Reading Up a Storm (21 page)

Even Charles was asleep when my alarm went off. I briefly considered giving up my mission and going back to sleep, but my better nature (or maybe just stubborn curiosity) got the upper hand and I struggled out of my lovely warm comfy bed. Charles opened one eye and promptly closed it again.

Aaron had told me that Ralph Harper liked to have his breakfast at the Shrimp Shack on the days he was taking out his boat. Most fishing charter boats, I knew, left harbor at five. Shudder. I guessed that Ralph would get his boat ready for the day, and then leave his crew to wait for the clients, while he went for his breakfast. Meaning, he'd be at the Shrimp Shack around four thirty.

Therefore, so would I. If he wasn't there today, I'd just have to try another approach.

Shower, makeup, and proper clothes could wait until later. I splashed water on my face, gathered my hair into a ponytail, pulled on jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers and headed out.

The sun wasn't even up yet when I drove toward town, and there was no traffic on the highway. I turned left at Whalebone Junction and crossed the low bridge onto Roanoke Island. A few cars joined me—fishing people, I suspected. Who else would be foolish enough to be up this early?

I'd looked up the Shrimp Shack last night before going to bed and jotted down some directions. They were located near Pirate's Cove Marina, where Ralph kept his boat. I found the restaurant with no trouble, parked close to the doors, and got out of my car. I took a deep breath and went in. I was immediately overwhelmed by the scent of frying bacon, warm toast, and sizzling grease. Yummy.

A wall of glass specked with salt spray overlooked the edges of the marina. This was obviously a place that catered to the serious fishing crowd. The photos of men (and a very few women) that lined the walls were packed so closely together I could scarcely see the cracked and peeling paint beneath. The tabletops were scarred and the red vinyl seating at the booths was so badly worn and torn in some places that the stuffing poked out.

All the booths were taken by a mixture of genuine old salts and tourists trying to pretend they were serious fishermen in their brand-new clothes and clean hats.

No one so much as glanced up from their food when I came in.

“Be with you in a sec, hon,” the waitress called as she came out of the kitchen, bearing a tray loaded with plates piled high with eggs and bacon or stacks of pancakes.

The booths were full, but there were still some empty
stools facing the long counter. My luck was in. I spotted my quarry by himself, next to an empty seat.

I waved cheerfully to the waitress and crossed the room quickly. “Is this seat taken?” I asked Ralph.

He grunted without looking up from the magazine propped beside his plate. A quick glance showed me pictures of big fish leaping out of the water. I hopped onto the seat and grabbed the menu standing between the ketchup bottle and the napkin dispenser. I opened the menu and pretended to study it. Then I, ever so casually, turned to the man beside me. “Oh, hi. I didn't notice you there for a moment. Ralph, right?” I smiled.

He turned his head. “Yeah.” He studied my face. “How ya doin', Lucy?”

I was momentarily taken aback that he knew my name. “Good. I'm good. Thanks. I didn't get a chance to say hi the other night in the lighthouse parking lot.” I continued to smile. I decided it would be best not to mention the circumstances of our meeting. Ralph Harper looked, I thought, a lot like Gandalf the Grey in the
Lord of the Rings
movies. Long shaggy gray beard touched with the memory of youthful black, equally long and shaggy hair, and eyebrows that might well have a life of their own. His face was a deep nutty brown, as craggy as a walnut shell, evidence of a life spent on the sea. Aunt Ellen had said he'd been in school with Will Williamson. If I hadn't known that, I'd have said the fisherman was a decade older. His eyes were a soft blue-gray, the color of the ocean as the fog began to lift.

He gave me a smile that made me think of Gandalf when he looked at the hobbits, not as he faced the
fire-breathing Balrog. “Sorry for not being more polite that evening. Had things on my mind. I'd heard you'd come back. I was glad of it.”

“Come back?”

“To the Outer Banks. You're a sea woman, Lucy. You need to be here.” His voice was deep and rolling, like waves crashing into the rocky shore in a storm.

“I've lived in Boston all my life,” I said.

He studied my face. “And in all your life in Boston, how many times did you go to the beach?”

“Uh . . .”

“Do they even have a beach in Boston? No matter, you couldn't hear the sound of the waves from where you lived or worked, you couldn't pop down to the beach any time you had the inkling to get the sand between your toes and let the surf wash away your troubles. Might as well have lived in Kansas for all the attention you paid to the sea.” Ralph shuddered at the very idea of landlocked Kansas. “No, you belong here, Lucy. I'm glad you realized that.”

I was stunned. He seemed to know a lot about me. And it was true. To me, the Outer Banks was the beach; it was the sea. Boston was where I went to school and later where I worked. I enjoyed going down to the Charles River for a walk at my lunch break, and I'd often meet friends for dinner in a restaurant or bar overlooking the water. But it wasn't the beach, and the ocean was never more than a pleasant background view.

“Can't say I've seen you in here before. What brings you in today, Lucy?”

“I couldn't sleep, so wanted to go out for a drive. Someone told me this is a good coffee place.”

Ralph lifted his cup. “If you like it strong and not fancy.”

“Ready, hon?” The waitress stood in front of me, pencil poised.

Ralph was having fried eggs, sausages, hash browns, and wheat toast. My stomach turned over. I didn't think I could face that much food this early. “Just coffee please.”

She reached for the pot and poured me a cup. Ralph's concentration returned to his breakfast and his magazine.

Okay, the “fancy running into you here” routine wasn't working. I'd have to try the direct approach. “Actually, Ralph,” I said. “I was wanting to talk to you.”

“Figured it was somethin' like that,” he said. “Shoot, young lady.”

“Will Williamson.”

“Figured it was that too,” he said, slicing off a hunk of sausage and popping it into his mouth. “Knew him when we were kids. He was a miserable boy. Didn't change much when he grew up.”

“You helped rescue him the night of the big storm.”

“Shoulda let him drown. Probably woulda if I'd known it was him.” He turned to look at me. The eyes were still warm and blue. “Nah. Man takes an oath to the sea, gotta fulfill it.”

“Oath?”

“The sea is a beautiful mistress, but her rages are terrible to behold. She can turn from one face to another fast as a man can blink. I was just a boy when my father told me we never were to let her claim a man, not if we could save him. We fear her and respect her always, but never let her think she can defeat us. That's the only thing she respects in return.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is the Sound part of the sea? I braced myself to run as he focused those intense blue-gray eyes on me. But instead of seeing a storm raging in their depths, I saw waters so calm a toddler could play in them. “The cops spoke to me, Lucy. Asking my whereabouts after I spoke to Will that night. I told them: I went home to my bed.”

“Can your wife verify that?” I said, feeling bold.

“Never married. I have my mistress. She's a harsh one, but a loving one all the same.” He waved his hand toward the window. Outside, boats bobbed gently in the protected waters of the marina. It was still dark, but lights lined the wharf and were on in many of the big charter boats as they prepared for a day's fishing. “Don't matter. That Sam Watson, he knows how things work around here. A waterman isn't out prowling around in the middle of the night. Morning comes early.” He wiped up egg yolk with his last piece of toast. “Now, if you'll excuse me, young lady, I got to get going. We leave five o'clock on the dot, whether all the customers have arrived or not.” He threw money on the counter and swung off his stool, the lightness of his movements a sharp contrast to his wizened appearance.

“Will got nothin' but what he deserved.” Ralph looked down at me. I sucked in a breath, wondering if he was about to confess. “I wasn't surprised to hear Will had been found on the water. He disrespected the sea awful bad that night. But she takes care of herself. She don't need no help from me nor any man. You have a nice day, Lucy. Coffee's on me. You want to go out on a boat one day, let me know. I'd be happy to take you, 'cause I know you for a water woman.”

He left, rolling from side to side as though he was already feeling the swell of the ocean beneath the boat decks.

It wasn't even five thirty when I got home. I climbed out of my clothes and climbed back into my bed. But sleep didn't come. Ralph had moved up on my suspect list. I decided that it wasn't impossible to think that he, on discovering that the sea didn't have any particularly malicious feelings toward Will Williamson, would have to be the one to give her a helping hand. Everyone I'd met seemed to like Ralph, and someone had said he was a gentle soul. That might have been true, in the past, but was his grip on reality slipping a bit? Not to mention that Wanchese Marina, from where Will had departed on his last journey, is not far from Pirate's Cove, where Ralph keeps his own boat.

After an hour of staring at the ceiling and thinking about murder, I got up for good. I fixed myself a breakfast of yogurt, granola, and berries. The conversation with Ralph had been interesting, and perhaps illuminating, but I did have other suspects to consider.

As I ate, I poked around on the Internet, trying to find out what I could about Doug Whiteside's assistant, Bill Hill. The Internet may sometimes seem to be the source of all knowledge, but that can also mean way too much knowledge. With a name as common as Bill Hill, I got millions of hits, including a Bill Hill Road in Connecticut. I tried narrowing my search down to North Carolina, and then to Nags Head, and came up blank. I tried Doug Whiteside of North Carolina and my computer screen filled with pages of data. I clicked on images and was overwhelmed with pictures of Doug's beaming face. As
I'd hoped, Bill was in several of them, sticking faithfully to the background. One newspaper photo had been taken at a fund-raiser at a local golf course, and this one featured Bill with his arm around the shoulders of a woman with a strained smile that failed to reach her eyes. The caption read, “Whiteside's friend and campaign manager William Hill and his wife, Jill, greet guests.”

Armed with that small amount of knowledge, I finished breakfast, rinsed my dishes, and Charles and I went downstairs to work.

I took advantage of a brief lull, before the crowds started to arrive, to check the library's circulation files. As I'd dared hope, we had a patron by the name of Jill Hill, although she'd last taken out a book about three months ago. Judging by the books she borrowed, her interests leaned heavily toward gardening and Native American history. I glanced around the room. No one was requiring my attention. I grabbed the phone before I could think better of it, and placed a call. It rang several times, and then a woman's voice said, “Hello?”

“Is this Jill Hill?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“This is the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library calling. I wanted to let you know that your book on . . . the currents around the Outer Banks has arrived.”

“Book? You must have the wrong number. I haven't visited the library for some time.”

“Perhaps it was delayed,” I said, “or your husband requested it? Do you have a . . . uh . . . boat?”

“My husband and I own a small boat, yes, although he doesn't have much time to get out fishing these days.
He doesn't use the public library. Obviously there's been a mistake. Good-bye.”

I heard the click of the receiver being replaced. I let out a long breath. So, Bill Hill did have a boat. His wife hung up before I'd been able to find out where the boat was kept. Wanchese Marina maybe? I could hardly call her back and ask. I drummed my fingers on the desktop.

Had Billy murdered Will with or without Doug's knowledge? Had his wife, Jill, been an accomplice? Had she followed in their boat to take Bill back to town once the deed was done?

Had Bill and Jill Hill killed Will?

I was debating phoning Detective Watson to ask him if he'd checked up on Billy when a smiling man, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a lurid Hawaiian shirt, asked me if I could recommend a nice place to take his wife to dinner. By the time I'd given him directions to Jake's Seafood Bar a line was forming at the desk, so I went back to work. When I had time to think about it again, I decided not to call Watson about Billy. What could I say but that I suspected a man who lived in Nags Head of being a ruthless killer because he owned a boat? I'd have to think up a more subtle way to let the detective know Bill Hill would be worth investigating.

Stephanie phoned a short while later to invite me around for dinner that night.

“I'd love to come,” I said. “Time?”

“How about six?”

“We close at five on Mondays so six would be perfect. I'll see you then.” I hung up with a smile. I was looking forward to seeing Stephanie.

After closing, I went upstairs (love that commute!)
to feed Charles and to change. At quarter to six when I came back down, everyone had left and the library was settling quietly into the night. Apart from my Yaris, two other cars were in the parking lot: a beat-up old van over by the boardwalk and a nondescript beige sedan tucked into the trees in the loop where the driveway curves back on itself.

I got into my car and headed into town. The sedan pulled out behind me and followed, staying behind in the turns, and keeping well back in the light traffic heading into Nags Head. I paid it no mind.