Booked for Trouble (23 page)

T
he morning news on the radio reported that George Marwick had been arrested and charged with the murder of Karen Kivas. It said nothing about the attempted kidnapping of my mom and the confrontation under the walls of the lighthouse.

I was grateful for that. Crowds of eager crime-scene tourists would not be descending on our library to ask for directions to the exact spot.

By the time Bertie, Ronald, and Charlene arrived the next morning, the police had gone, leaving no evidence of their presence behind. Before turning the sign on the door to
OPEN
, I told my coworkers what had happened and asked them to keep it to themselves.

“And people think librarians' lives are dull,” Charlene said. “Speaking of which, I downloaded this new album last night. Y'all are going to love it. Who wants to borrow my iPhone first?”

“No time,” Bertie said, fleeing for her office.

“Kids' program to prepare,” Ronald said, dashing for the stairs.

As I was the last to respond, the phone and earbuds were shoved into my hand.

And so a typical day at the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library began.

Mom and Aunt Ellen arrived around ten. Last night, I'd stood outside for a long time, watching the police go about their business and waiting until Mom finished her phone call and joined me. She said nothing about what had transpired between her and Dad, and I didn't ask. She gave me a hug, and let Butch lead her to his car.

“I'm going home, darling,” she said to me now.

“Home as in Boston, or home as in our house?” I said.

“The house. Your father and I have a lot of work to do on our marriage.”

I gave her a big hug. Aunt Ellen was smiling. She might not like my dad, but more than anything, she wanted her sister to be happy.

“Next week we're going to Paris,” Mom said.

“Paris? You mean you and Dad?”

“Paris first, then Rome and Madrid, and a few days in Mallorca.”

“Does Dad even have a passport?”

“He needed one for that trip to Toronto for the convention last year.”

“Oh, right.” My parents had never, as long I could remember, had a holiday together. I figured time spent in some of the world's most romantic cities would do them a lot of good.

“Believe it or not,” Aunt Ellen said, “the trip was your father's idea.”

“Send postcards,” I said.

“Thank you, Lucy,” Mom said. “For everything.”

“Before you go, I have one question. Are you
financing Theodore to buy a collection of first-edition Ian Flemings?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You seemed to be very chummy, never mind plotting something together. I was just wondering.”

“I might have hinted that you were single, and that your father and I are not short of funds. Theodore did not seem to be getting the hint, I must say.”

“Why would you do that? I'm not attracted to him in the least.”

“Perhaps I was hoping that if Theodore expressed an interest in you, you'd flee back home. I was wrong, Lucy. I've been wrong about a lot of things. You are obviously very happy here. I'm nothing but delighted for you. Perhaps I can meet your Butch and Connor again another time.”

“They're not my Butch and Connor,” I said.

She merely smiled, and we hugged once more.

Charlene came running down the stairs. “Thank heavens I caught you before you left.” She stuffed a plastic bag into Mom's hand. I hid a grin. The bag was full of CDs. “This will help you enjoy the drive home. Be sure and write and tell me which ones you liked best, and then I can make some more recommendations.”

“Thank you,” Mom said in all innocence.

I stood at the door waving as Mom and Aunt Ellen climbed into their cars. Aunt Ellen drove off first, and then the SLK pulled away in a spray of gravel and an enthusiastic tooting of the horn.

Our next visitor was Irene Dawson, the Gray Woman. She was dressed in her habitual color, but she gave me a warm smile as she came in. She carried a briefcase. Gray, of course.

“Good morning, Lucy. Is Ms. James in?”

“She's in her office.”

“I've brought her a copy of my report. The names of my clients will, of course, remain confidential, but the contents are not.”

I showed Irene into the back. She came out a few minutes later, accompanied by Bertie, said good-bye to us, and left. Bertie's smile faded.

“When I get my hands on Diane Uppiton,” she said, “I won't be responsible for my actions.”

“Did Irene tell you Diane commissioned that study?” I asked.

“No, but who else? I can't believe she was prepared to waste library funds in such a desperate attempt to get rid of me.”

“Don't forget to breathe,” I said, folding my hands into my chest.
“Namaste.”

Bertie growled and went back to her office.

“You had some excitement last night, I heard,” Theodore said, rubbing his hands together in glee.

“More excitement than I like,” I said.

“Louise Jane and I wondered where you two had gotten to. We had one drink and then left. I must say, Louise Jane's conversation can be rather single-minded. Your mother's all right?”

“Perfectly. She's gone home to Boston.” I eyed him. “Are you okay with that?”

“Why shouldn't I be? Your mother's very nice, but I didn't expect her to stay any longer.”

“I guess I was thinking . . . about the Ian Flemings.”

His smile stretched from ear to ear. “You heard? Isn't it wonderful?”

“What's wonderful?”

“I bought them back. I'm absolutely delighted, my dear, delighted.”

“That's great. But how . . . ?”

“As you know, my collection is heavy on the classic works of mystery and suspense. Fleming, Hammett, Mickey Spillane—that's the sort of book I prefer. However, like any serious collector, I occasionally branch out into other fields. A few years ago I bought a first-edition signed children's book. Not my first choice, but it was the original British edition, and going cheap.”

“And?”

“The book was by a woman named Rowling. She went on to achieve some degree of fame. Only recently did I realize that I own the first in that series.”

It took a minute for the light to dawn. “You mean J. K. Rowling?
Harry Potter
?”

“The very same.”

“Teddy, how could you, a serious book collector, not have known that J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter books are the literary equivalent of the invention of sliced bread?”

He looked down his long nose at me. “Children's books are not my field of interest.”

“Don't you ever go to the movies?”

Judging by his expression, the answer was no.

“The sale of that one book was enough to permit me to raise enough to get back the Flemings.”

“That's wonderful, Teddy.”

“I prefer to be called Theodore.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Why did you think your mother was interested? Is she a book collector? She never said. I tried to avoid the
subject when we had drinks and then dinner, as I've been told that on rare occasions I can talk too much about books. Was I mistaken?”

“No, Theodore, you were not mistaken in the least.”

When he left, still smiling, it was getting on to lunchtime. I debated the merits of going to Josie's Cozy Bakery and having a roast beef and caramelized onion on a baguette versus nipping upstairs to heat a can of soup. The sandwich would be a lot better, but the soup would give me a chance to finish my book. I didn't make up my mind fast enough, and Louise Jane caught me at the desk. Unlike Theodore, she was not smiling.

“What's this I hear about your mother leaving?”

“Yup. Gone home.”

“Are you, uh . . . ?”

“Also leaving? Nope.”

She carried a stack of books in her arms. I read the spines. All ghost stories.

“I was going to lend these to her,” Louise Jane said. “She seemed interested in the paranormal history of this area.”

“Well, she isn't. Right now, she's interested in planning a trip to Paris.”

Louise Jane shook her head as she drifted away, clearly confused as to why anyone would go to Paris rather than spend his or her time listening to her talk about ghosts and the efficacy of her grandmother's spells against them. I hadn't said anything to anyone about mistaking the Gray Woman for the Lady last night, and I had no intention of ever doing so. If I did, by lunchtime tomorrow, word would be all over the Outer Banks that the ghostly lady of the Bodie Island Lighthouse had saved Lucy Richardson.

I decided to open that can of soup for lunch.

When I was coming down the stairs an hour later, two little girls, all bouncing hair and bright gap-toothed smiles, ran into the library.

“Ronald! We're here for story time!” the older girl yelled.

“Story time!” her sister cheered.

Ronald passed me on the stairs at a rapid clip. “Jasmine, Savannah, it is so great to see you. Thank you, Mr. Kivas.”

Norm Kivas's clothes were well-worn but clean and his hair neatly combed. “Karen loved this library,” he said. “So do the girls. I thought I'd better check it out for myself.” He avoided looking at my face.

“Story time begins in half an hour,” Ronald said. “While we're waiting for the other kids, I'll help Jasmine and Savannah select books to take home with them. You're welcome to sit in, Mr. Kivas. See what we do here.”

“I'd like that.” Norm watched his granddaughters disappear up the curving iron stairs, tripping over each other in their excitement. “I'll be right there.”

When Ronald and the children had disappeared, Norm turned to me. “I hear you're the one who caught that man. The one who killed Karen.”

“Not me. But I was there.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “If you're talking to your mom, tell her I'm sorry, will you? I acted badly toward her. I don't know what I was thinking. The booze thinking, more likely. My daughter told me straight up that without Karen around she needs me to help her with the kids. I'm going to an AA meeting tonight. They say apologies are a good start.”

“I'll tell her,” I said.

He held out his hand. I took it in mine. Just for something to say, I asked. “How's Sandy?”

His mouth turned down. “Last night I told her I wasn't going to inherit anything and instead of going to Jake's for dinner, I'd throw some sausages on the grill. She walked out of the house without a word.”

Overhead children laughed. Norm smiled, and I said, “Children's library is on the second floor.”

A
fter work that evening I had to go down to the police station to make a formal statement about the events of last night. It didn't take long, and when I left the detectives' office, Butch was standing at the reception desk.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes. I'm so glad it's over. George made a full confession. Karen saw him put the necklace in Mom's bag. She didn't say anything at the time, but once book club ended and everyone had left, she phoned George and told him that she knew what he'd done. He asked what she wanted, and she said she'd wait where she was and they'd talk about it. So he turned around and went back to the lighthouse to meet her. Talking went wrong, and he killed her. Not that it matters, but Detective Watson thinks it was probably an accident.”

“Pretty stupid of her.” Butch and I turned at a voice behind us. Connor had come out of the chief's office. “To meet him in a remote place, all alone, after dark.”

“Karen, I'm sorry to say, was stupid,” I said. “Anger and greed made her stupid. She didn't take George seriously. Mom made that mistake also.”

“We can be thankful your mom had a better outcome than Karen,” Butch said.

“Yeah. I gotta run. Charlene has talked me into coming around to her place for dinner tonight. I shudder to think what the musical selection is going to be.”

“Good night,” the two men said in unison. “I'll pick you up tomorrow at seven, Lucy.”

I waved over my shoulder as I headed for the door. Then I froze. My heart sank into my stomach.

Tomorrow. Seven o'clock.

The Mayor's Ball.

The grand opening of Jake's Seafood Bar.

I had two dates for the exact same time.

Read on for a sneak peek at the next delightfully puzzling mystery in the Lighthouse Library series by Eva Gates,

READING UP A STORM

Coming in April 2016 from
Obsidian.

I
t was a dark and stormy night.

I've always wanted to say that.

Tonight was the perfect opportunity to do so: a ferocious storm was fast heading our way. It wasn't going to be a hurricane, I was glad to hear, but since I live this close to the ocean, even a small storm can be a terrifying thing.

Fortunately, the full strength of the tempest wasn't due to arrive for a couple of hours yet, so we were able to continue with our carefully laid nefarious plan.

The big clock over the circulation desk struck six, announcing closing time at the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library on a Monday. Charlene, our academic librarian, wasn't working today, but she'd come in a few minutes ago on a made-up pretext to keep our boss, Bertie James, in her office. I peered out the window. Night had arrived early, as thick clouds heralded the approach of bad weather. A steady line of headlights flashed between the rows of tall red pines on either side of the driveway, and cars were pulling into our parking lot. Fortunately,
Bertie's office was in the back of the building, where she didn't have a view of the road.

“Coast clear, Lucy?” said a voice above me.

I turned and glanced up. Ronald Burkowski, the children's librarian, was peering over the railing of the iron stairs, which spiraled like the inside of a nautilus shell ever higher to the upper levels.

“All clear,” I said.

He came down quickly, balancing two large boxes and several bulging shopping bags. A huge bunch of colorful balloons streamed behind him. I went to the door and greeted guests with a finger to my lips while Ronald arranged the balloons, set out paper cups and plates, and hung a silver banner that read
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY
across the door with the help of Connor McNeil.

I observed the preparations with sheer delight. It was ridiculously funny watching everyone greet everyone else, decorate the room, and lay out snacks and drinks, all while trying not to say a word or make a sound. Butch Greenblatt held the door open for my cousin Josie O'Malley, who was staggering under the weight of a huge white box. She laid the box on a side table and opened it. I peered in with great expectation, and I was not disappointed. “It's marvelous!” I gasped.

“Shush,” Ronald whispered.

Josie's cake was decorated to represent five books stacked on top of one another. The icing on the covers and spines resembled old leather, full of intricate scrolls of red or gold; the three edges of each “book” were white for the pages, and the titles were written in ornate black script. A small souvenir figurine of the Bodie Island Lighthouse stood on the topmost book, and the number 10 was written in ornate cursive beside it. “You've
outdone yourself,” I whispered. “It's much too beautiful to eat.”

“That's what they always say,” my aunt Ellen said with a soft laugh as she helped Josie carefully peel away the walls of the box. “Until the first cut.”

We were gathering to celebrate the tenth anniversary of Bertie James's coming to work at the Lighthouse Library. Bertie was not one to stand on ceremony, and she hadn't even mentioned the occasion. It was only when a longtime friend of hers, Pat Stanton, had called to ask what we were doing to mark the event that we, the library employees—Ronald, Charlene, and I—had heard about it. Two weeks of frantic, and secret, organization had begun.

By six fifteen we were ready. The main room of the library was packed. Everyone shivered in anticipation. We eyed one another, waiting. I switched off the lights, plunging the room into near darkness.

“When's Bertie coming?” Eunice Fitzgerald, the chair of the library board, sat in a wingback chair near the magazine racks, her back straight, cane held in front of her in knarry hands.

“Shush,” people chorused.

“Thanks a lot, Bertie,” bellowed the normally soft-spoken Charlene.

The assembled partygoers tittered. Charles, another library employee, crouched on the shelf closest to the door to the hallway. He looked as though he was getting ready to pounce the moment Bertie came into the room. I had an image of flying books, falling bodies, a screaming Bertie, and headed to cut him off.

Charlene appeared, saw us all waiting, and, trying to suppress her giggles, called, “Wow! Look at this! Bertie, get out here.”

Footsteps came down the hall. Bertie's head popped around the corner. She stopped dead, her mouth hanging open.

“Surprise!” we all yelled.

Charles made his move, but I was ready for him. I leapt into the air and an enormous Himalayan feline hit me full in the chest. I staggered backward as sharp claws dug into my sweater. I crashed into Charlene, who fell into Bertie, who would have hit the floor had the six-foot-five, two-hundred-pound Butch Greenblatt not been approaching our library director at that moment to offer his congratulations.

Butch grabbed Bertie and kept her upright. “This is a surprise, all right,” she said, smiling happily in Butch's embrace.

He blushed and mumbled apologies before letting her go.

I put a squirming Charles on the floor.
If looks could kill.
He stalked off, white-and-tan tail held high.

The crowd surged forward, everyone wanting to give the guest of honor a hug and a peck on the cheek and wish her the best.

“Nice one,” Ronald said to me. “You almost flattened our boss.”

“Blasted cat,” I replied.

He chuckled. “You can't fool me, Lucy. You love Charles.”

“Best part of working here, I have to admit.”

“Present company excepted, I hope. Help me with the refreshments, will you?” he said as the thirsty crowd turned and headed our way.

In the fifteen minutes between library closing and Bertie's entrance, we'd cleared off the circulation desk
and set up a makeshift bar. Ronald had poured drinks while Charlene and I passed around canapés. We'd laid bowls of mixed nuts and platters of cheese and crackers on the tables for partygoers to help themselves.

As I served the food, I chatted with our guests. Everyone congratulated me on managing to surprise the unflappable Bertie. The room was full of longtime library patrons, members of the board, and Bertie's close friends, but the one person I'd been hoping to see hadn't arrived yet. I kept checking the door, but no one was arriving late. I put an empty platter of one-bite crab cakes onto a side table and pulled out my phone. No bars, meaning no signal. That was normal: it was difficult to get cell reception inside these thick old stone walls. I made my way slowly across the room, exchanging greetings with partyers. I opened the front door, and someone threw a bucket of cold water into my face. The storm had arrived.

I wiped rainwater away with one hand and checked my phone with the other. I had a text.
Sorry. Storm coming. Don't want to leave Mom in case electricity goes out. S.

Phooey. I was disappointed, but I understood. I hadn't known Stephanie Stanton for long, but we'd quickly become friends. She'd come home to Nags Head late in the summer to look after her mother. Pat Stanton had been involved in a serious car accident when a drunk driver hadn't noticed a red light on the Croatan Highway. The drunk got off without a scratch, but Pat had suffered two broken legs and numerous cracked and broken ribs. Her recovery was going to be long and difficult. She was out of the hospital now, but clearly couldn't manage on her own, and Stephanie was Pat's only child. Pat had been a longtime patron of the library and she and Bertie were very close. She'd told Bertie she intended to consider the
accident to be a blessing. At last she could spend her days doing what she'd always dreamed of having time to do—just reading.

Despite Pat's determination to look on the bright side, caring for an invalid was always difficult. I knew Stephanie needed the break, and had hoped she could make the party.

Take care,
I texted back.

“It was on a night like this one,” Louise Jane McKaughnan was saying to Mrs. Peterson when I'd put my phone away and picked up another round of treats, “that the great ship went down. They say . . .”

Louise Jane was a font of knowledge about the history of the Outer Banks. What she didn't know (or didn't consider dramatic enough), she made up. Usually under the guise of “they say.”

“Delightful party, Lucy. Any more of those crab cakes?” Theodore Kowalski, six feet tall and rail thin, peered at me through the plain glass of his spectacles as he chewed on the end of his unlit pipe. He was a passionate lover of literature and a keen and knowledgeable book collector. For reasons known only to himself, he wanted people to think he was English, and dressed like a country squire heading off to the Highlands for a spot of grouse shooting. Theodore was also dead broke, and could be counted on to appear at any library function at which food was served. He was in his midthirties, only a couple of years older than me, but dressed and acted as though he were in his fifties. I guess he thought that made him seem more serious.

“I'll check,” I said. “You know not to light that pipe in here, right?”

He beamed at me, clearly pleased. Theodore didn't smoke; the pipe was all for show. Although somehow he
managed to ensure that he had tobacco stains on his teeth and the scent of it clung to his Harris Tweed jackets and paisley cravats like barnacles to a barge. “I'm afraid I won't be able to make book club on Wednesday, Lucy. So sorry to have to miss it.”

“And we'll miss you,” I said dutifully.

“An important business matter. Can't be helped.”

Aunt Ellen joined us and nabbed a meatball. “Great party, Lucy. Bertie looks so happy.”

“I have exciting news,” Theodore said.

“What's that, Teddy?” Ellen asked.

“I've found a buyer for those Agatha Christies I've been trying to unload . . . I mean sell. I've my eye on a set of Dashiell Hammetts in mint condition that I'd like to add to my collection.” As I said, Theodore was broke. He earned what money he could from buying and selling books. Unfortunately for his bank account, he was far more interested in buying than in selling. When I'd first begun working here, Bertie had warned me to check his bags and coat when he left the library. He was known to sometimes decide that a rare or valuable volume would be happier in his home library than in this public one.

“How nice,” Aunt Ellen said. “Good luck with it. Do you think Bertie was genuinely surprised, Lucy?” She took a second meatball. Ellen and Bertie were long-standing friends. It was through my mother's sister that I landed the job of assistant librarian a few months ago.

“I hope so,” I said. “You can imagine how difficult it was to organize all this without her knowing. At five she said she was leaving early today. I just about fainted. Fortunately, quick-witted Ronald told her that Charlene had just called to say she wanted to come in at six to talk something over with Bertie, so Bertie agreed to stay.”

“I suppose a chap has to go in search of crab cakes himself,” Theodore huffed, and strolled away.

Ellen chuckled. “You just can't get good help in the colonies these days. I see Eunice here, and some of the other members of the library board, but not Diane or Curtis. Did they send their regrets?”

“Gee. It seems that we forgot to invite them. What a shocking oversight.”

Ellen laughed. It was no secret that Diane Uppiton and Curtis Gardner were not exactly Bertie's allies on the library board.

Butch approached us, holding a bottle of beer in one hand and a plate piled high with canapés in the other. “You up to a walk on Thursday morning?” he asked me.

“Sure am,” I replied.

“Walk?” Aunt Ellen said, her ears practically standing up. She was my mother's sister and I had no doubt Mom had instructed her to report immediately about any potential developments in my life.

“Just a walk,” I said.

“I don't go on shift until midmorning that day,” Butch explained. “I was telling Lucy how, when I first joined the police, I always tried to take time for a stroll along the beach before work whenever I could. It got me in a good place to face whatever the day had coming.”

“And,” I added, “that habit, like most good habits, has fallen away. I told him a marsh walk would be just as good, and to make sure he actually does it, he has to take me with him. I'd better get to work. Glasses need to be refreshed. Crab cakes delivered. That's if Theodore leaves any for anyone else.” I plunged back into the crowd.

“You three,” Bertie said, approaching us with a shake of her head once she'd made her way across the room
after greeting her guests. “I can't believe you did all this without my noticing.”

“It wasn't easy.” Ronald handed her a glass of wine.

“I should have suspected something was up,” Bertie said with a laugh, “judging by today's tie.” Ronald glanced down. As the children's librarian, he liked to dress up for the kids. His tie was covered with pictures of brightly colored birthday balloons. “Oh,” he said, “I didn't even realize.”

“Your subconscious at work. Oh, my goodness, will you look at that!” Bertie had spotted the cake. Josie stood beside it, beaming proudly.

In the momentary hush as everyone stopped talking to admire the gorgeous confection, I could hear the wind howling around the curved lighthouse walls, and the steady patter of rain hitting the windows.

“Gonna be a big one,” Butch said as he twisted the cap off a bottle of beer.

“I hate to say it,” Connor said, “but we should probably suggest people start making their way home once they've had cake.”

“Yeah,” Butch said. “We don't want anyone caught out in this if it gets any worse.”

The library's located about ten miles outside the town of Nags Head. That's ten dark and lonely miles, as the road runs through the Cape Hatteras National Seashore along the edge of the Atlantic Ocean.