Reading Up a Storm (7 page)

“Not again!” Bertie said as she ran through the front door of the library.

I looked up from my mug of hot tea. Charles was curled on my lap, his comforting bulk a welcome presence. He meowed at Bertie as if to say, “Yes! Again!”

Bertie must have come straight from her studio. She was dressed in sleek black yoga pants with a turquoise stripe down the leg and a matching sleeveless shirt. Bare feet were stuffed into flip-flops and the salt-and-pepper hair she wore to work fastened into a tight bun was caught in a loose ponytail.

“Butch called me,” Bertie said. “I'd just finished a class. He said I had to get down here right away.”

“What's going on?” Connor followed Bertie. “Lucy, are you all right? I was in a meeting with the chief when the call came in.”

“I'm fine,” I said. “But . . .” I swallowed. “Will Williamson. The man who was here last night. For book club. Remember?”

“Of course I remember,” Connor said. “I brought him. What about him?”

“He's dead. Murdered. In a boat, down by the marsh.”

Bertie plucked the empty mug out of my hands. “I'm going to make another pot. Connor, you stay with her.”

Connor crouched down beside my chair. Charles shifted an inch to give him room, and he took my hands in his.

“I'm okay, really. It was a bit of a shock; that's all. Butch was there. He's taking care of everything.”

“You were with Butch?” Connor pulled his hands away.

Charles hissed.

“A morning hike. He was telling me how he used to go for a walk before day shift. He said it got his head in the right place to face the day. I said he should keep it up, and he asked me to join him this morning.”

“I guess that's okay then.”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

“No reason.”

Bertie came back carrying a tray, the teapot, and two mugs. “All the activity seems to be down by the sound. The emergency vehicles aren't blocking our entrance this time. One can be grateful for small favors. Tea, Connor?”

“No, thanks.” He pushed himself to his feet. His tie was askew and his hair mussed. “I'd better get back. The chief and I never finished our meeting.” I clutched my mug. Charles swatted my hand.

“Can you stay with Lucy for a few minutes?” Bertie said. “I want to find out for myself what's happening.”

“I'm okay,” I said.

“No, you are not,” she said. And she left.

“I really am fine,” I said. “It was a bit of a shock; that's all. Nothing to do with the library, thank heavens.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” Connor said. “Why do you suppose Will was out here in a boat, anyway?”

“I have no idea.”

“No sign of anyone else? Marlene?”

“We didn't see another soul all morning. Obviously someone must have been with him. I can't imagine him doing that to himself.” I shuddered at the memory of the knife.

“Someone's going to have to notify Marlene,” Connor said. “Since I know her, I guess I should do it. The chief'll have to wait.”

“I'll go with you.”

“That's not necessary, Lucy.”

“I think it is.” I shifted Charles aside, put down my mug, and got to my feet. “You shouldn't have to go alone, and she knows me now too.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you for coming in such a rush,” I said. “You're a good friend to the library.”

“I hope I'm more than that,” he said.

He had not moved back when I stood up, and we were standing very close. I felt a gentle push of Charles's paw in the small of my back, almost as though he was nudging me forward. Connor lifted his hand.

Outside the front door, a police radio squawked and Connor and I leaped apart.

“I'm so sorry, Lucy,” Butch said, coming into the library. He'd pinned a badge to his sweatshirt. “Not quite the nice start to the day that I was expecting. Hi, Connor. What brings you here?”

“Just checking everything's okay. Morning, Sam.”

Detective Sam Watson had come with Butch. “I've told Ms. James that the library can go about its business as usual today. We'll restrict our activities to the far end of the parking lot and the western boardwalk.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said.

“Lucy,” Watson said. “Butch tells me you were with him when you came across the body.”

I swallowed. “Uh, yes.”

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary this morning? Anyone around when you first came outside?”

I shook my head. “No. Not a soul. Most days bird-watchers and nature enthusiasts are here as soon as the sun's up, but not always. Wasn't the case this morning. We had the walk to ourselves.”

“I told the detective that,” Butch said.

Connor mumbled.

“You say something, Mr. Mayor?” Watson said.

“Nope.”

“What about that boat? Have you seen it before?”

“No. I don't think so, anyway,” I said. “I'm not one for boats, and it didn't seem any different from plenty of others you see around here.”

“Did you look out your window before you came down?”

“Yes, I did. To check the weather. My window faces east, out to sea, not west to the sound.”

“Butch tells me he knows the guy. His wallet was still in his pocket and the ID confirms the name. William Williamson. He came to your book club last night?”

“I brought him,” Connor said. “I was about to go
around to his house and break the news to his . . . uh, partner.”

“Tell me about Williamson.”

“He's from an Outer Banks family, but the family moved away over the years. He lived in Alaska for a long time, but recently retired and came back. He's renting a house in Nags Head while looking for something to buy.”

“How did he hook up with you?” Watson asked.

“He was friends with my dad when they were young. He recognized my name in some newspaper article and gave me a call a couple of days ago. Mom and Dad are away visiting friends in Colorado, so Williamson suggested he and I meet up.”

“And you did?”

“Sure I did. Aside from the fact that I like most of my dad's old buddies and love hearing their stories, Williamson says he's moving back to OBX. That means a potential voter. Not to mention campaign contributor. He seems . . . seemed . . . to be well-off financially.”

“Fair enough,” Watson said. “So you brought them to your book club. That's an odd place to invite a guest. Heck, my wife's always after me to come along, but that's only because she thinks I need hobbies.” He might have added “Over my dead body” under his breath, but I couldn't be sure.

Connor chuckled. “Believe me—Will had no interest whatsoever in our book club, but his girlfriend was keen. She said if she's going to be living here, she wants to make friends.”

“Fair enough,” Watson said again.

“I liked her,” I said.

“I'm sure you did,” Watson said. “What time did book club end?”

“The usual time. Around nine,” Connor said.

“What did they do then?”

Connor, Butch, and I exchanged a glance.

“Okay. What happened?” Watson asked.

“Ralph Harper was waiting for Williamson,” Butch said. “Williamson has threatened legal action against Ralph and the coast guard members who rescued him and Marlene, his girlfriend, the night of the big storm when their boat went aground.”

“He was suing them for saving him?”

“Threatening to, anyway.”

“So, what happened?”

“Nothing much. I told Ralph to back off, and he did. Williamson left before Ralph, but not much before. A minute. Two at the outside.”

“After telling you not to mess with the power of the sea, I expect,” Watson said. “I'll go around to talk to him.”

“I have to add that Ralph was not belligerent,” Butch said. “If anything, he sounded calm and reasonable. As he always is.”

“We left immediately after them,” Connor said. “I didn't see any sign of either Williamson's car or Ralph's on the road into Nags Head.”

“We?”

“Butch, Lucy, Stephanie, and I went out for a drink after.”

“Who the heck is Stephanie?” Watson said.

My heart dropped into my stomach. My stomach dropped even farther. Stephanie! With all the commotion,
I'd forgotten all about Stephanie and the shocking news she'd learned only last night. Will Williamson was her father. And now he was dead.

“Lucy?” Watson said. “Who's Stephanie?”

“A friend of Lucy's,” Butch put in. “From Raleigh, she said. I didn't think much of her.”

“She . . . uh. . . . She's, uh . . . She's visiting her mom, who's a friend of Bertie,” I said.

“Does this Stephanie have a last name?”

“I didn't get it,” Butch said.

“Stanton,” I said. “Same as her mom. She has her mom's name and not her father's because . . .” A gaping chasm opened in front of me. I managed to stop myself before I fell over the cliff and blurted everything out.

“What relevance does that have?” Watson asked. I didn't like the look in his eyes. He was too darn perceptive.

“None,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “None at all. Why until last night she didn't even know . . .”

I practically jumped out of my skin as the entire returns shelf fell over. Books flew everywhere. The shelf, just a cart on wheels, crashed into the circulation desk, and
The Joy of Cooking
, easily three inches thick, hit the back of the computer monitor. The monitor wobbled, and Connor, who was standing closest, leaped for it. He reached it in time, but his foot slipped on a magazine and his legs spilled out from under him. He fell to the floor in a heap, where he lay wide-eyed and startled, among scattered books and magazines.

At the sound of the crashing cart, Watson and Butch had whirled around. Watson was reaching into his jacket, and Butch's hand lunged for his hip.

“Don't shoot,” Connor said plaintively.

Butch reached down, grabbed Connor's hand, and pulled him to his feet.

Only I saw Charles slip out from under the overturned cart, carrying a small blue-and-white ball in his mouth. He tossed the ball to one side, leaped up onto the arm of my chair, and gave me a self-satisfied smirk. I gave him a hearty pat.
Extra kibble for you tonight, b
uddy.

“What on earth is going on in here?” Bertie surveyed the chaos from the doorway.

“We're finishing up now, Ms. James,” Watson said. “You can have your library back. Mr. Mayor, do you have the address of the place the deceased was renting?”

“I've been there,” Connor said. “If you're going now, I'd like to go with you. It would be better if someone Marlene knows, even minimally, is there when you break the news.”

Watson nodded. “You said they aren't married. What's the woman's surname?”

“I don't think I got it,” Connor said.

“I'm coming too,” I said, preparing for an argument.

To my surprise, Watson said, “That's probably a good idea.”

“If you can wait a minute,” Bertie said. “I want to talk to Lucy privately. We won't be long.” She stood by the open door, and made a gesture as though she were ushering tardy dinner guests out.

“One minute,” Watson said sternly. “Or we'll leave without her.”

The men left. Bertie slammed the door behind them. “Quick,” she said. “I heard one of the police officers say the dead man is named Williamson. Is that right?”

“Yes. I saw him. Most of his face was covered by a cap, but it was the same guy who came to book club last night. Butch confirmed it.”

“Stephanie's father?”

“It must be. I noticed a strong family resemblance between them last night, but thought nothing of it. As soon as Pat said he was back from Alaska, I knew it had to be the same man. How awful. Poor Stephanie finally found her father, and now he's dead.”

“Sounds like no loss to anyone,” Bertie said. “Have you told the police this?”

I thought of Charles and the book cart. “No. Should I?”

Bertie let out a long sigh. “I don't see how we can't, honey.”

“But it doesn't have anything to do with Stephanie or Pat. Pat told us in complete confidence. She's kept that secret for thirty years. We can't blurt it out the first chance we get.”

“When it comes to the law, we might have to. I don't like it either. I'd suggest you say nothing, but if you're directly asked if there's a relationship between Stephanie or Pat and this man Williamson, you can't lie.”

“His death has nothing to do with Stephanie.” I studied Bertie's face. “It doesn't. You must know that.”

“Honey, I don't know what I know. But you can be sure that if I'm thinking it's a heck of a coincidence that Williamson was murdered hours after Stephanie found out he's the man who got her mother pregnant and abandoned them to a life of poverty and hard work, you can be sure Watson will think so too.”

“Her learning about him had nothing to do with it. An earlier attempt was made on his life.”

“When? Do the police know this?”

“Monday night. I don't think they know, but I saw the lights.”

“What lights? What are you talking about, Lucy?”

“Someone deliberately misled his boat in the storm, caused it to crash onto the shore. I saw it. The boat was wrecked. Will and Marlene were lucky to survive.”

“We're leaving, Ms. Richardson. Now!” Watson bellowed.

“You have to go,” Bertie said. “I'm heading to Pat's, and I'll break the news to her and Stephanie. It's up to Pat and Stephanie to decide if they want to go to the police with what they know about Williamson. But I have to tell them that lights or no lights, you and I can't keep this secret for long.”