By Book or by Crook (14 page)

“They say Bertie was heard to threaten Jonathan only minutes before he was murdered. You were at the reception, Maureen. Did you hear her?”

“You know I dislike gossip, but in this case I have to be honest. Bertie was furious when Jonathan threatened to sack that new librarian. What’s her name? Laura?”

“Lucy. She does seem to be doing a good job. I’m learning so much about English literature. Makes me wish I’d gone to college as I wanted to. But my mother said . . .”

My smile at the praise didn’t last. Mrs. Peterson sniffed once again and interrupted reminisces of what Mother said. “Anyone can dress up in a big hat and recite facts. I have to say, I agreed with Jonathan that Bertie’s allowing expenses at this library to get out of hand. Jonathan was always after me to join the library board. He needed, he insisted, my sensible and practical outlook, but I, what with the girls and the house and entertaining Al’s business associates, simply don’t have the time.” She sighed mightily. “I’m sorry about that now. They could use my sharp eye on expenses. If I know one thing, it’s how to rein in out-of-control spending. My Dallas, now, thinks money grows on trees. That girl has a mind to . . .”

“You think spending at the library’s out of control? I don’t see anything being wasted.”

Mrs. Peterson coughed. “Not out of control, perhaps, not yet. But, really, losing two of those books? The security in this place is sorely lacking. Take my word: Jonathan would have put a stop to it. Did I
mention that he almost pleaded with me to join the board? I now realize I should have. But what good are regrets? Bertie simply refused to accept that Jonathan was in charge here, and insisted on doing things her own way. Well, she got what she wanted. And look at the result.”

“Do you think . . . Bertie . . .” the unknown woman said, sotto voce.

“Killed Jonathan?” Mrs. Peterson did not bother to lower her own voice. I doubt she knew how. “I hate to say it, but Bertie was in the right place at the right time, and she had a motive.”

I’d heard enough. I was about to reveal myself, in all my righteous indignation and ostentatious Victorian hat, when Mrs. Peterson continued. “Others, mind, had reason, as well.”

“What do you mean? Everyone loved Jonathan.”

“Not everyone. You might have noticed that Diane stepped into his shoes here at the library with great speed. She was seen at the Chevrolet dealer in Kitty Hawk the day after his death, checking out . . . get this . . . a new Corvette.”

“No! But weren’t they divorced?”

“Apparently it wasn’t final. So she inherits.”

“Jonathan wasn’t rich, was he?”

“I’d say more like comfortable. You can be sure Diane wasn’t going to settle for a paltry divorce settlement, not if she could get the whole enchilada. I heard her threaten him. On more than one occasion.”

“No!”

“Not only right here, at the library the night of the reception. I live next door to them, you know. The fights I overheard over the years! She resented the
amount of time and attention he gave to the library. Time and attention she thought he should have been giving to her. It all came to a head a year or so ago, when he first got the idea of getting the Austen collection on loan. He threw himself, heart and soul, into the project, and she walked out on him. It was her or the library, I heard her say. He chose the library. Of course, once she was gone, she couldn’t stay away. Not her. Only a week before the fateful reception, she was banging on his door. Yelling something about dead books being suitable only for dead people.”

“Goodness. Did you tell the police this?”

“I’m not a common gossip, Margaret. Besides, Diane has moved back into the matrimonial home. I have to get on with my neighbors.”

“Lucy, what are you doing?” Louise Jane said.

I leapt out of my skin. “Shelving books.” I realized I was still holding the Victoria Abbott and waved it in evidence.

The edges of Louise Jane’s mouth turned up. It was not an attractive look. “Doesn’t that book belong in the mystery collection?”

“Oh, right.”

“How long does it take a
qualified
librarian to shelve one book, anyway? No wonder you people need me.”

“What do you want?”

“There’s a gentleman at the desk, asking if you’ll speak to Rotary one night next week about Jane Austen. I offered to do it myself, of course, but he said his wife specifically suggested you. I can’t possibly
imagine why.” She tossed her head and walked away.

Children thundered down the stairs, and Mrs. Peterson and her friend ended their conversation.

I
know from reading mystery novels that there’s little the police enjoy more than nosy neighbors. Were they aware that Mrs. Peterson lived next to the Uppitons, and thus was party to their marital disputes? I could easily imagine her creeping through the shrubbery or hiding behind a potted plant to get closer to their squabbles. She might not go to Detective Watson on her own initiative, but if she was asked, she’d be pretty quick (I was sure) to dish the dirt.

Along with a hearty dose of malice and a reminder of what excellent students her children were.

I’d give Detective Watson a call when the library closed for the day.

No,
I thought with a warm glow in my cheeks,
probably better to contact Butch.

On Monday evenings, we closed promptly at five. We locked the door, flipped the sign, and let out a long breath. “A good day,” Ronald said.

“I’ve contacted those guys from Oxford and told them I can devote several hours on Wednesday to helping them do their research,” Charlene said. “They calmed down and said that would be okay.”

Louise Jane preened. “Once I get things better organized around here, everything’ll run an awful lot
smoother. I’m going to start planning the Halloween exhibit as soon as I can catch my breath. You’ll want to be involved in that, Ronald. The little ones love ghost stories, don’t they? Of course, we won’t be telling them any of the
true
stories about this place.” She laughed. “We don’t want to frighten anyone, do we, Lucy?”

She left, promising (threatening?) to see us all tomorrow.

Yesterday, on my way home from the beach, I’d swung back into Nags Head first and bought the fixings for a chicken salad, enough for two meals. I was planning to spend the evening simply relaxing at home. I didn’t think I could stuff another molecule of Austen trivia into my brain. I’d finished
The Moonstone
at the beach, and was in the mood for something written in the twenty-first century.

I stuck my head out the door, checking the weather, thinking that a nice, long walk along the boardwalk before dinner would clear some of the cobwebs from my head. I needed to plan my classic readers’ group, but without knowing who would be attending (would anyone?) it was hard to select the books. Perhaps after
The Moonstone
, we could move into darker novels of the Victorian era such as
Tess of the d’Urbervilles
or
Bleak House
.

Now that Louise Jane was here, and being helpful, I had to admit, I might be able to start the group soon.

I went back inside and down the hall to the office to say good night. Bertie’s purse was on her desk and she was locking the cabinet when I came in.

“Off home?” I asked.

“My entire body is stiffening up. I want, I need, to get in a yoga class this evening.”

“Having Louise Jane here today was a big help.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You can’t fault her for her passion.”

“Doesn’t she have a job? Other than here, I mean?”

“She flits about, doing a bit of this, some of that. She comes from a large, old Outer Banks family. Her uncles own several local businesses, and she fills in for them on and off. Working here, at the library, has been her dream for a long time, and I suspect she blew off whatever uncle she was working for this morning to get down here in record time.”

“I overheard something interesting earlier. I think the police will want to know, but I wanted to run it by you first.”

She sat back down, waving me into a chair. “Go ahead.”

I told her about Mrs. Peterson’s gossip.

“It’s no secret that Diane and Jonathan had a difficult marriage. I don’t think I could have remained married to him myself. I adore nothing more in a man than a love of books and libraries, but not if he loves them more than he loves me. Interesting that she was shopping for expensive cars so soon after being widowed.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Lucy, what are your thoughts about the books being taken?”

“Common theft. Plain and simple. We were lax in keeping them secured. It won’t happen again. We just didn’t realize anyone would be interested in taking them.”

“Why? Why would anyone take valuable books that they can’t sell?”

“To own them. To gloat over them in private. Are you thinking of Theodore?”

“Who else? I blame myself, Lucy. Totally. I’ve always known that blasted Teddy would attempt to pilfer the odd rare book now and again. Heavens, he had Jonathan around for drinks once and proudly showed him a cookbook from the Civil War era he said he’d recently acquired. Jonathan recognized the volume immediately, as having ‘disappeared’”—she wiggled her fingers in the air—“while Charlene’s back was turned. Jonathan snatched the book right off the shelf and brought it back. It was almost like a game of catch-me-if-you-can to Teddy. An annoying game, to be sure, but I’ve never seen any malice in him. He has to know this will damage the reputation of our library beyond redemption. If we can’t return the full set, we’ll never have a chance of getting anything else of value. Never mind that we’ll never get insurance again, either. I have my enemies on the library board, Lucy. And among the commissioners. People who don’t see the value of a public library and chafe at the expense.”

“You don’t mean they want to close us down?”

She nodded. “I mean precisely that. If not shut and padlock the doors, then to reduce our hours and collection to a mere token. This lovely historical lighthouse could be put, they say, to more income-generating uses. It’s all about the money for some of them. The library’s an expense, not a revenue source—therefore, what use is it?

“I was hoping, Jonathan was hoping, that the
Austen collection would prove popular. We had no idea how popular, but now I fear it’s going to blow up in my face. In all our faces. They’ve never had the votes before, but if this gets much worse and even our supporters begin wondering if the library’s worth it . . .”

“Don’t get discouraged,” I said. “We got the extra funding. The town loves us. We’ll make sure they keep loving us. Do you know if the police searched Theodore’s house?”

“I suggested doing so to Detective Watson. He said he had no grounds to suspect Teddy other than my obvious attempt to deflect attention from myself. And I quote.”

“If Watson thinks you’re stealing the books, then he’s a fool!”

Bertie gave me a sad smile. “I appreciate your loyalty, Lucy. But, yes, I fear that is what they suspect. That I’m attempting to create confusion and disrupt the police investigation into Jonathan’s murder.”

“Ridiculous.”

“I agree with you. But there are those who don’t. For love of the library alone, any idea that I’d kill Jonathan and steal the books to cover it up is preposterous. His family had been pillars of the business community back in the day, and people of importance in this area still respected him, despite the fact that his father’s business collapsed years ago. Jonathan, for all his faults, was the best friend our library could possibly have.”

“It has me. And Ronald and Charlene. And you.”

“Yes, it does. But is that enough?” Bertie picked up her purse. “I’m going to the studio to practice
yoga and try to forget about all this for a while. I suggest you do the same.”

“First I have to tell the police what I heard from Mrs. Peterson.”

*

I decided to drive down to the police station, rather than ask Detective Watson and Butch to come to me. I needed some air, and I needed to get my head clear.

The Nags Head Police Station is located in the center of town, in a low, four-armed building, sharing the complex with the town hall and other community offices. I found parking easily and went inside. I explained my business to the woman at the front desk, and she called Detective Watson. He did not look pleased to see me. “What do you want now?”

“I have come,” I said haughtily, “to report information that may be pertinent to the investigation of a crime.” Haughty I learned at my mother’s knee.

“Very well. Come on in.” He led the way to his office. Which wasn’t much of an office, just a desk in a corner of a room crowded with other desks, computers, discarded uniform jackets, coffee cups, and piles and piles of paper. The walls were painted industrial beige and decorated with wanted posters and safety notices.

“Have a seat,” Watson said. He went behind his desk and I dropped into the rock-hard visitor’s chair. A framed photograph was among the debris on his desk. The picture was turned away from me, and I tried to surreptitiously twist my head so as to see it. Watson sat down and gave me such a glare, I settled back in my seat and crossed my hands neatly in my
lap. I’d also learned ladylike deportment at my mother’s knee. He didn’t interrupt as I told him what I’d overheard earlier in the library. I refrained from mentioning that I’d been hiding in the stacks.

“Diane Uppiton had some harsh words for you at the reception, didn’t she, Miss Richardson?”

“What?”

“Let me think,” he said, making a steeple out of his fingers. “Dress from your mother’s closet. Designs on her husband. That sound about right?”

“This isn’t about me!”

“Isn’t it? She also said you were not very pretty, I believe. I might disagree with her on that, but my opinion is unimportant. Are you, Lucy, trying to point fingers back at Diane Uppiton?”

Did Detective Watson just say he thinks I’m pretty?

I had no time to savor the compliment. Nor to wonder that Detective Watson could repeat that conversation so accurately without resorting to his notes. “I resent that. I have come here to tell you what I overheard. I thought you’d be interested. I guess I was wrong.” I pushed my chair back and stood up.

He didn’t move. “That’s the second time you’ve reported Diane Uppiton to me. I have to ask myself why.”

“Why? Because I’m a responsible citizen, that’s why.”

“Perhaps. Officer Greenblatt tells me that he was in conversation with you at the time of the murder. But everything was in flux that night, people coming and going, milling about, eating pastries, drinking wine and beer. Easy to lose track of time—folks think
they saw things they didn’t or get the time frame wrong. I also suspect that Officer Greenblatt is not entirely, shall we say, professional when it comes to you.”

I sputtered. “I didn’t even know Mr. Uppiton. I’d met him once before. When he came in to meet me my first day on the job. You can’t possibly suspect that I would have had anything to do with his death.”

“I can’t? You’ve given up everything to come to Nags Head to take this job. Your family in Boston. A nice apartment, a good job at Harvard, where you were highly regarded and in line for promotion.”

“I was?”

“You even broke off your engagement. Marriage into a prominent old-money family. All to come to work at our little Lighthouse Library. And then, only a few days after your arrival, to find that maybe the job isn’t going to be yours after all. Jonathan Uppiton was about to fire you, wasn’t he, Lucy? To tell you that your services wouldn’t be needed. Not only would you lose your job, but the apartment that came with it.”

How did Watson know about my life in Boston? My nonengagement to Ricky? “I . . . I . . .”

“People have been known to do drastic things in such circumstances, Lucy.” His voice was low and soft. His kind eyes focused on my face. When I first came in, the police station was a noisy clatter of activity, but now all had fallen silent. Watson’s words wrapped themselves around me. I leaned closer to hear better. “You would have been embarrassed,
wouldn’t you, to go back to Boston? Beg your job to take you back, your fiancé to forgive you? Your parents to put you up while you got back on your feet. How much did the Lighthouse Library mean to you, Lucy? What would you have done to protect it? What did you do?”

I snapped out of my near trance. “Nothing. For heaven’s sake, I came in to report an overheard conversation, and you’re practically accusing me of murder.”

“Am I?”

Is he?

“Lover of Jane Austen, are you, Lucy?”

“Of course I am. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Do you want the books for yourself, or did you take them to throw off suspicion? Are they hidden under your bed so you can pull them out at night, or resting at the bottom of the ocean?”

I stood up. “I resent your implications.”

“Just thinking out loud.”

“Well, you can stop thinking.” To my horror, I felt tears gather behind my eyes. “I’m leaving.”

“Thanks for coming in,” he said. He did not get to his feet. “I’m sure we’ll be talking again.”

I stormed out of the police station on shaking legs. Had Watson just accused me of murder? Or was he fishing, hoping I’d break down and confess? Tears began to flow.

I was a fool. I didn’t belong here. I should go back to Boston, marry Ricky, have 2.5 kids, and devote myself to a life of good works and boredom.

A car horn sounded, and I was almost jerked off my feet.

“Lucy, are you all right?”

Connor McNeil had a firm grip on my arm. I blinked and realized I’d stepped into the road without even noticing where I was going. If I’d been run down would Watson decide I’d killed myself out of remorse and pronounce the case closed?

Connor waved at the uniformed officer behind the wheel of the cruiser that had almost hit me in an “I’ve got this” gesture, and the cop drove away, shaking his head.

“What’s the matter, Lucy?”

“Nothing.” I wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand. “Everything. Oh, I don’t know.” I dug in my pocket and found an unused tissue. I blew my nose. “I’m sorry. Goodness, did you just save my life?”

“Saved you from getting your foot crushed, at any rate.” He gave me a smile. “Want to talk about it? How about over a coffee?”

“I can’t keep you. Are you going into the police station?”

“I’m popping in to see the chief, but I can tell him I’ve been delayed. It’s just budget talk, anyway, and he’ll be glad to put that off. Give him the chance to get home early for a change. How about it? Coffee? Maybe an after-work drink?”

“That would be nice. Thanks.”