Reading Up a Storm (13 page)

“Maybe he had some business to conduct concerning his boat that got wrecked on Monday.”

“What sort of insurance adjuster meets a client in the middle of the night? Even that doesn't wash. The boat Williamson rented—and destroyed—was out of a marina in Kill Devil Hills.”

“Rented? That boat was rented? Marlene told me he bought it right after they got here. She's hoping to get the insurance money.”

Butch grinned. “He wouldn't be the first guy to want a woman to think he's a big-time spender. I wouldn't read much into that, Lucy. He probably wanted to be sure he'd enjoy boating before taking the plunge and buying. An antique motorboat of that size is a heck of a big investment, not to mention the cost of insurance and maintenance.”

“My head's spinning.” I hopped off the stool. “I'm going home. It's been one heck of a day.”

He drained his bottle. “Yeah, that it has. If you talk to Stephanie, say hi for me, will you?”

“Okay.”

The Croatan Highway runs through the towns of Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills, and Nags Head. It ends at Whalebone Junction, where the majority of the traffic veers right to cross the bridge to Roanoke Island and points west. To the south, Highway 12 travels along what's at places barely more than a strip of sand in the Cape Hatteras National Seashore. In the daytime, the road's busy with tourists, but at night it's quiet. I always loved leaving the bright lights and heavy traffic of Nags Head behind me and heading into the dark. I loved it even more when the light of the lighthouse came into
view, a glowing beacon against the dark. The parking lot was empty when I arrived at the library. My colleagues had gone home for the day, and the police vehicles were no longer at the edges of the marsh.

I parked my car and walked slowly up the path. I took a few moments to breathe in the fresh sea air and admire the quiet of the night, before letting myself in. As expected, Charles waited to greet me. He leaped up onto the cart of books to be reshelved, and I gave the top of his head a good scratch. He purred and rubbed against my hand.

“Tough day,” I said out loud. “I'm glad it's over.” I love the library at all times, but never more than at night, when I'm here alone. The quiet, the peace, the soft lights, the rows of books, all of them full of wonders. If there's a place that speaks louder of civilization than a library at night, I don't know of it.

Charles leaped down and swatted at my ankles with an impatient meow. The benefits of civilization are sometimes lost on Charles. Until he hears the sound of the can opener, that is.

I made my way up the curving iron stairs to my lighthouse aerie, where I busied myself with the usual end of the day chores. I fed Charles, put on my pajamas and a thick fluffy robe, heated up a microwavable pasta dinner (sparing a thought for Aunt Ellen's justifiably famous spaghetti sauce), and sat down to eat.

Only then did I allow myself to recall the events of the day. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced I was on the right track. Either Will had made himself an enemy in the month he'd been back on the Outer Banks, or someone had been holding a
grudge for an awful long time. I imagined Aunt Ellen, burning up the phone lines, getting the old-timers' gossip mill swinging into overtime.

I'd learned a few interesting things from Butch, but my friend wasn't a detective and all he'd be likely to know would be station gossip. I wished I could talk to Sam Watson, get some updates on the case. We could meet for a drink, kick back, and try out our various theories on each other.
As if!
I had his home number because CeeCee was in my book club, but the man himself was highly unlikely to take my call, and even more unlikely to answer my questions.

I washed up my few dishes and settled into the window seat to read. After about a half hour, when I had scarcely turned the page, I picked up the phone.

“Stephanie, it's Lucy. Do you have time to talk?”

“If I must.” Her voice was cool, the words clipped.

“I know you're mad at me for telling Watson what you learned last night, but you have to understand that I didn't want to. I didn't see that I had any choice. You're a lawyer; you must realize that I can't withhold evidence in a murder case.”

“The fact that Will Williamson had an affair with my mother a long time ago is not evidence in his murder.”

“You know that. I know that. Sam Watson does not. Sorry to bother you, Steph. I wanted you to know that I'm sorry, and if I can do anything to help, all you have to do is ask. Good night.” I reached for the button to end the call.

“Wait,” she said. “Don't go.”

“I'm here.”

She took a deep breath. “I apologize, Lucy. I needed
someone to be mad at, and you were a convenient target. I can't be mad at my mom, can I? I want to be mad at Will Williamson, but somehow I can't even manage that. He was my father and, to my surprise, I'm still finding that means something. The person I should be mad at is me. I said you and Bertie could stay and hear what Mom had to say because I wanted your support. If I'd known what was going to happen I would never have put you in the position of having to break a confidence. Do you accept my apology?”

Tears welled up in my eyes. “If we could see the future, we'd all do a lot of things differently.”

“True enough. Thanks for calling Amos. I've heard of him, of course. He's almost legendary in the legal profession. I'm honored that he's going to represent me if I need it.”

“Did Watson say anything about any theories they might have? Any evidence?”

“He's a smart one—I'll give him that. He doesn't let anything slip that he doesn't intend to. I have no idea what he's thinking. He tried to get me to say that I'd gone out last night after Mom went to bed. But, because I hadn't, I didn't confess to it. Oh, that friend of yours was there for a while.”

“What friend?”

“The big cop.”

“Butch?”

“Do you think he's been trying to dig up the dirt on me?”

“Gosh, no. Butch doesn't deal in dirt. He's a great guy.”

“If you say so. What's the story with him and you anyway?”

“No story. We're friends.”

“Yeah, I figured that. Just thought I'd check. Is he married or anything?”

“No.”

“Probably has a string of girlfriends though.”

“Not that I know of. Why are you asking so much about Butch?”

“No reason. I guess I like to know who I'm dealing with, is all. It's the lawyer in me. I could go for your Connor, you know, but I don't want to step on your toes.”

“Connor! He's not mine.”

“No? You can't tell me you don't wish he was. It's written all over your face, Lucy, when you look at him.”

“Aaaahh,” was all I could say. Stephanie could tell I was in love with Connor before even I knew. Was it that obvious to everyone else?

Was it that obvious to Connor? He'd never said anything. Maybe because he didn't . . . uh . . . return the sentiment. I wanted to die.

Stephanie laughed. “I feel a lot better having someone to talk to. Thanks for calling, Lucy.”

“You'll let me know if anything happens, or you need any help?”

“I will. Let's go out for dinner one night soon. You can invite Connor.” She laughed again and hung up.

I put down the phone, feeling a lot better. I was glad I'd called my friend. I was glad we were friends again. I liked the idea of inviting Connor to join us for dinner; maybe we could ask Josie and Grace too. A fun night out with a group of friends.

I probably shouldn't invite Butch though. No telling what sort of argument he and Steph might get into.

I went back to my book and got a few pages read before the phone rang. My heart sped into overdrive when I saw the name of the caller on the display. Connor. “Hello.”

“Hi, Lucy. It's Connor.”

“Oh, Connor. Hi.” Yes, I can sound completely inane at times.

“I know it's late, and I hope I'm not bothering you. I tried your cell, but it's out of range so that means you're at the library, right?”

“Yes.” I glanced at my cell phone. No bars at all tonight.

“I know you had a tough day, so I wanted to check in, ask if you're okay.”

“I'm . . . okay. I've been talking to Stephanie. Watson let her go.”

“I heard she'd been brought in for questioning. But she wasn't charged, was she?”

“No, thank heavens for that. Connor, you're the one who knows . . . knew Will the best. Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”

“I didn't know him at all, Lucy. We'd only met a couple of times, and only briefly.”

“You said he'd been a friend of your dad in their youth. Do you think maybe your dad might remember something about him? Perhaps he can think of someone who's been carrying a grudge all these years.”

“Lucy, you're not getting involved in the police investigation, are you?”

“Me? Perish the thought.”

“A nonanswer, if I've ever heard one. But I get your point. I can ask my dad, sure. There isn't much he'd rather do than talk about the good old days.”

“Thanks, Connor.”

“If Dad does know something, I'm taking it straight to Sam. Not to you. You shouldn't have anything to do with this.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Because . . . because I don't think I could bear it, if anything happened to you. Good night, Lucy.”

“Good night, Connor.” We hung up. I held the phone for a long time, as his last sentence tumbled over and over itself in my mind. Charles crawled onto my lap, and presented himself for a belly
scratch.

Despite what Bertie had said, I didn't think I could continue my investigation (what others might call snooping) and leave my colleagues to cover my job.

Besides, I'd come to a dead end. Aunt Ellen would call me if she learned anything important. Stephanie promised to keep in touch. No point in going around to question Marlene again this morning: she didn't look like the sort who got out of bed before noon. Watson was investigating Ralph's whereabouts on the night in question, as well as anyone else Will might have threatened to sue. And Connor wasn't going to tell me anything, even if his dad did know all the dark secrets of Will Williamson's past.

I decided it would be a good day to treat my coworkers, so I headed into Nags Head before the library opened for the day.

As could be expected, a line stretched to the doors of Josie's Cozy Bakery. In the height of tourist season, the line might well extend the length of the small strip mall.
While I waited, I busied myself by checking my phone. The only missed call was last night from Connor. He told my voice mail that he'd try the library number.

I played the message several times over.

“You look pleased with yourself this morning, Lucy,” Alison, the clerk behind the counter, said when it was my turn to place an order.

Did
everyone
know
everything
I was thinking?

I ordered a selection of pastries to take to the library and a large drink for myself. Throwing caution to the wind, I asked for a full-fat latte and avoided the more healthy selections of bran and fruit muffins. “Is Josie around?”

“Josie, Lucy's here!” Alison bellowed in a voice that belied her tiny frame.

My cousin came out of the back, wiping floury hands on her apron. The male customers broke into smiles. I suspected that some of them came here only because they hoped she'd put in an appearance. Josie had managed to snag most of the good-looking genes from both sides of her family. I got my paternal grandmother's uncontrollable black curls and my mother's lack of height. As for my father—well, he was financially comfortable.

Josie gave me a huge smile and a welcoming hug. I loved her to bits.

“Everyone,” she said, “is talking about that Will guy we met at book club the other night. Incredible to think we'd been talking to him just a couple of hours before he was murdered.”

“Incredible is the word. You say everyone's talking about it. Anyone have any ideas?”

“Lots of them. Teenagers inspired by rap music or
video games to go on a killing spree, gangs from the big cities, maybe even a terrorist cell operating right here in Nags Head. There's a theory to suit every prejudice or political point of view.” We were standing at the end of the counter, and I faced the entrance to the kitchen while Josie looked across the busy café to the door. “Speaking of which . . . don't look now.”

I whirled around.

“I said don't look,” Josie said.

“No one ever means that, do they?” Doug Whiteside, mayoral candidate, had come in, accompanied by his ever-present assistant, Bill or Bob or something. Doug smiled through a mouthful of overly white teeth at all and sundry, and exchanged greetings with anyone who looked like a potential voter. Bill or Bob or something handed out campaign fridge magnets.

“Slime bucket,” Josie muttered under her breath.

We watched, while pretending not to, as the men reached the counter and placed their orders.

“Do you think he glues that smile on in the morning?” Josie whispered to me.

“It doesn't look entirely natural, does it?”

“When Connor talks to people, you can tell he does it because he likes them and he's interested in their concerns and opinions. With Doug it's all an act.”

At that moment, the man himself spotted us. He came over, hand outstretched, smile firmly in place.

“Lucy, how nice to see you. And Josie too.” Doug waved his hand at the busy bakery. “Looks like business is brisk. That's what we like to see.”

Bill or Bob or something shoved a fridge magnet into my hand. He slapped another onto the metal trimming
of the display case. Josie plucked it off. “Sorry, but we don't endorse one party or politician over another.”

The campaign assistant glowered at her, but Doug said, “You're right to do so. I wouldn't want to alienate any of your customers, even if I am, as my slogan says, FOR Nags Head. Bill gets a mite enthusiastic sometimes. Can't help himself, can you, Billy?”

“I'm just so excited about your candidacy, Doug,” Billy dutifully replied as he accepted a paper bag from the clerk. “Your mayoralty will be the best thing to happen to Nags Head for a good long time.”

“We have to win that election first,” Doug said, modestly.

“And that's why we can't stand and chat with these ladies, Doug. You have that meeting with the Ladies Guild this morning.”

“Never a dull moment on the campaign trail,” Doug said. “Catch you later, ladies.”

He walked through the café, not taking the direct path to the door but winding his way past the tables. Billy handed out fridge magnets as they went.

I sipped at my piping hot latte and picked up the bakery box. “Do you think Connor needs to make up some sort of handout?”

Josie snorted. “Connor will win because he's the best choice for mayor. Not because he gives away junk.” She threw the magnet into the trash. “I'll walk you to your car. I need some fresh air after that run-in with Doug Whiteside.”

As we headed for the door, I heard someone say, “Mr. Williamson's death is going to be a blow to Doug.” Two women were seated at a small table in the middle
of the room, surrounded by papers, mugs, and crumb-covered plates. They'd been watching Doug and Billy make their way through the room.

The table next to the women was unoccupied, and I dropped onto a stool covered in a navy blue–and-white-striped fabric. The table itself had been reclaimed from a wooden tea chest. The serving area of Josie's bakery was all modern coffee culture, glass and steel and chrome, but the dining area was decorated in Outer Banks nautical. Josie gave me a questioning look, and I gestured for her to sit down.

“What do you mean?” the second woman at the next table asked.

My question exactly!
I touched my lips with my finger and tried to unobtrusively point to the two women. Josie nodded in understanding and slipped quietly onto a stool. The women were in their forties. Judging by their one-inch pumps, business skirts, crisply ironed blouses, and small gold earrings, they were local people, not vacationers. I'd never seen either of them in the library.

“Doug's the development candidate,” the first woman said. That was true. Connor maintained that Doug Whiteside was
too much
the development candidate. Meaning he was in the pay of the sort of developers not inclined to worry about the fragile ecosystem of the Outer Banks. Unfortunately, Connor had no proof, so he had to keep that thought to himself and his close friends. “Will Williamson made a lot of money in Alaska in the oil business. He wanted to invest that money here, and he knew Doug's the man who can create opportunities, rather than set up roadblocks.”

I glanced at Josie. Her lovely face was set into serious
lines. By roadblocks, we assumed these women meant environmental impact reviews. Binders and folders were stacked on the table in front of them. Unfortunately they were closed, so I couldn't sneak a peek and see what business the two women were in.

“You're right about that, Joyce.”

“Will's sudden—and so tragic—death worked out well for Connor McNeil, didn't it?” Joyce said.

“What do you mean?”

“Will was planning to make a hefty donation to Doug's campaign. A very hefty donation.”

“How do you know that? I heard he was talking to Connor also.”

Joyce tapped the side of her nose first, and then her binder with a long red fingernail. “Inside information. That's not going to happen now, is it?”

“Maybe his wife will carry on with the plans.”

Joyce laughed. “His wife! Margaret Kramer, you can be so naive sometimes. I'm guessing you haven't seen that bimbo Will was shacked up with. Even if all his money that's not locked up in investments or trust funds goes to her, it will be spent on makeup and clothes. And finding a new man, I'll guess.”

Margaret giggled. “I wouldn't mind meeting a new man myself. Although Ted probably wouldn't approve.”

“It's not funny, Margaret. Even if the bimbo gives Doug the money he needs, she has no influence. Her involvement's more likely to turn off any insecure wife rather than attract supporters. Will, on the other hand, would have had a lot of street cred, seeing how he's a local boy made good and all, who came back home to spend his money right here.”

Josie looked at me, eyes wide and lips pursed into a silent whistle. All around us people chatted and laughed, came and went. The espresso machines emitted clouds of fragrant steam, and the scent of baking bread and pastries wafted out of the back.

Joyce drained her mug and began gathering up her things. Margaret hurried to follow. Joyce said, “Connor's a big supporter of that library in the lighthouse.”

“So?”

“Nothing.” Her voice drifted off. I held my breath, waiting for the dramatic pause to break and for her to continue. “I wouldn't say this to anyone but you, Margaret, but it's a heck of a coincidence that Will was murdered at that very spot.”

Margaret gasped so loudly she hid the sound of Josie pushing her chair back. I gave my cousin a quick shake of my head and gestured for her to be quiet.

“You don't think . . .”

“All I'm saying is connect the dots. Will would have been a huge help to Doug. Will's conveniently been taken out of the picture. It's not for me to say a certain someone didn't act to make that happen.” She opened her sleek red leather briefcase and slipped her binder inside.

“That's creepy,” Margaret said. “You've given me goose bumps. Although I can't see Connor McNeil doing anything like that. I might not like his politics, but he is a nice man.”

“Politics,” Joyce said as she closed the briefcase with a snap, “can make men do crazy things. Maybe he didn't have to do anything. A few words in the right ears . . .”

The women left. I buried my face in my takeaway cup as they passed our table.

“What the . . . ,” Josie said.

“I don't believe it,” I said. “That woman just about came right out and said that Connor killed Will.”

“Surely no one else is thinking that?”

“I would have said no one at all is crazy enough to think that. Obviously, I would have been wrong.”

“I bet she didn't come up with that theory all by herself,” Josie said. “Do you think Doug's been planting the seeds?”

“I wouldn't put it past him,” I said.

“Excuse me, Josie.” Alison stood at our table. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but you're needed in the back. Something's wrong with the flour delivery.”

“Gotta run,” my cousin said to me. “Call Connor. Tell him what we heard. He needs to know.”

*   *   *

Only an hour ago I'd decided not to get involved in the police investigation. Heading back to the library with my box of baked treats, I changed my mind. Stephanie had Uncle Amos on her side, and the police had no case against her. If those two horrid women were whispering that Will's death had benefited Connor, who else might be thinking that? Rumor and innuendo were powerful things. Suspicion alone, fanned by those who were not friends of Connor, could sink his campaign for reelection.

I made a left turn at Whalebone Junction and headed back toward town. I pulled into the parking lot of the police station. Before getting out, I made a quick call. It was almost nine o'clock, time for library opening. “Bertie. I'm going to be late. There's a few things I need to do about . . . that business we discussed yesterday.”

“Stephanie?”

“She's fine. At least she was fine last night. We had a long talk and everything's good between us, but something else has come up.”

“Take what time you need,” she said. “But remember that tomorrow's Saturday, so Ronald has a full set of programs and Charlene has the day off.”

“I'll remember.” I hung up and glanced at the bakery box on the seat beside me. I grabbed it and got out of my car. In a bit of excellent timing, Detective Watson himself was heading out the door as I was going in.

“Good morning, Detective,” I trilled. “I've been to Josie's and thought you might like a treat.” I held up the box in evidence.

He glared at me. “Is that a bribe, Ms. Richardson?”

“What? Uh . . . no . . .”

“Glad to hear it,” he said.

“Do you have a minute?”

“No.”

I refused to let him intimidate me. “I have some information about the Will Williamson murder that I thought you'd be interested in.”

“Here to confess, are you?”

“No!” I glanced around me, taking in the stern-faced detective, staring me down, the uniformed cops going in and out, all giving me
that
look, and the imposing building. I was surrounded by a mighty force of law and order. And totally intimidated.

Then Watson laughed. I didn't know he could do that. “Don't turn to a life of crime, Lucy,” he said. “I've never seen a more expressive face. I can spare you a minute if it's important. If this isn't an official interview, why don't we grab a seat over there?”

He led the way. A couple of benches were grouped in a patch of rough grass struggling to survive in the sandy soil. A beech tree cast shade. We took seats. I opened the box and offered it. Watson plucked out a blueberry Danish. Just to keep things casual and friendly, I selected a white chocolate scone.