By Book or by Crook (9 page)

T
he four employees of the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library stared into the cabinet. I counted books. Five. Plus Jane Austen’s notebook.

That couldn’t be right. We had six books:
Sense and Sensibility
, published in 1811;
Pride and Prejudice
, 1813;
Mansfield Park
, 1814;
Emma
, 1816;
Northanger Abbey
, published in 1818, after Miss Austen’s death; and
Persuasion
, also 1818.

Bertie opened the cabinet. As an indication of how upset she was, she didn’t even put on the white gloves before she lifted each of the five books, as if
Sense and Sensibility
had somehow fallen into a gap beneath.

“It’s gone,” Charlene said redundantly.

“It can’t be,” Ronald said.

“When was the last time you saw it?” Bertie asked.

We glanced at one another, empty faced. “I’ve no idea,” I said.

“A lady came in who’s the head of the Virginia chapter of the Emma Thompson Fan Club. She
wanted to read a paragraph Thompson said in the movie version,” Charlene said. “I took the book out and showed her. You said we could, as long as the patrons don’t hold the books themselves.”

“When was that?” Bertie asked.

“This morning. I think. Or it might have been yesterday afternoon. We’ve been so busy, I can’t keep anything straight.”

“It was there last night,” Bertie said. “I always check when I leave.”

“And this morning,” I added. “I like to take a quiet moment to admire them. I would have noticed if one had been missing.”

“Let’s search. I want every nook and cranny in this room turned over. It’s entirely possible someone took the book out when we were too busy to show it to him and then stuck it on the shelves.”

We divided the main room of the library into quadrants, each of us searching one. I pulled out every fiction title from Roberts to Zelazny, checking the space behind, and then did the same for North Carolina history.

“Here they are,” Charlene said.

“Thank heavens,” Bertie said.

“Sorry. I meant here are my CDs. I wonder how they got in there. I’ll put some music on in the background for while we search.”

“No.” Such was Bertie’s tone, Charlene didn’t argue.

I went upstairs to search the mystery section, while Ronald tackled his children’s library, Charlene her reference books, and Bertie the rare-books room.

It was long after dark before we met back
downstairs. Charles had been trying for some time to remind me that it was past dinnertime. I’d even looked in the bag of cat food to see if
Sense and Sensibility
had somehow found its way there.

Nothing.

Bertie slumped into an armchair.

Ronald leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “We have to call the police.”

“I know,” Bertie sighed. She looked, quite simply, dreadful, as if she’d aged ten years in the past couple of hours. She didn’t need this—the library didn’t need this—on top of a murder investigation. “They’ll blame me.”

Ronald, Charlene, and I spoke at once:

“Nonsense.”

“Not your fault.”

“No one could have . . .”

She held up her hand. “It was my decision not to lock the cabinet. I wanted to be able to show the books without rushing about trying to find keys. I trusted people.”

I took the desk phone off the hook. “Do you want me to call?”

“I’ll do it.”

Detective Watson, accompanied by Butch Greenblatt, arrived even faster than they had to the report of a dead body.

Butch started to make a list of everyone who’d been in the library today. He soon stopped. It would be a shorter list of everyone who hadn’t.

Between us, Bertie, Ronald, Charlene, and I had seen everyone on the library board at least once, most of them strutting with pride at the success of
the Austen exhibit. Mrs. Fitzgerald had stood at the door, greeting guests as if at a house party; Louise Jane (and Andrew, of course) had come, too. Louise Jane surveyed the barely controlled chaos, sneered at my hat (which had come askew when I’d tried to let some air underneath), and told everyone who would listen, and many who did not want to, that the library was clearly overwhelmed. A weepy Diane Uppiton had suggested to Bertie that the last lecture of the day be dedicated to Jonathan Uppiton, “whose inspiration and vision for this library and the Austen collection was tragically cut short.” Bertie agreed, just to keep the peace, and delivered the words through gritted teeth. Diane had been accompanied by the man she’d been talking to at the party, the one she’d had dinner with the other night. Curtis Gardner, Bertie whispered to me, had joined the board only last month, despite knowing nothing whatsoever about libraries, and caring even less. Perhaps, she added, as Curtis comforted Diane, he had other interests.

Connor had been there, standing at the back while I stumbled my way (nervous that one time only) through my lecture. Mrs. Peterson had brought all five of her daughters to the children’s talk, to which two paid rapt attention while two snapped gum and openly checked their smartphones, and the oldest attempted to attract the attention of a young man who’d brought his younger sister. The young man seemed to suddenly decide the children’s group was worth paying attention to.

Aunt Ellen and Uncle Amos had sat through one of the lectures, while Aunt Ellen snapped pictures to
send to my mother. We’d been too busy for lunch breaks, so, at Bertie’s suggestion, I’d called Josie and ordered drinks and sandwiches from the bakery. She’d delivered them herself.

Who else?
I thought.

“Theodore Kowalski,” Bertie said to Detective Watson. “He was here, drooling all over the collection.”

“You let him do that?”

“I meant figuratively speaking,” Bertie said, with a barely controlled sniff. “He fancies himself a rare-book collector. Wouldn’t he just love to add a first-edition Austen to his collection?”

“Did you see him take the book out of the cabinet?”

“Well, no.”

“Any of you?”

We shook our heads. I’d noticed Theodore. Either he’d been in the library several times throughout the day or he hadn’t left. Standing in the alcove most of the time, not quite drooling but certainly admiring the books.

“That reminds me,” I said. “He was poking around on Sunday.”

“Aren’t you closed Sundays?” Watson asked.

“That’s the point. He was poking around
outside
. He said he was bird-watching in the marsh.”

“Lots of folks do that.”

“Yes, but Theodore didn’t have binoculars or any other birding equipment. He’d come across the water in a boat less seaworthy than something found in a child’s bathtub. I thought maybe he was going to try the door. See if we’d left it unlocked.”

Bertie snorted. “As if. He’s a menace, that one.”

“I appeared and surprised him.” I didn’t mention that he’d almost given me heart failure in return. “I walked him back to his boat and waited until he rowed away.”

Watson shrugged. “Nothing like a crime scene to attract snoops.”

I bristled. “He was up to no good.”

“And you know that how, Miss Richardson? Because he wasn’t carrying binoculars? You said he came by Sunday morning. In daylight, I assume?”

“Well, yes.”

“Not a lot of breaking and entering happens in broad daylight in public places.”

I was going to retort, but instead I bit my tongue. Nothing I said seemed to have much effect on Detective Watson.

“Bertie,” Butch said, neatly changing the subject. “I can’t understand why you didn’t lock the cabinet. If those books are as valuable as you claim.”

Bertie’s color rose in her cheeks. “This is a library. Not a bank. And those books
are
extremely valuable.” Her shoulders slumped and she deflated. “Perhaps I should have, but we . . . I mean I . . . wanted people to be able to get close to them, and for my staff to be able to handle them as they saw fit.”

“How much would you say that book’s worth?” Watson asked.

“Not as much on its own as part of the full set,” Bertie said, naming a sum.

Watson and Butch whistled simultaneously.

“For a book?”

“Yes, for a book,” Charlene snapped. “Even more than your baseball-card collection, Butch.”

“Hey, I’ve spent a lot of money on those cards,” Butch said.

“One of my brothers collects cards,” I offered.

“Do you know if he has . . .”

“Enough,” Watson said. “You can trade cards later.” He walked over to the cabinet. “I don’t think there’s any point in taking prints. Everyone and their dog has been through here the past couple days. I don’t suppose y’all have security on the door?”

“I do some crowd control,” Charlene said.

“Stopping little old ladies from stepping on each other’s sensible shoes. I meant like a bar-code detector. Alarm. Things like that.”

“This is a library. Not a jewelry store. And we’re in the Bodie Island Lighthouse, not the Bronx. No, we do not have alarms.”

“Perhaps you should get one,” Watson suggested.

“Wouldn’t that be like closing the barn door after the horses have escaped?” Charlene said.

“I assume you searched for this book?”

“We looked everywhere,” Ronald said. “Absolutely everywhere.”

“Butch, take a statement from these folks and get a description of the stolen goods. I’m going back to the office. I do,” he looked at Bertie, “have a murder to investigate. Funny how trouble seems to be following you, Ms. James.”

He left.

“I’ll be in my office,” Bertie said. “You don’t need all of us. Let Ronald and Charlene go home.”

“That should be okay,” Butch said. “Lucy, will you give me a statement?”

“Sure.”

Ronald and Charlene gathered their things, said good-bye, and went into the night, letting in air full of salt and sea spray.

Butch pulled a notebook out of the pocket of his leather jacket. “Talk to me, Lucy.” Charles wrapped himself around his ankles.

“Butch, I am absolutely beat. I’ve been up all night researching nineteenth-century English literature, worried to death about Bertie, and now this.”

“Why are you worried about Bertie?”

“Because she’s suspected of a murder she didn’t commit. Why do you think?”

He held up one hand and gave me a warm smile. “I’m on your side, Lucy. I have some idea what it’s been like here the past couple of days. My mom wants to attend one of your talks and she couldn’t get a reservation until next week. She’s a local woman whose family’s lived in Nags Head forever. She went to New York City on a bus tour once and didn’t like it. Let’s say she wasn’t happy at being told she had to wait her turn in her own library.”

“Mrs. Greenblatt. Sorry, I didn’t make the connection. I spoke to her. She was”—I didn’t say “rude and insulting”—“annoyed.”

“Pay her no mind. She’s having no trouble taking the money all these book tours are dropping at the artists’ co-op. She’s already sold most of the seashell art she makes for Christmas craft fairs.”

I felt some of the tension melting out of my
shoulders. “Like I said, I’m beat. Do you mind if I give my statement over a glass of wine upstairs?”

He gave me that gorgeous hazel-eyed smile. “Not a problem.”

We made our way upstairs, Butch almost tripping several times over the adoring Charles.

I unlocked the door and waved in my guest. “Welcome.”

Butch took a seat. Charles leapt onto his lap while I busied myself in my small kitchen—a glass of wine for me, a sweet tea for him.

I perched on the edge of a chair, sipped wine, took a deep breath, and tried to remember how the day had unfolded. I told Butch I’d seen
Sense and Sensibility
this morning before we opened; I was positive of that. I couldn’t remember seeing it again, which didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Or maybe it was. I hadn’t opened the cabinet myself, as I was usually busy giving my lecture. I named all the people I recognized who’d come into the library, but there were so many visitors.

“Anyone could have taken it,” I said, “Poor Bertie. She’ll be beside herself.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the library’s her responsibility, of course. We had no idea how popular the collection would turn out to be.”

“She’s not married, is she?”

“Bertie? No. I don’t know if she’s ever been, but Aunt Ellen didn’t mention it. She doesn’t have any children; she’s kept busy with the library and her yoga studio.”

“She has two jobs?”

“She’s a yoga instructor also. Partner in the Asante Studio, Aunt Ellen told me.”

“That’s a nice place, out by the beach. Newly renovated. Rent must be high. I didn’t know Bertie was involved. My mom takes classes there. She says she thinks the new owners have overextended themselves.” His voice drifted off, and I tried to guess at his thoughts.

“They’re investing in the future. That’s what businesspeople do.”

I sipped wine. It was cold and crisp and delightful. I wanted to take my shoes off and tuck my feet beneath me, but I didn’t want to look as though I was giving Butch any hints. This was a police interrogation, after all. If I did decide to give Butch hints, it would be at a more opportune time.

Butch. Connor. Like that song in the movie version of
Bridget Jones’s Diary
. It was raining men!

“Bertie ever seem to be short of money?”

I sat up straighter. “You can’t be suggesting Bertie stole the book! That’s out of the question.”

“No one’s out of the question, Lucy. Even you.”

“Me?”

“Well, maybe not you. I’d better be going.” He tucked his notebook away, finished his tea, and tried to nudge Charles off his lap. When gentle nudging didn’t work, Butch had to resort to pushing, and then lifting and dropping. Charles glared at him and stalked off to the kitchen, as if that was his intention all along. Butch got to his feet. He loomed over me, all six foot five of him. I leapt up also. Only minimally better. And now I was so close I could smell the waves of male hormones coming off him, along
with a spicy aftershave. I took a step backward, crashed into my chair, and almost fell into it. I dodged to my right, all the while blushing and grinning like an Austen spinster who’s been asked for a dance by the handsomest young sublieutenant at the ball.