By Book or by Crook (22 page)

As soon as I hung up, I mentally kicked myself. I sounded like a teenage girl calling a guy, hoping for a date. I considered trying Watson. The last time I’d tried telling Detective Watson my suspicions, he’d pretty much turned the tables and accused me of the killing. I didn’t want another chat with Watson without having Uncle Amos with me. And Uncle Amos was celebrating his wedding anniversary. No way was I going to interrupt that!

I’d wait for Butch to call, explain my reasoning about Louise Jane being the killer, and then take Uncle Amos down to the station with me in the morning. No hurry.

Charles reminded me that it was long past dinnertime.

I ran upstairs, dropped my purse on the bed, shrugged off my funeral jacket, replaced the stiff white blouse with a black T-shirt, and then returned with a bowl of cat food and my laptop. As Charles dug in, I kicked off my shoes and settled into the chair recently vacated by Aaron to do some work
until Ronald arrived. I’d found a Cambridge University PhD thesis on Jane Austen’s influence on the modern novel, which I’d been saving until I had time to read the whole thing.

I kicked off my shoes and settled down to read. It was a fascinating paper, and I was soon immersed in it.

The author made a reference to something in
Persuasion
that I’d missed in my own reading. I pulled my head out of the research paper and stretched muscles stiff from sitting. I went to the shelves and found a hefty hardcover of the Austen book. I walked back to my chair, flicking through the pages, looking for the reference. Only as I was about to sit back down did I realize how dark it had become. Outside, night had fallen, and the room was illuminated only by the small circle of yellow light in the Austen alcove. I glanced at my watch. To my considerable surprise, it was after nine o’clock.

Where was Ronald? I’d last seen him in the church hall, hiding from Mrs. Peterson behind a dying philodendron. I hadn’t said good-bye to him or any of my other coworkers, and he hadn’t said anything about not coming to sleep in the library tonight. Perhaps he’d changed his mind—it was rather a silly idea in the first place—but I would have expected him to tell me if he had.

I crossed the room in my stocking feet and peeked out the window.

Charles leapt onto the ledge to also have a look.

Rain lashed the window, and I could hear trees groaning against the wind. It had been brilliantly
sunny when I left the funeral. On this narrow strip of sand sticking out in the Atlantic Ocean, the weather could, and often did, turn on a dime. When high above me the first-order Fresnel lens flashed in its two-and-a-half-second pattern, all I could see were night and rain.

A sudden deluge like this one would sometimes flood the lower-lying roads. It was possible Ronald couldn’t get through. I’d give him a call. Let him know all was okay and he was not to try to come if the roads were dangerous.

I tucked
Persuasion
under my arm. My feet were freezing on the marble floor, and I slipped the killer heels back on as I went to the circulation desk and picked up the phone. It took me a moment to realize what I was hearing.

Nothing.

No dial tone. Like a character in an old movie, I pounded buttons, hoping that would help. Still nothing.

The phone wasn’t working. A tree must have fallen into the lines.

I’d left my cell phone in my purse. And my purse was upstairs in my apartment. I could run up and get it, but reception was so spotty in these stone walls, I’d probably have to go outside to make the call.

In the short time I’d been living here, I’d become so accustomed to the regular pattern of the lighthouse light at night that I scarcely noticed it anymore: 2.5 seconds on, 2.5 seconds off, 2.5 seconds on, and then 22.5 seconds off. When a stream of light lit
up the window and did not go off again, I went back to the window for a peek outside.

Headlights were turning into the parking lot.

Good. Ronald must have gotten through. I watched as the car pulled up to the foot of the path. It was a small, foreign compact, but I couldn’t make out the model or color. The headlights were switched off, and a moment later the thousand-watt light of the lighthouse went into its 22.5 second dormancy. I strained to peer outside, but it was as dark, as if this coast were still lit by nothing other than homemade tallow candles and sputtering oil lamps.

A knock pounded on the door.

Ronald must have forgotten his key.

I peered out into the night. And then, for some unknown reason, I remembered the night of the reception. The night Jonathan Uppiton had died. Louise Jane had been drinking beer, all right. But Louise Jane never did anything for herself. Not when she had Poor Andrew at her beck and call. “Get me a drink,” she’d ordered him. He’d brought her a beer. But it had been in a glass, not straight from the bottle. She’d finished that one and had still been holding her empty glass when I ran past her and up the stairs in answer to Bertie’s cry.

She had never gotten a new beer because the person who had grabbed her the bottle never poured her the drink. Instead he had gone upstairs with the bottle of beer he’d started to get for his dear Louise Jane in his hand.

I sucked in a breath.

It was Andrew. Andrew who’d attacked John Uppiton.

Andrew who’d stolen the precious books.

Thank heavens Ronald had arrived. He could guard the library while I drove to the police station to tell them what I’d figured out.

As I turned away from the window, Charles hissed and spat and dug his nails into my hand very hard.

“Hey! Stop that. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be afraid of a little storm.”

I headed for the door. Charles leapt off the ledge and threw himself under my feet. I stumbled, cursed, and nudged the cat aside with my foot. His fur was standing on end, his eyes were narrow yellow slits, and his lips curled back to reveal his little teeth. He hissed once again as I, wondering if he’d heard an animal outside, unlocked and threw open the door.

Not Ronald, but Andrew. He’d taken off the tie he’d worn at the funeral and undone the top buttons of his shirt. His fair hair was mussed, as though he’d raked his fingers through it over and over.

“Oh, hi,” I said, trying to sound calm. “Louise Jane isn’t here.”

“I know that. She went home after the reception. She was very tired.”

“So am I. Absolutely beat. It’s late. Why don’t you come back tomorrow?” I tried to close the door, but I was too slow. He was inside the library. “I need to talk to you, Lucy. I’m worried about Louise Jane. I think . . . I think she’s in trouble. I want do to the right thing, but I’m afraid for her.”

“We can talk about it tomorrow.”

Charles spat.

“Tomorrow,” Andrew said, “will be too late.”

He slammed the door shut behind him and twisted the lock. His boyish face was set into hard lines, his shoulders tight, and his fists clenched. He didn’t look much like harmless, mild-mannered, sycophant Andrew anymore.

I realized I hadn’t seen the car’s interior light come on when the driver got out in the 22.5 seconds the area was in pitch-darkness. It had been intentionally switched off. So I wouldn’t know it wasn’t Ronald coming up the path.

Rainwater dripped off his shoulders and began to puddle at his feet. “You should have gone home, Lucy. Back to Boston, where you belong. You can’t just come here and take other people’s jobs, you know.”

My mouth was dry, my tongue overly large. I took a step backward. “I realized that myself. This afternoon, at the funeral. Diane and Curtis intend to shut the library down. There won’t be jobs for anyone, not me nor Louise Jane. I phoned Bertie a couple of minutes ago. I told her I quit. She was angry. Told me to get out and not bother filling in my notice.”

“You phoned Bertie?”

“Yup.”

“How?”

“Huh?”

“The landline’s out. The wires are down.”

Until now I’d been hoping I was misinterpreting Andrew’s voice and gestures. It was possible that the interior light in his car was burned out. But this I couldn’t fail to understand: how did Andrew know the phone wasn’t working? “The storm?”

“The storm. With some help. I heard what you
said at the funeral, Lucy. You suspect Louise Jane killed Jonathan. Well, she didn’t. I can’t let you start spreading rumors that she did.”

“I won’t.” I squeaked.

“No,” he said. “You won’t.”

“Why don’t you tell me,” I said, trying to force out a smile, “why you had to do it. I know you must have had a good reason.”
Keep him talking. Keep him talking
. Ronald was bound to get here soon.

“Uppiton had no intention of hiring Louise Jane. Even if they got rid of you, he didn’t think the library needed her. He didn’t realize how valuable an employee she would be. None of you did. So I killed him. I should have killed you, too. But no, I was too weak. Too kind. I thought if I stole those stupid books and made it look like you were a thief, they’d realize they had to get rid of you and hire Louise Jane.” He gave me a sickening smile. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Totally. Louise Jane must be very proud of you.”

“Oh, she doesn’t know anything about it. She doesn’t know what I’d do for her. What I’ve done for her. But I don’t mind. If she’s happy, then I’m happy.”

Charles leapt to the floor. His back arched and he hissed.

“I’m so glad it worked out,” I said.
Where the heck is Ronald?
“I won’t tell her if you don’t want me to.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to, all right.”

All of a sudden, without my noticing where it had come from, a knife was in Andrew’s hand. It wasn’t much of a knife, just an ordinary kitchen thing, used for slicing vegetables, probably. But I had no doubt
it could do serious damage to more than carrots and turnips.

I bolted. Andrew was between me and the door, so I headed for the stairs. If I got to my apartment, my lighthouse aerie, I could barricade myself in. I’d grab my iPhone and hope I could get a signal. If I had to, I’d break the glass on the window and lean out as far out as possible. I’d get soaked, but the phone should work then. I thought of Louise Jane’s story of the lighthouse keeper’s young wife throwing herself out that window. Would they find me below and think her ghost had driven me to do the same?

My foot hit the first rung of the twisting iron stairs. I felt Andrew behind me. The light from the alcove didn’t reach here, and everything was as dark as can be. I scrambled up the stairs. He grabbed at my ankle. I lashed out and felt the pointed heel of my shoe make contact with something soft and yielding. He yelped and I was free. I reached the first landing. The steps shook with the impact. When the great lamp came on and some light burst through the window, I dared to glance over my shoulder. Those killer heels had gotten Andrew full in the face. He’d been knocked onto his butt and was rubbing his left cheekbone. He looked up at me. He pushed himself to his feet as we were plunged into darkness when the light switched off. I couldn’t remember if I’d locked the door to my apartment. I always did during the day when we were open to the public, but sometimes I didn’t bother if I went down to the main library after hours. If I had locked the door, I was doomed. My keys were a weight in my pocket,
but I wouldn’t be able to find the right one among the bunch in the dark. Never mind fit it successfully into the lock. Any hesitation, and Andrew would be on me.

If he kills me,
I thought,
the police should have enough evidence—this time—to arrest and convict him.
The thought did nothing to comfort me.

Second floor. I flew past the children’s library. Plush toys, soft-covered books, blankets and comforters, and brightly colored plastic games. Nothing I could use as a weapon there. Behind me, Andrew got to his feet. I heard his deep breathing, the pounding of his feet on the stairs.

I zigzagged from one side of the stairs to the other, knowing he wouldn’t be able to see my legs in the dark. Thank heavens I was wearing black slacks and a black shirt.

The third floor. Charlene’s research collection. No help there.

“You can’t run forever, Lucy,” Andrew said as the light burst on once more. “There’s nothing at the top but a long, long way down.” He made another grab for my ankle, but didn’t have a strong grip. I twisted free and his fingers fell away. I ran on, higher and higher. Around and around.

I was almost at the fourth floor. My door.
Please, God, I hope I haven’t locked it.

I was used to walking these stairs in the near dark. I knew exactly where the door was. I reached it, grabbed the knob. Twisted.

Locked.

My key was buried somewhere in a pocket of my
pants. Andrew’s harsh wheezing breath followed me as he came up the stairs.

No time, no time.

The light was approaching the apex of its dark period. I had about fifteen seconds to get ready.

I whirled around, placed myself at the edge of the top step. I planted my feet firmly apart and bent my knees. I braced myself. I would not simply let him kill me.

The light came on. Andrew stood no more than a foot from me. He was one step lower, making his face almost level with mine. He was so close, I could have reached out and touched him. I screamed and my courage fled. I leapt backward.

“Got you now,” he said. He raised the knife as the light died.

In the total darkness, the silence was broken by a howl of feline rage. Andrew screamed in pain. The light flashed and I could see again. Charles had leapt onto Andrew’s chest and raked his claws across his face. Andrew swung the knife toward the cat, but Charles jumped nimbly away and the blade slashed at empty air. Andrew stood on the edge of the step. I screamed to give myself strength, lifted my hand, and lashed out. I struck him on the side of his head, hard. He stared at me through wide, surprised eyes. It went dark, and I heard him fall.

It was a terrible sound. He rolled down the steps, the iron clanging at every impact. He came to a stop at the third-floor landing with a final hard thud. I held my breath, but all fell quiet.

When the light flashed once again, I could see Andrew where he lay on the landing, outside the reference room. His body was very still. Charles perched on the railing above him, flashing his claws and spitting in anger.