Reading Up a Storm (16 page)

“No,” Charlene said. “We can't. The idea is to get everyone talking about it, and thus interested in the election. That can't wait until a couple of days before.”

“Seeing as how we're finished here,” Bertie said, “I'm off home. Louise Jane, we're locking up.”

Louise Jane stuffed her snacks and spells back into her bag. “After all I do for you people. Very well, you can count on me helping next Sunday as well.”

“What a joy to hear,” Charlene said.

Ronald stifled a laugh.

My coworkers followed Louise Jane out the door.

“You had something you wanted to talk to me about?” Connor said once they'd all left.

“I did. You may be aware of this already, but I overheard something earlier that you need to know.”

“Sounds serious,” he said. “The sort of serious that's better discussed over drinks. Or, even better, dinner. If you're free, that is?”

My tongue was suddenly too big for my mouth. I managed to say, “Yeah. Great. That would be nice. Okay.”

Charles yawned.

“It's Friday night but getting late, so we might be able to get in at Jake's. You okay with that?”

“Perfect.”

“Tonight, let me drive,” he said. “I can bring you back
easily enough. Are you ready to go now, or do you have something you need to do first?”

“Now would be fine.” I followed Connor outside. Before shutting the door I glanced back into the library to see Charles sitting on the circulation desk, watching. I swear he lifted a paw to wave me off.

*   *   *

Jake's was busy, but not overly so, and the waiter found us a table for two on the deck.

“Are you all right with Louise Jane prowling around outside in the dark?” Connor asked me once the wine had been ordered.

“I prefer knowing where she is,” I said with a laugh. “To be honest, if a real ghost popped out of the cupboard and said boo, I wouldn't be scared in the least. I'd assume it was Louise Jane playing tricks and tell it to go away.”

He smiled. He reached for my hand, but the waiter chose that moment to bring the drinks and Connor pulled back. I busied myself with my menu.

In the car, I'd told him what I'd overheard at Josie's, about him benefiting from Will's death. Connor had muttered under his breath.

“Is anyone else saying that?” I asked.

“Not that I'm aware of. But rumor spreads fast, and the dirtier it is, the faster it spreads.”

“Specials today are Manhattan clam chowder to begin, and . . .” said the waiter.

I practically know Jake's menu by heart. I didn't have to think hard about what to order. “Shrimp and grits, please.”

“You're becoming a true Southern woman,” Connor said.

“If Southern means shrimp and grits, then I'm in. And a couple of hush puppies too, please.”

Connor asked for a steak, medium rare. The waiter collected the menus and left.

“Did Will Williamson promise you a contribution toward your campaign?” I asked.

“Not in so many words. His talk was all about fond reminisces about his youth and wanting to maintain the spirit of the Outer Banks—the way it had been when he and my dad were growing up.”

“Those women today said he was supporting Doug because he was in favor of more development.”

“I've seen it before, Lucy. Men with money who enjoy playing both sides of the fence. It's like a game with them. See who they can get to flatter them the most. Sometimes it ends with no contribution at all. Just a suggestion that they need to think it over, but next election cycle they'll definitely make up their mind.”

“Speaking of your dad . . .”

“I called him. They're having a great time in Colorado, but it's too bad those mountains get in the way and spoil the view.”

I laughed as a warm glow filled me. The delicious wine, the beautiful star-filled night, the soft wind on my bare arms, the scents and sounds of the Outer Banks. The company . . .

“Dad didn't remember Will at all at first, but with some prodding on my part, it started to come back. Far from being great buddies, they were nothing more than
casual acquaintances. They were in the same classes in school. Dad was on the football team, and Will wanted to be, so there was some jealousy there. Will was never in any trouble, not that Dad remembers.”

“Anything about girls?”

“Dad said Will wasn't popular with girls, but he was the sort who talked the big talk. You know, bragging about exploits he never had, trying to blacken the reputation of girls who wouldn't go out with him. He and his wife came to their ten-year high school reunion. Dad remembers that because my mom hadn't been feeling well so she didn't go to the reunion. Will's wife sent a get-well-soon card around to the house the next day, and Dad thought that was a nice thing to do. Will had been to college somewhere, but Dad didn't remember where. He'd married right after college and they had one child. Not long after the reunion, Dad heard that Will had moved away. Never gave him another thought from that day until I called and asked about him.”

“But Will seems to have remembered your dad?”

“That's common enough. People who move away cherish their memories; people who stay go on with their lives.”

We leaned back to allow the waiter to put a huge platter of crisp golden hush puppies in the center of the table. “I told Jake you're here, Lucy, and he said you get a double serving on the house. Enjoy.”

“Looks like I'm becoming known around here,” I said.

“That you are.”

The hush puppies were great, the shrimp and grits
even better. We didn't talk any more about Doug Whiteside or Will Williamson, but laughed together at Louise Jane's antics and Charlene's outrageous (and marvelous) idea for decorating the lighthouse.

“Ready to go?” Connor said at last.

The outdoor dining area had emptied without me even noticing. “Yes.”

We drove back to the lighthouse in comfortable silence. I liked that about Connor: he had no need to fill every moment with chatter. Sometimes, it's enough simply to be together.

The sky was clear and a big white moon hung overhead. As we approached, the light from the thousand-watt bulb came into view, reliable in its rhythm, breaking the loneliness of the night.

“Do you find,” Connor asked after he'd parked and we walked together up the path, “that light bothers you sometimes? Blinking on off all the time the way it does?”

“Never. Its regularity is extremely comforting. My draperies are heavy enough that they block the light when I'm in bed.” Heat washed into my face. Fortunately the light went into its twenty-two point five second dormant period at that moment, so Connor didn't see me blushing furiously.

I pulled out my key and unlocked the door. It swung open. I hesitated, just a moment, before I said, “Come on in. I love the library at night.”

He stepped over the threshold and shut the door behind him. Charles was nowhere to be seen. That was unusual; he normally ran for the door as soon as he heard my key in the lock. I liked to think it was because
he missed me, but I knew what he was really excited about was a refill of the food bowl.

I felt Connor's hands on my shoulders. His warm breath touched the back of my neck. “Lucy.” The word was a whisper. I turned. His blue eyes were focused on my face, his lips were partially open. “Lucy.” He pulled me toward him. I went willingly. He touched my face, ran his finger across my mouth. Then he bent his head and kissed my lips. A shock as powerful as if a bolt of electricity had hit me went through my body. I shuddered, and lifted my arms to the back of his head.

I settled into the kiss, but he pulled away. “I've been waiting almost twenty years to do this again.” His voice was deep and ragged. His eyes burned.

His phone rang. He mumbled something into my lips.

“Leave it,” I whispered.

“I will,” he said.

My phone rang. I felt his body shiver as he laughed. “Leave it,” he said.

“I will.” I couldn't help cursing the spirits of modern technology. When I wanted a cell phone signal in this blasted building I couldn't get one.

The library phone rang.

Connor and I pulled away from each other. “Something's happening.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

I crossed the room and grabbed the one on the desk. “What!” I might have spoken somewhat sharply.

“Thank heavens I got you, Lucy,” Bertie said. “Pat's just called and I'm going around there right now. Stephanie has been arrested. Amos and Ellen aren't at home,
and I don't have his cell number. I've left a message, but I need you to contact Amos and then go down to the police station and find out what you can.” She hung up.

I stared at the receiver in my hand. I heard Connor say, “On my way.”

I turned.

“That was Butch,” he said. “Stephanie's been arrested for the murder of Will Williamson.”

Connor and I ran out the door together. By the time we got to our cars, Louise Jane was emerging from the marsh at a fast clip. I'd forgotten all about that dratted Louise Jane, but I was thinking about her now. If she'd come knocking a few minutes ago, I might have killed her.

Killed her.

Just an expression we all use when we're angry at someone. It doesn't mean anything. Until it does.

“I heard the news,” Louise Jane said. “Wow. So Stephanie killed Will after all.”

“I thought you were hunting for ghosts, Louise Jane,” Connor snapped. “Doesn't taking a phone call spoil the atmosphere you need to commune with the spirits?”

“I can do two things at once, Mr. Mayor.” She looked between Connor and me. The edges of her mouth turned up. “Looks as though you guys were interrupted in the middle of something
important
.”

Connor ignored her. “Better go in separate cars,” he said to me. “Who knows how long we'll be tied up.”

“Right.”

Louise Jane waved good-bye as Connor sped away. Before starting my own car, I found Uncle Amos's cell number on my phone and called him. He and Aunt Ellen, he told me, were having dinner with friends. He'd be there as soon as he could.

I knew from past experience that Sam Watson wasn't going to inform me as to what was going on, much less allow me to be with Stephanie while he questioned her. He probably wouldn't even let me past the inner doors. Still, I felt as though I needed to be doing something. Pat would be frantic with worry. Hopefully it would all be a misunderstanding, and I'd be able to bring Stephanie home.

It was late, but traffic was heavy through town as people returned from or traveled to their Friday-night revelries. I didn't mind because it gave me time to think. I knew Stephanie hadn't killed Will, so what on earth would Watson have on her that would allow him to arrest her? Was the real killer attempting to frame Steph? That had to be it. Watson was no fool; surely he'd be able to see through a ruse such as that.

Up ahead I saw the right-turn indicator of Connor's car start to blink. I slowed down, made my own signal, let a giant SUV go by, and turned into the police station. Butch was standing on the steps in his uniform, waiting.

Butch really was a great guy, I thought. He didn't like Stephanie, but he'd called for help for her anyway. Connor was the mayor, so of course he couldn't get involved in a police investigation, but he could have a word with the
chief and find out what was going on. Butch smiled as he saw me jump out of my car. Oh, dear. If Butch wasn't such a great guy, I wouldn't feel so bad knowing I was going to hurt him. “Lucy, what are you doing here?”

“We were having dinner,” Connor said, “when I got your call.”

Butch's eyebrows rose. He looked from one of us to the other. I tried to smile at him. I felt dreadful. Regardless of what happened between Connor and me, I would have to tell Butch that we could only ever be friends. And I'd have to tell him soon. Now, however, didn't seem to be the quite the right time.

“The phone lines are burning up,” Connor continued. “Bertie called Lucy. Even Louise Jane knows about it.”

“You were having dinner with Louise Jane?” Butch said.

“That,” I said, “is a long story.” No matter how dreadful I felt, I had to remind myself that Stephanie was in a heck of a lot more serious predicament.

“What's happening, Butch?” Connor asked.

Butch led the way across the driveway to the bench Watson and I had sat on earlier. I sat in the middle, Connor on one side, Butch on the other. It was, I had to admit, an extremely comfortable place to be.

“This is not for the town grapevine, right?” Butch said.

We nodded.

“I was with Watson when he first interviewed Stephanie about her whereabouts the night of Will Williamson's murder. She told him that after you, Lucy, and Bertie left her, when she'd learned that Williamson was her father, she stayed in, put her mother to bed, drank a bottle of wine, watched TV, and fell asleep in front of the TV.”

“That's right,” I said.

“She lied,” Butch said bluntly.

“What?”

“We've been canvassing the neighborhood where Will was living. Marlene told us that Will went out after getting a phone call late that night. We were hoping to find someone who saw him meeting someone.”

“Did you?”

“No. But we did get a call later from someone who saw Stephanie Stanton outside Will's house.”

“He's lying!” I said.

Car lights swept the driveway. I recognized Uncle Amos's Camry and breathed a sigh of relief. He spotted the three of us sitting under the beech tree, but didn't come over. He raised his hand in a lazy greeting before strolling up the stairs, as if he didn't have a care in the world. I wanted to yell at him to run, to hurry. But Uncle Amos never ran, unless it was after a tennis ball. He never seemed to be in any sort of hurry at all. He moved at his own pace, thought before speaking, and when he did speak it was in an unhurried Louisiana accent. And then he'd simply destroy hostile witnesses and prosecuting attorneys with the speed of his mind.

“I'm sorry, Lucy, but it's true,” Butch said. “A neighbor was walking his dog. He noticed Stephanie because she was looking very harried. He said she was crying and looking confused, staring at the houses, as though she was searching for something.”

“It must have been someone else,” I said.

Butch shook his head. “It was Stephanie. He picked her out of a photo lineup.”

“So she went out for a drive. Okay, she shouldn't have been driving if she'd been drinking, but . . .”

“Lucy,” Connor said. “Regardless of why she was there, the point isn't as much that she was, but that she told Sam she hadn't left the house all night. She lied to the police.”

That would mean she'd lied to me also. “Why did this so-called witness call the police anyway? Not at the time, but a day or two later—have you wondered about that?”

“You can be sure Watson has considered it,” Butch said. “The paper mentioned the street Will was renting on. The guy saw it and remembered the agitated woman of the night Will died. So he called.”

“The phone call!” I said. “What about the phone call Will got that night after they got home? The one that made him go out. You can trace that call, can't you? I'll bet you anything it wasn't Stephanie who called.”

“The phone was a burner. Impossible to trace, particularly if the user has tossed it. Which he, or she, would be an idiot not to.”

“This looks bad for Stephanie,” Connor said. “But there's a big step from pacing up and down someone's street to killing them. There's nothing we can do tonight. I'll call the chief in the morning for an update.”

“She hasn't been charged,” Butch said. “Not yet, anyway, just brought in for more questioning.”

“At this time of night,” Connor said, “it's pretty much the same thing.”

“I'd like to stay,” I said.

“You won't be allowed to talk to her,” Butch said.

“I'll only stay until I know if they're going to hold her. Someone has to tell her mother what's going on.”

The two men exchanged glances over my head. “Don't try to talk me out of it,” I said. “Stephanie is my friend. I believe in her innocence, and I intend to be here for her.”

*   *   *

I was left cooling my heels in the reception area at the front of the police station. I called Bertie to check in, and she told me Pat insisted on waiting up until there was news.

When I'd run out the door after Connor, I hadn't even stopped to throw a book into my purse. To give me something to do while I waited, I loaded an e-book onto my iPhone, but I scarcely read a word of it. Either the little screen wasn't conducive to paying attention or my mind was occupied elsewhere. I'd texted Uncle Amos to let him know I was waiting.

Inside the police station at night, the lights are dimmed, and a sense of calm peace fell over the place in the absence of the daytime bustle of office work. Unlike the beautiful serenity of the empty library, an underlying tension filled the police station, even when no one was visible. Doors kept opening and shutting, voices were heard and cut off, cars turned into the cruiser lot at the back.

No one came out to check on me. I was beginning to doze off in the hard, uncomfortable plastic chair when I heard voices approaching. I leaped to my feet. Uncle Amos and Sam Watson came through the inner doors. To my enormous relief, Stephanie walked between them. She was wearing a pair of scuffed sneakers, and her tiny frame was dwarfed by the two tall men on either side of her. She looked, I thought, like a ten-year-old who'd been called down to the principal's office, though there
was no youthful mischief in her face. The shine had gone out of her hair, and deep dark bags lay beneath her eyes. She managed to give me a weak smile. “Amos told me you were here. Thanks for coming, Lucy.”

I gave her a hug. Her body shook, but when we broke away her eyes were clear.

“Now see here, Detective Watson,” I said. “I insist you listen to me about those lights I saw Monday night.”

“You insist, do you? You can insist all you want. Good night, Ms. Stanton. Amos.”

Watson turned and walked away, leaving me sputtering in righteous indignation.

“Come on, Lucy,” Uncle Amos said.

“I'll take Steph home,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “We'll talk tomorrow, Stephanie. My office, eight o'clock.”

“I'll be there. And thanks.”

“You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to,” I said to my friend once we were in my car.

She turned her head away from me and sat looking out into night as I drove through the empty back streets, past houses wrapped in darkness. Then she groaned and threw up her hands. “I was a fool. A total and complete idiot. Yes, I went out after Mom was in bed. Her keys are kept by the back door, so I just grabbed them and jumped into her car.” She sighed and leaned against the headrest. “I'm lucky I didn't kill someone, driving in the state I was in. I went to the street where Will told us he was staying. For some stupid reason I got it into my head that I had to meet him. Then and there, that night. I wanted to look into his face, see if I could find myself there, I guess. Maybe I wanted him to break
down and tell me that he'd been thinking of me all these years and regretting not having been there for me. I didn't know which one was their house, so I guess I was hoping he'd be standing in a window or coming home or something. Anything. I wasn't there long, fifteen minutes maybe, before I realized that not only was I wasting my time, but in danger of screwing this up. When I did confront him I wanted to be in full possession of my faculties. Not some babbling idiot that would make him glad he'd run out on us.”

“Oh, Steph,” I said.

“When Watson asked me if I'd gone out after you and Bertie left, I lied without thinking. I lied to you too, Lucy, and I'm sorry about that, but I guess I wanted to believe it myself. In the moment, I was able to convince myself that I might not have been lying. I had such an awful headache that morning, and I barely remembered what had happened the night before. I thought I'd dreamed it all. Unfortunately, I didn't. But I do know that I didn't kill him. I suppose my mom called you?”

“Bertie did. Pat phoned Bertie and she went right over. Butch called Connor.”

“He did? He was the one Watson sent to pick me up. Didn't he just love it?”

“Butch isn't like that.”

She didn't reply.

When we got to Pat's house, all the downstairs lights were on, and Bertie was standing at the window, peering out.

“Thanks, Lucy,” Stephanie said. “You don't need to come in.”

“I . . .”

“I'd rather you didn't. My mom and I need to be alone.”

“Sure,” I said.

It had been an awful day (well, most of it anyway) but it wasn't to be over yet. The driveway to the lighthouse is long and headlights can be seen well before an approaching car reaches the parking area. Louise Jane stood waiting for me in front of the library, feet apart, hands planted firmly on her bony hips. A miner's style flashlight was wrapped around her head.

I was barely out of my car before she said, “How am I supposed to attract the spirits if you keep popping in and out all night? Lighting up the place, slamming doors?”

“Please, Louise Jane, not now. I'm tired.”

“You think I'm not? I've been up all night, you know.”

“I'm going to take a wild guess that you didn't find anything.”

“Patience, Lucy, is a prime component of communing with the supernatural.”

“Good thing I have none then. Good night, Louise Jane.”

“What happened with Stephanie?” she asked.

“You seemed to know mighty quickly that she'd been taken down to the police station for more questioning—not arrested, I might add. How?”

“That's the thing about having deep roots in a place, Lucy, that you'll never fully understand. I know people. People know me. My grandmother's friend, Myrna Schmitt, lives across the street from Pat Stanton. Myrna knows that I'm interested in uncovering
the truth
about
what happened here that night, so naturally she phoned me when she saw police activity.”

I had an image of Myrna standing by her lace curtains with curlers in her hair, wearing a flannel nightgown, binoculars trained on Pat's living room window.

“Not,” Louise Jane went on, “that I'm not surprised to hear Stephanie wasn't arrested. You and I both know other forces are at work here.”

“Good night, Louise Jane.” I started up the path.

“Sleep well, Lucy. I'm sure you're perfectly safe inside the lighthouse, but don't venture out at night, please, sweetie. Until I've determined what exactly we're dealing with here.”