive. Three days had passed since the death of Karen Kivas, and as far as I could tell, the police were going in circles. Someone needed to shake things up, and it might as well be me. As the ex-husband, Norm
Kivas had to be the prime suspect, particularly as he was apparently making himself comfortable back in the matrimonial home.

“Thanks, Lucy. Do you have the SLK by any chance?” he asked, trying to pretend he wasn't almost drooling at the thought of a ride in Mom's car.

“Sorry—beggars can't be choosers. It's the Yaris or nothing.”

Ronald tried not to look too disappointed.

Karen and Norm Kivas lived in a small, nondescript house on a road of similar dwellings. Mailboxes at the end of many of the driveways indicated that this was a street of full-time residents, not holiday rentals. Their lawn wasn't more than a patch of sand with a few tough plants struggling to survive, and the house had seen far better days. A rusty pickup was parked in a driveway that was more weeds than gravel. A red tricycle and a deflating soccer ball sat on the front porch.

“You can wait in the car, if you like,” Ronald said.

“Way too hot. My mom taught me never to leave a car engine idling. Bad for the environment.” I leapt out and followed Ronald to the door.

He rang the bell, and the door swung open.

“Ronald! Ronald's here. Yeah!” A bright-faced little girl with brilliant blue eyes jumped up and down in excitement. “Grandpa, Ronald's here.” A younger girl, the front of her T-shirt smeared with what looked like peanut butter and jam, joined her in screeching with delight. I couldn't see the TV, but I could hear it. It was set to a children's program. High-pitched voices and bouncy music.

Ronald beamed. “Jasmine, Savannah, I missed you at story time today.”

“We missed you, too, Ronald,” the older girl yelled.

Norm Kivas came out from the back room. He was dressed in a pair of beige shorts that needed a wash and a faded Atlanta Braves T-shirt. He hadn't shaved today. His eyes passed over me. He didn't seem to recognize me from the other night at Jake's, which I thought just as well.

“What's all the fuss?” he said.

“Mr. Kivas. I'm Ronald Burkowski from the library. My condolences on your loss. Jasmine and Savannah didn't come to reading group today, so I wanted to stop by and see if everything's all right.”

“Come in, Ronald,” the older girl said. “Want a glass of lemonade? We have lemonade, right, Grandpa?” Norm Kivas made no move to get out of our way. Ronald extended his hand. A long, awkward pause hung in the air before Norm took it.

“I don't go to the library,” he said.

“Karen brought the girls every Friday. In the summer holidays we have reading group at three.”

“Kids are on school vacation.”

“Yes, I know. That's why the library's important. Keep their minds active when school's closed. As they missed today, why don't you bring them around tomorrow? I'm sure we can find time to give you girls an extra story.”

“Yeah,” the older one cheered. As little sisters do, the younger one cheered also. “Can we have lemonade?”

“I don't see why not,” Ronald said.

“I don't think so,” Norm said.

“Name the time, then.” Ronald's smile was beginning to look strained. I took a deep breath and sniffed the air. I was relieved to smell peanut butter and not alcohol on Norm's breath.

“My wife just died. I have arrangements to make.”

“I understand. Why don't I come around and pick up the girls myself, if you're busy?”

“Why would you do that?”

Ronald was momentarily at a loss for words. “Karen knew the library was important to the girls. I'll do it because she would have wanted me to.”

There was another awkward silence as Norm examined Ronald, paying particular attention to the tie, featuring the starship
Enterprise
(original version) streaking across a star-studded background. The girls stopped chirping. Finally Norm said, “What kind of a man works at a library, anyway? You think I'd allow my precious little ones to be alone with the likes of you? I don't think so.”

I stepped forward, smile plastered on my face, hand outstretched. “I'm Lucy Richardson, Mr. Kivas. I run the book club at the library. Karen was a member of our group. I'm sorry for your loss. I can assure you that Ronald runs the best children's library in the state, but if it would make you more comfortable, I can collect the girls.”

He didn't take my hand, and I pulled it back and rubbed my palm against my shorts.

“I recognize you. You were at the seafood place the other night, with that interfering Josie O'Malley.”

My face was beginning to hurt from all this smiling. The girls were watching us through wide blue eyes. The youngest one put her thumb in her mouth.

“I don't have any truck with libraries,” Norm said. “Waste of hardworking taxpayers' money.”

“Do you include yourself in that group, Mr. Kivas?” Ronald said.

It took me a moment to realize that kind, laid-back, charming Ronald had insulted Norm Kivas. Norm
himself didn't seem to understand. “Darn straight. Folks want to read books, they can darn well go out and buy them. Don't ask me to pay for them.”

“Some people can't afford—” I began.

Ronald put his hand on my arm. “Mr. Kivas has made his point, Lucy. Sorry to bother you, sir. Again, my condolences on your loss.” He turned and walked away.

“Where's Ronald going?” the older girl said. “We have lemonade, Ronald. Grandpa, tell Ronald we have lemonade.”

“I'll ask you to consider changing your mind,” I said. “Your granddaughters are obviously very fond of Ronald, and they enjoy the library program. Lots of children their age come to it. Come yourself. You're welcome to sit in. Then you'd see the value—”

“Don't know what kinda man does a woman's job.” The door shut in my face.

When I got behind the wheel of the Yaris, Ronald was in the passenger seat, his face tight with anger. “Jerk,” I said.

I backed out of the driveway. As I swung into the road, I snuck a glance at the house. The two girls were standing at the window. The older one waved and the younger continued sucking her thumb.

“At least he wasn't drinking,” I said.

“Give him time—it's still early. Those girls need the library now more than ever. Jasmine's reading above her grade level, but she told me there are no books in their house. I can't bear to think of them sitting around watching TV all day when school's out.”

“You know their mother. Why not speak to her and offer to pick the girls up? I'll help.”

“Thanks, Lucy. I'll give Janice a call this evening. I
don't know her except to speak to on the phone, but she'll probably agree. To get the kids out of her hair if nothing else. Although right about now, I'd imagine Norm Kivas is explaining to Jasmine and Savannah that book reading is for sissies and wimps.”

I hadn't had the chance to ask Norm what he knew about Karen's death, but the trip hadn't been wasted. Now I knew that as well as taking financial advantage of the death of his ex-wife, Norm Kivas was a sexist jerk who thought libraries were a waste of money. He had moved to the top of my suspect list.

“I
won't be surprised if they decide they might as well go ahead and open a branch office here,” Charlene grumbled. “We can hang a sign on the wall beside the original.
Body's Island Lighthouse and Police Station.
”

She stood at the window, peering into the parking lot. I left the circulation desk and came up behind her. At the entrance to the lighthouse tower, a plaque had been set into the wall with the date of the lighthouse's construction, and the original name of this area: “Body's Island.” It was called this, not (as Louise Jane wanted me to believe) because of the number of bodies washed up over the years, but after the original settlers, the Body family. In fact, the area wasn't even an island anymore. The shifting sands and driving currents had reconfigured the landscape and attached it to the mainland as a peninsula.

Charlene was referring to the police car that had pulled up out front. Butch was driving, with Sam Watson in the passenger seat.

Following the police, a gray Toyota Corolla drove slowly down the lane. It didn't stop, but made a circle in
the loop and headed back to the highway. Lost tourists, I assumed. Watson and Butch got out of the cruiser.

Charlene scurried up the spiral iron stairs, and I plopped myself down behind the circulation desk. When the door opened and the police officers walked in, I was busily checking in returned books. I pasted a look of surprise on my face. “Detective Watson. Officer Greenblatt. What brings you here today? News about the case, I hope.”

“What case might that be, Lucy?” Watson asked.

I decided I would not be intimidated. “The case of the dead person found outside our library doors, that's what.”

“And why do you think I'd bring you news, if I had any?”

“I . . .” Intimidated, I glanced at Butch. He gave me a slight shake of the head.

“I want to speak to you about the events of the other morning,” Watson said.

“I've told you all I know.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. We'll use the break room.”

“I'll need to get someone to staff the desk. You never know who might sneak in to pilfer the new James Patterson in my absence.” I waved the book I happened to be holding in the air. Neither Watson nor Butch laughed.

I picked up the phone and pushed the button for the extension in Charlene's office. No one answered, but I said, “Charlene, can you fill in for me for a couple of minutes? The police are here.” I hung up, and turned to Watson with a smile. “She'll be right down.” I counted to ten and then heard her footsteps clattering on the stairs. I knew full well Charlene had been lurking on the landing, listening.

One more time, I led the cops to the back. Bertie was out, at a meeting with the town's budget chief. I decided not to offer my guests anything to drink. This was not a
social call. The moment we walked into the room, I said, “Can I get you anything? Water, a glass of tea? I can put the coffee on?” Southern manners must be inbred.

Before Watson could refuse, Butch said, “Water would be nice.” I busied myself finding a clean glass, rummaging in the freezer for ice, then pouring the water, while Watson drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

Finally, I ran out of things to do, and sat down.

“Has your mother,” Watson began, “ever been in trouble with the police?”

“Certainly not! The idea's preposterous.” I didn't have to try to look offended. “I can't believe you haven't accessed police records. If you did, you might have found a speeding ticket or two, nothing more.”

“Considerably more than two speeding tickets, I might point out, but that's not my concern. Any trouble the police don't officially know about, maybe? Your father's a mighty prominent lawyer. Big firm, lots of hungry young lawyers.”

“If you're asking if my mother has broken the law and been protected by my father's influence, the answer is absolutely not.”

“Bit of shoplifting maybe, taking a small but valuable item after a dinner party? The sort of minor incident that can be hushed up with influence and restitution?”

“No,” I said firmly. “Anyway, you're talking to the wrong person. My mother is . . . well, she's my mother. She's hardly going to confide in me. I bet you don't tell your kids all your naughty secrets. Mom could be an ax murderer, and I wouldn't know.”

Jeez
, was that ever a bad choice of words. I clamped my lips shut. Watson had a way of getting me to blurt out the most awful things. I suppose that was why he was
such a good detective. He stared into my face. I forced myself to keep my mouth shut. Butch hadn't taken a seat, but was leaning against the wall. He was not smiling.

“I'll grant you that point, Lucy,” Watson said after a long, painful silence. “We rarely know our parents' secrets.”

“But we know their character. My mom would never hurt anyone.” At least this time, I knew not to add that Mom could gleefully spread the worst sort of gossip disguised as concern, and had been known to cut people dead for the most minor of social infractions. But she behaved that way only to people of her own income level and social circle. The idea that she might murder poor Karen Kivas, or steal a piece of jewelry, truly was preposterous. I had to remember that, no matter what Watson might try to get me to say.

“There was some trouble years ago, back in school, I hear,” he said.

“Trouble? School?” For a moment I almost confessed to that time in eleventh grade when I bought an essay on the Lewis and Clark expedition off the Internet. It was terrible, but I'd been desperate. I'd talked Mom into letting me go skiing in Vermont for the weekend, planning to work on the essay in the evenings. But the lure of après-ski beside the roaring fire and mugs of spicy scented mulled wine won out over working alone in my room. And when I did make it back to my room—alone, I might add—I collapsed face-first onto the bed. Of course, I was found out. The essay was nothing like my own style of writing and unfortunately Mr. Wrenhauster, our formidable American history teacher, had spotted it for sale himself. I got an F on that paper, and a call was placed to my mom.

There were no more skiing weekends in Vermont that year, and I never bought an essay again.

I realized that Watson wasn't asking about my failed attempt at plagiarism. “Now you're really stretching, Detective. I wasn't even born when my mother was in school.”

“True. But stories have a way of living on in families, don't they? I wasn't much more than a grade-schooler myself when your mother was in high school, but Bankers—some of them, anyway—have long memories. I've been told that your mother, before she moved away, was believed to have been a thief.”

“Told by who?”

“You don't expect me to tell you that, do you? It seems as though your mother is remembered by some people of her age group. And not always fondly.”

“Jealousy, probably. My mom's done well for herself. Some people might think she didn't deserve what she has.”

“People like Karen Kivas?” he said.

“Karen might have expressed some resentment, yes. But they smoothed that over. Karen and Mom departed friends. I told you that.”

“Yes, Lucy, you did. Although no one else seems to agree. Your mother and Karen Kivas were observed by a substantial number of people arguing at the Ocean Side the day before Karen died. The atmosphere between them the following night here, at the library, has been described to me as excessively chilly.”

“But they made up! They did! They hugged and everything.”

Watson said nothing. I glanced at Butch for support. He only shrugged. Butch had been at the book club. He was a smart, observant man. He couldn't have helped but
notice that Mom and Karen not only kept themselves well apart, but pointedly stared at anything but the other woman and didn't address the other during the conversation about
Pride and Prejudice
. Heck, everyone else in the room, including Detective Watson's own wife, would have been able to tell what was going on. The air was so thick you would have needed an icebreaker to cut through it.

And when Karen and my mom did make up, only one other person had been there: me.

“They did,” I repeated, my protest sounding weak in my own ears.

“You see, Lucy,” Watson said, “this necklace is bothering me a great deal. The necklace connects the Ocean Side Hotel to the library. It connects a hotel maid to a well-off guest.”

“A lot of people visit both the hotel and the library,” I pointed out.

“True. But at the time in question, this one guest publicly insulted the maid; the maid was heard to promise to retaliate; the women were observed by several witnesses to be hostile to each other. One of them ended up dead, and the other was the last person to see her alive.”

“Other,” I said, “than the person who killed her.”

“The question I have,” Watson said, “is who stole the necklace. Mrs. Richardson, who has a history of theft—”

“That's gossip and hearsay. I bet it's not even true, and if it is, it was a long time ago.”

“—or Mrs. Kivas, who might have planted it in Mrs. Richardson's bag in retaliation for the earlier insults. Realizing what had happened, did Mrs. Richardson lash out at Mrs. Kivas after everyone had left book club and the library was dark, the grounds empty?”

I found a hole in his logic. “Mom didn't know the necklace was in her bag. She left the bag behind.”

“Is your mother normally an absentminded woman? The sort who forgets her belongings?”

I had, very reluctantly, to admit that she was anything but absentminded. I tried to explain that Mom did seem preoccupied this visit and I suspected something was bothering her, so she might have forgotten the bag.

“Bothering her?” Watson said. “You mean like having killed someone?”

“Hey! My mother did not kill anyone. And you can't keep going around saying that she did.” I threw down my dad card. “My father won't stand for it.”

“Threats, Lucy?”

“Only making a statement.” My heart was pounding so hard, I feared Watson might hear it. I feared that Charlene and everyone else in the main room would hear it.

“I'm not saying anything, as you put it,” Watson replied. “I am merely speculating out loud.” He rose to his feet in one quick movement. “Thank you for your time, Lucy. I can find my way out.”

“Wait,” I said. “There are other suspects. What about Karen's husband, Norm. Now, there's a sleazy piece of work. Did you know that they'd recently divorced? She's the one who told him the marriage was over. I bet he wasn't happy about that. I went around there yesterday, and he's back in their house. Her death has benefited him. There might even be insurance money in it, as well as the house.”

“Why were you at the Kivas home?”

“Library business. And I have to mention that he wasn't at all friendly to Ronald and me. He shut the door
in my face. Then there's Doug Whiteside, Karen's brother. They were estranged for a long time. Did you know that?”

“Yes, Lucy. I did know that. As I know that Norm Kivas has been observed acting as though he's about to come into more money than he's used to having. As for her brother, I shouldn't have to point out, but I will, that when people are estranged for a long time, it's unlikely that one person will suddenly decide to get rid of the other.”

“And I am simply pointing out to you that you should be following other avenues of investigation.”

“I appreciate all your help.” Watson headed for the door. Butch stepped aside. Watson turned and, as though he'd learned his interrogation techniques by watching the old TV show
Columbo
, said, “One more thing, Lucy. If you are keeping anything from me out of loyalty to your mother, I will find out. You can tell your father that also.”

He left. Butch didn't follow.

“You going to be okay?” he said.

“It is true. My mom and Karen Kivas departed as friends.”

“I believe you, Lucy. But I can understand why Watson doesn't. Your loyalty to your mother's admirable.”

“It's not loyalty. It's the truth.”

“Your mom was the last person, as far as we know, who saw Karen before she died.”

“You know the time of death?”

“The autopsy says between eight and eleven. Book club broke up at nine, as usual, and we all went our separate ways.”

“Mom and Karen stayed to help me clean up. That took about fifteen, twenty minutes, so they left sometime after quarter past nine.”

“Is it possible,” he asked, “that Karen left, but came back for some reason?”

That would be the ideal situation, wouldn't it? If Karen had started for home, but turned around and then been attacked by person or persons unknown. Nothing to do with Mom. Nothing to do with the library. I forced myself to be honest. “I've been trying to come up with a reason why she might have done that. But I can't. If she'd forgotten something, she'd know I'd be upstairs. Not to mention that she didn't forget anything. You didn't find anything of hers, did you?”

“No. But suppose she had planted the necklace on your mom. And then she had a change of heart, and when she noticed your mom hadn't taken the bag with her, she came back for it.”

“She could hardly drag me out of bed to hand over my mother's tote bag.” Here I was, arguing against proof of my mom's innocence. “You're not playing good cop, are you?” I said. “To Watson's bad cop?”

Butch gave me a smile and the gold specks in his eyes shone in the harsh lights of the break room. He did have lovely hazel eyes. “Watson's not playing bad cop, Lucy. He's not playing anything. He's trying to find a killer.”

I sighed. “I know that. I just wish he wasn't looking so closely at my mother.”

“He's looking at everyone. Try to remember that. I have to go, or Watson will leave me to find my own way back to town. You'll take care, won't you, Lucy? There's a killer out there.”