Booked for Trouble (16 page)

I thought of my parents, sitting at far ends of the dining room table, Mom chattering about her social circle and her round of activities while my dad grunted, almost rude in his obvious lack of interest in whatever Mom was
talking about. When dinner was finished, she'd put aside her cutlery and tap her lips with her napkin, and he'd push back his chair and head off to his study.

I wondered when they'd stopped loving each other.

“Was Mom popular in school?” I asked, thinking of George and Karen, who both remembered her all these years later.

“She sure was, honey. She was one of the in girls, the pretty and popular crowd. Me, I was the brainy one, remember? I belonged to the chess club.”

“Do you remember a guy named George Marwick? He's the manager of the Ocean Side now and he dated Mom back in school. That is, he says they dated. She says they didn't.”

The potatoes had all been peeled and were resting in a cold-water bath. Ellen leaned back and sipped at her tea. “Your mom had a lot of boyfriends. Even then I thought she went with them mostly because that was what popular girls were expected to do. She was a real heartbreaker. Uncle Gus approved of that, too. He told me once that it didn't matter that I wasn't pretty. I could get a good job as a secretary and help support my husband.”

Aunt Ellen had a wonderful life: marriage to a man she clearly still adored, who adored her in return; a comfortable home in the Outer Banks; great kids; friends and community. But even all these years later, I could tell that good old Uncle Gus's casual insults had hurt her deeply.

“I vaguely remember some boy named George, and some rather mean gossip about him having ambitions above his station.”

“What station?”

“I'm sure you remember what high school can be like, Lucy. The social structure of the court of Louis XIV couldn't have been stricter. George wasn't a football player or from a family with money. If he wanted to date one of the popular girls, according to the ‘rules'”—Aunt Ellen made quotation marks with her fingers—“he didn't have a chance. But rules or not, Sue never got serious about any one boy, and I don't think she led anyone on. She didn't need to. The boys followed her like dogs follow a man eating a hot dog, hoping something will fall their way. No, your mom wasn't going to get trapped into a life as wife of a garage mechanic or fisherman.”

“Karen Kivas said something to Mom when we ran into her at the hotel. About being a thief. Do you know what she meant, Aunt Ellen?”

Ellen studied me for a long time. A seagull swooped low over the balcony, and then turned and headed out to sea. “Our family was never anything more than solidly middle-class. Mama and Daddy worked hard and provided for us well. We had a nice home, a car, but not a lot of extras. We didn't go on fancy vacations or have expensive clothes. Sometimes my mother shopped at the secondhand store. Sue, well, you have to remember that according to Uncle Gus, Sue was special. Heck, even my daddy would buy her bits of jewelry or a pretty blouse if he had some extra money. At Christmas and birthdays Sue got fancy things. I got books. I remember one year in particular. I was about to graduate high school, and Mama and Daddy were saving every cent they had to send me to college. Never for a minute was there a question that I wouldn't go, so money was tight at home. Sue had an after-school job, but she didn't make much. The big end-of-year dance was coming up and she wanted a
new dress. She couldn't afford the one she liked, and went into a screaming fit about how hard done by she was.

“The night of the dance, she came down wearing the dress. Daddy fussed about how beautiful she looked, but I could tell Mama wasn't happy. A few days earlier, one of the girls at school had reported that her purse had been stolen and a lot of money taken.”

“You think Mom stole it?”

“Yes, honey, I do. And so did a lot of other people. Rumors swirled like mad. Now that I think of it, it was around that time that your mom and Karen Whiteside, later Kivas, fell out. Karen never came to our house again. I suspected at the time she'd been eagerly helping to spread the rumors. Anyway, if your mom had been less popular, she might have been accused, maybe even the police called in. You know what high schools are like. The girl who'd been robbed was one of those who are always on the outside, wanting to be allowed in. Her family was reasonably well-off, but she was overweight, badly dressed, and socially awkward.

“Your mom didn't have a good time at the dance. She came home early and went straight upstairs to bed. I figured at the time she'd had a fight with whatever boy she'd gone with, but later I understood that she was plain guilt-stricken. It was a few months before she met your dad, and after that dance she seemed quieter, more serious. She even started being friendly with the girl who'd been robbed. I know why you asked me all this, Lucy, honey, and I can tell you that if something was stolen from a room at the Ocean Side Hotel, it was more likely to have been a creature from outer space than Suzanne Wyatt Richardson.”

B
ertie was not pleased, to say the least, when I told her that the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library Classic Novel Reading Club was having an impromptu meeting to discuss the murder of one of the group's members.

“Here?”

“Here. Noon. Third floor.”

“I don't suppose I can forbid it.”

“Probably not,” Ronald said.

“You can tell them the room's booked,” Charlene said.

“That would be a lie,” Ronald pointed out. He was, after all, a children's librarian.

“Not that I mind lying in a good cause,” Bertie said. “But they'd find me out easily enough. Oh, well. So be it. It's nine o'clock now. Time to open up.”

The morning was busy. Connor had been a day off in his weather prediction. A storm had moved in last night, bringing strong winds and cold, lashing rain. Not a day to be at the beach. Instead, parents brought their children to the library. Ronald had a program at eleven for preteens on the history of the Outer Banks, and one at three for younger kids on the flora and fauna they might see
exploring the beach and the dunes. Charlene showed interested parents our collection of historical maps and rare books, and answered questions about the history of this area.

I checked out books and answered questions about where to go for lunch (Josie's Cozy Bakery, of course) or dinner (Jake's Seafood Bar). I kept an eye on the spiral iron stairs leading up through the lighthouse tower. Adults were allowed to go there—the view from the top was magnificent—but unaccompanied children were not permitted past the second floor.

Mrs. Peterson came in, practically dragging a sullen ten-year-old. “Straighten up and put a smile on your face, Dallas. You're lucky to be able to have this opportunity.” Seeing me watching, she pasted what was probably supposed to be a smile on her face. “Off you go now, honeybunch, and have fun! I'll be up later to talk to Ronald about that list of books.”

Dallas slouched away. She might have had an iron ball attached to her leg, judging by the way she climbed the stairs.

“Problem?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Mrs. Peterson laughed. “How silly of you to think that. Dallas is such a good reader, you know, that the entire summer reading list Ronald provided her is far below her capabilities.”

I interpreted that to mean that Dallas refused to spend her summer sitting in the house reading under her mother's watchful eye. No one is more a proponent of getting children reading and involved in the public library than I am, but even I had to think that sometimes Mrs. Peterson went overboard with her girls. Dallas had probably arranged something with friends for today—it was school holidays after all—but her mother insisted on
bringing her to the library. It wasn't as if the entire Peterson brood didn't almost live here. Mrs. Peterson treated Ronald like a member of her private staff. Unfortunately, Mr. Peterson had squandered what little money they'd had on poor investments, and thus his wife had to get by with no staff at all, never mind the exclusive services of a children's librarian.

When Dallas's leaden footsteps had fallen quiet, Mrs. Peterson leaned over the desk, all ready to impart a confidence.

Charles always seemed to know when a non–cat lover was in the building. He left the children's library and came downstairs. He leapt onto the circulation desk and rubbed himself against the jacket of Mrs. Peterson's peach suit. She screeched and leapt back. “That cat is a nuisance. I don't know if I can continue bringing my children here if he's allowed to remain. When I think of Phoebe's allergies.”

Phoebe Peterson had never so much as sniffled in Charles's presence. In fact, she seemed particularly fond of him, and I'd once overheard her telling Ronald, sadly, that their mother didn't approve of animals in the house.

Charles gave me a smirk and jumped off the desk. He walked away with his tail high and a wiggle to his hips.

Mrs. Peterson dusted cat hairs off her jacket, and continued in a huff, “I can't believe I was interrogated by the police!”

“They were talking to everyone who was here last Tuesday night.”

“I can only thank my lucky stars that my sweet Charity and Primrose hadn't come to book club that particular night. They're at such a delicate age, you know.”

I thought of Charity in particular, a hefty, muscular teenager more interested in sticks and pucks and mitts
and balls than in books. Nothing wrong with kids who preferred playing sports to reading, but Mrs. Peterson was definitely pretending (to herself most of all) that Charity was a delicate flower of Southern womanhood.

“Although,” she said with a deep sigh, “it's unfortunate I had to leave so promptly that evening, without staying to help you tidy up.” Mrs. Peterson always fled before anyone could have the audacity to ask her to put away a chair or throw a napkin in the trash. Tidying up was for the hired help. “I'm a keen observer of human nature, you know, Lucy. I might have been able to tell the police something that more . . . shall we say, self-concerned people would have missed.”

I hid a smile. I would never call Mrs. Peterson self-concerned. But if it didn't affect one of her five daughters, it simply didn't exist.

“Poor Christine, struck down in the prime of life.”

“Christine? Oh, you mean Karen.”

She waved her hand in the air. “Yes, of course. They're saying it was a falling-out among thieves.”

“I think we should leave speculation up to the police, don't you?”

“Of course. I would never presume to repeat gossip. Why, there's Lennie Saunderson. I hear her Jeremy failed his exams. And her wanting him to go to med school. I know some excellent private tutors. I'm sure she'd like to hear about them.” And Mrs. Peterson bustled off to delight the hapless Lennie with words of advice.

At a few minutes before noon, the Gray Woman walked in.

“Good morning,” I said.

She nodded. A drop of rain fell off the tip of her prominent nose.

“Can I help you with something?”

“No.” She disappeared behind
MORRISON–PROULX
. This was starting to get seriously weird, but I didn't have time to think about her before the book club began arriving. Louise Jane was first, accompanying Mrs. Fitzgerald.

“Josie can't make it,” Louise Jane announced, shaking water off her plastic poncho. “She's working, of course.”

“Did you mention this to Butch?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “And I didn't invite CeeCee Watson, either, in case she tells her husband. The less the cops know, the better. Same for the mayor. But Connor wasn't here that night anyway.”

Grace looked charming in a pink-and-yellow raincoat and matching rubber boots. She gave me an exaggerated wink. At least someone thought this was funny. My mother was next through the doors, followed by George, manager. He fumbled to close his umbrella, managing to deposit a considerable amount of rainwater on the floor.

“What are you doing here?” I asked my mom.

“Louise Jane phoned the hotel. A message was waiting for me after dinner last night. She correctly assumed that I'd be interested in going over the events of the other night. George kindly agreed to give me a lift.”

Mom smiled as the next book club member arrived. “And here's Theodore. How nice.” He carried a small black umbrella, wet but neatly furled. He turned to George, still struggling with his. “Need some help with that, old chap?”

“Perhaps you, Lucy, and Theodore might put your heads together and go over the events of that night,” Mom said. “One of you might remember something.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. This was probably not the time nor the place to mention that I had my suspicions about our book collector himself.

Mrs. Peterson joined us. “I was telling Lily here—”

“Lucy.”

“Whatever—that I regret not staying the other night. I would have loved to be able to help the police with their inquiries.”

Mrs. Peterson read nothing but parental-advice books. She was probably not aware that in the British detective novels, “helping the police with their inquiries” referred to a character who was under suspicion.

Our library's very small, and gets crowded quickly. Which it was now with the book club, various hangers-on such as George, the parents and kids lingering after the children's group, as well as regular patrons, everyone dripping rainwater onto the black-and-white marble floor.

Bertie came out of the back hall. “What on earth?”

“Bodie Island Lighthouse Library Classic Novel Reading Club and Detective Agency at your service,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said with a giggle.

“This isn't a laughing matter, Eunice,” Bertie said. “A woman died.”

“We know that,” Louise Jane said. “And we intend to do something about it.”

The non–book clubbers had stopped whatever they were doing to stand and watch. The Gray Woman stuck her head out from behind the stacks. Charlene and Ronald appeared on the stairs.

“Can I be a detective, too?” a cute little girl, all freckles and pigtails, asked.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Louise Jane huffed. “Come on, everyone, let's go upstairs.” The crowd surged forward. “I mean everyone I've invited!”

“Not so fast,” said a deep voice from the door.

As one, we all turned. Detective Watson filled the entrance, his legs apart and his hands on his hips. “What's going on here?”

“An impromptu meeting of our book club,” Louise Jane said. “None of your concern.”

“I'll decide what's my concern. Any reason Officer Greenblatt wasn't invited to this impromptu meeting? He's a member of the club, I believe.”

“I assumed,” Louise Jane said, “he'd be at work.”

“A correct assumption. Officer Greenblatt is, in fact, at work. Outside right now, as it happens, in his cruiser. Ready to take anyone interfering in a police investigation downtown.”

Grace whispered into my ear, “Maybe you could interfere and get to spend some quality time with Butch.”

“Shush,” I said, my cheeks blazing.

“Time for Dallas's violin lesson.” Mrs. Peterson dragged the girl, who was for once showing some interest in her surroundings, out the door.

“I'm only here to get a book,” Mrs. Fitzgerald lied.

“I have no idea why I'm here,” Theodore said. “I was told Lucy needed me.”

“What?” I glared at my mother. She smiled innocently in return.

“Lucy, honey, do you have that new Threadville Mystery in yet?” Mrs. Fitzgerald, who was totally up-to-date on her cozy reading, asked. “I've been waiting for ages.”

“Let me check,” I said, knowing full well the new book wouldn't be out for another month yet. I bent over the computer.

“If anyone has anything new to reveal about the death of Karen Kivas,” Watson said in a voice that would have reached the back rows of the Metropolitan Opera,
“they may tell me about it. Otherwise, leave it alone. The police have the matter in hand.”

“Do you?” Louise Jane protested. “After the death of Jonathan Uppiton, I advised you to bring in a medium. Someone to communicate with the other residents of this building. But you wouldn't hear of it, Mr. Skeptic. Mr. New York Detective. You refused. And now look what's happened.”

“Jonathan Uppiton's murder was solved,” Watson reminded her. “Nothing supernatural about it.”

“My point exactly!” Louise Jane shouted, although I didn't see that Watson had said anything to support her argument. “We have another mysterious death in the library. Another chance to ask the spirits what's going on.”

People began murmuring. I heard words like “murder,” “death,” “ghosts.” A couple of parents grabbed their children by the arm and pulled them, protesting loudly, out of the library.

“That's enough.” Bertie pushed herself through the crowd. “There has not been another death in this library. The unfortunate incident to which you are referring, Louise Jane, happened outside.”

Louise Jane turned to Bertie. “A technicality. You can't tell me it hasn't occurred to you that this spate of murders”—another group of parents bolted for the exit, wide-eyed children in tow—“isn't related to the arrival of Lucy.”

“Hey!” I said.

“What?” my mother said.

For once Bertie was speechless. Detective Watson, however, was not. “That's enough. Anyone who isn't here on library business, leave now.” He focused his steely gray eyes on Mrs. Fitzgerald.

“Oh, dear,” she said, “I do think I left the coffeepot on the stove. Getting quite forgetful in my old age. Louise Jane, take me home.”

“I'm not ready—”

“Yes, you are,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said. “I'll see you folks next week. At the regular meeting.” She clamped her hand onto Louise Jane's arm and pulled the other woman out the door with considerably more strength than her small frame hinted at. “Suzanne,” Louise Jane called over her shoulder, “don't forget we're having drinks tomorrow at six.”

In all the excitement and the mass of people, I hadn't seen Diane Uppiton come in. I spotted her now as the crowd began to thin out. A highly unpleasant smile was on her red lips. She caught my eye and smirked. Then she plastered on her fake smile and strode across the room, heels tapping on the marble floor. “Bertie, honey. What an unfortunate scene. I sure hope this doesn't damage the reputation of the library. That'd be a real tragedy.”

Diane couldn't help herself turning her head toward the stacks as she said that. A glance passed between her and the Gray Woman. I shivered.

Gradually the library emptied out. Book clubbers left, pretending they weren't at all disappointed in the ruination of their attempts at playing Sherlock. Grace gave me another exaggerated wink. The remaining patrons returned to the stacks.