Reading Up a Storm

“A smart whodunit. . . . Lucy is a likable heroine among an engaging cast of supporting characters, including Charles, a Himalayan with attitude who can't seem to help sinking his claws into a murder.”

—Sofie Kelly,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Magical Cats Mysteries

“Charming . . . a book lover's dream.”

—Krista Davis,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Domestic Diva Mysteries

“A library in a lighthouse?
And
a cat? Sign me up! A fun read for all cozy fans.”

—Laurie Cass, national bestselling author of the Bookmobile Cat Mysteries

“A first-rate cozy mystery . . . plenty of twists and turns to keep you reading until dawn.”

—Daryl Wood Gerber, national bestselling author of the Cookbook Nook Mysteries

“A must for Austen fans, cat lovers, and library devotees!”

—Laura DiSilverio, author of the Book Club Mysteries

“Lucy Richardson is a funny, smart, and resourceful sleuth. . . . A well-written and entertaining new series.”

—Mary Jane Maffini, author of the Charlotte Adams Mysteries

“[A] charming, entertaining, and smart series . . . [featuring] an unusual (and real) setting and [a] colorful cast of characters that set it apart from other bookish cozies.”

—
Library Journal
(starred review)

By Book or by Crook

Booked for Trouble

OBSIDIAN

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

Copyright © Penguin Random House LLC, 2016

Excerpt from
By Book or by Crook
© Penguin Random House LLC, 2015

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Obsidian and the Obsidian colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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.

eBook ISBN 9780698165908

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Mark and Cher,
friends

The Bodie Island Lighthouse is a real historic lighthouse, located in Cape Hatteras National Seashore on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. It is still a working lighthouse, protecting ships from the Graveyard of the Atlantic, and the public is invited to tour it and climb the two hundred fourteen steps to the top. The view from up there is well worth the trip. But the lighthouse does not contain a library, nor is it large enough to house a collection of books, offices, staff rooms, two staircases, and even an apartment.

Within these books, the interior of the lighthouse is the product of my imagination. I like to think of it as my version of the Tardis, from the TV show
Doctor Who
. It is large enough for your imagination
also.

It 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 smaller 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, spiraling 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, with the help of Connor McNeil, arranged the balloons, set out paper cups and plates, and hung a silver banner that read
HAPPY ANNIVE
RSARY
across the door.

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 resembled old leather, full of intricate scrolls of red or gold; the top and bottom 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—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 knarred 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.”

The sound of footsteps in the hallway, and then 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 leaped into the air and the full weight of the of Himalayan feline hit me 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 not the six foot five, two hundred pound Butch Greenblatt 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, brown-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.

“You can help me with the refreshments,” 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 had 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 to 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 foot 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 mid-thirties, only a couple of years older than me, but dressed and acted as though he was 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 first began 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 of 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.

“Speech,” Ronald shouted.

“Speech, speech,” the crowd chorused. A blushing Bertie was pushed to the front of the room. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears and her voice broke as she began to speak.