By Book or by Crook (18 page)

T
hat night I dreamt of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books as featured in the novels of Carlos Ruiz Zafón. But instead of the labyrinth being found in the backstreets of Barcelona, it was in the Outer Banks. In Jonathan Uppiton’s house, to be exact. Except that Jonathan’s house was on the beach, and a storm was rising and salty ocean waves were pouring into his library. They’d reached the first shelf, and no matter how hard I bailed, I was unable to turn the tide.

Mrs. Peterson peered through her curtains, telling me that her daughters were better bailers than I was.

I woke in a cold sweat. Other women’s nightmares might be of monsters and giant spiders. Mine were of books being destroyed through carelessness.

Like all dreams, the images began to fade. All that was left, as I drifted back to sleep, was Mrs. Peterson waving her finger at me.

When I woke, she was still on my mind. She was such an annoying woman and so single-minded that no one paid her much attention. She was in and out of the library all the time. She was almost as much a part of the library as the furniture and books. Had she been here when the Austen books were stolen? I
couldn’t always place her, but she might well have been.

She’d been at the party when Jonathan Uppiton had died. She’d spent the entire night talking to Ronald.

No, not the entire night. I tried to remember what he’d said about Mrs. Peterson’s whereabouts in the moments surrounding Jonathan’s murder. She’d left him and gone to the ladies’ room.

She said she was going to the ladies’ room.

Had anyone thought to check up on that?

I leapt out of bed. Disturbed by my dreams, I’d woken early. I had time to do some poking around before I had to be at work.

The sun was touching the ocean in a brilliant orange-and-yellow ball when I drove toward town. Yesterday’s rain had left everything fresh and sparkling, but I didn’t pay much attention to the scenery. Mrs. Peterson was obsessed with her children. It was unlikely she’d have a job that took her out of the home. At least not in the summer when they weren’t in school.

I knew where the Petersons lived. Next door to the Uppitons.

Drat, it looked like I was too late to catch my quarry at home. No car was in the driveway. The double garage doors were open, showing nothing but well-organized shelves. Two girls were throwing a ball into the basketball net attached to the garage. They were good, their blocking movements smooth, their throws accurate.

I parked on the sidewalk and got out of my car.

“Good morning,” I called.

I recognized one of the girls as a Peterson daughter. She was about fourteen, with long, tanned legs, a mass of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and hair bleached by the sun. They were both dressed in loose shorts and a UNC T-shirt and well-used sneakers.

“You’re Ms. Richardson, from the library,” young Miss Peterson said. “What brings you here?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t know your name.”

“No one does. We’re just called the Peterson girls. I’m Charity.”

“Pleased to meet you, Charity. I don’t mean to interrupt your game. I was hoping to speak to your mother. Is she home?”

Charity’s friend took a break and dropped onto the lawn, next to a bottle of water.

The blond mane shook. Charity tossed the ball from hand to hand. “No. She left bright and early. So early I wasn’t even up.” Her pretty face twisted.

“Gone to work?” I said.

“As if. No, she took two of my younger sisters, Dallas and Phoebe, to Elizabeth City. She managed to get them into some fancy-pants summer science camp at the last minute, and today’s the first day. I bet she wanted to get out of the house before Dad was up. He wasn’t exactly pleased about this camp.”

“Why not?” I asked. It was absolutely none of my business, but if there was trouble in the Peterson marriage, it might have a bearing on the case. For the first time, I wondered if Mrs. Peterson and Mr. Uppiton had been “friends.” Did Mrs. Peterson want
more from their friendship than he was prepared to give? Or had he given it and then withdrawn it? Although it was difficult to imagine Mrs. Peterson in a fit of passion. Whether killing Jonathan or . . . doing other things.

Fortunately, there’s not much more teenage girls would rather do than complain about their parents. Charity was no exception. She rolled her eyes. “Dad was absolutely furious when Phoebe told him last night they were going. Mom wanted to keep it secret, but even Dad’s gonna notice when two of the kids are, like, not in the house for a week.”

“Your father doesn’t approve of science camp?”

“He’s okay with the camp, but it’s, like, really expensive, ’cause they have to stay in dorms, like, for the whole week. We can’t afford it. I had a chance to go to basketball camp at UNC for a week. You can be sure Mom wouldn’t have the money for that.” She pouted. “But science camp. She found the money, all right. Dad was sure mad. She tried telling him that it was a good opportunity for the rug rats to get a solid grounding in science. He said that wasn’t the point. The point was they couldn’t afford it.” She pouted again. “We haven’t been able to afford much lately.”

“Thanks, anyway,” I said. “I might come back later. Will your mom be home this afternoon?”

“Yeah, probably. Dad gets all mad, but she doesn’t really care. She only got the ankle biters into this course yesterday afternoon, and they were, like, all excited yesterday, packing and stuff.”

“Why so late getting in?”

Charity shrugged. “She only got the money yesterday. I don’t know where it came from. She told
Dad she had her own source of funds. He said in that case, she should be contributing to running the household.”

The friend hadn’t appeared to be listening. But she chimed in, “Maybe your mom’s turning tricks on the side.”

Charity laughed.

I didn’t.

Mrs. Peterson had suddenly come into enough money to send two kids to an expensive summer science camp. Money her husband didn’t know about.

“Yeah,” Charity went on. “That’s gotta be it. ’Cause she sure didn’t give it to Dad it so he could get his car fixed.”

“You don’t know where this money actually came from?” I asked.

“Nah,” Charity said. “Who knows with my mom? She probably sold something and doesn’t want to tell Dad what it is. Like his mother’s antique tea set or something.” She laughed again.

The friend got to her feet in one swift, clean movement. “Are we playing or not?”

Charity tossed her the ball and the girl caught it easily.

I left them to go back to their game.

I had not the slightest doubt what Mrs. Peterson had sold to get her girls into science camp.

Pride and Prejudice. Sense and Sensibility.

But how on earth was I going to prove it?

I got in my car, switched on the engine. Before I could pull away, the garage door of the house next door groaned and slid open. A brand-new Corvette, eye-catching red with glistening chrome, backed
out. The roof was down, and Curtis Gardner was driving. He wore dark sunglasses, and an open-necked shirt displayed a heavy gold chain.

Diane stood in the doorway, waving good-bye. She was dressed in a pink satin nightgown. Pink slippers with a puff of pink on the toes and heels, which were higher than those on the shoes I hated, were on her feet. Why anyone would wear slippers with high heels, I never could understand. It was eight in the morning. She wasn’t exactly pretending to be in mourning.

The rusty Dodge Neon was still in the driveway. It looked to me like Diane was left with Curtis’s old car, while he took off in the new one, all ready to impress the ladies.

She went back into the house and closed the door behind her.

I switched off my car and leapt out. These two had benefited from the death of Jonathan. Had one of them killed him with that in mind? Had they been in it together?

I rapped on the door.

It opened a fraction. I smiled.

Diane did not smile in return. “What do you want?” she snapped. Close up, I could see that her hair was tousled, showing thinning spots. She had no makeup on, and the bright sunlight shone into her face. The fine lines around her mouth and on her cheeks were numerous, and deep circles were under her eyes. She might come to regret buying Curtis a fancy car of the sort referred to as a chick magnet. Could I exploit that, try to create a fissure between
the two? Maybe see what popped out of the fissure . . .

“I was in the neighborhood,” I said, “and thought I’d drop in. Check up on how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s nice.” I edged forward. “I’d enjoy a coffee.”

“I wouldn’t.” She slammed the door in my smiling face.

*

“Eunice Fitzgerald just called.” Bertie came into the staff break room as I was downing a quick glass of water prior to giving my afternoon lecture to teenagers on books to movies. No grand Victorian hat for this one. If these girls watched Jane Austen movies, they’d know all about bonnets and empire-waist dresses. “Jonathan’s funeral’s tomorrow. Four o’clock at his family church in Kill Devil Hills. We’ll be closing the library early, out of respect and so we can all attend.”

I nodded.

“You don’t have to come, Lucy. You barely knew the man. And, dare I say, what contact you had with him wasn’t entirely positive.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “I would have liked him better if I’d gotten to know him. He clearly had a great love of books and reading. Any man who reads can’t be all bad.”

She smiled. “True. He could be an annoying, opinionated, self-impressed fool, but he did love our library. And for that I’d forgive him anything. Almost anything . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Except for
wanting to fire a librarian and use the funds to install a commemorative fountain. Of all things.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

My lecture turned out to be a lively one. On top of the tourists attracted by the exhibit, several local and summer girls returned. They’d obviously been reading Austen books and watching the movies and were developing strong critical opinions on the film adaptations.

Louise Jane slid up to me once the lecture was over and the girls were browsing the stacks or checking out more books. “I have some very bad news.”

“You’re quitting?” Charlene’s head popped around a shelf.

“No,” Louise Jane replied. “I wasn’t talking to you, anyway.”

Charlene shrugged. “We’re all one big, happy library family here.”

Louise Jane pointedly turned her back. Charlene, never one to take a hint, moved closer. “My grandmother has been called away. One of my aunts has taken seriously ill, and Grandmama has hurried off to Elizabeth City to be with her. “

“And just when you needed her,” Charlene said. “How unfortunate.”

For a moment I couldn’t think of why I’d be overly concerned about the absence of the senior Mrs. McKaughnan. Then I remembered: charms against the unworldly.

Last night had passed uneventfully. No strange noises, no creaking staircases. Just a sleeping cat and a peaceful lighthouse. Peaceful, that is, except for Ronald’s snores, so loud and aggressive they could
be heard from the fourth-floor landing. Good thing my apartment had a thick, stout door and solid stone walls.

Not that I believed the Bodie Island Lighthouse was haunted. But under the auditory attack of a sleeping Ronald, we wouldn’t need any charms to keep wandering specters at bay.

“That’s okay,” I began to say.

“Fortunately, I’ve got some knowledge of her skills, so I brought a few herbs that should help.”

“I don’t need . . .”

“Excuse me, but can you recommend a nice restaurant for dinner? Something kid-friendly? And give us directions? It’s our first day here, and we’re still not sure of what’s where,” interrupted a smiling woman. Louise Jane mouthed
Later
to me and took the woman to the circulation desk, where we kept a stack of tourist maps and brochures.

“Her grandmother’s charms”—Charlene snorted—“exist nowhere but Louise Jane’s imagination. Louise McKaughnan’s known up and down the beach as one of the best bingo players around. If she’s in Elizabeth City, it’s because there’s a big pot today. My mother told me that the matron McKaughnan carries a piece of wood to every game she plays. Salvaged from the wreck of a seventeenth-century ship, a piece of the wooden mermaid who once graced the bow. She always gives it a big kiss on taking her seat. Although, come to think of it, the mermaid didn’t bring a whole lotta luck to that ship, did it?” Charlene walked away, chuckling.

The moment the doors were closed behind the last of our patrons, Louise Jane pulled a bag out from
under the desk with a flourish. I’d expected something old, handwoven willow strips, perhaps, or knitted with care. But it was only a garden-variety white plastic shopping bag. Bertie had left early, saying she wanted to buy something appropriate to wear to Jonathan Uppiton’s funeral. Charlene and Ronald watched, obviously interested, despite themselves, as to what Louise Jane was going to pull out of that bag.

“As I said,” she said, “I am not my grandmother. This will have to do until she gets back and can lay down some proper spells.”

“How come your grandmother’s never done this before?” Charlene asked innocently. “Getting rid of the ghosts that live here and all?”

“No one has ever asked her,” Louise Jane said, with a sniff. “And I am not
getting rid
of anything. Merely attempting to quiet them down for a while. So Lucy can sleep well at night. Don’t get careless and let your guard down, Lucy. Some spirits can be very powerful. Now, where shall we begin? By the alcove, I think. Our little boy has been known to collect things.”

Louise Jane slowly reached into her bag. She brought out a handful of dried green leaves and crushed them between her fingers. I smelled tones of mint and oregano overlaid with something darker, more intense.

“Are you sure that’s not pot, Louise Jane?” Charlene said, sniffing the air. “We don’t need a drug bust here on top of everything else.”

“Your cynicism is a credit to you,” Louise Jane replied. “But you’ll be running to me fast enough if the
lighthouse keeper’s little boy gets into your map collection.”