Reading Up a Storm (17 page)

I didn't dignify that comment with a response. When I crossed the threshold of the library, Charles was standing at the door with a look on his face that resembled nothing so much as my mother when I'd get home five minutes after curfew. “To bed,” I said. He ran lightly up the stairs ahead of me.

I did not run lightly. I didn't run at all. I was bone-tired, desperately worried for my friend, yet still exhilarated by the memory of Connor's kisses. Tonight, the hundred steps to my apartment might have been a thousand. I gripped the iron railings and dragged my weary body and confused mind up. It was four o'clock and I had to be at work, bright and cheerful, for opening at nine. If there was one good thing about the lateness of the hour, it was that Louise Jane would probably sleep all day (so she could maintain her self-appointed rounds at night) and therefore, wouldn't be hanging around bothering us.

I finally made it to the fourth-floor landing and
fumbled to put my key into the lock, while Charles waited impatiently at my feet. I froze.

Was it possible?

No. I was so tired my brain wasn't working properly.

I opened the door and Charles charged into the kitchen. A loud meow informed me that his food bowl was empty. I filled it, struggled out of my clothes and into my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. I crawled into bed. Charles finished his dinner and joined me.

I wanted to think about Connor. I wanted to remember every moment of our dinner together, relive every second (brief though they had been) I had been in his arms.

But all I could think about was . . . Louise Jane.

Louise Jane was obsessed with the paranormal history (or fantasy) of the Outer Banks, of this lighthouse, and the surrounding marshes in particular. If she even believed some of the rubbish she spouted, I didn't know and it didn't matter. Louise Jane was also obsessed with getting a foot in the door of the library, and that meant (in her mind) getting rid of me.

How far would she go to make people accept that she was an expert in communicating with the paranormal? To scare me away so my job would be available? Louise Jane was the only person who believed the story of the wrecker's lights. She believed it because she wanted to believe it. It would validate everything she worked so hard to make others believe. Had she taken it one step further?

Had Louise Jane McKaughnan killed Will Williamson so as to deposit his body mysteriously in the marsh?

Charles dug his sharp claws into the duvet and kneaded
at the fabric. I pulled my arm out from under the covers and scratched his favorite spot at the front of his head, right above the eyes.

No. Even Louise Jane wouldn't be that obsessed. Or was she? I thought of her out in the marsh at night, creeping around in the dark in her pink-and-purple boots and a miner's lamp on her forehead. My misgivings wouldn't go away.

I, and everyone else, had accepted her story of being in the marsh searching for spirits without question. But suppose that wasn't the truth? Had she dropped something before or after killing Will and was she searching for it under the pretense of being a ghost hunter?

No. I didn't like Louise Jane, and she certainly didn't like me. But she was no killer. I might, however, try to find out what exactly she was up to out there.

Saturdays are always busy at the library, particularly with families and children. Locals who have the day off work or school drop in, weekend residents pay us a visit, and Ronald puts on several children's programs for the school-age set. I particularly enjoy days when the library's full of excited chattering children beginning (we all hope) a lifetime of reading.

This morning, the rising sun was barely visible behind a bank of dark, threatening clouds, and the forecast was for rain all day, so we'd see more families through our doors than on a regular sunny Saturday.

Before heading downstairs, I opened my window and held my phone out so as to send Stephanie a text:

Call me if you want to talk.

I pushed
SEND
, and then the phone beeped with an incoming text sent while I'd been out of range.

I'm tied up with a fund-raising function tonight. Picnic on the beach tomorrow?

It was from Connor.

I replied:
Great idea!

I went to work with a skip in my step.

Being busy kept my mind on my duties and off my worries. Only one incident threatened to spoil my day. It was late afternoon and children were arriving for Saturday's natural history time. Last week Ronald had asked the kids to bring a single piece of Outer Banks nature with them today. They arrived laden with broken shells, bags of sand, insects in bottles, gull feathers, and even a rock or two. Bertie stood by the door, exclaiming in delight over every treasure, while proud parents and grandparents beamed. The children ran up the stairs and many of the parents settled down to chat for an hour. When the only evidence of children in the building was the sound of excited laughter coming from over our heads, I dragged the returns shelf around the main room to return books to their proper places.

I was tucking the newest Krista Davis book into the mystery shelf when, from the other side of the partition, I heard mention of the name that had been filling my mind (and my heart and my soul) all day. I held my breath and listened.

“You don't really think Dr. McNeil capable of something like that?” a woman said.

“These days, I wouldn't be surprised at anything anyone does,” replied a second woman. “Particularly when it comes to politics. You know, Mary-Alice, that I'm not one for gossip. But my niece's husband's brother
is friends with Bill Hill and Bill told him that Dr. McNeil was enraged at what he saw as Will Williamson's betrayal. And, well, we all know what happened to Will, don't we?”

Who the heck was Bill Hill?

“Nonsense. You're letting your tongue run away with you, June. What I hear is that it was a mob killing. Poor Will had an unfortunate resemblance to someone the New York mob is after, and they killed him by mistake. The location of the body, in that boat, proves it.”

“It's that lawyer girl,” a third woman put in. “Pat Stanton's daughter. I always said Pat had airs above her station. Imagine, a girl with a single mother going to law school.”

“I happen to know Pat well,” the first woman said with a pronounced sniff, “and Stephanie is a lovely young girl.”

Behind the stacks, I nodded. I was about to thank June for having a head on her shoulders when she said, “Stephanie had no reason to kill Will. I'm not saying Connor McNeil did, but Bill Hill says . . .”

“Bill Hill is paid to think the worst of Dr. McNeil,” Mary-Alice said. “Besides he'll do anything to win an election. Sometimes, I swear that he's more power hungry than that mayoral candidate of his.”

Bill Hill, I remembered, was Doug Whiteside's assistant, Billy.

“Far be it from me to make judgment without evidence,” said the poisoned-tongued June, “but where there's smoke . . .”

“I suggest you not be spreading that around,” Mary-Alice said. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm looking for a new book. I'm in the mood for a nice light cozy.”

I darted out of my hiding place as the three women came around the corner. I expected June to slither, but she walked on two legs just like the others.

This was definitely not good. Rumors were spreading, and fast. And Bill Hill, doubtless encouraged by Doug Whiteside, was fanning the flames.

The children had left, along with their parents and grandparents, and the last of the patrons were checking out their books when Josie, Grace, and Stephanie came in.

“This is a surprise,” I said. “Let me finish up here and I'll be right with you.” I helped an elderly lady put her weekly stack of books into her canvas tote bag. “Thank you, Mrs. Brady. See you next week.”

“If you're talking to that nice Mayor McNeil, tell him I don't believe a word of what people are saying about him,” she said to me.

“I will,” I said.

“What are people saying about Connor?” Stephanie asked once Mrs. Brady had left.

“That he killed Will Williamson when he realized Will wasn't going to donate to his campaign,” Josie said.

Stephanie laughed. She stopped laughing when she saw the looks on our faces. “You're not kidding.”

“No, we are not,” I said. “I overheard several people talking about it earlier today. Only one of them seemed to take the idea seriously, but one is enough to start a stampede.”

“What did you do?” Grace asked.

“Do? What could I do?”

“Throw them out on the street and tell them never to darken your door again?” Josie suggested.

“I just might do that next time. And there might well
be a next time. That assistant of Doug's is spreading muck all over town, and I've not the slightest doubt Doug put him up to it.”

Ronald clattered down the stairs. For natural history day, he'd dressed in Bermuda shorts, a multipocketed khaki jacket, a trilby hat, and white socks inside sandals. “Hi, ladies. Have a nice Sunday.” He breezed on by.

“He's a lovely man,” Stephanie said.

“That he is. And very happily married,” Grace said.

“The story of my life,” Steph sighed.

“What brings you three here?” I asked.

“Girls' night!” Josie said. “I insisted that Steph come with us. I deliberately didn't call ahead so you couldn't refuse.”

“Your cousin can be very persuasive,” Stephanie said. “She brought her mother to our house to sit with Mom.”

“We've got microwavable pizza, supermarket salads, and a tub of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey in the car,” Grace said. “I'll run out and get it.”

“And I'll bring in the wine,” Josie said.

Once they'd gone, I smiled at Stephanie. “I'm glad you came.”

“I feel like I've been kidnapped. Between those two and my mom I didn't have a heck of a lot of choice.”

“Kidnapping's nicer these days than it was in David Balfour's time,” I said. “All you have to face is an excess of Ben and Jerry's, not be tied up in the hold of a leaky brig, wrecked at sea. Did you hear from Detective Watson today?”

“No. Amos said that my being in the general vicinity of Will's home the night he died is evidence against me,
but not enough for them to take to court on its own. He warned me that the police will be going back to that neighborhood to question everyone, hoping to find someone who saw me doing something . . . incriminating. They didn't find my fingerprints in either Will's car or that boat. But as we lawyers know, absence of evidence . . .”

“Isn't evidence of absence.”

“What's this about suspecting Connor, of all people?” she asked.

“Connor. Terrorists. New York mob. You name it; someone has a theory of why they did it. Normally, I'd say it doesn't matter what the gossips say, but with the election coming up, this could hurt Connor.”

“It's a mess all around,” she said.

“Have you heard from your employers?” I asked. “You can't do better than have Amos O'Malley acting for you, but is your firm prepared to help out?”

Stephanie's laugh was bitter. “Help? Hardly. Yes, my boss called. They are not happy about this cloud hanging over my head, and would like to ensure that I clear myself of all suspicion before continuing with my work. The briefs I am currently working on will be assigned to other lawyers in the meantime.”

“You can't mean they're firing you! Is that even allowed? You haven't been charged with anything.”

“Not fired, no. Just advised to continue with my leave of absence.” She shrugged. “No one goes into the law expecting it to be a warm and fuzzy work environment, but I have to say I'm disappointed in them. I called one of my so-called friends, another new lawyer who started the same time as me, to find out what people are saying,
and she was, shall I say, frosty. Couldn't get off the phone fast enough.”

“Her loss,” I said. “You know you have friends, real friends, right here, don't you?”

She touched my arm with a sad smile. “I know. I'm starting to think Raleigh isn't the place for me anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Law's a tough career, like I said, but it hasn't made Amos O'Malley hard in the way it's making me feel jaded. Let me think about it. When we get all this cleared up, I can make some decisions.”

Josie and Grace fell through the door laughing and laden down with bags and coolers.

I took my friends up to my apartment. There weren't enough chairs, so we settled in a circle on the floor with a delighted Charles in the center. Fortunately, I own four wineglasses. As Josie poured she said, “I drove us here, but Jake's coming to pick me up when the restaurant closes. So I can indulge, indulge. I'll be back sometime tomorrow to get my car.” To Josie, indulge meant about a half glass of wine. She worked unbelievable hours at her bakery, seven days a week in season, from four a.m. until closing at three. Jake worked equally unbelievable hours, but his were the opposite of Josie's. He started in the early afternoon and would be at the restaurant until after the kitchen closed at midnight.

I couldn't imagine how they managed, but they were clearly happy and very much in love. Sacrifices now, Josie sometimes said, to prepare for their future.

We drank wine, ate tasteless pizza and delicious ice
cream. We laughed and chatted. Grace kept going to the window, hoping to see Louise Jane's light as she crept through the grasses of the marsh, but outside nothing moved. As delightful as the evening was, we couldn't avoid the topic on all our minds forever. When Grace said, “We need to make this a regular thing,” Stephanie sighed and replied, “if I'm not in jail.”

We leaned in for a group hug. When we separated, I said, “The way I see it there's no shortage of suspects.”

Grace crawled across the room on her hands and knees to get her bag and pulled out a notebook and pen. “Let's get our thoughts in order and maybe we can come up with something no one's thought of. Go ahead, Lucy, you seem to be closest to all this. Other than Steph.”

“Blue sky?” I said.

“Total blue sky. We'll get it down, no matter how crazy the theory.”

“Okay,” I said. “First of all, if some people believe Connor was capable of killing Will over a campaign donation, then why not say Doug Whiteside did it to frame Connor?”

“Good one,” Josie said.

“Marlene's happily spending Will's money. Maybe she figured she'd prefer to have the money and not put up with him anymore.” Grace made notes as I spoke. “Teddy Kowalski had a business deal with Will that fell through.”

“Teddy?” Josie said. “Out of the question. We all know, Teddy. He's a pussycat.”

“I can't see Teddy doing it either, but we said blue sky, remember. As long as he had a motive, he's on the list,” Grace said.

“I wouldn't have figured Mr. Out-on-the-rigs-in-the-middle-of-winter to be a book collector,” Josie said.

“Rare books can be an excellent investment.” Grace jotted Teddy's name down.

“And then there's Louise Jane.” I explained my reasoning. I have to admit, my friends looked pretty doubtful. “And, last of all, someone we don't know about. Will wasn't a nice man. I've been hearing that he liked nothing more than to pick an argument with people and threaten to sue them.”

“Like Ralph Harper,” Stephanie said.

“Old Ralph?” Grace said. “What's he got to do with this?”

I explained about the confrontation in the library parking lot only hours before Will died. Grace added his name to the list.

“It's possible someone from Will's past never forgot a grudge,” I said. “I asked your mom to look into that, Josie. Do you know if anything came up? She said she'd call if she found anything, and I haven't heard.”

Josie shook her head. “When I asked her to sit with Pat tonight, Mom said she wanted to talk to Pat anyway. Throw around some ideas, see if Pat can remember any other girls Will might have been having affairs with, or if he ever told her about someone he was fighting with.”

“Then,” Stephanie said, “there's me.”

“You are not a suspect,” I said.

“I am to Detective Watson. He had to admit that considering I am a respected member of the legal profession, and have no police record of any sort, it's unlikely I would have killed Will because I was angry at him.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Now who . . .”

“But,” she continued, “Watson wanted to know what I thought when I realized that Will was a wealthy man. Did I decide it was time he paid up for all the years my mom and I went without? I told him the thought had crossed my mind, but if he was dead that door would be closed, wouldn't it? Watson disagreed. He said there have been cases in which unknown illegitimate children were found to have a claim on an estate. Maybe, he said, I decided to get what I was owed without waiting another twenty or thirty more years.”

“That's ridiculous,” Grace said.

“Yes, it is, for me. But it makes me wonder if there are other so-called-illegitimate children out there wanting a piece of the action.”