Booked for Trouble (6 page)

“What time did you leave the library after the book club broke up?”

“I didn't check my watch. Not long after nine, I suppose. Fifteen, twenty minutes after?”

“What time did Karen Kivas leave?”

“The same time as I did.”

“Lucy,” Watson asked, “did you see your mother and Mrs. Kivas leave?”

“Yes.”

“Leave the building or the property?”

“Can you please tell me what this is about?” Mom said. “Lucy said someone died at the lighthouse. I assume by your questions it was Karen. I am very sorry to hear that. She was far too young. I don't know how I can help you. I didn't think she looked well. She was underweight and appeared haggard. A heart attack, I presume?”

“Answer the question, please, Lucy,” Watson said, ignoring Mom.

Mom didn't like to be ignored. “Detective, I must insist—”

“I showed my mom and Karen out,” I said. “Mom, tell these gentlemen what happened then.”

“What happened? Nothing happened. I got into my car and returned to my hotel. I went straight to my room and watched TV for a while before switching out the light.”

“Did Karen also get into her car?” Watson asked.

Mom thought. “I can't say I noticed. We said good-bye on the steps. My car was beside the path, hers a bit further away because she arrived late.”

“Did you see anyone outside the library?”

“No.”

“Were there any other cars in the parking lot?”

Mom shook her head. “No. Not that I saw. Everyone else had left before us. Lucy's Yaris was there, and Karen's old thing. No others.”

“When I left,” Butch said, “that guy named George was still there.”

“He left before Karen and me,” Mom said. “When we came outside, he'd gone. That is, I saw no other car.”

“You met Karen the day before yesterday, you said. Here at the hotel. You spoke briefly.”

“A short conversation.” Mom picked at a nonexistent piece of lint on her capris.

“What was the nature of this conversation?” Watson asked.

My heart sank. He wouldn't be asking if he didn't already know they'd had words. Angry words.

Mom waved the question off. “We said hello. That was about it.”

“Lucy, do you have anything to add?”

“What?”

“Were you there when your mother and Ms. Kivas first met?”

As if he didn't know full well I'd been there.
I wondered who'd ratted us out this time. Could have been just about anyone. Most of Nags Head had overheard that hideous conversation.

“Yes.”

“And?” Watson said.

I shrugged. “Mom was busy and didn't want to stop and chat. She told Karen so.”

“I must insist on being told what's going on,” Mom said. “I fail to see why you're asking me these questions. And being quite rude about it, I might add.”

“Karen Kivas was murdered,” Watson said, not bothering to beat about the bush.

Mom's eyes opened a fraction wider and she lifted one hand to her mouth. Only I knew her well enough to be able to tell that the news had shocked her to the core. “That's dreadful.”

“You know anything about that, Mrs. Richardson?”

“Certainly not. Karen and I might have . . . not got on too well on our first meeting, but we made up later. Why, we were going to have lunch on her next day off.”

“Did you?” Butch asked. “Make up, I mean. I was there, remember.” He avoided looking at my face. “The air between you two was so chilly, I wanted to get myself a sweater.”

“They made up after everyone left,” I said. “Mom apologized and they hugged and everything.”

“After everyone left?” Watson said. “So you, Lucy, were the only witness.”

The interview went downhill from there.

Mom was an expert at dissembling. Years of oral combat at the country club and the top levels of Boston society had honed her verbal skills. As she'd parried Watson's questions with dexterity and great skill, I'd grown increasingly worried. He was no fool, and she was making a bad mistake by taking him for one. Every time I tried to interrupt, he slapped me down. I felt battered and bruised even though it had been only voiced. Mom had checked her watch, patted her hair, reminded him that she hadn't yet had coffee, pretended to struggle to remember the last two days, and then talked as though the argument with Karen had been a minor trifle in her busy day. Watson let her jabber on, while poor Butch looked as though he wanted to tell her to shut up himself.

Eventually Watson said, “Thank you, Mrs. Richardson,” and headed for the door. Mom threw me a supercilious smirk at the very moment Watson turned around. “Do not leave the hotel without my permission.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Mom said. “I'm on vacation. I have plans, things to do.”

“I need to talk to other book club members as well as hotel staff and Karen's family. I may need to speak to you again. I expect to find you here.”

“Okay,” I said, interrupting Mom's objection. “She'll be here.”

Watson and Butch left, the former with a warning glare at me, the latter still avoiding my eyes.

I turned to my mother. “As you're not going anywhere, can I have your car?”

“I don't know, dear. This whole thing will be cleared up in a few hours, and I scarcely want to be stuck here all day.”

“Call me when the police are finished with you, and I'll bring the car back.”

“I—”

“Great, thanks.” I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, grabbed the valet ticket off the desk, and hurried away.

I walked through the lobby as fast as I could without breaking into a sprint. A uniformed police officer was at the reception desk, and for a moment I thought Watson had put a guard on my mom.

“I demand you rectify the situation immediately!” An elderly lady, who looked as though she were preparing to take on the job of Maggie Smith's understudy on the set of
Downton Abbey
, pounded her bejeweled cane on the floor. She wore a purple sun hat big enough to serve as a soup tureen, and a voluminous, almost floor-length dress in a pattern of violet roses. Her crepe-paper neck was draped with yards of beads.

“Perhaps we can go someplace private.” George, manager, attempted to ease the lady away without actually laying a hand on her.

“My great-granddaughter's birthday present has been stolen, and I want the person or persons responsible apprehended.” Another whack of the cane. George flinched.

“If you'll just describe the item, ma'am.” The cop struggled to get a word in edgewise.

None of my business. I headed outside and waved Mom's ticket at the valet.

In a few minutes I was heading, not south to the lighthouse, but north into the center of Nags Head.

I needed two things and I needed them fast: one of Josie's pastries and some of her calm advice.

I was pulling into the parking lot of the strip mall that contained Josie's Cozy Bakery when my iPhone told me I had a text.

Butch:
You okay, Lucy?

I quickly texted back:
My mother is not a killer.

He replied:
Take care.

I was slipping the phone back into my purse when it buzzed once more.

Connor:
Trouble at the library? Karen Kivas found on lighthouse grounds? You okay?

Me:
I'm at Josie's.

Connor:
You're okay then :)

I put the phone away.

The morning rush had died down at Josie's Cozy Bakery, and my cousin came out from the back when I asked one of the counter staff to get her. Josie wore her regular work clothes of holey jeans and loose white T-shirt under a calf-length apron with a bib. Her golden hair was pulled back into a high, tight ponytail and her nose and cheeks were dotted with flour. Even in that getup Josie looked sexier than I did after an afternoon of primping.

She took one look at my face. “What's the matter? Why aren't you at work? Do you want something to eat?”

“Coffee and a scone would be nice.” It seemed like hours since my yogurt breakfast.

Josie made mysterious hand signals to one of her staff, and then she guided me to a table in a back corner. Fragrant steam rose from the espresso machine and the bakery was full of the marvelous scents of baking bread, warm pastry, and rich fillings.

Despite my worries, I took a moment to breathe it all in. A waitress arrived with two mugs of hot coffee and a large scone, plump with blueberries and drizzled with icing.

Only a few of the tables in the bakery were occupied at this time of day. Josie did most of her business in the morning, the seats taken by tourists relaxing after a run
on the beach or a daybreak fishing trip and lineups of workers wanting coffee and breakfast to go. There'd be another rush at noon for crisp, healthy salads and sandwiches made with freshly baked baguettes or flaky croissants. The bakery closed at three, but Josie's evenings could be spent catering dessert buffets at private parties or after-business meetings.

Her boyfriend, Jake, had recently returned to the Outer Banks after ten years learning to cook in New York City and had opened a seafood restaurant, where he was the head chef. When Josie wasn't running her own bakery and catering business, she could be found at his place, chopping vegetables or sitting on a stool, watching him work.

Merely thinking about Josie's schedule was enough to exhaust me, but my cousin seemed to thrive on it.

Now her pretty face was pinched in concern. She peered at me over the rim of her coffee mug. “Talk to me.”

“You know Karen, from the book club?”

“What about her?” Obviously the news hadn't spread to the bakery. Or, if it had, Josie's head had been buried in pastry dough or a hot oven.

“I don't know her well,” I said, “but she always seemed nice enough. What's your take?”

“She's a lot older than us, more Mom's age. Local woman. Why are you asking, Lucy?”

“Just indulge me. What's your feeling about her?”

Josie leaned back in her chair. She cradled her mug. “Her husband, Norm, worked here for a while—did you know that?”

“No. When?”

“A couple of months ago. He didn't, shall we say, work out.”

“Why not?”

“I'd been warned about him. That he'd been fired from a lot of jobs because he was so unreliable. But, well, I guess I wanted to help. Their youngest daughter worked here the previous summer, but she had a baby over the winter. Something went wrong and she's having a lot of health problems, and can't be on her feet for long hours. So I figured I'd do the family a favor and hire Norm. His job was to help get things up and running in the mornings, and make the deliveries.” When Josie said “morning,” Josie meant morning. She began work at four to get started on the first batches of bread and pastries that, as well as being sold in her shop, were delivered to hotels in Nags Head, Kill Devil Hills, and Kitty Hawk. “He'd only been with me one week—one week!—and he showed up drunk. I mean falling-down drunk, not just hungover, which would have been bad enough. He staggered into the kitchen, knocked over a bowl of bread dough, dropped a tray of croissants. I obviously couldn't send him out in the truck in that condition.” Josie shook her head. “I had to call Jake, who had barely crawled into his own bed, to come and help me out.”

“So you fired him?”

She shook her head. “Foolish me. I sent him home with a flea in his ear and another chance. Things were okay for a few weeks, and I figured he'd just needed some time to get into the routine of our hours. Then, same thing again. Out-of-his-mind drunk. That time I sacked him on the spot.”

“How'd he react?”

“Not well. He threw me a couple of what he thought were withering insults. I threatened to call the cops, and
he left. End of story. For me, anyway. I heard that Karen threw him out of the house and filed for divorce.”

“He was angry with her?”

“Probably.”

“Had they been married a long time?”

“I think so. I mean they're grandparents, and I don't think she'd ever been married to anyone else. Him losing this job was probably the last straw. Maybe she figured the kids were old enough and she was better off on her own.” Josie shrugged. “But since you're asking, I never had much time for Karen.”

“Why? I thought . . . I mean, I think she's nice.” I didn't add that I'd had no patience for listening to her complaints. I was feeling guilty about that this morning.

“Maybe it's me, but she seems to play at being nice. Stuff like helping you clean up after book club. I mean, how hard is that? She told you about her marriage ending, right?”

I nodded. Karen had stayed after book club, chatting with me after everyone had left. “She needed . . . needs someone to talk to.”

“Sweetie, Karen talks to everyone. I'm not saying she has an easy life, not married to Norm Kivas, but she has a steady job, reasonably good kids. She loves to play the martyr, though, milks it for all it's worth. Like last night. Can't just say she had car problems, but made sure we all knew she couldn't afford repairs. Oh yeah, she'll sigh and say she can't complain. And then she'll complain. And complain. She came here the day after I fired Norm.
Soooo sorry.
I had no idea of how difficult poor Karen had it all these years. But, mustn't complain.”

“You don't like her?”

“Sweetie, I don't know her well enough to like her or
not. She was hinting that I should give Norm one more chance, and when I lied and said I'd found someone else, she was, shall we say, not polite. Of course next time she came in, she was all sweetness and light and
soooo sorry
about mean old Norm.”

I nibbled at my scone, and thought about Monday's meeting between Mom and Karen at the hotel. My mom had been unpardonably rude to her. Karen had struck back, hard.
Was there anything wrong with that?
No, not unless she'd meant to take it further.