Booked for Trouble (17 page)

“That was odd,” my mom said.

“What are you doing being friendly with Louise Jane?” I asked.

“I like her.”

“I don't want you to like her. My welfare is not her primary concern.”

“Everything I do isn't about you, Lucille. Come along, George. Clearly we are no longer needed here.”

I was gobsmacked. But I didn't have the luxury of time to reflect on what on earth Mom was up to now. Watson stepped in front of her. He lifted one hand in the universal
stop
gesture. “Mrs. Richardson. Nice to see you're still in the area.”

“I'm enjoying my vacation. And having a pleasant visit with my daughter. Good afternoon, Detective.”

“Now that you're here, I have a couple more questions about the other night.”

Mom hesitated. “Must I call Amos?”

“That's up to you.”

George pushed himself between Watson and my mom. “I won't have the police harassing Mrs. Richardson like this.”

Oh, dear. Watson had kept his voice down. George, on the other hand, was getting indignant. No doubt enjoying the opportunity to rush to the rescue. St. George slaying the dragon that was the Nags Head PD. Heads were once again beginning to turn, Diane Uppiton's among them.

“I'm not harassing anyone,” Watson said calmly. “Come to think of it, you were here that night, weren't you, Mr. Marwick? Do you have anything you'd like to add to your original statement?”

George sputtered.

Mom simply walked out of the building. George Marwick scurried after her. Watson made no move to follow. Instead he came over to the circulation desk. He kept his voice low. “No more impromptu book club meetings, Lucy. Leave the detecting to us.”

“I didn't call it.”

“I know that.” He left.

I didn't need the help of Sherlock Holmes to figure out how Detective Watson knew what the book club was up to. Someone on the e-mail distribution list must have noticed that CeeCee had not been included and helpfully passed it on. And she'd told her husband.

I was more concerned at what had brought Diane Uppiton here at exactly the right time. Diane, as well as the Gray Woman. My first thought was Louise Jane, causing mischief. But that couldn't be it. Louise Jane seemed to have called this meeting in all seriousness, not simply grabbing another chance to stir the pot. And hope I fell out of it. All the way back to Boston.

Speaking of which . . . Mom and Louise Jane were meeting again. Mom was getting quite chummy with George, manager. Mom was throwing Theodore at me.

My mother was still under suspicion of murder.

My head hurt.

It was still hurting at five o'clock when we announced that the library was closing. The rain hadn't let up once, and Ronald, Charlene, and I were on mop duty all day. Parents with small children might have fled at word of a murder on the premises, but suspense and thriller lovers beat a path to our doors. The mystery shelf was looking somewhat depleted by midafternoon.

Once the last of the stragglers had left, I flipped the sign to
CLOSED
. Before locking the door, I stuck my head out to check if it was still raining. It was. I heard the rumble of engines and, through the mist and driving rain, saw a small convoy of cars coming down the lane.

A gleaming black Cadillac Escalade was in the front, followed by two sedans, and then a battered old pickup truck. A van blazoned with the logo of the local TV station brought up the rear.

“Bertie,” I bellowed. “You'd better get out here.”

“This,” Ronald said over my shoulder, “cannot be good.”

“Oh, no,” Bertie said.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“As Bertie pointed out earlier,” Ronald said, “the lighthouse is on public property. Nothing we can do.”

The cars pulled into the parking lot. A man leapt out of the passenger seat of the Escalade before it had fully come to a stop. He popped open a golf umbrella and held it aloft to provide shelter as a woman climbed out of the back. She was dressed in a crimson suit, a white blouse, and red patent leather pumps. A button was pinned to her suit jacket. Doug Whiteside emerged from the driver's seat, unfurling his own umbrella. Two men in somber suits got out of the second vehicle. A sloppily dressed fellow emerged from the third car. He was a reporter with the local paper. The TV van disgorged a middle-aged woman done up like a high school girl on prom night and a man who hefted a camera onto his shoulder. The reporter opened a pink umbrella. The camera was draped in plastic. As I'd suspected, the pickup was driven by Norm Kivas, who was accompanied by Sandy, his date from the other night.

Bertie dashed out, heedless of the rain. Ronald, Charlene, and I followed.

Doug Whiteside's broad smile didn't reach his eyes as he held out his hand to Bertie. She ignored it. “What's going on here?”

“Sorry we're late,” the woman with him said. “The newspaper guy got tied up.”

“Late for what?” Bertie said.

Late for a full house at the library, no doubt.

A police cruiser pulled into the parking lot, and Butch joined our sodden little group.

“Don't worry, Ms. James,” Billy, who'd been with Doug at Josie's the other day, said. He held a big bouquet of wilting red roses, wrapped in supermarket cellophane. “Nothing's wrong. We've asked the police to provide some crowd control.” I counted a crowd of less than ten.

“Can we hurry this up?” the TV woman said. “I'm freezing here.”

Billy led the way, still carrying the flowers. Doug took what I assumed was his wife's arm (she looked suitably politican's-wife-ish), while the man holding the umbrella aloft slipped and slid in the mud. The party stepped off the path and rounded the lighthouse. We followed. The women's heels sank into the sodden muck. The TV reporter swore a blue streak. One of the men matched her curses as his leather-clad foot found a hole in the grass. Mrs. Whiteside threw her husband a glare that was not found in the good-politician's-spouse handbook as mud flowed over the top of her shiny shoe.

Norm Kivas followed, looking as if he didn't quite know what was going on. He had not dressed for the occasion, whatever the occasion was, and was in clean but well-used jeans and a Steelers T-shirt that was so new it almost shone. A FOR
NAGS HEAD
button was pinned to the shirt. His woman friend had a similar button attached to her tight T-shirt. She was wearing skinny jeans above four-inch heels. “Norm, honey,” she said, “you didn't tell me we'd be
hiking
.”

Rain dripped down my nose. My hair was plastered to my head.

The last of the police tape had been taken away. Nothing remained to mark the place where Karen had died. Doug obviously didn't know where it was. He looked around, momentarily confused. “Over here, Mr.
Whiteside,” Billy said, gesturing to a patch of muddy earth against the round walls. He was about ten feet off. I didn't bother to point that out. The location had been chosen because it had a nice backdrop of the open field to the marsh.

Everyone took their positions. “Mrs. Whiteside,” Billy said. “If you'll step over here.” She tiptoed through the grass as though she were keeping an eye out for evidence of a passing dog. The color of the campaign button fastened to her jacket clashed with her red suit. She and Doug held hands. They didn't bother to look at each other. Billy passed her the spray of flowers and she cradled it awkwardly in her free arm. The newspaper guy pulled out a digital recorder and the camera guy checked his angles. Sandy smiled at the TV reporter. The TV reporter ignored her.

I glanced at Bertie. Her mouth was set into a tight line of disapproval. Butch came to stand beside me. He gave me a smile of hello and a shrug of what-can-you-do.

“Is that on?” Doug asked.

“When you're ready,” the cameraman said.

Doug checked his tie was straight. He composed his face into serious lines. “One week ago, my beloved sister, Karen, was brutally murdered on this very spot.” Mrs. Whiteside wiped a tear away, barely avoiding sticking a rose petal into her eye. Doug gestured to the expanse of land and sky behind him. “This is a beautiful spot. One of the many wonders of nature to be found on the Outer Banks. Sadly, it is not a place where women can feel free to come and go at night. It is not a place for a library. I'd like to see this wonderful lighthouse and the grounds returned to the people of the Outer Banks, whether visitors or residents. A place where people can relax in
safety and comfort.” He paused to wipe at his eye. Bertie huffed. I hoped the microphones would pick that up.

“For the past year, people have been telling me that they want me—no, they need me—to run for mayor. They need someone with a firm hand on the tiller of our community. A firm eye on the hardworking taxpayers' hard-earned money. For the past year, I've resisted. My family, I always said, has to come first.” Doug turned to his wife. He gazed adoringly at her. Billy jerked his head. Mrs. Whiteside suddenly realized she should be gazing adoringly back. She did so, and Doug went on. “But in light of what happened to Karen, Trixie has convinced me that I have another duty. A duty to the memory of Karen, and to all the families of our town.” Trixie smiled bravely.

“Therefore,” Doug went on, “I am here today, at the spot that shall forever be sacred to my family, to announce my candidacy for mayor.” The small group around us broke into applause, making up with enthusiasm what they lacked in numbers. Noticeably, the camera did not turn to pan across the crowd. Doug lifted his wife's hand. He kissed it and then released it. “I have the pleasure of letting you all know that I have the support of my brother-in-law, Norman Kivas. Let's do this for Karen, Norm.” Doug stepped to one side, his hand held out. Norm came forward, blinking rapidly. Sandy made to follow. Billy's arm shot out and caught her at the level of her campaign button. Norm shook Doug's hand. Then Doug said, “Trixie.” Trixie bent awkwardly—her skirt was too tight—and laid the flowers against the lighthouse wall.

“I will now take questions,” Doug said. “Yes, Miss Lancaster?”

The TV woman held out her microphone. “My
condolences on your loss. Are the police any closer to making an arrest in the murder of your sister?”

“I am, of course, only a concerned citizen, the same as the rest of you. I'm not privy to the police investigation, but I can assure your viewers that if they honor me by electing me mayor, I'll conduct a thorough review of police procedures. Unlike our current administration, I believe in working with law enforcement agencies from all over the area.” Trixie looked adoring. Norm churned up mud beneath his big boots. Norm's girlfriend pouted.

“Do you plan an increase in the police budget, then?” the TV reporter asked.

Doug laughed. “Unlike the current administration, gouging more money from the hardworking taxpayers isn't my solution to everything. I've already identified places in the police department where we can find efficiencies.”

“Pardon me,” Bertie said. “I have to go and throw up.”

“Do you want me to ask him a question?” Ronald said. “I can point out the popularity of the library.”

“Save your breath,” Bertie said. “These are his tame reporters. They don't care what you say.”

“You don't think he has a chance at winning, do you?” Charlene asked.

“I certainly hope not.”

“So do I,” Butch said. “All this talk about efficiencies? Just a fancy word for cutting the police budget by laying off cops.”

“I'm outa here,” Charlene said. “Night, all.”

Ronald walked with her to their cars. Bertie went back inside, emerging a few minutes later with her purse. She also drove away. I stayed with Butch, thinking that Connor would want to know what had happened here.

The TV woman turned to face the camera full-on,
while Doug spoke to the newspaper guy. Billy had his hands full keeping Norm's girlfriend away from the reporters. It wouldn't do the grieving-husband image any good if the public got a look at her. Trixie wandered around, bored. One of the men held the umbrella over her head and led her back to the car. She gave Butch an approving appraisal as she passed us. Me, she ignored.

Then it was over. The reporters rushed to pack up their equipment and bolted back to their cars. Doug, Norm, Sandy, and the entourage followed. No one was smiling anymore.

Billy spotted me and approached, hand outstretched. “Hi, there. Nice to see you again. Doug, you remember Miss . . .”

“Richardson.”

“Of course.”

“How ya doin'?” Doug also gave my hand an enthusiastic pump. “Billy, give this lovely lady a button from me.”

Billy pulled a FOR
NAGS HEAD
button out of his pocket. I snatched it away before he could pin it to my chest.

“Lovely spot here, isn't it?” Doug said. “Don't you worry for a moment about that killing, Miss Richardson. The police are about to make an arrest. Strictly a personal affair, I understand. Isn't that right, Officer? I'm a strong supporter of the police. Get rid of political interference and let our heroes in blue, such as this fine fellow here, do their jobs, right? I plan to turn this whole area into an attractive spot so visitors like you can enjoy it in complete safety.”

As if I were standing here, in the driving rain, without an umbrella, dressed in a cotton blouse, a plain skirt, and one-inch pumps, because I was about to head off for a nature hike. “Safe,” I said. “Like Disney World or a zoo.”

Doug beamed. “Got it in one!”

Billy seemed to be more on the ball than his boss. “If the library's closed to make room for tourist facilities, Doug'll make sure everyone who works here finds other jobs, won't you, Doug?”

“Huh? Oh, right. Jobs. Yup, we need jobs. Good jobs. I've a plan—”

“I need gas money,” Norm Kivas said.