By Book or by Crook (13 page)

When I finally tired of walking, I retraced my steps. The fishing people didn’t look as though they’d so much as twitched in all the time I’d been away. I collected my beach paraphernalia from the car. The ocean was rough today, as it often was along this stretch of the coast, so rather than attempt to swim, I waded in up to my knees and let the waves crash around me. Then I got my book and sat at the water’s edge on the sand, with my legs stretched out in front of me in the pounding surf. I was content to sit and read for a long time.

People tell me that e-book readers are fantastic for carrying piles of books, light and easy to read. But I’m not converted yet. The tide was coming in; a rogue wave roared ashore, splashing me and my book with salt water. I certainly wouldn’t be able to sit here with an electronic device in my hands.

When my back started to ache and the water was rising higher and higher, I struggled to my feet, unfolded my beach chair and umbrella, got snacks and a soda out of my small cooler, and read on. Yes,
The Moonstone
would do perfectly as an introduction to classic novels for my group. We would talk about the origins of the mystery genre as an illustration of how much influence the classic novels still have on our entertainment habits today.

If my group ever got started, that is. I put down the book and stared out over the blue sea sparkling in the sun.

I felt as though a dark cloud had suddenly appeared overhead. A single, dark cloud, intended
only for me. If the reading group didn’t start? If the library had to close under the scandal and the theft? What on earth would I do then?

There were other libraries, of course. Lots of them. One in Kill Devil Hills, one in Manteo, more libraries all over the state. But in the short time I’d been here, the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library had planted itself firmly in my heart. That crazy library, with the round, whitewashed walls, the spiral stairs, curling upward in imitation of a nautilus shell, the too-small rooms crammed with too many books. And my lovely, cheerful, welcoming lighthouse aerie.

Ronald, Charlene, Bertie. My coworkers, people I’d already grown to love.

Bertie.

The sun was behind me now, and my umbrella cast a long shadow. Time to finish my book, then pack up and go home. Right now, the best I could do for Bertie and the library was the very best job I could do.

M
onday morning, Bertie came in carrying a big cardboard box with Josie’s logo. My nose twitched at the scent of warm, fresh baking. “For us?” Charlene asked hopefully.

“No. I have a very special meeting this morning and want it to go well. Put the coffee on, will you, Lucy? I bought fresh cream.”

“Are you expecting the library board?” I asked.

“As if I’d cross the street to feed that lot.” She put the box on the circulation desk. It was quarter to nine, and we were still closed. “Is Ronald here yet?”

“Arriving now,” Charlene said as our children’s librarian’s 1996 Honda Civic swept into the parking lot.

“You three,” Bertie said, when Ronald had joined us, “have been magnificent through all this.”

“Just doing our jobs,” Ronald said.

“You’ve been doing far more than that. Not a word of complaint about the extra hours you’re putting in. Lucy up all night, studying up on Jane Austen; Ronald with your costumes and extra programs;
Charlene giving up your precious research work to answer yet another question on where in North Carolina Miss Austen lived.”

We all smiled. Yes, that was a question we got a lot.

“And the murder of Jonathan and the theft of the books on top of it. The Austen collection has proved to be popular beyond my wildest dreams. I was informed yesterday that the number of visitors to town last week was up more than ten percent from last year. The people who supply the craft shops and the art galleries are working around the clock to produce more stock, the demand for holiday rentals is up, some of the B&Bs and hotels are turning away customers, and the restaurants are bursting at the seams. Josie told me this morning she’s had to hire more help. I had a call yesterday from a friend who works in the shop at the Elizabethan Gardens. She says they and the Fort Raleigh National Historic Site are, and I quote, ‘delightfully overwhelmed with customers.’ Some of our more patriotic readers don’t want to believe that Miss Austen was a loyal subject of George the Third, and have decided she’s more suited to Queen Elizabeth the First.”

Charlene, Ronald, and I laughed. But Bertie did not. “Everyone’s thriving and happy and making money hand over fist.”

“That’s good,” Charlene said. “But you’re not sounding happy about it, Bertie.”

“You’re darn right I’m not happy. Everyone, from Josie at the bakery to Mr. Miller with his handcrafted wooden lighthouses—some of which, I’ll point out,
he has begun adorning with Miss Austen’s portrait—is doing well.”

Ronald laughed. “No wonder people think she’s an Outer Banks girl. Her face has started appearing on everything.”

“Everyone’s raking in the dough. Everyone except us. We’re packed to the gills, but we don’t charge admission.”

“Of course not,” Charlene said, shocked. “We’re a library!”

“Right. We don’t charge to see the books. We don’t have jams or teacups to sell. Ronald entertains and educates the kids while Lucy does the same for the adults, and Charlene turns away her core patrons because she doesn’t have time for them. We’re all working incredible amounts of overtime without getting paid for it. I’ve had to dig deep into next quarter’s book-purchasing budget to buy more books by Austen and her contemporaries, which means I won’t be able to get many fall releases. And fall, as we all know, is the time when the biggest bestsellers are released. I don’t want to be the one to explain to George O’Reilly why we aren’t stocking the latest James Patterson.”

“So, you are going to speak to the board, then?” Ronald said.

“Pooh. What can they do but shift money around and tell me to find efficiencies? And then take themselves out for lunch. On
my
budget.” Bertie hefted the bakery box. “No, I’m going straight to the top. This library has been a boon to the town, and it’s time for the town to pay up. Good, here he is now. Lucy, you may admit His Honor.”

I opened the door for Connor. He stopped in the doorway and studied us. We were all watching him, probably like kids seeing Santa come down the chimney. “Sorry, have I interrupted something?”

“No.”

“Nothing.”

“Off to work now.”

We scurried to our respective tasks while Bertie escorted the mayor to her office. It was five to nine, so I left the door open. The first tour bus of the day was pulling into the lot. I went into the back to make the coffee.

“I can’t deny that would be a help, Connor,” Bertie was saying as I carried in the tray. “But, really, Louise Jane?”

My ears twitched as I settled the tray on Bertie’s desk beside the box of Josie’s baking.

Connor gave me a smile. “Thanks, Lucy. Your first week here hasn’t exactly been uneventful, has it?”

“I’m getting used to it.”

“Lucy’s doing a wonderful job,” Bertie said. “We wouldn’t have been able to manage without her.”

I closed the door behind me as I left the office to once again plunge into the world of Jane Austen.

Connor was ensconced with Bertie for about an hour. I was in the lounge, arranging my attire for the lecture, when they came out. They were both smiling, so I guessed the meeting had gone well.

“You look great in that hat, Lucy,” Connor said. “But Jane Austen wouldn’t have worn anything so elaborate, would she?”

I lifted my fingers to my lips. “No, but don’t tell anyone. It’s the best we could do at short notice.” I
shifted the substantial weight of the ornate hat. “And,” I coughed, “without money for a proper costume.”

“Bertie and I have come to an arrangement. I recognize the value of this library to the town, and I’ve agreed to a substantial increase in the library budget for the duration of the summer.”

“We do appreciate it, Connor,” Bertie said.

“What the commissioners will have to say when I present the figures to them, I have no idea. But I should be able to bring them around.”

“Didn’t I see a No Vacancy sign hanging outside Mrs. Kimstock’s B&B on Tuesday? Isn’t Ed Miller, he of the popular lighthouse statues, one of the commissioners?”

“Don’t worry, Bertie,” Connor said, “I’ll make your case for you.” He gave me a smile and left.

“Sounds like that went well.”

“It did. Connor’s sticking his neck out, promising us an increase without speaking to the commissioners. But we need that money now, and he knows it. I want you to submit your overtime to me, Lucy. I’ll tell Ronald and Charlene to do the same. Don’t forget to include the time you’ve spent researching after hours.”

“I heard mention of Louise Jane. . . .”

“We need another staffer, Lucy. Mainly to be on the circulation desk so Charlene can get back to her own job in the reference library. Checking out books doesn’t require a qualified librarian, and we need someone immediately. Louise Jane is, as we know, very keen on working here. I’m going to call her
now. Offer her a job, and see if she can start tomorrow. I expect she’ll say yes.”

Louise Jane did indeed say yes. She was on our doorstep before lunch, looking very much like the cat who had bought the whole dairy factory. She swept in, not followed, for once, by Andrew. Maybe the guy did have a life apart from Louise Jane after all.

“I’ve come to sign my employment papers,” she said to Charlene and me. “As you’re so busy, I’ll tell Bertie I’m happy to start work right away. I remember how it’s all done. Lucy, why don’t you show me to my desk, so I can get settled in.”

“You don’t have a desk,” Charlene said. “You’re a temporary employee, remember? You can leave your purse in the staff room. It’ll be safe there.”

“As safe as
Sense and Sensibility
and
Pride and Prejudice
? I don’t think so.”

“I’ll take you to Bertie’s office,” I said.

“That’s hardly necessary. I know this library an awful lot better than you do, Lucy.” She smiled at me and patted my arm. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Worry? About what?”
That trap again!

“Why, about the job being too much for you. I suppose at your last job—somewhere in Boston, wasn’t it?—you could relax at your desk, take time selecting books, help the occasional freshman who needed guidance, leave the office on time. Not like working in a real hands-on public library, is it?”

I remembered some of the teachers and grad students I’d dealt with at Harvard. One rarely became a full professor at Harvard because one was accommodating.

“Anyway, I’m here now,” Louise Jane went on. “I’ll take some of the pressure off you. Do you want me to give the afternoon lecture?”

“No.”

“Tomorrow, maybe. Let me know when you need a break. I’m here to help.” Something about her smile made me think of bottomless pits.

Charlene burst out laughing as Louise Jane disappeared down the hall. “That put you in your place. You’re lucky she doesn’t think you worked in the Bodleian. She told me that the English stop twice a day for afternoon tea.”

“Wouldn’t that then be afternoon and morning tea?”

“I have to confess that I can’t stand Louise Jane, but I am happy she’s here. I have e-mails from two weeks ago I haven’t had time to answer yet, never mind all the rest of my work.”

It would be nice to have another set of hands around the place. But now that Louise Jane’s toe was firmly planted in the door, I wondered how easy it would be to get rid of her when the extra staff was no longer needed.

“Excuse me, miss,” said a rotund, middle-aged woman with a deep Scottish burr. “Can ye suggest a place we could go fer lunch? Something
American
. We didn’t expect to find the Outer Banks quite so much like back home.”

“Many places are advertising high tea but providing afternoon tea,” a man, equally rotund and Scottish, said. “I dinna think they know what high tea means.”

“We dinna come ta America ta buy souvenir tea towels with images o’ the Queen, ye ken.”

“You might have lost the colonies back in 1776,” I said, “but it looks like you’re taking us over again, with Miss Austen in the vanguard. Jake’s Seafood does authentic Outer Banks cooking. Try the fried green tomatoes, and ask for an extra order of hush puppies.” I gave directions, and they left happy, although still shaking their heads at the fondness Americans had for the old country.

With Louise Jane’s help, the afternoon settled into a more comfortable pace. She staffed the circulation desk when I was giving my lecture or helping patrons, allowing Charlene to escape into her cubicle among the old books, diaries, maps, navigational charts, and ships’ logs that were her specialty.

My afternoon talk was taken over by the Houston branch of the Jane Austen Fan Club. Six women who’d driven all the way from Texas to see the books and were not happy to find only the four less-famous ones on display. The notebook, written in their idol’s own small hand, went some way toward mollifying them. I knew I was in for trouble when they seated themselves in the front row and crossed arms over chests both formidable and bony, and one woman said, loudly, “Why are you wearing that ridiculous hat? Don’t you know any better? You’re at least fifty years before your time.”

I had barely begun the lecture when I was corrected on the date of Miss Austen’s birth. (Okay, so I got the digits mixed up and said December 15, 1776, rather than December 16, 1775.) From then on they seemed to delight in asking obscure questions and
answering them whenever I hesitated. Finally, I suggested we turn my lecture over to a book club–like discussion led by the Houston branch of the Jane Austen Fan Club.

The ladies beamed, and began rearranging chairs.

I accepted a chair myself, hoping to learn something, and glanced toward the circulation desk. The self-satisfied smirk on Louise Jane’s face as she watched me being humiliated reminded me of the gleam in Charles’s eyes when he tripped Diane Uppiton.

The lecture/fan club meeting disbanded at last. One of the Texas ladies slipped me a business card. “My sister designs historic costumes. I’m sure she could do an
appropriate
early-1800s costume for you in a hurry, sugar. Just mention my name. Oh, and let us know when you have
Sensibility
and
Prejudice
back, will you? We’ll be here until Wednesday.”

A copy of
The Sayers Swindle
by Victoria Abbott had been left on a chair. I took it into the racks to reshelve it. The A’s were disheveled, probably by patrons in search of Austen, and I took a moment to tidy them.

Ronald was upstairs, running his summer preteen program, and a few parents were gathered at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for it to end.

“I don’t mind telling you, I had my doubts about bringing Justin here today,” a woman said from the other side of the shelf. “Do you think it’s entirely safe, Maureen?”

A long sniff that could only be Mrs. Peterson. I held my breath and leaned closer. “Needs must, my dear, needs must. Ronald does run the best
children’s library in the state. And my Phoebe is absolutely thriving in this program. She’s an exceptional scholar, of course, but even the very best of students need extra encouragement now and again, and Ronald . . .”

“But is it safe here? That killing, and now books being stolen. I just don’t know.”

A long sigh. “It is a worry. Phoebe likes to stay after the program to select still more books to check out. She has such a keen desire to learn, you know, I simply can’t get her nose out of books, try as I might to suggest she go out and play with the other children. She wasn’t pleased when I told her that today I’d be here to pick her up as soon as Ronald finished. Don’t misunderstand me, now. I’m not going to say anything against Bertie. We all know she does her best.”

“I always thought it was Jonathan Uppiton who kept this place running.”

“You might be right. All of this . . . nonsense never would have happened if Jonathan was still around. Bertie’s always been flighty. She spends too much time on that yoga foolishness.”

“I take yoga classes twice a week. It helps my back a great deal.”

“I didn’t mean doing yoga is foolish. Not at all. Only that Bertie has too much on her plate outside of the library to be able to step into Jonathan’s shoes.”

I wanted to leap over the shelf (Louisa May Alcott to Truman Capote) and throttle Mrs. Peterson. Bertie was worrying herself sick, neglecting her yoga studio, under suspicion of murder, and still managing
to run a highly effective library under exceptionally difficult circumstances.