By Book or by Crook (5 page)

My heart sank into my stomach. And there it sat. Beside the salad of baby greens, the sole, and the asparagus.

The waiter poured the champagne and departed, still grinning.

And then, to my horror, and the amusement of the staff and other diners, Ricky picked up the silver box and dropped to one knee in front of my chair. He opened the box.

A row of diamonds, each one carat or more, glittered on a background of blue velvet. And to me, at that moment, the diamonds looked like stars dragged out of the sky, captured and imprisoned.

“Lucille,” Ricky began.

“No,” I said.

Ricky usually didn’t hear me when I spoke. Tonight was no exception. “Will you do me the great honor of being my wife?”

I pushed my chair back. Somehow I got to my feet, although my legs didn’t seem to want to hold me up. “No.”

“I’ve loved you since . . . What?”

“No. Ricky. I’m sorry, but I am not going to marry you. I’m . . . I’m leaving Harvard. I’m leaving Boston. I have to— I . . . Good-bye.”

I ran out of the restaurant, past openmouthed
waitstaff and wide-eyed diners. I spotted a woman from the club, one of my mother’s friends, her eyes sparkling with pure delight. I had no doubt what would be this week’s topic of conversation across the tennis net.

My iPhone began ringing before I so much as made it back to my apartment. Mom. I didn’t answer.

The next morning, I went into my boss’s office and handed in my resignation. She was, she said, sorry to see me go. Although not entirely surprised.

Ricky had texted me once, the day after the incident. Something about understanding, time to think, being there when I came home.

I suspect, reading between the lines, as well as the obvious fact that he didn’t bother to come in pursuit of me, Ricky was more relieved than anything else. I never paid much attention to the gossip at my mother’s clubs or her afternoon bridge parties, but it was hard not to know that the Lewiston family was having trouble maintaining the life to which they had become accustomed. Something about bad investments and Richard Eric Lewiston Jr.’s gambling problem. Ricky, I suspected, was being pressured into marrying me in order to get an injection of funds into the family.

Unknown to Evangeline, I didn’t have any money other than from my wages. Not one red cent was left to my brothers or me in my grandfather’s will. My grandmother left me her favorite silver tea service—the sort of thing you see gathering dust and tarnishing at every antiques fair in the East. My parents are only in their fifties, active and healthy, so it will be a
long time indeed before I can expect to come into any money.

Regardless of everything, that I didn’t love Ricky, how boring I found him, how boring I knew our life together would be, I might have drifted into accepting his proposal if he’d said something like, “Wanna make our parents happy and get married?” But the whole champagne–silver box–down-on-his-knees thing reminded me that if I married Ricky, for the rest of my days I’d be trapped in a life of social expectations. He and I just weren’t on the same page anymore.

Apart from two suitcases of summer clothes, my favorite beach sandals, and a few dishes and beloved knickknacks, I dumped all my possessions in my parents’ house (phoning first to check with Maria that Mom was out) and drove my teal Yaris to the Outer Banks, intending to cry on the shoulder of my favorite aunt. But Aunt Ellen isn’t one for weeping, and instead she arranged for her best friend to meet me over sweet tea and sandwiches.

Among my other possessions, I’d filled the backseat of the Yaris with two huge boxes. One of Signet Classics and another of mystery novels.

Now I took a book off the top of the bedside pile.
The Moonstone
by Wilkie Collins. One of my absolute favorites.

I laid out Charles’s litter box on the bathroom floor and prepared myself for bed. I clambered up onto the daybed and snuggled deep into the pillows and duvet. One of my projects at the library was to set up a book club. Bertie had said I could have a free hand with the type of books we were going to read.
I’d originally decided on a mystery club, but now, with so much interest in the Austen exhibit, I was thinking classics might be fun. For the first book, we could combine the two.
The Moonstone
, written in 1863, is often called the first detective novel and laid out many of the tropes that have become standard for that genre. The author, Wilkie Collins, was a friend of Charles Dickens.

My own Charles curled himself in a ball at my side and purred.

I opened the cover of the book. I ran my finger across the paper. I let out a deep, contented sigh and began to read. “I address these lines—written in India—to my relatives in England.”

I put down the book.

Someone murdered Jonathan Uppiton. In this very building.

I was here alone, a woman in the dark, a long way from any houses or streets, but I didn’t fear for myself. Not only was the lighthouse full of police, but Mr. Uppiton’s murder seemed a personal thing. Someone had been after him, and probably not a crazed killer (as is often found between the pages), but someone who knew Mr. Uppiton personally.

The police suspected Bertie of the killing. I knew she was innocent. Any woman who’d provided me with this perfect refuge couldn’t be a killer.

How much effort would the police put into seeking the real killer, now that they had their prime suspect? Would they pin it on Bertie and then head off to the doughnut shop to congratulate themselves on a job well done?

What evidence did they have against her?

One: she was found in the room with the body.

Meaningless
. Someone had to come across the body sometime, and Bertie, more than anyone else at the reception, had reason to go upstairs.

Two: she had the murder weapon in her hands.
Irrelevant
. Any librarian worth her horn-rimmed glasses would instinctively pick up a bottle leaking liquid. I would have done so myself. I did, come to think of it, reach to pick up the map book, and was yelled at by Butch for my troubles.

Three: she’d been heard threatening Mr. Uppiton.

And what had she been angry about? Me. Bertie had been trying to defend me.

Bertie was suspected of murder. And it was all my fault.

I closed
The Moonstone
.

Here I was, in my gorgeous lighthouse aerie, living above a library, a classic novel in my hands, the rest of my beloved books only an arm’s reach away. Not to mention a full collection of Jane Austen first editions on my desk. And I couldn’t concentrate.

For once I couldn’t lose myself in the pages of a book and leave all my troubles until another time.

I put the book back on the side table.

If Bertie was in trouble because of me, then it might be up to me to get her out of it.

T
he next thing I knew, a stabbing pain pierced my chest.

I was being murdered in my own bed. The killer had followed me upstairs after all, probably armed with the same weapon he’d used to fell poor Mr. Uppiton.

“Meooooow!”

My eyes flew open. Gigantic round blue orbs stared back at me.

I screamed. The blue eyes blinked and the pain stopped.

Sunlight touched the edges of the drapes, and Charles had been kneading my chest, telling me it was time to rise and shine.

I threw off the covers and sat up. I would rise, but I was certainly not going to shine. Charles made a dash for the food bowl, now empty, on the kitchen floor. I was sure I’d filled that bowl before getting into bed.

I glanced at the bedside clock and almost screamed
a second time. Nine-thirty! Unpardonably late for work.

Then I remembered. It was unlikely anyone would be worried about what time the library opened today. If the police would even allow it to open.

Some detective I was. I’d fallen asleep in the midst of trying to solve a murder.

I fed Charles, cleaned his litter box, and then showered quickly and pulled on jeans and a loose cotton top and sneakers. Before putting on my librarian uniform, I wanted to see what was happening downstairs. I ran a comb through my hair, stuffed the unruly black curls into a crooked ponytail, and left my apartment.

As I descended the stairs I heard voices below. I stopped and listened. These were spiral stairs; sound traveled straight up, but anything above the second or third twist couldn’t be seen without tilting your head all the way back.

Detective Watson. “What have you got?”

A long pause. He was on the phone, standing by the open door where he could get reception.

“Okay. I need the rest of that info ASAP. Yes, I know. Same old story, always too busy. Give it to me when you can.” The door slammed shut.

“The lab?” Butch said.

“They pulled fingerprints off the bottle. Match the ones we took last night from Bertie James.”

“No surprise there. We saw her holding it.”

“Yeah. There were also a couple of smudges under hers.”

“Could be anyone. The beer was kept in the fridge in the break room. Josie brought bottles out when needed and put them in a cooler that anyone could get into. It was an open bar, no bartender. People sometimes go through the lot, looking for the coldest or another brand. They fetch drinks for friends.”

“Yeah, I know. You know these people, Greenblatt. Tell me about Bertie James. Type to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation, is she?”

I clattered down the stairs. “Morning, gentlemen.”

Butch gave me a smile, but Watson’s eyes narrowed as he wondered how much I’d overheard.

“When can we open the library?”

“Not today,” Watson said. “Tomorrow, maybe. You, and only you because you live here, can use the main floor if you have to, but don’t go up the back stairs.”

“Okay.”

Watson gave me a long stare. “New to town, are you?”

“I arrived last week. Although I’ve been coming here every summer for as long as I can remember.”

“Any murders the summers you were here?” He asked, watching me too carefully to be serious.

I blinked. “What?”

“Amos O’Malley’s her uncle,” Butch explained.

“Is that so?” Watson walked away.

He was joking. Wasn’t he?

Without so much as a good-bye to Butch, I fled. I knew what my shaking nerves needed. I drove into Nags Head, fully conscious of the speed limit. It wouldn’t do, not now, to be pulled over for
speeding. The summer season was swinging into high gear, and the roads in Nags Head were full of RVs, camper trailers, and cars loaded down with beach chairs, pillows, and excited kids.

I wanted to enjoy the drive, but thoughts of yesterday wouldn’t be banished. I tried to envision the scene at the reception. What had been happening moments before we heard that thud and then Bertie cry out?

I’d been talking to (flirting with?) Butch. Couldn’t ask for a better alibi than that.

Josie and Aunt Ellen can’t be suspects.

Josie had been at the buffet table, laying out yet another round of treats, with Aunt Ellen helping her. Moments before they would have been in the staff break room, where the food and drink were assembled.

Connor?
I’d seen him, doing the rounds of the room, chatting with everyone. I couldn’t swear he hadn’t slipped out for a couple of minutes.

Ridiculous to even think of the mayor doing something like that.

I pounded the dash in frustration. I simply didn’t know enough to speculate.

Josie’s Cozy Bakery was located in one of the numerous, unattractive strip malls that line the Croatan Highway as it runs through the towns of Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills, and Nags Head, part of which forms Bodie Island. Bodie Island, however, is not actually an island. Apparently it was at one time, but shifting sands and constant movement of the ocean filled in a section of the channel. Still, it has the feel of an island, a long, thin island where you can
see water on both sides at higher elevations. These higher elevations are mainly found in buildings, as it’s pretty darn flat.

I pulled off the highway into the mall. The line outside Josie’s Cozy Bakery spilled out the door and curved past the neighboring beachwear store and art gallery. As I cruised through the lot, wondering if I’d be able to find a place, a gleaming silver Lexus with Ontario plates pulled out of a spot, and I snagged it.

I’d take that as a good omen for the remainder of the day.

I took my place in the line, breathing in the delicious scents of warm pastry, hot cinnamon, and rich coffee, all mingling with fresh, salty air off the ocean. The line was long but it moved swiftly, and I was soon through the doors.

Josie had decorated the place as Seattle coffee bar–meets–Outer Banks fishing shack. The service area was all glass and chrome, everything polished to a high gloss. Stocky white mugs and thick glasses were stacked against the beige walls, the display case stuffed full of mouthwatering delights. Espresso machines hissed and spat clouds of sizzling steam. In the seating area, the chairs were upholstered in a nautical blue-and-white print, the tables made from recycled barrels or wooden tea chests. Large, framed photographs of sailing ships and lighthouses decorated the walls. I recognized the distinctive white with three black bands of my lighthouse. The picture had been taken at night, from behind the building, looking out over the marshes to the sea. The ocean looked dark and foreboding, the rotating light at the top offering guidance and protection to men in ships.

“Lucy. Over here!” Aunt Ellen waved at me from a table tucked into a back corner. Bertie was with her, as were Ronald and Charlene. They had full mugs and plates of scones or muffins in front of them. I waived in return and pointed to the cash register.

The young man behind the counter was short and chubby, with a mass of cheerful dreadlocks tied back with a red-checked bandanna.

“A large nonfat latte and a low-fat blueberry muffin,” I ordered. I hesitated, and then boldly threw caution to the wind. “No, make that latte with whole milk, and give me a raspberry and white chocolate scone.” Heck, I’d almost been accused of murder this morning. Might as well live on the wild side.

Aunt Ellen and the library staff scooted over to make room for me while Charlene found a spare chair.

“Is this a meeting?” I asked. I held my mug to my nose and breathed in deeply. Heaven.

“Not intentionally,” Ronald said. “But where else would you expect to find us if we can’t get into the library?”

“How are you doing?” I asked Bertie. The lines of strain were deep on her face and the customary sparkle was gone from her eyes.

“Okay, I guess. I’ve been ordered to report to the police station at one.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, right?” I said in an effort to be positive. “They want to talk to everyone who was there last night.”

I felt warm hands on my shoulders and turned to see Josie standing behind me. “Morning, sweetie,” she said. She was dressed in tattered jeans and an
overlarge T-shirt. A long, plain gray apron was tied around her slim waist, and her hair was dotted with flecks of flour. She looked, as she always did, sexy as all get-out.

One of her baristas, wearing a blue-and-white-striped apron with
JOSIE’S COZY BAKERY
stamped across the front and the stylized logo of a croissant curling around a lighthouse, brought over a stool and a mug of black coffee. Josie dropped onto the seat and drank deeply. “I’ve got only a couple of minutes, Mom. We’re run off our feet back there. What’s up?”

“You arrived in good time, Lucy,” Ellen said. “We’re about to have an impromptu council of war.”

“About . . . about Mr. Uppiton?”

“Yes. Bertie has to be at the police station in Nags Head at one o’clock. Amos will accompany her.”

I let out a sigh of relief. In his younger days my uncle Amos had been one of the top defense attorneys in the state. He was slowing down a little, doing more family law work, and taking only the criminal cases he found interesting. With Amos on her side, Bertie had nothing to worry about.

Or so I told myself.

“Amos had to be in court this morning, otherwise he’d be here. He’s cleared his schedule for the rest of the day.”

“What’s happening at the library, Lucy?” Bertie asked.

“Watson said we might be able to open tomorrow.”

“Good. What about the Austen collection?”

“I took it upstairs with me last night. It’s safe.”

Some of the tension left her face. “I knew I could trust you, Lucy.” She touched my hand. I gave hers a squeeze in return.

“As important as those books are,” Aunt Ellen said. “We have more important things to worry about right now.”

“The notebook,” Bertie said. “Is it safe also?”

“Sorry, I don’t know. They haven’t allowed anyone to go up to the rare-books room to check.”

“If they’ve . . .” Bertie began.

“Bertie,”
my aunt said, “forget about the books. You have perfectly competent staff to handle that. Let’s talk about the matter at hand. Jonathan Uppiton.”

The table fell silent. We concentrated on our caffeine, sugar, and fat. Around us, people laughed and chatted and placed their orders. No one paid any attention to the table in the corner. Bankers—what some of the local residents call themselves—were busy in the summer and would be at work by now. Most of the people in the bakery at this time of the morning were visitors. They wouldn’t have read the morning paper, and if they had, they wouldn’t recognize us as central characters in last night’s drama.

“I guess the first question,” Josie said, “is who would want him dead?”

Not one of us looked at Bertie.

“A great many people,” Ronald said. “He was a thoroughly nasty old man.”

“I’d like to know,” I said, “what he was doing upstairs. If he was there before Bertie came to get the notebook, then he went up alone. Why would he do that?”

“To gloat over the notebook and plot how to get Bertie removed as head librarian,” Charlene said.

“Except that he was obviously not alone,” Aunt Ellen said. “Where was everyone? Think, people. The room was full and we were all busy, but let’s try to remember if anyone wasn’t in the room a few minutes before Bertie went up to get the notebook.”

“I was talking to Butch.”

“Mom and I were restocking the pastry table. We had just brought out a fresh coffee urn and tray of lemon squares.”

“I was where I can always be counted upon to be,” Ronald said. “Being lectured by Mrs. Peterson about the virtues, numerous as they are, of her five daughters.”

“So you’re Mrs. Peterson’s alibi?”

“No. I’m not. She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room a few minutes before the ruckus broke out. I tried to hide by talking to someone else, but the old bat . . . pardon me, our valued patron, tracked me down on her return.”

“You can’t seriously be thinking that Mrs. Peterson killed Jonathan?” Bertie asked.

“We have to seriously think of everyone who was at that reception,” Aunt Ellen said, her voice turning hard. “Someone did. And unless a member of a biker gang or a mafia hit man snuck into the reception unnoticed, it was one of the members of the library community.”

We let out a collective breath.

“So, think, people. Who else left the room shortly before eight o’clock?”

Dead silence.

“Okay, if we can’t say who left the room, the question becomes who didn’t?”

“I just don’t know,” Josie said. “Sure, I noticed people now and again, but to be positive that so-and-so was in the room the entire time in question? Impossible.” She threw her hands up.

“How long a time frame is that, anyway, do you think?” Charlene asked.

A round of shrugs. “Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe,” Aunt Ellen said. “No more than that.”

“About the only person I can testify for was Butch,” I said. “I was talking to him for a long time.”

“So I noticed,” Josie said, with a sly grin.

“Just being friendly. Hey, I remembered something! I saw Theodore heading up the stairs.”

“Excellent,” Aunt Ellen exclaimed. “When was that?”

I thought hard. “Not long after Bertie had that argument with Mr. Uppiton. I checked the clock. It was after eight, and I remember wondering when Bertie was going to make her announcement. I saw Theodore sneaking up the stairs. I was about to go ask him what he thought he was doing when . . . well, I got distracted. I’d completely forgotten until now.”

“You have to tell the police that, Lucy honey,” Aunt Ellen said. “Call them soon as we’re finished here. See, everyone? Keep trying to remember. You never know what’s important.” When they were first married, Ellen worked in Uncle Amos’s single-person law office, helping him set up his practice. Obviously what she’d learned there had stuck.

“Which brings us back to . . .” Josie’s voice drifted off. “Oh, dear.”

As one, we turned to see what had caught her attention. Detective Watson and Officer Greenblatt were coming through the doors. They saw us and left the line.