By Book or by Crook (16 page)

Charles purred some more.

The cop pulled a tissue out of her pocket. She placed her toe under Charles’s belly and tried to unobtrusively edge him away. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose. Charles refused to be edged. Black and tan hairs began to collect on the hem of the woman’s dark pants. Her empty hand might have twitched in the direction of the gun at her hip.

Her nose was beginning to resemble Ronald’s when he dressed in his full clown costume when I finally took pity on her.

“Are you allergic to cats?” I asked, thinking that must be quite an occupational hazard for a cop.

“Yeth.”

“I can put him in the staff lounge for the duration, if you’d like.”

She blew her nose. “Pleath.”

I scooped Charles up. He gave me a self-satisfied grin and didn’t even protest at the interruption of his fun. I took him to the break room. “Won’t be for long.” I put the big cat on the floor and slammed the door shut before he could make his escape.

Speaking of making escapes, the cop had been so relieved that Charles was being taken away that she’d let me walk right out of the office. I could head straight for the door, get in my car, be in Boston before dinnertime, safe behind my mother’s dinner table and my father’s army of eager-to-please associates.

Instead I tiptoed down the hall. I could hear books being dropped, footsteps overhead, men talking. “Lot of fuss and bother for a couple old books.”

“Yes,” Butch replied, “but Watson’s convinced the books are mixed up in the Uppiton murder. Find out who’s stealing the books, we’ve got our killer.”

The worried-looking female cop stuck her head out the office door. “Miss Richardson, get in here!”

“Coming.”

I had only just made it back to the room when a knock sounded on the office door. Officer Franklin opened it to admit my uncle Amos, blown in with a bucket of rain. “Are you folks all right?” he asked, shaking off water like a dog. My uncle was tall and lanky with sharp cheekbones, a prominent Adam’s apple, and jutting knees and elbows. He walked with a slow, casual gait and spoke with a slow, soft accent full of the deltas of Louisiana where he’d been raised. The first time I’d seen
To Kill a Mockingbird
, I’d thought Gregory Peck was playing Amos O’Malley. Like Atticus Finch, my uncle was easy to underestimate, but that lazy demeanor hid one of the sharpest legal minds in the state.

Bertie said, “I don’t know what’s happening, Amos. Who can be doing this to us?”

“Don’t worry, Bertie. I’m heading on up to see what’s going on.”

“They want to search Lucy’s apartment.”

Amos looked at me. “Why?”

“No reason,” I said, perhaps too quickly. “They’re searching everything.”

“Try not to worry, honey.” Amos left. We all settled down again.

“Shall we have some music to pass the time?” Charlene asked. Without waiting for an answer, she pushed buttons on her smartphone and we were blasted with the driving beat of rap music.

“Charlene,” Bertie warned.

“If you insist.” Our reference librarian sighed. She found earbuds and attached them to the phone, and all was blessedly silent once again. Charlene’s head bobbed in time to the (thankfully) unheard music.

Bertie continued with her meditation, Louise Jane ate the last of the muffins, Ronald made notes on his own phone. I found a magazine and flipped pages. The cop leaned against the door, her expression indicating that conversation was not welcome.

We didn’t have to wait long before we heard footsteps in the hallway and the door opened once again. Uncle Amos’s face had the neutral expression of a good lawyer, but he couldn’t help throwing a glance in my direction. He was followed by the police officers. We all leapt to our feet. Butch held a plastic bag in his hand containing . . .

“Thank heavens!” Bertie cried. She dropped back into her chair. “You found it. How marvelous.”

Ronald and Charlene cheered. Louise Jane pouted and then put on a plastic smile.

But neither Uncle Amos nor the police looked pleased.

“Can you explain this, Miss Richardson?” Watson said.

“Explain what?” Bertie said.

“Is this the missing book?” Watson asked her. Butch held the bag up.

“Yes.” Bertie said. “Where did you find it?” She reached for it, and Butch snatched it away.

“We found it,” Watson said, “under Miss Richardson’s bathroom sink.”

“How do you suppose it got there?” Ronald—dear, innocent Ronald—asked.

“Care to tell us, Miss Richardson?” Watson said.

“You don’t have to say anything, Lucy,” Uncle Amos warned.

“I . . . I have nothing
to
say. I don’t know. I didn’t put it there.”

“Your apartment door was locked. Did you leave it unlocked at any time last night or this morning?”

“No. Some people like to climb to the top for the view. So I always lock my door. Always.”

“Who else has a key?”

“I do,” Bertie said. “I would never dream of using it when someone is living there.” She nodded to the bunch of keys in Watson’s hand. “It’s on that chain, with the rest of them.”

“Anyone else?”

“Jonathan Uppiton, as head of the library board, had a complete set of keys. We were wondering what happened to them. Do you have them, Detective?”

“Why did no one tell me about these keys?”

“Rather than assigning blame,” Uncle Amos said, “you should be asking who has the keys now.”

“I have just been reminded,” Bertie said, “that a spare key to the library is concealed outside.” She glared at Louise Jane.

“If a random set of keys is wandering around town,” Amos said, “then anyone could be responsible for this. Anyone.”

“Anyone,” I squeaked.

“I doubt anyone,” Watson said, “would go to the bother of stealing a valuable book and then hiding it in the very building from which it was taken. We didn’t find the other missing volumes. Where are they, Lucy?”

“I object,” Amos said.

“I don’t know,” I wailed. “I didn’t take them. I didn’t take that one.”

Bertie put an arm around my shoulders. “Of course you didn’t, honey. Whoever did is clearly attempting to create confusion and sow dissent in our ranks. Now, if you have what you came for, Detective, I’d like to open our doors and get back to business. I have a library to run.”

Watson hesitated. Bertie could be a formidable woman when she got her dander up.

“We can return
Mansfield Park
to the cabinet and no one need know it was taken.”

“Not so fast there, Ms. James. I’m taking that book in for fingerprinting.”

“You can’t. It’s a rare and fragile volume,” a shocked Charlene protested.

“You won’t learn anything,” Ronald said. “We tried to insist everyone wear gloves to handle it, but,
well, perhaps at first we weren’t always as careful as we should have been.”

“I, for one, was never allowed to touch it,” Louise Jane said. “You won’t find my fingerprints on it. I think the police should be allowed to do their job.”

“And I think,” Charlene said, “your opinion isn’t needed.”

“Stop,” Bertie said. “Whoever’s doing this is trying to put us at each other’s throats.”

“Tell me about the cabinet that contains the books,” Watson said. “Are there spare keys for that one sticking out from under rocks also?”

“No,” Bertie said. “I have the only key for the Austen cabinet.”

“The lock was forced, right?” Ronald said.

“Why do you think that?” Watson asked.

“If Bertie has the only key, then there isn’t another one. So the cabinet couldn’t have been unlocked.”

Watson gave Bertie a long look, and then he said, in a deep, slow voice. “There are no signs of the lock being forced. And it’s neatly locked up now.”

“That can’t be!” Bertie said.

“You didn’t examine it carefully enough,” Charlene said. “Let me . . .”

Watson silenced her with a glare. “I’ll admit that all these missing and hidden keys present a problem. I wouldn’t want y’all guarding my doghouse. But I will be watching you, Bertie, Lucy. All of you.
I’ve all I need for now. I’ll return the book when the forensics folks say I can. Go ahead and open your library, Ms. James. Officer Franklin, let’s go.”

“You’re not arresting me?” I squeaked.

“Shush,” Amos said.

“Not at this time,” Watson said.

He left. Officer Franklin followed, almost sprinting out the door, sniffing and wiping her eyes. Strands of cat hair seemed to have gotten into every fold of her uniform. Butch was still holding the book. “It’ll be okay, Lucy,” he said. “We’ll get this figured out, and soon. I promise.”

“Thanks, Butch.”

“I’ll phone Ralph at the hardware store,” Uncle Amos said. “And wait here until he comes. You need new locks on all the doors. Most importantly, on Lucy’s apartment.”

Butch’s words had made me feel a lot better, but that didn’t last long. I thought about last night, about the footsteps I’d heard. I’d decided it was the storm or an enormous mouse. But now I was forced to confront my worst fears. Not only had someone been downstairs, on the first floor stealing the book, but it was footsteps I’d heard
upstairs
. And later someone had been in my apartment. I shivered. I’d go to the hardware store myself at lunchtime.

And buy a good, strong bolt and chain.

“B
ack to work, everyone,” Bertie said, once the police had gone. “We have a library to run. People who booked for the ten o’clock lecture will have to be phoned and rescheduled.”

“I don’t mind doing an extra talk at four,” I said. “If they can come then.”

“Thank you, Lucy. Louise Jane, make the necessary calls.”

“I’m a library assistant, not a secretary. Why can’t Lucy phone?”

“Because,” Bertie said, “I told you to do it. If you’ve read your contract, you’ll see it says something about other duties as assigned.”

“Speaking of other duties,” Ronald said. “I’m moving in for the duration.”

“You’re what?”

“Locks or no locks, strange things are happening here. Lucy shouldn’t be alone in the building.”

“I don’t need a guard,” I said.

“You might not, but the books do.”

“If we change the locks . . .”

“That might put a stop to it. It might not. Are we going to wait until
Emma
is taken to find out? The books need to either be protected around the clock or returned to their owners with our apologies for
losing two. I’ll bring a sleeping bag and crash on the floor in the main room.”

“Ronald’s right,” Charlene said. “But he shouldn’t have to do it alone. I’ll take alternate nights. We have a microwave and a kettle, a bathroom. Even a CD player. What more do we need?”

“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Bertie said.

“That’s a good idea,” Louise Jane said. “I’ll ask Andrew to take a shift, too. Having people in the building at night will help, at least until my grandmother can get here and lay some charms down. Lucy will be quite safe then. My grandmother’s charms are very powerful. Although there was that time . . .” She sailed out of the room without mentioning what had happened that other time.

“Lucy, can you stay behind for a moment?” Bertie said.

“Sure.”

The others filed out. Uncle Amos shut the door behind them.

“I didn’t steal . . .” I began.

Bertie lifted one hand. “I didn’t think for a minute that you did. But finding the book in your room means something very significant, Lucy. And I don’t mean that there’s a spirit playing games with us.”

“What’s that?”

“Teddy didn’t take it.”

“You’re right.”

“What do you mean?” Uncle Amos asked.

“Lucy and I discussed the possibility that Theodore Kowalski has been taking the books. We’ve had trouble with him before, and he’s in here almost every day, drooling over the Austen collection.”

“He was poking around on Sunday, and might well have seen Louise Jane leaving and putting the key back under the rock or wherever it’s hidden.”

“You didn’t mention that to Watson,” Uncle Amos said.

“I did! And he brushed me off,” I said. “I’ve tried to help the good detective before. And for my troubles, I’ve been accused of trying to throw off suspicion.”

“Sam Watson’s a good cop. But he can be single-minded when he puts his mind to it. Let me worry about Watson. What makes you two so sure Teddy didn’t take it?”

“If he’d stolen
Mansfield Park
. . .” Bertie said.

“He wouldn’t plant it in my apartment. He has no reason to ever go up there, and he wouldn’t expect me to invite him. The hidden key, if that’s what he used, doesn’t open my door. He wouldn’t be able to get the book back. His only interest in stealing the books would be to add them to his collection.”

“And even if he did have some nefarious plan, Teddy, of all people, wouldn’t hide a nineteenth-century volume of that significance under a bathroom sink, of all places. Think of the damp. Imagine if a pipe sprung a leak.”

Bertie and I cringed at the thought.

“Okay, so you know who didn’t steal the book. Do you know who did? That’s what’s important now.”

“Not me,” I said.

“We know that, honey.”

“But Watson doesn’t.” I turned to Uncle Amos. “I was in the police station earlier. I thought I was
doing the right thing . . . heck, I
was
doing the right thing, reporting something I’d heard. And Watson practically accused me of killing Mr. Uppiton because he threatened to eliminate my job.”

“The nerve of the man,” Bertie said.

“Watson’s clutching at straws,” Amos said. “He’s getting desperate. The chief and the mayor are pressing him to get that murder solved. If he wants to speak to you at any time, Lucy, call me. I want to be with you.”

“You think I need a lawyer?”

“Not at the moment, no. If he thought you’d stolen
Mansfield Park
and hidden it in your room, you’d be down at the station right now. The man’s no one’s fool. You couldn’t have done anything more likely to point the police directly at you. No, that book was planted. Whether to throw suspicion on you or just as a place to hide it for a while, I don’t know. I don’t like you staying here alone. Come over to the house, at least until this is over.”

“Thanks for worrying about me, Uncle Amos. But I’m fine here. It might never be over.”

“Not until the Austen volumes are returned to their owner,” Bertie said. “I’m beginning to think I should send them back. End the exhibit early.”

“They’ll be safe, and I’ll be safe, with Ronald and Charlene on guard.”

“Not to mention Andrew,” Bertie said.

We cracked nervous smiles. “See,” I said to Uncle Amos. “Safe as lighthouses.”

“I don’t like it,” he said, “but obviously you can’t be convinced.”

He opened the door at a knock. “Ralph’s here,” Charlene said.

“Good. Make sure you have my number on speed dial, Lucy.” Uncle Amos left to supervise the changing of the locks.

“I’m going to pay a call on Diane Uppiton this evening,” Bertie said. “If she has Jonathan’s keys and is using them to break in here at night, she won’t be able to do that anymore. But I want to know once and for all.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Yes. I think you should. This has turned personal for you, Lucy. I don’t like that. Not at all.”

For the rest of the day, everyone who came in was dripping with rain, shaking out umbrellas, and spreading puddles across the floor. Louise Jane was assigned responsibility for staffing the mop. She was about to protest, but something about the look in Bertie’s eyes stopped her. She performed the duty, albeit poorly and with a considerable amount of ill grace.

Several patrons noticed that
Mansfield Park
was missing and asked if it had also “disappeared.” Anticipating that, Bertie had instructed us to tell them the truth: the volume had been loaned to an expert for individual study and would be returned shortly.

That the expert was a police forensics lab and not an Austen scholar need not be mentioned.

Uncle Amos pulled me aside after my lecture and handed me a bright, shiny new key. “For your apartment. Bertie will get the other, and that’s it. No more keys have been made. And this one,” a second key followed, “is for the door to the lighthouse. One for
you, Bertie, Ronald, and Charlene. Only four. No keys are to be hidden under rocks outside.”

“What about the library board?”

“Under the excuse of there not being a chair of the board, Bertie has decided she won’t give them one. Not to Louise Jane, either. She doesn’t need to ever be here by herself.”

“Thanks, Uncle Amos.”

“I repeat my offer of you coming to stay at the house. Ellen would love it if you did.”

“I know. But I’m fine here.”

“As well as a new lock, Ralph put one darn solid chain on your door. Make sure you use it.” He kissed me lightly on the cheek and went in search of Bertie.

*

I’d scheduled an extra lecture for four o’clock to accommodate those who’d missed the canceled morning one. The number of attendees was up because of the rain, but I rushed through the lecture, answered few questions, and we got the doors closed right on time at five.

Ronald went home to have dinner with his wife, promising to return at seven to spend the night. Charlene volunteered to remain in the library until then. “After all,” she said, “I have a lot of reading to catch up on.”

“You people,” Bertie said, her eyes glistening with tears, “are simply amazing.”

Bertie and I went to her car. She drove up the beach.

Jonathan and Diane Uppiton lived in the town of Kill Devil Hills, in a small community of narrow winding streets and nice, although not ostentatious,
houses on large lots. At Kill Devil Hills, the island widens enough that the sand dunes, beach grass, and sea oats are replaced by a maritime forest of substantial trees: live oaks, hickories, and beech mostly. Bertie pulled into the driveway of a large white home with an impressive front porch. Unlike most Outer Banks houses, this one was flat on the ground, not sitting high on pillars. The property was heavily shaded, the ground covered not in grass but unraked leaf mulch. The house next door had a formal garden with immaculate lawns, neatly planted flower beds, and groomed shrubbery. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Peterson at the library today, and I wondered if she was standing behind the curtains of the large front window, armed with “birding” binoculars.

Bertie hadn’t phoned ahead, not wanting to give Diane a chance to say she wouldn’t be in. The garage door was shut, but a car was parked in the driveway. Not a new Corvette, but a somewhat rusty Dodge Neon.

“Is that Diane’s car?” I asked.

“No. I’ve seen it before, but I’m not sure who owns it.”

A sign was fastened to the mailbox:
BEWARE OF DOG
. Although the sign was so old that the letters were faded and it now read
BEWARE OF OG
. Several yellow Posted signs were nailed to trees at the edges of the property. I thought of the half-sawed off branch, the inquisitive little boy, his brokenhearted parents.

We parked behind the Neon, got out, and walked to the door. I rang the bell, a dog barked, and the door was opened. Diane Uppiton’s head popped
out. “This is a surprise. What can I do for you, Bertie?”

“Do you have a few minutes, Diane?”

“I’m entertaining at the moment.” She looked to be dressed for company—male company—in a tight black, thigh-length skirt, a teal blouse with plunging décolletage, yards of blue beads around her neck, and dangerously high stiletto sandals. The glittering polish on her toes and fingers matched the blouse.

“We won’t be long.” Bertie stepped forward, giving Diane no choice but to shut the door in her face or let her in. The dog, a black-and-brown miniature dachshund with a teal bow around its neck, sniffed at our feet and we entered the house in a tumble. “Princess, get away,” Diane said, not very sharply. “Silly thing.”

“Who is it, Diane?” A man came out of a room off to one side of the long hallway. He carried a crystal glass containing a smoky liquid tinkling with ice.

“Curtis,” Bertie said, “how nice to see you.”

Diane said, “Curtis dropped in for supper.”

I unobtrusively sniffed the air. Nothing but cleaning fluids and Diane’s perfume, applied with her usual heavy hand.

“This is a good time for a visit,” Curtis said. “Seein’ as to how we were just talking about the library. Isn’t that right, Diane?”

“We were? Oh yes, we were.”

“Come on into the study. Can I get you gals something to drink? There’s white wine in the fridge. I’m having bourbon myself.”

“A small bourbon would be nice,” Bertie said.

“Wine for me,” I said.

Curtis waved for us to go first, and Diane led the way, the little dog scampering at her feet.

Bertie and I exchanged glances. Curtis seemed to be making himself quite at home in Jonathan Uppiton’s house.

I stopped dead at the entrance to the study. A wall of glass overlooked the back garden, now full of fog, the massive trees dripping rain. Everywhere else was books. Books, books, and more books. Deep mahogany shelves filled the three other sides of the room, floor to ceiling, corner to corner. A circle of dark leather chairs rested on a rich red rug, worn with age. Potted plants in concrete urns stood on tall pedestals, and spindle-legged tables, the prefect size for resting drinks and books, were beside each chair.

Particularly with the fog drifting against the windows, this room could have been at Pemberley. I glanced into a corner, dim in the fading light, and imagined Mr. Darcy seated there. A glass of whiskey at hand, fire blazing, a wolfhound resting at his feet, a leather-bound volume on his lap. And Elizabeth, Lizzie, his beloved wife, sweeping in in a flurry of skirts and laughter to tell him what her sisters had done this time.

“I’m unsure what to do with all these tedious books.” Diane carried in a bottle of wine, a used glass, and a fresh one. “I suppose they’re worth something.”

“You’re planning to sell them?” I said, accepting a glass.

“This room’s so dark. It has the best view in the entire house, and what did Jonathan do with it but turn it into a dreary library. I’m going to redecorate.
If I rip out those shelves, the room will be so much bigger.”

I choked on the second-rate wine.

“It needs livening up—bright colors; wicker furniture, perhaps; lots of cushions; some of my own paintings.”

“Diane does really good watercolors. She’s sure talented, aren’t you, babe? I don’t know why one of the galleries in town won’t carry them. Snobbery, probably.”

She beamed. “Curtis is searching for a reliable secondhand book dealer, aren’t you, Curtis? We want to be sure to get what the books are worth. Would the library like the leftovers, Bertie? I hate to throw them in the garbage.”

I might have choked again, but by this time I’d had a look at some of the books. What on first glace appeared to be an impressive collection was no better than you’d find in any public library. A full set of
Encyclopaedia Britannica
, leather covers cracked and worn; several large atlases; modern hardcovers; and a few tattered trade paperbacks. American history, political biographies, and popular thrillers, mostly. I pulled a Linwood Barclay off the shelf and thumbed through it. The edges were creased, the pages worn. Most of the books showed similar signs of use. Jonathan had collected what he wanted to read.

I hadn’t liked the man very much on the two occasions we’d met, but my estimation of him now rose considerably.