By Book or by Crook (12 page)

“Well, I never. I couldn’t have stolen the book if I’d wanted to. The cabinet is, I’ll point out, locked.”

“Good. Then you’ll understand why I don’t want this to become public knowledge. We need to find out what’s going on. Can I count on your discretion, Diane?”

I watched, fascinated, as a battle raged across Diane Uppiton’s excessively made-up face. The battle between knowing what was the right thing to do verses the desire to be purely malicious.

In the end it wasn’t much of a contest. “I have to inform the rest of the board immediately. I don’t know how you could be so careless, Bertie.” She sailed toward the door, her head held high. So high she didn’t see Charles slip between her feet. With a shriek Diane tumbled forward, arms windmilling to keep her balance. She crashed headfirst into the door.

As I took a step toward her to offer assistance, she whirled around, face red, helmet of hair mussed. “You stay away from me.” She jabbed her index finger at me. “You’re in it with her. I know you are.” She wrenched open the door and disappeared into the salty air.

T
he bar where Butch took me that night was packed. When we walked in, all conversation died as every head in the place swiveled in our direction. Butch looked over heads and spotted Josie, who was waving to us from the front of the room by the stage. Josie made gestures to indicate we should join her and Aunt Ellen.

“Jonathan Uppiton would have put a stop to it,” I heard one woman say as I followed Butch through the room.

“Albertina James,” her companion said, “never did have a lick of common sense.”

“All that yoga nonsense has addled her brain,” a man commented.

Josie and Aunt Ellen had snagged seats on a comfortable although battered couch at the foot of the stage. Josie wrapped me in a big hug. “I heard the news. First
Sense and Sensibility
and now
Pride and Prejudice
. You must have some idea of who’s doing this, Butch.”

Butch glanced at the crowd of onlookers not
bothering to pretend they weren’t paying rapt attention to us. “Can I get you a drink, Lucy?”

“White wine, please.”

“Come on,” Josie said, “you two can squeeze in beside us. The band’s about to come on.”

I took a seat. The couch was badly sprung and I slid lower than I might have liked. The bar was done up like a sixties-era coffee shop. The furniture was mismatched and ragged, the low stage little more than a platform along one wall. Guitars leaned against the walls and a spaghetti-like tangle of black cords ran from electrical outlets into microphones and amplification equipment. Photos of smiling people playing music or lifting beer glasses covered the walls, along with posters advertising concerts as far back as 1959.

“Does the entire town know what happened?” I said, struggling to get upright once again. Fortunately, I’d dressed appropriately for the venue in capri-length jeans and a summer T-shirt.

“It’s pushed the murder from the forefront of everyone’s mind, I can say that,” Aunt Ellen said.

“Is everyone against Bertie?”

I accepted my glass of wine from Butch, and wiggled closer to Aunt Ellen to give him room on the couch.

“Not everyone. But there are whispers that this wouldn’t have happened if Jonathan Uppiton was still around.”

“That’s ridiculous. Mr. Uppiton was the chair of the library, not the head librarian. The day-to-day running of the library is the staff’s responsibility, not the board’s.” I realized what I was saying and
snapped my mouth shut. I might as well have come right out and accused Bertie, as well as the rest of us, of being careless, if not outright thieves. “Bertie’s confident the books will soon be recovered.”

Aunt Ellen patted my knee. “I’m sure they will be, honey.”

The band trotted on stage, and conversation ended.

Despite our troubles, I had a wonderful evening. The music was great, the company even better. Aunt Ellen and Josie left after the first set and Butch and I had the couch to ourselves. During the breaks, we chatted comfortably about my life in Boston (of which I left out a considerable amount) and his life growing up on the Outer Banks. Various people came over to chat with us, but (thankfully) no one asked about the police investigation into Jonathan Uppiton’s murder or the rapidly dwindling Austen collection. Butch got more than a few winks and nods from his friends, and I blushed to realize they thought we were dating.

Are we?

“Ready to go?” he said as the band packed up their equipment after the last set.

“Yes. It’s been a long day. I enjoyed that very much. Thank you for bringing me. What fun music.”

“Glad you liked it.” He got to his feet and held out his hand. I took it in mine, and he pulled me up. We stood together for what felt like a long time, close but not touching. His bulk loomed over me and I had to crane my neck to look up at him. His eyes were warm and soft, his lips full and pink.

“Lucy, I . . .”

“Having a nice evening?” Louise Jane McKaughnan trilled.

Butch stepped back. “Very nice.”

“I’m awful proud of you, Lucy,” Louise Jane said.

As was becoming my habit, I stepped into her trap. “What do you mean?”

“Keeping up such a strong front. After all that’s happened. Still living at the lighthouse.” She shuddered in delight. “You’re so much braver than me. I don’t think I could bear to be alone in that place, not with the
permanent resident
on the move.”

“You’re brave, Louise Jane,” Poor Andrew said.

“I’m making a point, Andrew.”

“Permanent resident?” I asked.

“Strange things have always been happening in that place. Books rearranged in the night, furniture overturned. It’s the little boy, they say, the lighthouse keeper’s small son, up to mischief when no one’s around. Tell her, Butch.”

Butch shrugged his big shoulders. “Stories—just stories.”

“You saw it.”

“I was a kid. I don’t know what I saw.”

“Butch and I grew up together. Did you know that, Lucy? We’ve always been such
great
pals. We were—what—fifteen, sixteen that night?”

“Just kids.” Butch was looking highly uncomfortable. He would have walked away, had Louise Jane not put her hand on his arm. Her grasp looked more like an iron grip than a friendly touch.

Louise Jane lowered her voice. Almost against my will, I leaned in closer to hear. Andrew was staring at the spot where Louise Jane’s hand touched Butch’s
heavily muscled arm. Poor Andrew did not look any more pleased than Butch was, but he, characteristically, said nothing. “A bunch of us had rowed over to the marsh after dark. We were going to have a late-night picnic. Celebrate winning the state championship. Some of the guys brought beer, although we were underage. Butch and Lorraine MacIntyre went farther down the boardwalk to do some celebrating together. Private celebrating.”

Butch shifted uncomfortably.

Louise Jane turned to me, her smile as sweet as that of a circling shark. “That was before the lighthouse was turned into the library. The last lighthouse keeper had moved out many years before, when the light had been automated. The building was empty for years, falling into disrepair. It was winter, so the area was pretty much deserted—just us, a group of high school friends, the blazing fire, the stars overhead. To this day I can still hear that scream.” Louise Jane shivered.

“Scream?” I squeaked. “I mean, did someone scream?”

Lorraine came down that path so fast, it was as if something was chasing her. Of course the boys laughed at first, thinking you’d been trying something you shouldn’t, Butch. But I knew right away that wasn’t it. Your face was as a white as a sheet.”

“What happened?” I asked him.

“It was nothing. A scare—that’s all. Lorraine had an active imagination. She’s working in Hollywood now, writing screenplays. Doing very well, from what I hear. Come on, Lucy. Let’s go.”

“That’s not what you said at the time, Butch.”
Louise Jane turned to me. “What they told us, when they were calm and breathing normally once again, is that when Lorraine and Butch reached the end of the boardwalk, they saw a light in the window. The very window where your room is now, Lucy. Remember, the lighthouse was abandoned back then. No one should be
inside
. They saw a light where one shouldn’t be, but more than that. A face was staring out at them. A round white face, framed in long, dark hair, its mouth open in a scream of unending terror.”

“I thought you said the ghost was a mischievous little boy.”

“The boy wanders the library. I told you he died falling from the top when playing. But the specter Butch and Lorraine saw was the Lady. Frances, the young bride, locked in that room by her old husband. She never leaves that room. She
cannot
leave that room.”

“You should lead the haunted walking tour, Louise Jane,” Butch said. “You’d do a good job, the way you can embellish old stories and make them sound almost real.” He pulled his arm out of her grip. “Let’s go, Lucy.”

Butch didn’t know about Louise Jane’s plan for a special Halloween exhibit. Rather than taking offense at his words, she beamed. “What an excellent idea. And that’s only the specters
inside
the lighthouse, Lucy. I haven’t mentioned the Civil War soldiers patrolling outside. They say on some nights . . .”

“They say the moon is made of green cheese,” Butch said. “And I’m going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight if we don’t get out of here.”

He took my hand and led the way across the room.

Louise Jane called out to me one last time. “It shouldn’t be a problem leading the haunted lighthouse tour into
the Lady’s
room, Lucy. You’ll be gone by Halloween, isn’t that right?”

“I
hope you had a nice evening, despite how it ended,” Butch said as we walked to his car.

“I did. Thank you for bringing me.”

“Don’t pay any attention to Louise Jane. She loves nothing more than to stir the pot. Even back in school, she’d leave some poor guy holding the ball that broke the principal’s window while she smiled, all sweet and innocent.”

Judging by the set of his jaw, I suspected that story wasn’t rhetorical. “She had a way, even then, of attracting lapdogs like Andrew. Guy needs to grow a spine.” Butch hadn’t released my hand, and I was enjoying its solid warmth. “That story she told you. It didn’t really happen like that. I’ll admit that I was thinking of trying to touch Lorraine’s . . . uh . . . breast.” We passed under a streetlamp, and I noticed a blush cross Butch’s face. “She started screaming, practically scared the life out of me. When I realized she hadn’t even noticed my feeble attempts to get fresh, I turned around to see what had scared her. A light was shining from a window in the lighthouse,
but I didn’t see anyone there. It wasn’t all that late, either, and although the lighthouse didn’t have a keeper, it wasn’t unusual for people to go in to do maintenance and other chores. But Lorraine insisted she’d seen a ghost, and I, well, what can I say? I was at the age when I thought it would be fun to scare a girl so I could act the big strong man, and I went along with it.”

“Thanks for telling me that,” I said. “I know the lighthouse is old and it has a lot of history, but I’ve never felt anything but comfortable there. Nor has Charles. Animals are sensitive to the paranormal, isn’t that what they say?”

“The paranormal is the least of your worries right now. I don’t like these books disappearing.”

I tried to laugh. “Neither do we. A librarian’s worst nightmare.”

“Think about it, Lucy. Why one book at a time? Why not take all of them at once?”

“Easier to get one book out of the library under a coat or in a small bag or purse?”

“Might be. It might also be that this is more than a simple theft.”

“What do you mean?”

“What are we talking about right now, Lucy? What was everyone in the bar talking about? A man was killed in that library, not more than a week ago, but the total focus of this town has shifted onto two books.”

“You think the books are being stolen to take attention away from Mr. Uppiton’s murder? That’s ridiculous. Wouldn’t the killer, whoever he is, not
want to do anything to draw attention to himself? Suppose he or she gets caught taking the books?”

We reached Butch’s car. I might have expected a guy like Butch to drive something manly. An SUV or a truck with big tires, maybe a Mustang, bright red. Instead, he drove a practical Ford Focus. His legs were so long, the driver’s seat was pushed almost up against the back passengers’ seats. He’d parked under a streetlamp, and the light threw deep shadows onto his handsome face. The night was warm and soft, full of the scent of the sea.

“Look, Lucy. It’s been a really nice evening and I hate to end it on a downer. Any more of a downer than Louise Jane, that is. But haven’t you considered that the person best positioned to steal the books would work in the library itself?”

“Librarians handle books all the time, some of them very rare and valuable. We don’t
steal
them, Butch.”

“Not normally, no.” His voice trailed off.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that Bertie has reason to create chaos and confusion. Distract the police, shift attention, mess up the investigation into the killing.”

“That’s ridiculous. Bertie told us to keep the theft of
Pride and Prejudice
quiet. The last thing she wanted was for word to get around.”

“So she said. How well did that work out?”

“What do you mean?”

“Lucy, consider that fake book jacket. She spelled ‘prejudice’ wrong. How could an educated woman, and a librarian to boot, make a mistake like that?”

“You might as well ask how I, also a qualified librarian, didn’t notice the mistake. No, Bertie’s too smart to make a deliberate error of that nature in front of us. But people make crazy mistakes when they get flustered. And other people don’t notice things right in front of their eyes.”

“I’ll have to give you that one,” he said. “But that’s the way Detective Watson’s thinking. I thought you deserved to know, that’s all.”

“I’d like to go home now.”

“Sure,” Butch said.

*

I’ve never believed in ghosts. My practical New England upbringing and no-nonsense parents guaranteed that the paranormal had no place in our lives. I never, ever go to horror movies, but in my reading life, I enjoy a good ghost story now and again, as long as it’s not too scary. Nothing modern, but I’ve enjoyed classics such as “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” “The Tell-Tale Heart,” and
The Haunting of Hill House.

I didn’t sleep well that night. My dreams began with handsome police officers driving fast cars, but soon turned into terrifying creatures dripping blood onto leather-bound books. I tossed and turned so much, Charles finally moved to the window seat to get a good night’s rest.

I woke early, when the sun was an orange ball touching the ocean.

Here I was, living in the place I loved most in the world, and I’d barely stepped foot out of the library. It was a beautiful day, and I was determined to enjoy it. I showered and dressed quickly and pulled shorts
and a T-shirt over my bathing suit. I stuffed my unruly hair into a Boston Red Sox baseball cap, and threw a towel, sunscreen, a bottle of water, and
The Moonstone
into my beach bag.

First, I had to remove Charles from the bag. The beach was not a place for library cats.

I began my day at Josie’s Cozy Bakery. The place was quiet at seven a.m., so Josie came out to say hi while I sipped my latte and gobbled down a muffin, heavy with juicy, plump blueberries, and warm from the oven. The café smelled of yeast, cinnamon, pastry, and good strong coffee. “I’ve got a tray of scones almost ready,” my cousin said, “so I have only a minute. Nice to see you with Butch last night.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “He’s nice, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Good-looking, too.”

“Is he? I hadn’t noticed.”

She laughed. “And, dare I mention, single. He dated a cop from Raleigh for a long time, but they broke up a couple months ago. She, or so I heard, dumped him for another guy.”

“He’s on the rebound, then. That’s never good.”

“He wasn’t all that upset about it, Jake says. Butch knew the relationship wasn’t going anywhere. Then again,” Josie teased, “there’s Connor McNeil. Dr. McNeil, that is.”

“He’s also nice,” I said.

“And also single.”

“Josie, I’ve just arrived here. I’m in the midst of changing my life. I’m meeting people and enjoying making new friends. That’s all.”

“I’m pleased that you are,” she said.

We jumped at a loud crash from the kitchen, followed by a string of curses. “A new assistant,” Josie said. “She’s not working out too well. Catch you later, Lucy.” She hurried away to attend to the disaster. I hoped it wasn’t the scones hitting the floor.

I sipped coffee and nibbled on my muffin while I watched the bakery get ready for the day. First through the doors were ruddy-faced men and women, the sort of hearty tourists who got up early to see the sun rise over the ocean, then early-morning joggers, some with kids in those strollers specially built for running. The next wave consisted of older couples or young families, faces scrubbed, carefully dressed, heading off to or returning from church. After them the tourists began to dribble in, and the seating area rapidly filled with good-natured conversation and much laughter. I didn’t see my cousin again, just a steady stream of wonderful things coming out from the back, to be arranged on the shelves and the counter. Where they didn’t remain for long.

It was nice to see Josie’s business doing so well. I hoped she’d be able to last through the winter, when most of the tourist traffic dried up. On my way out, I stopped at the door to let four businessmen in. Two of them snagged a table and spread out binders and papers in front of them, while their friends went to the corner to order. Locals. A good sign.

It was still early, and I had the day free. I was so looking forward to having some time to myself, but I might not have another chance to speak to the parents of Fred Wozencranz, the boy who’d been
critically injured while playing in Jonathan’s yard. It was Sunday, the best time for finding people at home.

I didn’t expect them to break down and confess to me, a total stranger, that they’d killed Jonathan Uppiton. But I might be able to see if I recognized one of them, if either had been at the party. Then I could tell the police. I’ve got a pretty good memory for faces (that goes with my perfectly dreadful memory for names) and, unlike everyone else at the reception, I’d been on high alert. I was meeting a roomful of people for the first time and desperate to make a good impression. I didn’t have anything to drink all evening, and I’d paid close attention to all the people there. (Except for when I was being charmed by Butch and Connor, but the rest of the time I’d been paying close attention.)

Wozencranz wasn’t a common name, and I found them easily enough just by checking the online phone book. Ron Wozencranz. Nags Head. Not far from Josie’s.

I found the house with no difficulty. It was small, tucked into a side street. Some of the neighboring houses, cheap summer rentals, were in poor repair. But the one I was interested in had a fresh coat of beige paint on the siding and shutters. Two plastic flowerpots full of red and white geraniums stood beside the front door. I drove past and parked my car on the next block. Then I walked down the street, trying to march purposefully, as though I had reason to be here.

I walked up the recently swept path. A ramp had been installed leading to the front door. I knocked briskly.

The door opened and a woman’s head popped out. She wore a flowered red dress with all the shape of a tent. That would be because she weighed about three hundred pounds. No way she had dashed up the lighthouse steps and slipped quietly out again.

“Good morning,” I said cheerfully. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”

She gave me a warm smile. “That it is, hon. Can I help you?”

“Are you Mrs. Wozencranz?”

She laughed. “Heck, no, hon. I’m May-Belle Nicholson. Mrs. Wozencranz passed some five years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is Mr. Wozencranz at home, then?”

“He sure is, hon. I’ve just dropped in to help him get ready for church. I’ll call him for you.”

A man’s voice came from behind her. “Who’s that, May-Belle? Are they selling something? Send them away.”

May-Belle half turned, and I was able to peer around her bulk. A man was coming down the corridor. He was about the right age, in his late forties. His thin brown hair was neatly combed, and he was dressed in a lightweight suit and a tie.

“Lady lookin’ for you, Ron.” May-Belle said.

He hadn’t climbed the lighthouse stairs, either. He was in a wheelchair. A blanket was tossed over his knees, but I could tell that his legs were little more than sticks.

“Hi. I’m Ruth,” I said, coming up with the name on the spot. “I’m from the United Pentecostal Church
of Our Lord. I was hoping to invite you to join our congregation, Mr. Wozencranz. You, too, May-Belle.”

He waved his hands at me. “Get away. I’ve my own church.”

“You’ll like our church better.”
What a thing to say!
I didn’t even know where my ridiculous ideas were coming from.

“Finish your breakfast, Ron,” May-Belle said. “It’s almost time to go.” She stepped onto the porch and half closed the door behind her.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I must be thinking of another Mr. Wozencranz.”

She laughed again. I liked May-Belle very much. I almost invited her to come to the library. Then I remembered my name wasn’t really Ruth.

“No other folk by that name around here,” she said.

“A brother or son, maybe?”

The smile faded from her face. “Poor Ron, he doesn’t have anyone. Anyone, that is, except the good folks from our church. You see, his only child died not long ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I can’t say it was a blessing, but the poor boy wasn’t right in the head. Some terrible accident when he was little. Ron’s had a hard row to hoe. His wife died in the accident that left him unable to use his legs. But he’s a good man, a real good man. His church family does what we can.”

“That is so nice of you,” I said.

“What’s that church you say you’re with?”

“United Evangelical Church of Christ. I think. I mean, yes, that’s it.”

“Never heard of it. You get tired o’ goin’ there, hon, you’d be welcome with us.”

“Thanks. Gotta run. Uh, have a nice day.”

I dashed down the street, feeling like a total and complete fool.

I drove out of Nags Head on Highway 12, toward the lighthouse. Instead of turning right, back to my aerie, I turned left, into the Cape Hatteras National Seashore, and parked at Coquina Beach. I left my beach things in the car and slipped off my sandals. I walked for miles and for hours, through the surf and the soft sand, watching the rhythmic movement of the waters of the blue ocean, thinking about everything and nothing. Gulls swooped overhead, and sandpipers darted through the waves on their long, fast legs. The surf was high and waves pounded the shore.

Unlike farther north, in the towns of Nags Head, Kill Devils Hills, and Kitty Hawk, there was no development here. No beach homes or holiday rentals. Just the dunes, the beach, the sea. And not many people, either. Fishermen and -women were out, sitting at the water’s edge, watching their long poles arcing into the surf. I wondered, not for the first time, at the attraction of the sport. Looked mighty boring to me. These people didn’t even cast, just sat and stared at their poles and waited. Perhaps they enjoyed the peace and time for contemplation. A young family, with three squealing toddlers in colorful bathing suits and matching ribbons in their hair, were clamming. Or attempting to clam. They had a proper rake, but nothing that I could see to take their
catch home in. The children laughed and splashed in the waves, and I guessed that was the point in itself.