By Book or by Crook (8 page)

“The killing made the Boston papers?”

“No, but I do follow the news from the Outer Banks, you know.”

Since when?

Since I moved here, I guessed. Somehow that was nice to know. Although not in this particular instance.

I lost her next words in a burst of static. “I can’t hear you too well, Mom. But I’m fine. Why, look at it this way: this is the scene of a police investigation. I couldn’t be safer.” I peeked out the window, out and down. Way down. Not a vehicle or human being was in sight. A wooden boardwalk wound through the marsh off Croatan Sound at the back of the lighthouse. Later in the morning hikers would be taking the trail and exploring the outside of the lighthouse, but this early I had only gulls and crows for company.

I’m a city girl, born and raised in Boston. Except for idyllic Outer Banks summers, I’ve lived my whole life surrounded by cars stuck in traffic jams and fast-walking people. But my maternal ancestors were true Bankers, and maybe the love of the ocean and dunes and open places skipped a generation to land firmly on me. When Mom holidayed here, she stuck to the beach, the best restaurants, the shops at Manteo and Duck. And the outlet mall in Nags Head.

Perhaps soon I’d come to miss the city, but right now I was thrilled to live here.

Despite Louise Jane and her stories.

“There is that, at least,” Mom said. “Do you get a phone signal way up there?”

“It’s not the best, but I’m talking to you now, Mom.”

“Keep it with you at all times.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“I saw Evangeline yesterday.”

At last we got to the purpose of the call. “How’s she?”

“Brokenhearted. As we all are. Lucy, darling, Evangeline says Ricky has positively thrown himself into his work. He scarcely comes up for air. She hasn’t seen him once since . . . since that silly misunderstanding.”

“You mean when I told him I wasn’t going to marry him? No misunderstanding there, Mom.”

“Lucy, darling. You should call him. Let him know you’re okay and thinking things over.”

“Mom. If Ricky wants to talk to me, he has this number.”

“Men can be stubborn sometimes.”

A gull swooped past the window, so close I instinctively jumped back. “Looks like I’ve got company, Mom. Gotta run. It’s so busy here today, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“I love you, dear.”

“I love you, too, Mom.” And I did. No matter how exasperating she might be at times, I always knew that.

As I finished off my breakfast, kindly provided by Louise Jane, I debated what to do for the day. There was nothing I’d rather do than spend the whole day at the beach, jumping in the waves, reading with my toes stretched out into the surf, but I had to get ready for tomorrow’s talk on Austen movie adaptations.
Something I didn’t know much about. I hoped for a pack of teenage girls so enthusiastic I wouldn’t have to say much other than a brief introduction. But just in case they asked questions, I’d brought a couple of DVDs upstairs to watch on my laptop.
Sense and Sensibility
with Emma Thompson,
Pride and Prejudice
with Keira Knightly,
Emma
with Gwyneth Paltrow. I wasn’t looking forward to a whole day of movie watching, not when the sun was shining and the beach was so tantalizingly close.

Needs must,
as my father would say.

I finished breakfast while reading a critique of
Emma
, prior to putting on the movie. Then I figured a nice walk would get my head in the right place before facing a day reluctantly spent indoors.

“You can’t come,” I said to Charles, who made no indication of intending to move from the center of the daybed. He yawned and stretched.

I trotted down the stairs, all one hundred of them, and let myself out of the library.

I locked the door and turned. A head popped around the side of the lighthouse. I yelped in surprise.

“Good morning, my dear,” Theodore Kowalski said. “Did I give you a fright? Terribly sorry. Didn’t mean to.”

“Where’d you come from?” The only car in the lot was my Yaris.

“I tied my boat up at the wharf and walked in. The marsh birds are so active in the mornings.” A popular nature trail ran from a small, rough wooden dock on the waters of Blossie Creek through the marsh to the lighthouse grounds.

“You’re a birder?” I asked, noticing the lack of binoculars, bird book, or anything with which to take notes.

“An enthusiastic amateur.” His smile was about as fake as the English accent he was struggling to maintain in the absence of Harris Tweed and a cravat. Today he wore jeans and sneakers.

“Harrumph,” I said.

“Now that I have you here, Lucy, have there been any . . . developments?”

“Developments?”

“The investigation into the death of Jonathan, of course.”

“The police aren’t keeping me informed.”

“I thought you might have picked up something, that’s all.”

“I haven’t.”

He smiled at me. I smiled back. “I’m heading out for a morning stroll,” I said. “Why don’t you let me walk with you? I’d love to see your boat. You can tell me everything there is to know about the birds we see. Back home in Massachusetts, I’m quite a keen birder myself.” I crossed my fingers behind my back.

“I don’t . . . I don’t particularly know their names. I just like to admire them.”

“Great.” I set off at a comfortable pace. “Let’s go, then.”

He couldn’t very well refuse, now, could he? I looked over my shoulder to see him staring up at the lighthouse. Then he turned and reluctantly followed me to the boardwalk.

Fortunately, I wasn’t forced to talk about birds, and Theodore walked beside me in silence.

We reached the water. The only boat tied up to the dock was nothing but a rickety old rowboat that had seen far better days. “You came in that?” I said, unable to hide my surprise.

“It’s perfectly seaworthy. I like to be down low, close to the water.”

“I guess you’re that.” Not only close to the water, but sitting in it if an unexpected wave came up. I wouldn’t want to trust my life to that thing, not even in the calm, shallow waters of the Croatan Sound on a sunny day. He clambered in, and the boat teetered ominously under his unsteady steps. I hoped I’d be able to remember what I’d learned the year I’d taken a lifeguard course. Theodore dropped onto the seat and picked up the oars.

“Nice talking to you,” I said.

He pulled away from the dock. I watched until he was a good distance from shore, moving slowly through the grasses of the marsh. It took a long time. I was surprised that anyone who’d grown up on the Outer Banks could be so useless in a boat.

I walked back to the lighthouse, deep in thought. Had Theodore been sneaking about the library on a Sunday, hoping for a chance to get in and snatch a private peek at the Austen books? Or was he hoping to remove something incriminating the cops hadn’t found yet?

I
’d been determined to try my hand at snooping, but over the next few days we were so busy at the library, I didn’t have much of a chance. Crowds of eager book lovers poured through our doors as word spread about our exhibit. Most of the books we had for circulation by Austen and her contemporaries had been checked out by Monday afternoon. Ronald had been sent over to the mainland to buy every copy he could lay his hands on from bookstores there. All three branches of the Outer Banks’ Island Bookstore sold out of their stock and placed rush orders. My talk on Monday about book-to-movie adaptations was so well attended, we had to temporarily shut the doors and turn people away. As I’d hoped, the audience was already so informed about the movie adaptions that I didn’t have to say all that much. Connor McNeil brought his friend’s daughter, a tall, thin girl dressed all in black, with hair dyed the color of midnight, excessive black make-up, black fingernail polish, and numerous strangely placed piercings. She confessed to the
group, almost in tears, that she saw herself as a modern-day Kitty Bennet. The middle child, always seeking a place of her own between the more accomplished older sister and overly indulged youngest.

Connor stood at the back of the room against the wall, his soft eyes focused on his niece. He caught my eye and gave me a thumbs-up.

By Tuesday, tour buses were pulling into our parking lot to disgorge entire book clubs from as far away as Tennessee, DC, or Florida.

Ronald tried valiantly to keep his full program of summer holiday activities for children and preteens going, as well as drive all over the state searching for Austen books, and help to handle the crowds. Charlene’s academic work was pretty much pushed aside, along with two visiting English grad students who were here to examine old records as part of their dissertations on the impacts to shipping along this coast during the Civil War. They were stuffed into the rare-books room—which the police had kindly allowed us to use once again—with the door closed while Charlene answered questions about Miss Austen’s life and times.

At the end of the day on Tuesday, Bertie called a staff meeting.

Charlene dropped into a chair. “The word ‘chaos’ was invented to describe this afternoon.” Charles jumped onto her lap and gave her a nudge of encouragement with his right paw. “I had no idea this exhibit would be so popular.”

“Some of the parents were asking me when you’re going to give that talk again, Lucy,” Ronald said. “The one you did yesterday. They think it’s a great
way of introducing their movie-addicted kids to classic books. I agree. Bertie, weren’t you going to give a talk one afternoon about Jane’s life? I’m sure there’s interest in that.”

Bertie sighed. “This couldn’t have come at a worse time. I said I’d give the talk on the spur of the moment, but I have too much to think about these days to find time to prepare. My Austen knowledge is rather rusty. Sorry.”

“We’ve been answering the same questions all day,” I said, knowing that the murder of Jonathan Uppiton had to be prominent in Bertie’s mind. “‘When and where was Miss Austen born?’ ‘How did she come to write?’”

“‘Where did she get her ideas?’” Charlene said, with a laugh. “‘How did she find a publisher?’”

“Why don’t we offer a lecture series? The life and times of Jane Austen.” I glanced around the circle at three doubtful faces. “I’ll do it,” I said, wondering what I was getting myself into.

“Great idea!” Ronald and Charlene chorused.

Bertie smiled. “Thank you, Lucy. Let’s give it a try and see how much interest we get.”

We settled on two times a day. Once in the morning, and another in the late afternoon. If no one came, then no bother.

We stayed late Tuesday night to update the library’s Web page and run off posters (more work for Ronald and Charlene, assigned to hang them all over the Outer Banks) advertising the lecture.

Wednesday morning, I came down early with Charles at my heels, both of us yawning and stretching, him because that’s what cats do, and me because
I’d been up most of the night. I didn’t know much more about Jane Austen than any book lover, so I’d spent the night on the Internet, doing research as well as poring over a biography I’d managed to save from being lent out only because I was faster than Mrs. Fitzgerald.

Bertie had already arrived, and we pushed shelves aside, took down pictures, and set up two rows of folding chairs by the alcove, facing a blank wall on which to show slides off my laptop.

We’d just finished and had stepped back to admire our handiwork when Ronald walked through the door with a mischievous grin. He wore striped black-and-gray trousers, a top hat, and a red satin waistcoat with a pocket watch secured across the chest by a gold chain.

Bertie clapped her hands. “You look wonderful. Where on earth did you get those clothes?”

“A little something in the back of my closet from my acting days.” A large, sturdy round box, decorated with a pattern of pink roses and secured by a length of gold rope, swung in his hand.

“Dare I ask,” I said, “what’s in there?”

“You may. If we’re going to be all Austen all the time, we might as well dress the part.” He put the box on the desk, untied the rope, and opened it. Bertie and I leaned closer. Ronald pushed tissue paper aside, and we gasped.

It was a hat. And what a hat. A dusty rose Victorian delight of feathers, lace, and ribbons.

Ronald lifted the hat out of the box. He held it out to Bertie. “Try it on.”

“Oh no! I can’t wear hats. Besides I’m . . . well . . .
I’m not always here these days. You wear it, Lucy. You have the face for big hats.”

“I can’t,” I protested feebly.

“Sure you can,” Bertie said. “It’ll be perfect for your lectures.”

“It’s not historically appropriate. Hats of that size only came into fashion in the Victorian era. Jane Austen would have worn a simple bonnet tied under her chin.”

“If anyone challenges you as to the accuracy of your haberdashery,” Ronald said, “you can say you’re blending time frames.”

“Do wear it, Lucy,” Bertie said. “It’s perfect.”

I practically snatched the hat out of Ronald’s hands. I put it on my head, and Bertie and Ronald exclaimed how fabulous it was. I went to the restroom to admire myself. I thought I looked rather foolish with the gigantic hat above a scooped-neck T-shirt with gold glitter, topped by a black linen jacket, but I still loved it.

So did my audience.

As with yesterday’s talk to teens, my first lecture was standing room only. We soon ran out of even that, and ended up putting Charlene at the door to tell new arrivals the library was temporarily closed. When we reopened, a couple of elderly ladies almost trampled Charlene in their eagerness to get in. They asked me if they could reserve a spot for the next talk.

I opened a fresh notebook and began taking reservations.

More work!

Ronald had the idea of making one lecture a day
appealing to children. Wednesday, I was up late most of the night, doing research into Miss Austen’s childhood writings, her juvenilia, while Charles dozed on my bed after an exhausting day of accepting tummy rubs, behind-the-ears scratches, and admiring comments.

That’s when I happened across my name on the Internet. Apparently, I was now being called “a foremost Austen scholar and lecturer.” I wondered whether I’d soon begin receiving notices from real Austen experts to cease and desist.

On the other hand, maybe I could start a second career, touring and charging for my lectures. I sent the link to my mom, knowing she’d be proud, and to some of my friends back in Boston, knowing they’d have a good laugh.

But it wasn’t, in Ronald’s words, all Austen all the time. Bertie and Uncle Amos had been called down to the police station several times over the last couple of days. She came back with a set to her face and a shadow in her eyes, and threw herself even more into her work. She began taking shifts behind the circulation desk or answering questions if Ronald, Charlene, and I were exceptionally busy.

A few people were starting to whisper that Bertie would soon be arrested. I didn’t know if they had inside information or were simply enjoying spreading malicious gossip. Ronald went so far as to ask a couple of local busybodies to leave the library when he overheard them whispering loudly behind the magazine rack, speculating as to whether Bertie would find prison as comfortable as (apparently) Martha Stewart had.

Thursday, we shooed the last patron out the doors, and I collapsed into a chair in an exhausted heap. Bertie dropped to the floor into a Downward Dog. Charlene brought out the CD player that was kept behind the desk and plugged it in. She began hunting through the drawers. “Anyone seen my CDs? They don’t seem to be here.”

“Must have been misplaced when we put out that new shipment of books.” Ronald opened his watch. He would regularly and ostentatiously flick open the watch cover to check the time, which always elicited fits of giggles from the youngest of our patrons. Earlier today, he’d taken advantage of the chaos when three busloads of book clubs arrived at the same time to slip Charlene’s musical selections underneath a stack of cooking magazines.

“Not to worry,” Charlene said, “I’ll bring more from home tomorrow.”

“How nice,” Bertie, still upside down, said.

“I think those kids from North Dakota particularly enjoyed your talk,” Ronald said to me. “When they left, I heard them asking their mom to take them to the store
right away
so they could buy journals.”

I preened, pleased. We’d decided that the four o’clock lecture would be the one aimed at a younger audience. I talked about the juvenile writings of not only Jane Austen, but also the Brontë sisters, and finished by suggesting the kids take advantage of their time at the coast to jot down observations and ideas and make sketches.

Bertie glided easily into Cobra position. “You people are doing a great job. I’ll be mentioning it to the
library board.” We smiled at each other. “Let’s clean up and go home. Do you think you can fit in another lecture tomorrow, Lucy? The waiting list now has a waiting list.”

“If you want, but I won’t be able to do much else to help out. I could schedule it for right after lunch.”

“Those English guys left for a week,” Charlene said. “They said they’d come back when I have time to do my job and help them with their research. I can take on some of your work, Lucy.”

“Thanks.”

Bertie stood up slowly, unwinding each vertebra. “I’ll be in my office for a while still.” She headed for the hallway. She stopped in front of the alcove.

“Lucy?”

We looked over at the sharp tone in her voice. “Is something the matter?”

“Where’s
Sense and Sensibility
?”