By Book or by Crook (3 page)

“Get me a beer,” she snapped. “Good. There he
is.” She headed straight for the alcove, where Connor was still standing beside the collection, exchanging greetings with patrons.

But it wasn’t Connor she was intent on cornering.

I saw a look of alarm cross Bertie’s face and came out of hiding to join her. “Oh no. Not now. Not here,” she muttered.

“I have a bone to pick with you, Mr. Uppiton,” Louise Jane bellowed. Once again, conversation ground to a halt and heads turned. Connor blinked in confusion. “Is there a problem, Miss McKaughnan?”

“There sure is. As Mr. Uppiton knows full well. This can’t be allowed to continue.” Andrew tiptoed up to her and held out a glass full of frothy beer. She snatched it out of his hand and swallowed half of it in one go.

Bertie pushed her way through the crowd. I’d never seen such a look of pure anger on her face. In addition to her job as head librarian of the Lighthouse Library, Bertie was a yoga instructor. She practiced its calming rituals every day.

Knowing, fearing what was about to happen, I followed in my boss’s wake.

“I agree with you, Louise Jane,” Mr. Uppiton said. He also was almost shouting, playing to the crowd once again. “I’m grievously disappointed in Bertie. I thought she had more sense.”

“Obviously not,” Louise Jane said. “That job was promised to me. Me!”

Andrew’s head bobbed in agreement. Partygoers whispered questions to each other.

“It’s a total waste of library funds,” Mr. Uppiton said. “And not included in this year’s budget.”

“My great-grandfather manned this very lighthouse. His dedication was nothing short of heroic. My grandparents, God rest their sainted souls, built this town. My mother raised funds for the restoration of the lighthouse.”

“As I recall,” Aunt Ellen whispered in my ear, “Jane McKaughnan put on an enormous garden party. By the time she’d paid to have her grounds groomed and fountains installed to make it a suitable venue, rented a tent and a hundred chairs along with silver cutlery and crystal wineglasses, paid for a live string orchestra, and booked caterers for a full afternoon tea, with champagne, about ten dollars remained for the lighthouse fund.”

I chuckled, despite myself.

“It’s not as if the girl has any real community library experience, anyway,” Mr. Uppiton said, addressing the crowd. Louise Jane grinned maliciously beside him. “A
university
librarian. Totally useless.”

“Quite right, Mr. Uppiton. I’ve said all along—haven’t I, Andrew?—that what we need here is someone from a true Bodie Island family. Someone who knows the history of the land, someone in whom the blood of the old families runs in . . .”

“This is not the time nor the place.” Connor attempted to get a word in.

“What we need,” Mr. Uppiton thundered, “is no further unnecessary expenses. About all this girl from. . . . from . . . Boston . . . is needed for is to make tea for Bertie and to shelve books.”

“That’s enough.” Bertie pushed her way through
the crowd of onlookers. Her whole body shook and a vein pulsed in the side of her throat. “I hired Lucy, who just happens to be a highly qualified librarian with a master’s degree, no less, because she is sorely needed here.”

“I’ll admit she has the education,” Mr. Uppiton sniffed, “but really, Bertie, you have to learn to control your spending. Why, you could have hired Louise Jane here for a fraction of the cost.”

“I could have hired a trained donkey for a fraction of the cost. But I need a librarian, not a trained donkey.”

A couple of people tittered. Was Bertie—calm, sensible Bertie—calling Louise Jane a donkey?

“Hey,” Louise Jane said.

“But that’s beside the point. We don’t have the funds in the budget. You shouldn’t have hired anyone. As I have said . . .”

“Over and over and over,” Bertie said. “Fortunately, hiring staff is my responsibility.”

“As head of the library board, it is within my power to call a special meeting of the board to overturn your decision.”

Bertie stepped forward. “You. Would. Not. Dare.” She punctuated every word with the poke of a long, thin finger into his chest.

He sniffed. “Really, my dear. I will do whatever is necessary to maintain the integrates of this library and its funding.”

Charlene laughed. Mr. Uppiton threw her a ferocious glance, and she was overcome by a coughing fit.

“Most of the board seems to be here,” he said. “I
call an emergency meeting for tomorrow night. We will vote on terminating the position of assistant librarian and putting a moratorium on any further hiring.”

“Hey,” Louise Jane protested. “That’s not what I meant.”

Bertie’s yell drowned her out. “You pompous jerk! How dare you override my authority in this manner. I won’t stand for it.”

“You,” Mr. Uppiton said, “have no choice. Now, where were we, Your Honor? I believe we were discussing my idea for installing a contemplative fountain on the library grounds.”

Bertie, however, wasn’t finished. Her face was flushed with rage. “If you fire Lucy,” she said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I will not be responsible for my actions.”

“A threat?” Mr. Uppiton raised one eyebrow theatrically. “How childish of you, Bertie.”

“That’s enough,” Connor said. “You’re deliberately goading Bertie, Jonathan. This is a party to celebrate the Austen collection and all of Bertie’s hard work in securing it for us. Now, I, for one, haven’t had any of Josie’s delicious squares yet, and there seems to be plenty of wine still left at the bar.”

People moved away and conversation resumed, as everyone pretended not to have been caught listening.

The party went downhill from there.

The hands of the big clock over the door touched eight, but Bertie didn’t make her announcement. Instead, she slipped into a dark recess behind the shelf labeled Morrison–Proulx and stood alone, taking
deep, calming breaths while gathering her arms in swooping motions to her chest. No one made a move to leave. No doubt they were all waiting to see if there would be any more excitement.

I decided I needed a chocolate-chip cookie to settle my nerves. Two chocolate-chip cookies.

Would Mr. Uppiton go through with his threat? I couldn’t bear to lose this job. Without a job I had no place to live on the Outer Banks. Aunt Ellen would offer to take me in, of course, and insist that they had plenty of room. Which they didn’t. Once their children moved away for college and jobs, she and Uncle Amos had bought their dream home: a small, perfect seaside house. I couldn’t stay there for long without becoming a burden. Even worse than being homeless and jobless, I’d lose access to the Austen collection. I saw my dream of taking those books, one at a time, up to my tiny, circular room high above the crashing waves, disappearing.

On a more practical level, I didn’t know what I would do then. Where would I go if I couldn’t find a home or a job? I couldn’t bear to go back to Boston. To my brothers’ told-you-so sneers, to my father’s absentminded pat on the head, to my mother telling me that she was glad I’d come to my senses. Finally.

As I stood by the buffet, worrying and stuffing food into my mouth, a path opened in front of me, and I could see all the way to the far side of the room into the alcove. The precious books were temporarily alone. Even Theodore had gone in search of sustenance or further gossip.

No, there he was. Heading not for the drinks and company, but for the back stairs. The stairs that
bypassed the main rooms and gave access only to the private collection. Where we kept rare and valuable books.

I put down my half-finished cookie and took a step forward.

“Don’t worry about him, Lucy. He’s all talk and no action. He’ll back down tomorrow.”

At first I thought Butch was talking about Theodore. Then he continued, “If I know Bertie, and I do, your job’s safe.”

I peered around his shoulder. It was much too high to actually look over. I thought I saw the soles of Theodore’s shoes disappearing up the curving stairs. “I need to . . .”

“My brother’s working flat out to make his restaurant a success,” Butch said. “I want to give him all the business I can. Are you free tomorrow evening?”

“Tomorrow? You mean for dinner?”

“Yes, I mean for dinner.” He smiled at me. His eyes were a deep brown speckled with flakes of gold. Someone bumped him from behind and mumbled, “Sorry.” Butch stepped closer to me. He smelled of beer and aftershave and delicious male hormones. “You don’t have any other plans, I hope.”

Oh, my gosh. This amazing man was asking me out. On a date. My face began to burn.

“You do eat, don’t you?” A smile touched the edges of his mouth.

Flames shot into my cheeks. “Of course I do. Eat, I mean. I’d enjoy trying your brother’s restaurant.”

“Good.” He took a sip of his beer. His eyes were focused on me, not glancing around, not seeking someone more interesting. I enjoyed the attention.
Although in the back of my mind I was aware of Connor, moving easily through the room, exchanging greetings with everyone. “Josie tells me you’re from Boston. What brings you our way?”

I told Butch about vacationing on the Outer Banks when I was a kid. How much I’d always loved it. I said I was bored with my job at the Harvard Library and wanted to make a change. I’d come here to get away, to spend time with my favorite aunt and uncle in my favorite place in all the world. To have space and time and the support to make some decisions about the direction I wanted my life to take.

I didn’t think this was the time or the place to go into the
real
reason I’d fled Massachusetts so abruptly.

The day after I arrived, I told Butch, Aunt Ellen had invited her best and oldest friend to tea, knowing full well that Bertie had long been searching for an assistant librarian for the Lighthouse Library. Not even realizing I was undergoing a job interview, by the time tea ended, I had an offer of employment. Just for the summer, to begin. If it worked out, it could become permanent.

Only, I hastened to add, because of my qualifications and experience. I didn’t mention how Bertie had touched my hand when she left and said that she didn’t really give a fig for my master’s degree. It was the passion for books and the obvious joy I found in reading that I expressed with every word I spoke that convinced her I’d be perfect for the Lighthouse Library. And that the Lighthouse Library would be perfect for me.

“Speaking of which,” I said. “Bertie was planning
some sort of big announcement at eight. It’s well past that now, isn’t it?”

Butch glanced around the room. He was tall enough that he could see over everyone’s heads. “I don’t see her. Maybe she’s getting ready.”

At that very moment a piercing yell filled the room. Then came a solid thud on the floor over our heads. People stopped talking, looked up, faces full of confusion.

The thud was followed by a moment of silence, broken only by Charles screaming to be released, the soft music, and the sound of wind rattling the windows and pushing against the solid, round walls of the lighthouse.

After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Peterson’s voice rang throughout the room. “Primrose, on the other hand, is such an advanced reader that I fear the school library simply can’t rise to her level. Of course, we’d love to send her to a
better
school, but until that happens, Ronald honey, I’m hoping you . . .”

Then we heard a piercing scream and a cry of “He’s dead!”

W
e all stood rooted to our spots, mouths open in surprise and shock, looking at one another as though waiting for someone to tell us what was going on.

Everyone except for Butch. He was halfway across the room, sprinting for the back stairs, before I’d had time to close my mouth.

Without conscious thought, I ran after him. My first thought had been for
Sense and Sensibility
,
Emma
,
Pride and Prejudice
, and Jane Austen’s equally wonderful but lesser-known books. Had someone slipped into the party in an attempt to steal them? Were they now being carried through the damp mist by a scoundrel with no knowledge of the proper care of old papers and nineteenth-century binding?

The scream had sounded like a woman’s, and I’d noticed that Bertie was no longer attempting to calm herself behind Toni Morrison’s works. Was she heroically fighting off the thief?

As I ran, I glanced around me. Josie was frozen in the act of arranging the few remaining cookies and
squares on the buffet table. Aunt Ellen held a tray of dirty plates and glasses. People began murmuring questions to each other.

Connor fell into step behind me. “Where does that staircase lead?”

“The private collection.”

Ronald abandoned Mrs. Peterson in midsentence. He strode into the center of the room and lifted his arms, drawing everyone’s attention to himself. “Ladies and gentlemen. Remain where you are. Officer Greenblatt has gone to investigate. Charlene, why don’t you stand at the bottom of the stairs, and ensure no one else goes up?”

Louise Jane was with Mrs. Fitzgerald, second in command on the library board, close to the back staircase. She waved an empty glass in the air, explaining that she didn’t mean the assistant-librarian job should be
eliminated
. Only that it should be given to her. Andrew hovered at her elbow, his head bobbing like a PEZ dispenser. Daffy Duck, perhaps. In a quiet area beneath the curve of stairs, Mrs. Uppiton had cornered one of the few unaccompanied men at the party. She was batting her overly made-up eyelashes at him while he leered down the front of her dress.

I glanced at the Austen collection as I darted past. Everything appeared as it should.

The back stairs don’t go all the way to the top of the lighthouse. They end in a small round room that’s not open to the general public, where we keep the oldest and rarest of our collection for viewing by appointment. That room would be where Bertie was
likely to keep the surprise she’d been planning to unveil at eight o’clock.

Like the main lighthouse stairs, these are spiral and made of black iron, curving around and around, leading up into the darkness. I could see the bottoms of Butch’s shoes above me and could hear the pounding of Connor’s feet below.

I burst into the rare-books room. The walls were lined with old bookshelves. There was no window at this level, so no danger of sunlight touching the papers. The center of the room was filled by a gorgeous antique secretary, the warm, aged oak polished to a brilliant gloss, with a high back of pigeonholes and multiple drawers. A tall, modern desk lamp, now switched off, stood nearby for close examination of old handwriting or worn and fading print. The single yellow bulb in the ceiling cast a weak light that did not reach the corners. Not that the room, being round, had many corners.

The secretary’s drawers were closed, but the desktop stood open, propped up by the sliders on either side. It held a single book, no more than four inches square and an inch thick. A notebook, leather cover worn and faded with the passage of many years and many hands. I’d never seen it before.

I paid it little attention now.

Mr. Uppiton lay in the center of the room, on his stomach, his arms outstretched. A puddle of dark liquid spread out from his upper body, and the unexpected scent of beer filled the air. He was very still. His right hand appeared to be reaching toward the massive book next to him, which lay faceup, open to a page showing an eighteenth-century map of the
New England coast. Butch crouched over him, fingers to Mr. Uppiton’s neck.

Before I could stop myself, I took a step forward, intending to pick up the book and check its spine for damage. Shards of glass were scattered on the floor, sparkling in what little light there was.

“Stay back,” Butch said, his voice not light and flirty as it had been only moments ago, but full of cool authority. “Connor, call nine-one-one. We’ll need police and an ambulance. Although the ambulance needn’t hurry. He’s dead.”

I sucked in a breath.

Butch rose slowly to his feet. Connor left the room to make the call. These walls were made of solid stone, many feet thick in places. Cell phone reception was spotty to nonexistent. Only as I watched him go did I notice Bertie, standing against the far wall in the dark shadow between two bookshelves.

She was holding something in both hands. The neck of a broken bottle. Her hands opened and the bottle fell to the floor with a crash.

None of us said anything for a long time.

Then Butch took one step toward her. “Albertina James,” he said. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Jonathan Uppiton.”

She said nothing, looked at him through wide, shocked eyes.

“You can’t be serious,” I shouted. “That’s absolutely ridiculous. Bertie wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“They’re on their way,” Connor said, slipping back into the room.

“Then we’ll wait,” Butch said, his eyes fixed on Bertie. “Right here.”

Soon sirens pierced the silence of the room and the night, heading our way, getting closer.

Bertie snapped out of her empty-eyed stare. She gave her head a good shake and said, “No, Officer Greenblatt. I didn’t kill anyone. I found him”—she gestured—“like that.”

Butch pointed to the broken glass on the floor. It was from a beer bottle, small neck, brown glass. “Looks like the murder weapon to me. How’d you happen to be holding it?”

“I came into the room to get Miss Austen’s notebook.”

A notebook? A Jane Austen notebook? “What notebook?” I asked.

Butch threw me a look. “I don’t think that’s relevant right now.”

“Sorry.”

“I came into the room. Then I saw him. Right there.” Bertie’s hand quivered as she pointed. Her face was very pale, ghostly, almost, in the dim light. “I thought he’d fallen. I knelt down to see if I could help. Then I saw . . . I don’t remember picking up the bottle. I guess I must have.”

“Librarian’s instinct,” I told Butch. “There are valuable books and papers in this room. Spilled liquid could ruin them.”

“So could a man’s blood,” Butch said.

Outside, sirens screamed. We could hear the buzz of excited conversation below us, whispered questions, and shouted demands for information. Then boots on the staircase, and suddenly the room was full of men and women and equipment.

A man, late forties with a crew cut above a square
face and lantern jaw and cold, unfriendly eyes, approached us.

“Detective Sam Watson,” Butch said.

Detective Watson glared at me. “Who are you?”

“Lucy Richardson. Assistant librarian?” My voice squeaked.

“You the one who found the body?”

“No.”

“You the one who killed him?”

“Me! Certainly not.”

“Then I don’t want you here. Downstairs, now. You, too, Mr. Mayor, unless you want to confess.”

Connor didn’t dignify that with a response. “Come on, Lucy. I’ll help you down.”

In the four days I’d been working here, I might have dashed up and down these stairs, as well as the main ones, a hundred times. Tonight I was grateful for the offer of assistance. Connor held out his arm and gave me an encouraging smile. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

I glanced across the room at Butch. He was huddled with Sam Watson, talking in a low voice. He pointed toward Bertie and I heard only one word: “threatened.”

So Butch was a police officer. I felt awful as I realized I’d been so busy talking about myself, trying to cover my nervousness in the unusual situation of being flirted with by such an intensely masculine creature, that I hadn’t even asked him about himself. His accent was definitely Outer Banks—that’s about all I knew. I heard my mother’s voice as clearly as if it were she, not Connor, who had a gentle hand on my arm. “Really, Lucille. A lady never beats a
gentleman at tennis. And she certainly never monopolizes the conversation to talk about herself!”

Behind us, I heard Watson telling Bertie she wasn’t under arrest. “At this time,” he added ominously. She was not to leave Dare County. In the meantime, she was to wait in her office to be questioned.

Connor and I descended the stairs. A female police officer followed, her hand gripping Bertie’s arm.

Clearly no one had been told what was going on, as we were assaulted from all sides when we reached the bottom. I heard cries of:

“What’s happened?”

“Why are the police here?”

“Is someone injured?”

“I saw them taking Bertie away. Is she under arrest?”

Mrs. Fitzgerald had collapsed into a wingback armchair and was calming her nerves with a small golden fan. And a large glass of red wine.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Connor gave my arm a warning squeeze. “The police will let us know what’s happening in due course. In the meantime, I suspect they’d prefer if we remain here. Josie, do you have any more of those delicious pecan tarts? Perhaps you’d better put on another pot of coffee. I’m sure the police would enjoy a hot cup on a cold, wet night. Mrs. Peterson, Josie could use a hand with the coffee.”

We all practically jumped out of our skins as the CD player started up and the not-at-all-subtle voice of Jay-Z blared into the room.

“Charlene!” Ronald yelled. “Turn that blasted thing off.”

She turned a knob, and the sound diminished fractionally. “Turn it off, please, Charlene,” Connor said. “And I mean off—don’t just turn the sound down. Perhaps we can enjoy your musical selection when the police have left. Thank you.”

Blessed silence. Even Charles the cat had been shocked into muteness. The effect was, unfortunately, only temporary, and he soon reminded us of his sad predicament. Charlene was our reference librarian. As hardworking as they came, smarter than your average whip, she’d spent five years in England working among the sainted bookshelves of the Bodleian Library at the University of Oxford. She’d returned home to the Outer Banks when her mother fell ill and needed care. As well as a love of medieval literature, somehow in England Charlene had found a love of twenty-first-century American rap music. She was, Bertie had told me, with a sad shake of her head, on a mission to introduce the staff and patrons of the Lighthouse Library to her passion.

That the staff and patrons had been introduced and found the music not entirely to their taste was seen by Charlene as merely an obstacle in her road.

But right now I had more important things to think about than Charlene’s appalling taste in music. I studied the faces of the people in the room. No one stood out as looking guilty or anything other than confused.

Under Connor’s politely delivered orders and
calm Southern charm, people began to relax. “If the mayor isn’t upset, then nothing to worry about,” I heard someone say. People headed back to the buffet table (I wondered if Josie had an inexhaustible supply of cookies and squares) and the bar. Aunt Ellen began bringing out fresh coffee and mugs.

She placed them on the table and then slid up to me. “The door to Bertie’s office is closed and an unfriendly policewoman is standing outside. What’s happening? Is Bertie ill?”

I glanced at Connor. He was crouched by Mrs. Fitzgerald’s chair, talking to her softly. “I can’t say. But it . . . doesn’t look good.”

“Jonathan!” Diane Uppiton let out a full-throated cry. “Where’s my Jonny?” She dashed for the stairs.

Connor leapt to his feet and intercepted her. “Mr. Uppiton is . . . indisposed. . . . Why don’t you have a seat, Diane? I’ll get someone to join you momentarily.”

This time his calming words had no effect. “He’s not here. Jonny!” she yelled. “Where’s Jonny? And where’s Bertie? She had something to do with this, I know it! She threatened my husband. I heard her. You all heard her!”

The crowd gasped. Shouted questions flew across the room. People demanded to know what was going on. Diane Uppiton shoved Connor aside. She began to cry, and black makeup dripped down her cheeks. “I have to get to Jonny. Oh, my darling Jonny.”

Sam Watson appeared, as if in a puff of smoke, at
the bottom of the iron staircase. Butch Greenblatt, a badge hastily pinned to his shirt, was beside him.

“Let me through,” Diane declared.

“Threats,” Watson said. “What’s this about threats?”

“That . . . that woman, threated Jonathan. In this very room, no more than half an hour ago. We all heard her.”

People began to mumble in agreement.

“What woman?” Watson asked.

“She means the head librarian, Albertina James,” Butch said. “I heard her myself.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I pushed my way forward. “Bertie and Mr. Uppiton had an argument—that’s all. People make threats all the time that they never carry out. Sure, Bertie was angry. She . . .”

I felt a soft hand on my arm. “Lucy,” Aunt Ellen said, “You are not helping.”

“But . . .”

“No ‘but.’ Come with me. Have a seat.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the police. Watson was watching me, his gaze not friendly. Butch was also looking at me. I might have been mistaken, but I thought I saw a touch of pity in his hazel eyes.