By Book or by Crook (4 page)

D
etective Watson took a brief statement from everyone at the party and told them they would be interviewed in detail at a later time. And then they left, some dragging their heels and shaking their heads, some seemingly eager to spread the news far and wide, and some reluctantly, hoping, probably, to stay to watch the body being removed. Diane Uppiton, weeping and calling out for Jonny, had been led away by the man she’d been talking to earlier.

Only Mrs. Peterson seemed unaffected by the dramatic change in events. Once the police took control and Ronald was no longer needed to maintain order, she resumed her favorite (only?) topic of conversation. “Now, Charity, on the other hand, needs a bit more encouragement than the other girls. She’d rather be kicking that soccer ball around than doing her schoolwork. I have no idea why on earth she’s so fond of that useless endeavor. What do you suggest we do, Ronald, to . . .”

“Mrs. Peterson,” he said, his voice full of strain. “You’ll have to excuse me. I believe Detective
Watson is trying to attract my attention. Must be my turn to be interrogated.” He gave her a wan grin. Watson was nowhere to be seen. “Tomorrow I’ll look up a line of YA sports–related books. Something designed specifically to attract young people who need extra encouragement.” Then, without waiting for Mrs. Peterson to excuse him, Ronald simply walked away.

I tried to give him an encouraging smile, but I don’t think he even noticed me. Mrs. Peterson huffed loudly and looked around the room. Seeing as how everyone else was heading for the door, she followed. “Norma, honey, wait up there. I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to chat earlier, but I’ve been meaning to ask about your idea for that summer camp. My Dallas would . . .” A gust of wind slammed the door shut behind her.

Josie was being told she could not clean up or even throw out the garbage. She didn’t like that. “I need my coffeemaker, my serving trays. I have a business to open tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, Josie,” Butch said. “The forensics people will want to check it all over.”

She threw her hands up. “There’s no evidence to be found in my coffeepots, I can assure you.”

“Please, Josie. Go home. Do you want me to call Jake to come and get you?”

“No.”

“Let’s go.” Aunt Ellen put her arm around her daughter. “The sooner we get out of the way, the sooner the police can finish up here.”

I eyed the remains of the buffet. Then I poured coffee into a mug, added a hefty dose of cream and
the three spoonfuls of sugar I knew Bertie liked, tossed the last two cookies onto the saucer, and carried it out of the main room.

The stern, unsmiling policewoman guarding Bertie’s office barked at me to turn around.

“I’m sure Bertie would love a cup of coffee,” I said as liquid sloshed over the rim of the mug onto my hand.

“You can’t go in there.”

“Can I leave this with you to give to her?”

“No.”

I turned. And almost spilled hot coffee on Detective Watson. The man walked on cat’s feet. He took the mug and plate from my hands. “Thanks. Didn’t have time to finish my supper.” He looked into my face for a long time. He said nothing. I felt blood rushing into my cheeks.

“I hope,” I said, trying to keep my voice confident, as if I belonged here, which I did, “you won’t be handling the Austen collection.”

“What’s that?”

“We have a full collection of Jane Austen first editions. That’s the reason for tonight’s reception. They’re on display in the alcove in the main room. I won’t have them handled by inexperienced people.” A sudden thought filled me with horror. “You can’t even think about dusting them for fingerprints.”

“Jane Austen. Didn’t she write that movie my wife’s so fond of? Some English thing with fancy accents and long dresses.”

I didn’t bother to explain. “Yes.”

“Are her books valuable?”

“Literally priceless. The first one was printed in 1811. This collection is of incomparable quality.”

“That so?”

“We don’t own it. It’s on loan here for three months.” My chest swelled with pride, even if just a tiny bit. Despite the chaos and my fears for Bertie and the library, I had remembered my duty to protect the collection.

“I’ll dust ’em if I have to.”

My chest deflated.

“We won’t be releasing details of the murder at this time,” he said. “I expect you to keep whatever you saw upstairs to yourself. Think you can do that?”

“Of course I can.” I tried to look offended at the very idea I’d been planning to spread the story far and wide.

“Make sure of it.” Watson nodded to the policewoman, and she opened the office door.

I hurried back to the main room, intending to stand guard over the Austen collection all night if necessary. Only the library staff and the police remained. “Bertie didn’t do it,” I said to Butch.

He gave me a long look. Upstairs someone shouted for him, and Butch hurried away.

“They’re saying Bertie has been arrested,” Ronald said to me. “I can’t believe it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Charlene said.

“Ridiculous, yes. Arrested, no. At least I don’t think so. Watson’s in her office now. It’ll all be cleared up soon.”

“Are they sure it was murder? Maybe he had a heart attack, fell, and hit his head?”

“I saw him, Ronald.” I shuddered at the memory. “I think he was stabbed.”

“What do you suppose Mr. Uppiton was doing on the private level, anyway?” Charlene asked.

“I’ve no idea.”

Charlene glanced around the room, taking in the discarded wineglasses, dirty mugs, half-eaten baking, crumpled paper napkins illustrated with colorful sketches of overfull bookshelves, matching paper plates scattered with crumbs. The room was quiet—too quiet. The partygoers had left, the music had ended, and even the police were temporarily elsewhere. Outside, the wind had dropped and waves no longer pounded the distant shore.

The deep silence reminded me of Charles. Even the library cat had gone quiet.

“Guess the party’s over,” Charlene said. “Still, no reason we can’t have some music.” She went to the CD player and swapped discs. Jay-Z again.

I left her to it. Might as well annoy the police.

I stuck my head around the corner and peered down the hall. The policewoman guarding Bertie’s office had gone. A plaintive cry came from behind the closet door.

I slipped in and closed the door behind me. I suspected Detective Watson wouldn’t be pleased at having Charles disturbing his crime scene. The cat’s food bowl was empty, but the litter box was definitely not.

“Whew,” I said. “I’ll get that cleaned out for you.” Charles wound himself around my ankles. I dropped to the floor, stretched my legs out in front of me, and arranged my stiff skirt and petticoats. He climbed
into my lap, rolled over, and presented his belly for scratching. I rubbed the soft, deep fur, and he began to purr.

What,
I thought,
will happen to the library—to my job—if Bertie is jailed?

I shoved the thought away. My job was not the important thing here. In the short time I’d worked for Bertie, I’d found her to be a kind, thoughtful woman, passionate about her library, her yoga practice, and the Outer Banks. Bertie had not murdered anyone. Of that I was positive.

Who, then, had killed the odious Mr. Uppiton?

My mother’s voice sounded in my tired, confused head.
Curiosity killed the cat, and I swear, Lucille, it’ll be the death of you, too. A lady does not concern herself with other people’s affairs.
My mother, one of the Gossip Queens of Boston, continually amazed me with her ability to entertain two totally contradictory thoughts at the same time.

Footsteps in the hall. They stopped at the closet door. I held my breath.

“We’re finished here,” Watson said. “For now. Tomorrow I’ll want to pay a call on everyone who was at this shindig.”

“Need any help with that?” Butch.

“I might. You definitely heard Bertie James threaten Uppiton?”

“Loud and clear. Everyone heard it. And then, not half an hour later, she’s standing over the body with the murder weapon in her hand. Looks pretty open-and-shut to me.”

“Perhaps.”

Butch’s voice softened. “Then again, plenty of folks here tonight seemed to be arguing with that guy. It might be premature to accuse anyone.”

“She’s a well-known member of this community,” Watson said. “Friends in high places. I intend to have an airtight case when I arrest her. If I do.”

I bit down on my tongue to keep from crying out. Charles yelped as I dug into the tender skin of his belly.

“What’s that?” Watson said.

“Cat. The library cat—Charles is his name, friendly thing—was locked in that closet during the party.”

“Has the room been searched?”

“Did it myself earlier. Nothing but the cat and some cleaning equipment.”

“Cats. Can’t stand them myself.” The men’s voices faded away.

I lifted Charles off me, ignoring his protests, and clambered to my feet. I opened the door and stuck my head out. The hall was empty. I could hear Watson telling Ronald and Charlene the library would be closed until further notice.

I knocked lightly on the office door and then opened it. “Bertie?”

She sat at her desk, her head in her hands. Her office was very small, no room for much more than a desk, a chair for her and one for visitors, and the locked cabinet where she kept budget and staff papers. The floor was dark wood, old and worn, stained in places, the walls white. Behind the desk, she’d hung a large poster of a woman performing
Downward Dog on the beach, the sun rising over the ocean. Her desk was, as always, neat and tidy. The black-eyed computer monitor looked out of place in this historic room.

“You okay?” I asked.

Her face was pale, the bags under her eyes dark, the lines around her mouth deep. She tried to force a smile. She failed. “Isn’t this a mess? What would Miss Austen think?”

“Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?”

“No, but thanks, anyway. I didn’t kill Jonathan.”

“I know that.”

This time she did smile. “Thank you, honey. I needed to hear that.”

She got to her feet. “As I am not under arrest but was ordered not to leave Dare County, I’m going home.”

“Do you have any idea who would have wanted him dead?”

Bertie lifted her thick, hand-knitted shawl off the coat stand in the corner. She wrapped it tightly around herself, as if seeking warmth. “You were there, Lucy. Tell me: who didn’t want to kill him?”

W
atson was momentarily nonplussed when telling me I could go home, and being informed that I
was
home.

“I live here. Upstairs. Fourth floor.”

“In the lighthouse?”

“Yes, in the lighthouse.” Was the man obtuse?

“Lucy’s rooms are accessible only by the staircase that goes all the way to the top,” Butch said. “She won’t be in the way of our people, or the crime scene.”

“How do you know where her rooms are?” Watson asked.

“I know the layout of this lighthouse. I’ve been coming here since I could crawl up those stairs on my chubby knees.”

“Okay,” Watson said. “You can stay. If you promise not to go up the back stairs and to stay out of our people’s way. We’ll be working here most of the night.”

“Promise,” I said.

Watson walked away, leaving me with Butch. He
shifted from one big foot to another. “I’m sorry this had to happen.”

“Not as sorry as Mr. Uppiton is.” I wished I could swallow the words. “That was insensitive of me.”

“It’s okay. Everyone deals with these things in their own way. I meant, I’m sorry we didn’t get to finish our conversation. I was enjoying getting to know you, Lucy.”

I flushed. I wanted to say something, but my fat tongue twisted itself in knots.

“I’ll have to cancel our dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“At Jake’s? Tomorrow? Unless we can wrap this up mighty fast, I won’t be able to get away.”

“Oh. Dinner. Right.”

He reached out one hand and touched my shoulder. For such a large man, his touch was light and delicate. I wanted to melt into his arms.

I resisted.

“I’ll help you upstairs.”

“No, I’m okay.” I hesitated. “Actually, maybe you can. I’ll take Charles—can’t leave him locked up all night. And you”—I glanced into the alcove—“can bring up the Austen collection.”

“What?”

“I won’t leave those books down here all night. Unprotected.”

“We’re the police, Lucy. We won’t steal your books.”

“Maybe not. But people are tramping in and out, and . . .”

I broke off at a movement at the door. Two men were attempting to wrestle a stretcher through the
narrow entrance. A large black bag rested on it. I swallowed.

“Oookay,” Butch said, “I see your point. Let’s get those books moved.”

Between us we got Charles, his few possessions, and the collected works of Jane Austen up the twisting black iron stairs to the fourth floor. I tossed Charles into the bathroom so he couldn’t escape while my back was turned, and then cleared off my small desk by simply sweeping books and papers onto the floor. Butch put the Austen collection down with, I was pleased to see, the care and reverence it deserved.

“Good night, Lucy,” he said. And he left.

I closed the door behind him and leaned my back against it. I kicked off my shoes. So much had been happening that I’d forgotten how much my feet hurt. Now that I was alone, they were reminding me.

I was pleased I’d had the foresight to make my bed and tidy my room before going to the party. I’m not normally known for my housekeeping abilities; after all, I didn’t know people actually made beds until I went away to college. I thought everyone’s sheets tucked themselves in. And clothes bounded willingly onto hangers and into closets, makeup spills magically disappeared, and the carpet had a self-operating vacuum.

Okay, I’m not quite that sheltered. I knew the maid did those things. I just never appreciated that it was
work
. When I visited the Outer Banks on summer vacation, I was expected to do the same chores as my cousins. But somehow, being on holiday at the beach, wrapped in the loving, chaotic embrace of
Aunt Ellen and Uncle Amos’s home, chores seemed more like play than work.

My accommodations on the fourth floor of the Bodie Island Lighthouse were small but absolutely perfect. I had one room, plus the bathroom. The whitewashed walls curved with the structure of the lighthouse. Cheerful watercolors by local artists, a variety of Outer Banks scenes, added bursts of color. The iron daybed, painted a glossy white, was tucked in a corner, covered in a thick quilt of yellow and red flowers and mounds of sage pillows. I’d picked wildflowers this morning and popped them into a vase on my bedside table, on top of my TBR pile. To Be Read—all the books awaiting my undivided attention. The heap seemed to grow every time I looked at it.

More of my TBR pile was stacked on the seat nestled into the window alcove. My favorite thing in the room, the seat was tiny and perfect, covered in cushions matching those on the bed. The room had only one window, long and thin, with a spectacular view over the marshes to the pure, unspoiled national refuge beaches and the sea. The walls were four and a half feet thick at this level, the window about three feet wide, making a perfect one-person reading recess. Although I was four stories up, with no one between my refuge and the open sea, the windows came with heavy curtains. Down below, this might be a busy library, but it was still a working lighthouse, and the first-order Fresnel lens maintained the rhythm of 2.5 seconds on, 2.5 off, 2.5 on, and 22.5 seconds off. At night, the thousand-watt bulb could
be seen forty miles out to sea, warning ships to veer away from the coast, as danger lay to the south.

Now the storm was breaking and a sliver of moonlight shone on wave-tossed black water. Lights from ships far out to sea blinked on the horizon. I pulled the curtains to as the lamp came on and brilliant white light flooded my room.

I had a small area for entertaining: a couple of comfortable wingback chairs around a low coffee table. Plus, a work area with a desk, and a minuscule kitchen. The kitchen, just a microwave and toaster oven, a sink, a bar-sized fridge, and a round table with two chairs, was tucked into a back corner.

I let Charles out of the bathroom and unzipped my dress. The phone rang. I mostly made use of a landline here; cell reception in these stone walls was poor and unreliable. Bertie had told me if I kept the iPhone on the window seat, it might receive calls, and if I wanted to talk, it helped to open the window and lean out.

My first thought was
Mother
. She’d heard about the murder and was calling to order me home. I glanced at the display. A local call.

“Hello?”

“Lucy, it’s Connor. “

“Oh, Connor. Hi.”

“I know it’s ridiculously late to be calling, but I wanted to check up on you. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to say good-bye, but Detective Watson hustled us out of the library so fast, my head’s still spinning. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You saw the body. That can be upsetting.”

“You found it, too, Connor. I should probably ask if you’re okay.” I sat on the edge of my bed and wiggled my toes to bring some life back into them.

A deep chuckle came down the line. “I will admit I poured myself a stiff bourbon as soon as I got in. I wasn’t really expecting you to answer. I’m surprised the police let you stay.”

“I’m under orders to remain in my room. That will not be a problem. I have absolutely no desire to poke around downstairs.” An image of Mr. Uppiton popped unwelcome into my head. Mr. Uppiton, lying on the floor. Dead. I shuddered and gathered a couple of cushions into my lap.

“Bertie?”

“They let her go home, too. They didn’t arrest her . . . but . . . I think they might be planning to.”

“I’ll call the chief in the morning. I can’t interfere, of course, nor would I want to, but I’ll try to find out what’s going on. In the meantime, if you need anything, please call me.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll let you go now. You must be exhausted. Are you . . . uh, free for dinner, say Saturday?”

“Dinner?”

“Dinner. Jake Greenblatt’s opened a new restaurant. I’ve been wanting to try it out, but haven’t had the chance yet. Traditional Outer Banks cooking, they tell me.”

I struggled with my decision for a bit. Butch had invited me to dinner tomorrow at the exact same restaurant. But he’d canceled, saying he’d be busy with this murder investigation. “I’d like that.”

“Good night, Lucy,”

“Night.” I hung up.

I flopped back onto the bed. Charles jumped up and lay on my chest.
Wow!
Two dinner invitations in one night. That was a new one for me. It was unlikely Connor wanted a
date
, as in “date.” He was just being friendly to the newest resident. Looking for my vote, probably.

The newest resident.

I liked the sound of that.

Of course, if my mother had her way, it would be back to Boston for me.

You might not think that moving to the Outer Banks, North Carolina, to become a librarian, living a stone’s throw from my aunt’s house, was a terribly rebellious thing to do.

But it was to my mother.

For almost as long as I’d been aware, my family had intended that I would marry Ricky. Richard Eric Lewiston III, that is. Ricky was the son of a Boston family so old-money they almost matched the stature of my father’s family. Richard Eric Lewiston Jr. is my dad’s partner in the law firm of Lewiston, Richardson, and a bunch of other old white guys. The company had been established by Richard Eric Lewiston I and my grandfather. Ricky’s a junior associate in the firm, and everyone knows he’ll be the Lewiston on the door and the letterhead when his father retires.

Ricky and I grew up closer than brother and sister. Certainly closer that I’d ever been to my three older brothers. We went to everything together—the best schools, drama camps, music lessons (Ricky
reasonably proficient on the piano; me managing to make the instrument of Beethoven sound like I was, in our teacher’s immortal words, playing the bagpipes), tennis lessons, country-club youth events. My mother, I often suspected, intensely disliked Ricky’s mother, Evangeline. Evangeline, you see, was as old-money as the Lewistons and the Richardsons. Mom and Aunt Ellen’s family was not. They could trace their lineage back only to their dad, who’d been a fisherman. He never knew his own father, who had run out on the family days after my grandfather was born.

Mom intended that I would marry Ricky. Evangeline, for some reason, always seemed rather fond of me. Perhaps she, no fool, had an eye to keeping it in the family, or as close as could be. My dad, frankly, didn’t much care about anything other than the law or golf. Or his evening bottle of Laphroaig behind the study door. Mr. Lewiston went along with whatever Evangeline wanted.

I’ve never dated, which seems a pretty awful thing for a thirty-year-old to confess. With Ricky, I’ve gone to plenty of country-club dances, weddings, or birthday parties of the relatives in one of our families or the other, even out for dinner or a movie now and again. But a date, with hours of trying to decide what to wear, sweaty hands, wondering whether he’d be content with a good-night kiss or want something more? Nope.

Perhaps that one stroll on the beach and light kiss with Connor was such a precious memory because it was the only one of the like I’ve had.
Perhaps,
I
thought,
I’ll find out tomorrow if the feelings have continued all these years.

After high school, Ricky headed off to Harvard for a law degree and I went to Northeastern for English lit. I’m sure Mom would have preferred I stay at home to arrange my trousseau, but that was a fight she wasn’t prepared to wage. I loved dorm life and made girlfriends I still have, but somehow I never even considered going out with another guy. That would have been cheating on Ricky. What Ricky got himself up to at Harvard, I can only guess. After all, everyone at the country club knows better than to leave their daughters alone with his father, and you know what they say about the apple falling not too far from the tree.

I’d always loved books, everything about books, from the feel of crisp new paper to the smell of the binding and the look of neatly ordered rows of print. But it was at Northeastern that my love of great literature grew to a passion beyond bounds. And, as with all passions, so did my determination to spread the word. On graduation I applied, without telling Mom, to Simmons for a master’s of library science.

Mom wasn’t too thrilled—all that education! But even she had to admit that if I had to have a—shudder—career, librarian was at least a feminine occupation, and probably not too taxing. I graduated top of my class, and then, degree proudly in hand, I applied for a job at the Harvard Library.

To no one’s surprise more than mine, I got the job. And I loved every minute of it.

Ricky and I continued on our preset path. He studied for his law degree and worked on the
Harvard Law Review
. He articled at a firm belonging to a friend of the family and then joined Lewiston, Richardson. We continued to attend country-club parties and family weddings together. We even took Caribbean and Mediterranean cruises with our mothers. (In a nod to some modernity, Ricky and I were allowed to share a suite.) In Boston we maintained our own apartments, although we would occasionally spend the night together in one or the other’s place.

As the years ground on, I found Ricky increasingly boring, and I am sure he found me much the same. My mother was getting worried that nothing was happening, and began dragging me to wedding and baby showers and the nuptials of friends of friends of friends. Meanwhile, my brothers married, and their wives began throwing me pitying glances when they thought I wasn’t looking.

Friends, and some enemies, began to whisper that they had seen Ricky in the company of one woman or another. Conversations in restaurants and coffee shops abruptly ended when I returned from the restroom. Worse, I was losing enthusiasm for life. I still enjoyed my job, but found I had little time, between the rounds of weddings and family obligations, to bury myself in a nineteenth-century classic or a modern mystery.

Then the big day came. Ricky asked me out to dinner. Nothing unusual in that. We went to one of the most exclusive and expensive restaurants in Boston. Nothing unusual in that, either. Ricky liked to spend money, and he liked to be seen spending it. We had a pleasant dinner, and then Ricky ordered
champagne without asking if I wanted it. Which I didn’t. The champagne and two crystal flutes arrived on a silver platter. A small box, wrapped in silver paper with a big blue bow, sat beside it on the tray. The tuxedo-clad waiter was grinning so hard, he wasn’t much more than a row of white teeth.