By Book or by Crook (24 page)

T
he letters VR “shot” into the red wallpaper was a nice touch. I took a step back and admired my handiwork. The silly bit of decorating I’d done to make the third-floor room, where we would be holding the book club, resemble the parlor of 221B Baker Street was in place. We were reading
The Moonstone
, not Sherlock Holmes, but Holmes’s sitting room was so iconic, I hoped the club members would enjoy it. I’d bought a single roll of red-and-gold wallpaper from the discount outlet and punched the holes in it before draping it over one of the shelves. I’d placed a pipe and deerstalker hat from Ronald’s collection of costumes onto a shelf arranged to resemble the mantel of a fireplace and taped a picture of a roaring wood fire beneath.

We’d brought chairs upstairs and arranged them in a circle. I’d plugged in the coffeepot and laid out cookies Josie had brought, leftovers from the bakery.

“Everything looks just great, Lucy,” Bertie said. I preened.

At long, long last, the evening of the inaugural meeting of the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library classic novel reading group had arrived. I was expecting twelve attendees, rather a lot for this small room, but
we’d make space somehow. We always did at the Lighthouse Library.

Mrs. Fitzgerald had proved to be more stubborn than anyone had expected and mustered enough support to be elected chair of the library board. When it came for a vote, only Diane Uppiton and Curtis Gardner opposed. Whereupon Mrs. Fitzgerald had rapped her cane on the floor and said that any idea of closing the Lighthouse Library was an abomination. When the applause died down, she presented the first order of business: raises all around for the staff. Next, she had declared that the rare-books room would be renamed the Jonathan Uppiton Collection, and she would, at her own expense, have a bronze plaque prepared to that effect to hang beside the door.

The Austen collection—the full and complete Austen collection—was still on display downstairs, but the rush had died off. We’d been overwhelmed when word got out that the two stolen books were back, but at last it seemed as though every Austenite in the eastern United States had been satisfied. We were getting only one or two bus tours a week now, the shops had gone back to displaying seashell art and paintings of piers and lighthouses, and the restaurants had taken afternoon tea off the menu.

My lectures had been reduced to three a week, Charlene’s visiting English scholars were happy, and Ronald was talking about taking some vacation time. We were managing fine without Louise Jane.

She had professed herself to be mortified at what Andrew had done. Her protestations of innocence might have been somewhat melodramatic, and
somehow she’d managed to turn herself into the victim in all this, but I believed her.

She might be arrogant, self-absorbed, willfully blind, but she hadn’t killed anyone, nor had she stolen any books.

We’d remained closed the day after Andrew’s arrest, but were open again bright and early the next morning. Louise Jane had shown up for work on time, chin up, face forward, shoulders set. Bertie called her into her office, and when Louise Jane slunk out fifteen minutes later, she told us that an aunt in Raleigh had taken ill and Louise Jane was needed to care for her.

But we were not to worry; she assured us that she’d soon be back.

I heard that Louise Jane had left the Outer Banks without bothering to visit Poor Andrew in jail.

“Nervous?” Josie asked me.

“More like excited. I’m really looking forward to this group. They were supposed to have read
The Moonstone
. Do you suppose they did?”

“I did,” Josie said. As well as pastry, Josie had brought her friend Grace, and introduced her to me as an ardent mystery lover. “It was great,” Grace said.

“All the copies we had were checked out,” Bertie said. “People’ll be arriving any minute. You wait here. I’ll go downstairs and show them up.”

Josie and Grace chatted while I fussed with the decorations, pulled the chairs into a tighter circle, arranged the cookies. Ate a cookie. Charles studied the fake fireplace with an expression that indicated he wasn’t impressed. I ate another cookie.

I leapt away from the treats table at a burst of laughter on the stairs. Mrs. Peterson sailed in first, accompanied by the elder two of her daughters. They were followed by the visiting English postdoctoral students. “We want to hear what a Yank has to say about Wilkie Collins,” one of them said.

“Yanks!” Grace said, with a laugh. “Careful there—we’re Southerners.”

My cousin Aaron arrived, to the obvious delight of the oldest Peterson girl. Then several women I knew as keen patrons and avid readers. Mrs. Fitzgerald made it up the stairs to the third floor, enjoying the assistance of Theodore Kowalski.

“Thought I’d be needed to keep an eye on you, Lucy,” Theodore said. “What do you young people know about the classic novels, anyway?” He helped Mrs. Fitzgerald to a seat.

An attractive woman in her early forties, casual clothes accented by good jewelry and a colorful scarf, approached me, hand extended. “I’m CeeCee Watson. Pleased to meet you, Lucy. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“You have?”
Watson?

“I do believe you know my husband. Sam doesn’t entirely approve of my mystery-reading habit, but I’m afraid I’m an addict. I read modern stuff almost exclusively, and it was a joy to discover Mr. Collins. Now that I’ve read a nineteenth-century novel, I’m hooked. I’m looking forward to hearing everyone else’s opinion.” She gave my hand a pat. “Is that the hero cat I’ve heard so much about? I adore cats, but Sam won’t let one in the house.” She crouched down and held out her hand. Charles accepted her praise.

About the last person I expected to join my group was Louise Jane. But here she was, broad smile, outstretched arms. She enveloped me in a big hug. “You’ve done an awful nice job on the room, Lucy. Shows what can be done with a small budget and not much imagination.” I stepped out of the hug, wondering whether I’d been insulted. “My relatives in Raleigh wanted me to stay on longer, but I hurried back so I could be here tonight. I want to hear what you have to say about
The
Moonstone
. From an academic perspective, I mean. I hope you don’t make it sound too dull. Oh good, there’s Mrs. Fitzgerald. I haven’t had a chance to tell her about my haunted-island exhibit.” Louise Jane hip-checked Grace, who was about to take the seat next to the elderly lady, and plunked herself down. “Eunice, I was simply thrilled to hear you’d taken over as board chair.”

As everyone came in, I invited them to help themselves to cookies and coffee and find a place to sit.

Soon only two empty chairs were left.

“I guess we should start,” I said. “I hope you all had a chance to read the book.”

They nodded.

“After you, Mr. Mayor,” said a voice from the landing.

“After you, Officer” was the reply.

Connor and Butch stumbled into the room together.

They both grinned at me, and I smiled back.

“I, myself,” Theodore said, adjusting his spectacles, “have read
The Moonstone
many times, of course. Although I prefer the
The Woman in White
for its biting social commentary and . . .”

I smothered a laugh. Oh yes, living and working at the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library was not going to be
boring.

Writing this book has been nothing but fun, from visiting the Outer Banks to scout out locations to actually doing the writing. In particular I’d like to thank Mary Jane Maffini for her friendship, support, and encouragement. And Barbara Sweet, librarian extraordinaire. I also thank my agent, Kim Lionetti, for taking me on and believing that I could do this, and Laura Fazio, my marvelous editor at Obsidian, who came up with the concept and provided encouragement and much-needed advice in bringing it to fruition.

I
love my mother. Truly, I do. She’s never shown me anything but love, although she’s tempered it by criticism perhaps once too often. She believes in me, I think, although she’s not exactly averse to pointing out that I’d be better off if I did things her way. She’s a kind, generous person. At least, that is, to those she doesn’t consider to be in competition with her for some vaguely defined goal; for those she does—watch out: she’ll carry a grudge to the grave. She may be stiff and formal and sometimes overly concerned with observance of proper behavior, but she’s also adventurous and well traveled. And above all, her love of her children knows no bounds.

I do love my mother.

I just wished she wasn’t bearing down on me at this moment, face beaming, arms outstretched.

“Surprise, darling,” she cried.

It was a surprise, all right. My heart sank into my stomach, and I forced out a smile of my own. I’d been living in the Outer Banks of North Carolina for a short time, making a new life for myself away from the social respectability of my parents’ circle in Boston, and now here she was.

“Hi, Mom,” I said as I was enveloped in a hug. It was a real hug, too. Hearty and all-embracing,
complete with vigorous slaps on the back. When it came to her children, Mom allowed herself to forget she was a Boston society matron. I loved her for that, too.

I pulled myself out of the embrace. “What are you doing here, Mom?”

“I’ve come for a short vacation and to see how you’re settling in.” She lifted her arms to indicate not only the Outer Banks, but the Lighthouse Library, where I worked and lived. “Isn’t this charming? I haven’t been in this building since it was renovated.”

“You were here before it became a library?” I asked with some astonishment. When the historic Bodie Island Lighthouse had no longer been needed for its original function as a manually operated light, it had slowly crumbled into disrepair. Then, in a stroke of what I considered absolute genius, it was renovated and turned into a public library. High above, the great first-order Fresnel lens flashed in the night to guide ships at sea, while down below it books were read and cherished.

“Of course I was,” Mom said. “Oh, I can remember some wild nights, let me tell you. Sneaking around in the dark, trying to break into the lighthouse. Up to all sorts of mischief.” She must have read something in my face. “I was young once, Lucy. Although it sometimes seems like another lifetime.”

She looked so dejected all of a sudden that I reached out and touched her arm. “It’s nice to see you, Mom.”

“You must be Mrs. Richardson.” Ronald, one of my colleagues, extended his hand. He was a short man in his mid-forties with a shock of curly white
hair. He wore blue-and-red-striped Bermuda shorts, a short-sleeved denim shirt, and a colorful tie featuring the antics of Mickey Mouse. “The resemblance is remarkable,” he said. “Although if I hadn’t heard Lucy call you Mom, I’d have thought you were sisters.”

Mom beamed. I didn’t mind being told I looked thirty years older than I was; really, I didn’t. Ronald was our children’s librarian, and a nice man with a warm, generous heart. He’d only told Mom what she’d wanted to hear. And, I had to admit, Mom looked mighty darn good. Weekly spa visits, a personal trainer, regular tennis matches, and the consumption of truckloads of serums and creams (and, perhaps, a tiny nip and tuck here and there) only accented her natural beauty. She was dressed in a navy blue Ralph Lauren blazer over a blindingly white T-shirt and white capris. Her carefully cut and dyed ash-blond hair curled around her chin, and small hoop earrings were in her ears. Her gold jewelry was, as always, restrained but spoke of money well spent.

I, on the other hand, looked like the harassed librarian I was. Only horn-rimmed glasses on a lanyard and a gray bun at the back of my head were missing. My unruly mop of dark curls had been pulled back into a ragged ponytail that morning because I hadn’t gotten up in time to wash it. I wore my summer work outfit of black pants cut slightly above the ankle, ballet flats, and a crisp blue short-sleeved shirt, untucked. I hadn’t gotten around to washing the shirt after the last time I’d worn it and hoped there weren’t stains so tiny I hadn’t noticed—
because Mom would. I made the introductions. “Suzanne Richardson, meet Ronald Burkowski, the best children’s librarian in the state.”

“My pleasure,” Mom said before turning her attention back to me. “Why don’t you give me the grand tour, dear?”

“I’m working right now.”

She waved her hand at that trifle.

“You go ahead, Lucy,” Ronald said. “My next group doesn’t start for fifteen minutes. I’ll watch the shop while you take your mom around the place. But,” he added, “don’t go upstairs yet. I want to show her the children’s library myself.”

Mom laughed, charmed. Ronald smiled back, equally charmed.

I refrained from rolling my eyes as she slipped her arm though mine. “Come on,” I said. “I’ll show you the Austen books and then introduce you to my boss.”

“Is he as delightful as your Ronald?”

“He’s not my Ronald, and Bertie is a she.” I liked Bertie very much, but if there was one thing she was not, it was delightful.

I proudly escorted Mom to view the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library’s pride and joy: a complete set of Jane Austen first editions. The six books, plus Miss Austen’s own notebook, would be on loan to us for a few more weeks. They rested in a tabletop cabinet handcrafted specifically to hold them, tucked into a small alcove lit by a soft white light. The exhibit had proved to be successful beyond the wildest dreams of Bertie and the library board—not to mention the local craftspeople and business owners when crowds
of eager literary tourists began flooding into the Nags Head area.

“I’d love to have a peek at Jane Austen’s notebook,” Mom said. “Written in her own handwriting—imagine.”

“I’ll get the key when we meet Bertie. I’m sure we can make an exception in your case.” We’d learned the hard way to keep the cabinet locked at all times and to secure the only copy of the key on Bertie’s person. She’d told me that if the library caught fire in the night, I had permission to break the glass and grab the books. Otherwise, only she could open it.

Bertie was in her office, chewing on the end of a pencil as she studied her computer screen. I gave the open door a light tap. Bertie looked up, obviously pleased by the interruption. I knew she was going through the budget this morning. Charles, another of our staff members, occupied the single visitor’s chair. He stretched lazily and gave Mom the once-over.

Neither he nor Mom appeared to be at all impressed by what they saw.

The edges of Charles’s mouth turned up into the slightest sneer and he rubbed at his face. Then, very rudely, he went back to his nap.

“Oh,” Mom said, “a cat. How . . . nice.”

Bertie got to her feet and came out from behind her desk. I made the introductions, and the women shook hands.

“I hope you’re taking care of my only daughter,” Mom said. Behind her back, I rolled my eyes. Bertie noticed but she didn’t react.

“Lucy’s taking care of us. She’s a joy to work with
and I consider myself, and the library, very lucky to have her.”

Mom smiled in the same way she had at parent-teacher interview day.

I’m thirty years old and have a master’s in library science, but to Mom I’m still twelve and being praised for getting an A-plus on my essay on the Brontë sisters. I felt myself smiling. In that, she was probably no different from most mothers.

“Are you staying with Ellen?” Bertie asked, referring to Mom’s sister.

“I’m at the Ocean Side.” Mom always stayed at the Ocean Side, one of the finest (and most expensive) hotels on this stretch of the coast. “I haven’t been to the hotel yet, Lucy. I wanted to stop by and let you know I’d arrived. Why don’t you come with me and help me check in?”

“I’m working,” I said. Work was a concept with which Mom pretended to be unfamiliar.

“Go ahead, Lucy,” Bertie said. “Take the rest of the afternoon off. You’ve been putting in so many extra hours, you deserve it.”

“But—”

“I’ll take the circulation desk.”

Between Mom’s wanting me to come with her and Bertie’s wanting to escape budget drudgery, I could hardly say no, now, could I?

Not wanting to be left alone, Charles roused himself and leapt off the chair. He rubbed himself against Mom’s leg. She tried to unobtrusively push him away. Charles didn’t care to be pushed. At thirty-some pounds, he was a big cat. A gorgeous Himalayan with a mass of tan fur, with pointy black ears
and a mischievous black-and-white face. We walked down the hallway, with Mom trying not to trip over the animal weaving between her feet.

“Did you drive all the way down today?” I asked. Mom loved to drive, and she’d often jump into her car and take off for a few days, giving the family no notice. “Me time” or “road trip,” she called it. As I got older I’d begun to realize that me time usually corresponded with my dad’s dark moods.

“I spent a couple of days in New York. I left there this morning.”

“New York,” Bertie said, almost dreamily. “I haven’t been there for ages. How was it?”

“Marvelous,” Mom said. “I did some shopping, saw a play.”

I grabbed my bag from the staff break room, leaving Mom and Bertie to talk about the delights to be found in New York City.

When I reappeared Ronald had joined the conversation. He was from New York and had been a professional actor before giving that up to become a librarian.
Broadway’s loss,
I thought. Ronald loved nothing more than putting on dramatic presentations for the kids. Ronald’s children’s programs were one of the most popular things at the Lighthouse Library.

Bertie unlocked the Austen cabinet with a great flourish. I handed Mom the white gloves used to handle the valuable books and indicated that she could then pick up the notebook. It was, of course, a precious and fragile thing, about four inches square and an inch thick, with a faded and worn leather cover. Mom opened the book. The handwriting was
small and had been faded by the passage of years. Mom smiled. “How marvelous.” She carefully returned it to its place, and Bertie turned the lock.

We stood quietly for a moment, no one saying anything. Then Mom shook the sentiment off, almost like a dog emerging from the surf, and said, “We’ll take my car. I’ll bring you back.”

Mom’s eye-popping silver Mercedes-Benz SLK stood out among the sturdy American vans and practical Japanese compacts pulling into the parking lot, bringing kids for the summer-afternoon preteens program. Since she’d been in New York for a couple of days, she’d probably done a
lot
of shopping. More than would have fit into the suitcase-sized trunk of the two-seater convertible. She must have told the stores to send everything to the house.

“How’s Dad?” I asked.

“Busy. Some silly deal with some silly Canadian oil company has run into problems.”

My dad was a lawyer, a partner in Richardson Lewiston, one of Boston’s top corporate law firms. My dad loved two things in life: his law practice and Laphroaig. Unfortunately he dealt with the stress of the former by retreating into the whiskey bottle that held the latter.

“You know your father. Always working.” Mom gave me a strained smile. In the light of the brilliant North Carolina summer sun, I could see the fine lines edged into the delicate skin around her eyes and mouth.

I climbed into the passenger seat of the car and we roared off in an impressive display of engine power.

I knew perfectly well that Mom had not come for
a visit, or to see that I was settling in nicely. She’d come to try to take me
home.