Booked for Trouble (5 page)

F
irst I called Bertie. After I'd told her what I'd found and she said she was on her way, I called 911.

I ran toward what I knew to be Karen Kivas's body. I dropped to my knees beside her, scarcely feeling the impact of the ground. She was lying on her back, staring up to the sky. I touched my fingers to her neck, checking for a pulse, and shuddered when I felt her icy-cold skin. Nothing moved. The ground under her head was wet. I could do nothing for her.

I was wearing a short-sleeved linen jacket over a T-shirt and a knee-length skirt. I slipped out of my jacket and draped it over Karen's face and head. Somehow it seemed like the right thing to do. Then I waited.

Only a few minutes passed before I heard the sound of help approaching.

The police arrived first, flashing blue and red lights and loud sirens. The car tore into the lane, and parked half on the lawn. Butch jumped out. He was in uniform, and did not smile on seeing me running toward him.

“It's Karen,” I said. “She's dead.”

“You stay here,” he said.

Bertie arrived next, closely followed by an ambulance.

Butch ordered Bertie and me inside, told us not to leave until a detective had spoken to us, and went to meet the paramedics. I almost told them not to bother hurrying, but I bit my tongue.

Bertie slipped an arm around my shoulders and bustled me into the library.

I dropped into the chair behind the circulation desk.

“What happened?” Bertie asked.

I shook my head. “I've no idea. I went out for some air, heard the birds, and went to check. It's Karen Kivas.” Charles leapt onto the desk and from there into my lap.

“You wait right there, honey,” Bertie said. “I'm going to put on the kettle.”

I stroked the cat's soft fur. From where I sat, I could see outside. More cruisers were arriving. Sam Watson pulled up in an unmarked car. He glanced toward the library, and I wondered if he could see me watching him. I pulled back.

When I looked again, he was gone.

Bertie brought me a cup of hot tea, thick with sugar. Then she phoned Ronald and Charlene and told them not to come to work until they heard from her. She didn't bother to explain. The news would be all over the Outer Banks in minutes, if it wasn't already. I hoped they'd be able to keep Karen's identity under wraps until her family was told.

Bertie pulled up a chair. “As we have a few quiet moments, why don't we do your performance review?”

“What?”

“Time for your first official quarterly evaluation. I was going to do it this week anyway. Might as well get it over with.”

I looked at her. Her eyes were warm and a soft smile touched the edges of her mouth. She was trying to distract me from brooding on what was happening outside. I forced out a smile in return. Charles purred.

My performance evaluation went very well. Bertie was pleased with the job I was doing and would be informing the board of such. Basking in her praise, offering my own suggestions at how I might do a better job, sipping hot, sweet tea, and patting a contented cat, I almost forgot what was going on outside. But the pleasant feeling ended when the door swung open to admit Butch and Watson.

“The library will remain closed until you have my permission to reopen,” Watson said.

“Now see here, Detective,” Bertie said, rising to protest.

“The issue is not open for discussion, Ms. James,” he replied.

Bertie muttered under her breath, but sank back into her chair.

“Officer Greenblatt says you made the nine-one-one call, Lucy,” Watson said.

“Yes.”

“Want to tell me what happened?”

It didn't take long. I'd heard nothing last night or this morning out of the ordinary. Karen had been here for my book club. “I can second that,” Butch said. She'd left shortly after nine, but I didn't see what she did or where she went after she'd left the library.

I told them I'd been surprised to see her car here this morning. “She did say she was having car trouble. Maybe it didn't start, so she got a lift home. And then she came back this morning to try it again.”

I didn't mention who was the last person—as far as I knew—who'd seen Karen.

My mom.

Watson flipped a page of his notebook. “I'll need the names of everyone in this book club.”

“CeeCee Watson for one.” The moment the words were out, I could have slapped myself. I don't mean to back talk when I'm under pressure, but somehow the wrong thing always seems to come out.

“We'll consider her carefully,” Watson said drily.

“I can help you with the list,” Butch said. “I left book club at the same time as Josie and Grace. We chatted for a couple of minutes, mostly about Jake's grand opening, and then went our separate ways. The parking lot was pretty much empty when I left. I think only Karen, some guy named George who I don't know, and Lucy's mother were still here.”

“And Lucy, I presume?” Watson asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Your mother was here?”

“She's visiting.”

“In what order did the last of them leave?” Watson asked.

I thought. I had to phrase this so it wouldn't look as though my mom was the last one to see Karen. But she had been. They were watching me. I opened my mouth.

The door flew open and a uniformed woman came in. “Coroner's here, Detective.”

“I'll be right out. I need to talk to you, Lucy,” Watson said, “but it will have to wait.”

“Are you sure we can't keep the library open?” Bertie asked.

He gave her a look that spoke volumes.

“Just thought I'd ask,” she said.

“Can I leave?” I said. “I'd like to go to the hotel and check up on my mom. Let her know what's happening.”

“I don't see why not,” Watson said. “I know where you live.”

If that was intended to be a joke, it wasn't a very funny one.

The parking lot was jammed with emergency vehicles. Yellow police tape had been strung up around the side of the lighthouse as well as around the Neon. An officer had been placed at the boardwalk to turn the curious away, and a cruiser was stationed at the entrance off the highway, to tell everyone the library and the marsh were closed.

I just wanted to get out of there, so I didn't call Mom to tell her I was coming until I'd parked my car and was walking into the hotel.

“I'm at the hotel. I have to talk to you.”

“I thought you were working this morning.”

“Something's come up.”

“I'm awake but still in bed. Why don't you join me for breakfast? I'll order room service and we can sit on my balcony. It's a glorious day.”

“I don't feel much like eating, Mom.”

“Just have coffee, then. Lucy, I spoke to Evangeline last night.”

“I don't want to know.” Evangeline was Ricky's mother. She was as keen on our marriage as my own mom was. Evangeline was hoping for an injection of funds into the rapidly declining fortune of the Lewiston family. Everyone in Boston knew the Lewistons were in financial difficulty, largely because of the gambling addiction and other
not-quite-respectable indulgences of Ricky's dad. Not everyone knew that I myself had no money of my own other than what I earned through my job. My grandparents hadn't left me or my brothers anything, not even in trust. My brothers, not to mention their wives, were still mighty bitter about that. As for me, I'm happy with my quiet, comfortable life just the way it is.

“Evangeline told me Ricky brought that ridiculous Wallace girl to dinner the other night. The poor boy, he's so devastated by your abrupt departure, all common sense has deserted him.”

“Mom!”

“Yes, dear?”

“I am not having this conversation. Anyway, I think Elaine Wallace is very nice. No one cares anymore about that incident when she was in college.”

“I care. Evangeline cares.”

“Evangeline can be hopelessly old-fashioned sometimes.” I did not add that Evangeline cared only that Elaine's family wasn't rich enough. I ground my teeth. About two seconds ago I'd said I wasn't going to talk about it. And here I was, still talking about it. “The police are at the library, if you must know, because someone has died.”

“Not one of your colleagues, I hope.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Most unfortunate, and I'm sure it was a distressing occurrence, but I suppose you get a lot of elderly people at the library. If you don't want to eat on the balcony, we can go down to the dining room. Are they still open for breakfast? Did you notice, dear?”

I wanted to be mad at Mom for being so blasé when her childhood friend had died, but I reminded myself
that she didn't know who I was talking about. “I'm coming to your room, Mom. Stay there.”

“Where else would I go?”

I threw my phone back into my pocket and ran up the stairs.

Mom had propped the door to her room open and called, “Be right there, dear,” from the bathroom in answer to my shout. I came in, shut the door behind me, and went to stand by the windows. The waves were high today, but walkers and joggers were out, and children erected sand castles while watchful parents set out beach umbrellas and blankets. Fishermen relaxed in their chairs, poles arching into the water.

I felt Mom beside me. “I'd enjoy a walk. This hotel is practically falling down around us, but the location is still perfect.”

I turned to look at her. Sometimes it seemed as though it took hours for her to get ready to face the day, but when she wanted to, she could throw herself together in a flash. This morning she again wore Ralph Lauren. White capris, a black-and-white-striped sleeveless, scoop-neck T-shirt. A white linen jacket with black lapels, collar, and cuffs was hung neatly on the closet door. For today's jewelry, she'd chosen diamond stud earrings, a thick silver necklace, and a matching bracelet. Somehow, she'd managed to get her hair to fall in soft waves around her face despite the sea air. And her makeup had been lightly, but perfectly, applied.

By way of greeting she said, “You need a sweater or jacket to wear over that T-shirt. The sleeveless look is not at all professional, never mind that the First Lady seems to be able to get away with it. Much larger earrings would look better on you. I have something you can try.”

I didn't mention that I had started the day with a jacket. “I'm not here to talk about accessories, Mom. You need to know—”

“I need breakfast. As I am dressed already, we might as well go to the dining room. If you won't talk about repairing your relationship with Ricky—”

“I don't have a relationship with Ricky to repair. Mom, don't you understand that Ricky and I don't
want
to get married?”

She gave me that smile. The one that said I might have
thought
I wanted a pony for Christmas, but I would be much happier with a pretty new dress for the children's New Year's party at the country club. Ricky had proposed to me, formally, down on one knee, extending a small blue box while Champagne rested in a silver cooler. That's what had precipitated my flight from Boston. I knew Ricky didn't really love me, any more than I loved him. He was simply doing what was expected of him. “I've been here more than a month, Mom. If he wants me, he can find me. Do you know that Ricky hasn't so much as sent me a text since I left?”

“You told us your cell doesn't always work in the lighthouse, so we're better off using the library landline.”

“I told you that, Mom. Not Ricky.”

She glanced to one side.

“Oh,” I said, “you passed the message on. Well, he hasn't phoned me at that number, either.”

“He's waiting for you to make the first move.”

I doubted that. I forced my head away from thoughts of ponies and Ricky and back to the matter at hand.

“Mom, this is really important. Something has happened—”

A knock at the door. And then, even more unwelcome
than Mom's interruptions, the deep voice of Detective Sam Watson saying, “Mrs. Richardson, police. Open up.”

Mom threw me a startled glance. I pasted a smile on my face and threw open the door. “Good morning, Detective,” I trilled.

“Lucy, you got here mighty fast.”

I could have said the same for him. Instead I smiled. “Detective Watson, may I introduce my mother, Suzanne Richardson. Mom, you met Detective Watson's wife, CeeCee, last night at book club.” I might have been at one of my mom's bridge parties or charity luncheons, making sure everyone was made to feel welcome.

Unlike guests arriving to play bridge and nibble crustless (and tasteless) sandwiches, Butch stood slightly behind and to one side of Watson—as if I were about to pull out a gun and go down in a blaze of glory. “Come in, Detective. Officer. Mom, you remember Butch from last night.”

“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Richardson,” Butch mumbled, embarrassed at the intersection of his professional and social lives. Watson only grunted. Mom tried, but her hostess smile failed her. The two men walked into the room.

It was a big room, as hotel rooms go, with a king-sized bed, a two-seater sofa, a desk and chair, but Butch and Watson seemed to take up all the space. Watson strolled to the balcony doors and stood there, simply looking out. Butch shifted from one big foot to another, not looking at me.

For once, my mother was silent. She took a seat on the sofa. She crossed her legs at the ankles and rested her hands lightly in her lap. Her nails were pink. The same color was on her toes, the manicure and pedicure fresh and perfect.

Watson turned around. “Tell me,” he said, “about Karen Kivas.”

Mom couldn't hide her surprise. “Karen? Why on earth do you want to know about Karen?”

“I'll ask the questions, Mrs. Richardson. If you don't mind.”

“She works here. At the hotel. I knew Karen many years ago when I lived in Nags Head. We spoke briefly the day I arrived here in the hotel, and met again last night at my daughter's book club.” She glanced at Butch for confirmation. “We have nothing in common. We were friends for a short while back in school, but even then we soon went our separate ways. We had little to say to each other.”