Reading Up a Storm (9 page)

“Gosh, no. Will was such a sweetie. Everyone loved him.”

I doubted that, and the expression on Watson's face indicated he agreed with me.

“Do you want me to stay for a while?” I blurted out without thinking. If the man in my life—not that I had one—died suddenly, I wouldn't want to be all alone.

“Why would you do that?” she said in simple curiosity.

“I . . . uh . . . well, I thought you might not want to be left on your own. You have a lot to . . . uh . . . process.”

“I'm fine. Oh, one thing, Detective. You won't be . . . like, freezing his bank account or anything, will you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“He gave me a credit card of my own, but it's on his bank. Good thing the rent's paid up on this place.”

Watson walked away, shaking his head. Connor followed. I gave Marlene one last look. “What?” she said. “I have to live, don't I?”

We went outside. Marlene shut the door behind us. I dug in my bag for my sunglasses. A man and a woman, each one leaner and fitter than the other, ran past, not sparing us a glance. An elderly couple walking three miniature dachshunds shuffled down the road. “Morning,” the woman called to us in that cheerful way retired people have toward people who are clearly late for work.

“You think that phone call might have been from Ralph Harper?” Connor asked.

“If so, I can't see Williamson going out at night to meet with him,” Watson said. “But I'll ask. I want to pay a call on Ralph anyway. When I can track him down. This time of day, he'll be out on the water.”

“He captains a charter fishing boat,” Connor explained to me. “Out of Pirate's Cove.”

I wasn't thinking about Ralph or about Williamson's phone call. “Was that weird or what?” I asked Watson.

“What do you mean?”

“Marlene didn't seem all that upset.”

“She might be the sort to do her grieving in private,” he said slowly. “But I don't see it. All in all, I'd much rather someone not pretend to be mourning when they aren't, than putting on a show because they think I expect one.”

“She seemed more concerned,” I said, “about the potential death of his bank account than the man himself.”

“You see it here a lot,” Watson said, gesturing to the street of million-dollar vacation homes. “Old guy with money to burn wants a sexy young woman on his arm. Sexy young woman wants a rich guy on hers. It's just a business deal.”

“Does being a police officer make you such a cynic?” I said.

When he smiled, and that was a rare occurrence indeed, Detective Watson could be quite handsome. He did so now. “You thought they were in love? How innocent you are, Lucy.”

“I'm not innocent,” I protested, although I had to admit that I was. I'd been born into a wealthy family, given an excellent education, gone on to have a career I loved and was good at. I turned and looked at Connor. Why, I even believed in love.

And, I realized as though a bolt of lightning had streaked out of the cloudless sky and smacked me straight in the forehead, that the man standing right here beside me was the one. I'd let time tell me if he was the one I wanted to grow old along beside, but right here, right now, Connor was the man I wanted to be with.

“Will you look at that?” Watson laughed. “She's been struck dumb.” His phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Be right there,” he said, hanging up. “Two pieces of news. A Lincoln Navigator registered to William Williamson has been located at a marina in Wanchese. When the cruiser pulled up to check it out, the marina manager came out of the office, impressed at how quickly the
police had arrived. Seems he'd only just put down his phone, having called in the theft of a boat.

“I'm heading over there now. Connor, Lucy, try to think of anything that might have happened out of the ordinary last night at your book club. Give me a call if you come up with anything.”

With that he got into his car. He pulled out of the driveway and sped away as the tires kicked up sand. The dog walkers and the runners had disappeared. Connor and I were alone. I wanted to tell this wonderful, handsome, smart, marvelous man that I loved him.

Instead I said, “I guess I'd better get back to work.”

And he said, “I can't keep the budget committee waiting any longer. I'll drop you
off.”

“Penny for your thoughts,” Connor said.

Blood rushed into my face. “I . . . I . . .” I stuttered.

“I'll admit, I was also taken aback by Marlene's apparent indifference to the news of Will's death, but Sam has a good point. If Will was nothing to her but a meal ticket, she's going to be more concerned about losing that ticket than anything else. I wonder how Marlene and Will's son get on. She didn't mention any other kids from his marriages.”

“She said he had only the one son.”

We came to a stoplight, and Connor glanced at me.

I dragged my thoughts away from admiration of his gorgeous blue eyes, the color of the open ocean on a sunny day. You can be sure that the wives of my three older brothers have ensured that I know everything there is to know regarding the laws of inheritance in Massachusetts, but I don't know anything about North Carolina. If Stephanie could prove Will was her biological father, might she
be in line to inherit something? She might well be. Plenty of wills are open-ended about children and grandchildren.
Present and future
heirs of my body,
and such stuffy legal language.

For a moment, I hoped so. If anyone deserved an unexpected windfall it was Stephanie and Pat Stanton. Then, with a shock, I realized that might not be such a good thing. Not if it gave the police a reason to suspect Stephanie of causing Will's premature demise.

Connor turned at Whalebone Junction, and the BMW picked up speed as Highway 12 opened up, heading to the remote seaside villages of Cape Hatteras and the end of the road at Ocracoke Island.

“It's been a good summer,” he said, changing the subject. “The merchants should all be pleased.”

I mumbled agreement. “It gets pretty quiet here in the winter, I guess.”

“Gives us a chance to catch our breath,” he said with a laugh. “And restock the stores.”

I've been coming to the Outer Banks my whole life, but I've never spent a winter here. My mom and her sister, Ellen, Josie's mother, were born and raised in Nags Head. Mom moved to Boston when she married my dad, but Ellen stayed and convinced her own husband, my uncle Amos, to open a law practice here rather than return to his native Louisiana. Mom brought my siblings and me down here every summer when we were young. She stopped coming once I was old enough to travel on my own, but I continued to visit for at least a couple of weeks every year. Those long glorious summers on the Outer Banks, wrapped in the loving embrace of Ellen and Amos's chaotic family, were the best times of my life.

When I broke off with my long-long-long-standing boyfriend, Richard Eric Lewiston III, son of my father's law partner, and impulsively quit my job, where else would I go but to my favorite place in all the world and into the welcoming arms of my beloved aunt?

And so, here I was, making a new life for myself on the Outer Banks. I turned and looked at Connor. I'd first met Connor the summer I was fourteen and he was fifteen. A walk along the beach. A stolen kiss. We'd gone our separate ways after that, but neither of us had totally forgotten the other. He'd gone to Duke and UNC, became a dentist, and was now the mayor of Nags Head. I'd gotten a master of library science from Simmons, and had worked in the libraries at Harvard.

“So, Dr. McNeil,” I said now, “do you have any thoughts on who might have killed Will?”

“Not a one, but I scarcely knew the man.”

“What about that Ralph guy we met last night?”

“I've known Ralph Harper a long time. He's pretty much a fixture around here. Him and his
Old Man and the Sea
persona. He wouldn't care if Will threatened to sue him, but to imply that Ralph had made a mistake on the water? Yeah, that would get him mad. Mad enough to kill? No. I don't see it. Ralph's a gentle soul, never been in any trouble. That I know of anyway.

“Where the body was found is puzzling. It's unlikely to be a random sort of attack, if he or his killer went to the bother of stealing a boat.” The car slowed and turned into the long driveway. Emergency vehicles were still at the far end of the parking lot, near the boardwalk, and I could see Officer Franklin standing guard beside the yellow police tape.

Farther away, a smaller collection of cars was pulled up near the path to the lighthouse. As well as Bertie's I recognized Ronald and Charlene's, but there were several I didn't know.

I checked my watch and was startled to see how late it was. “Oh, my gosh. It's after ten. I'm late for work.”

“I think they'll forgive you this one time,” Connor said. He pulled up to the side of the lot, making no move to take a parking spot. “But the budget committee might not forgive me. I hope you don't mind if I don't come in.”

“I'm good,” I said. I gave him a smile. He smiled back but I got the feeling his mind was already sorting through numbers and balance sheets, moving on to that budget meeting. This morning, I'd had the most amazing, incredible, wonderful, burst of insight. I wanted to shout it to the world, or at least to Connor.

But the world didn't seem all that interested. And I didn't know if Connor even was.

“Have a nice day.” I got out of the car and went to work.

Inside, everyone stopped what they were doing as I came in. What they were doing, I guessed, was speculating about the murder. The main room was packed. Nags Head is a small community, and news travels mighty fast. I wasn't surprised to see Louise Jane as well as several members of our library board here.

“Oh, good.” Diane Uppiton, board member, turned away from Bertie when she saw me. “Now we can find out what's going on. Have they made an arrest?”

“I hope so. We have to move into damage control immediately,” said Curtis Gardner, another board member. Unlike what one might reasonably expect, not all the members of the board are enthusiastic supporters of
the library. Diane's goal in life was to see us closed down, and Curtis's goal in life was to keep Diane happy and thus continuing to fund his taste for fast cars and quality bourbon. I hadn't seen his Corvette outside, so he must have come with Diane. Diane was the widow of Jonathan Uppiton, late chair of the board. Fortunately for Diane, at the time of Jonathan's death the couple were separated, very acrimoniously, but not yet divorced. Jonathan hadn't changed his will, so Diane inherited everything.

Everything, unfortunately for us, except his deep love of the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library.

“Damage control?” Bertie said. “Don't be melodramatic, Curtis. I told you, over and over, this has nothing to do with the library. Now, if you'll excuse us, some of us have work to do.”

“It may seem to have nothing to do with the library,” Louise Jane said, “but the spirits can wander, you know. Those Civil War soldiers that protect the lighthouse would have no trouble going out into the marsh. Would they, Lucy?”

“Why are you asking me?” I said.

“You're the one who lives here.”

“Enough,” Bertie said. “Lucy, run upstairs and get changed out of your hiking clothes. Charlene, watch the desk until Lucy gets back. I will be in my office if anyone needs me. On
library
business.” She turned and walked away.

“See you later, Louise Jane,” Charlene said.

Louise Jane harrumphed. She didn't care to be reminded that she didn't actually work here. Diane and Curtis headed for the exit, and Louise Jane suddenly perked up. “Have you a moment, Diane? I've got some
great ideas for my Halloween exhibit. Mrs. Fitzgerald thinks they're great, but I want to be sure they meet with your approval.”

“I don't . . .” Diane began. Diane had not the slightest interest in the running of the library.

“I'd suggest we pull up a couple of chairs, but we don't seem to be wanted here. Why don't we go into town and grab a coffee?”

Diane did, however, have an interest in impressing on us all her importance. “Yes, that's an excellent idea. We can let these people . . . uh . . . work.” The corner of her lip turned up at the very idea.

I ran upstairs to my apartment. Before I jumped in the shower, I made a phone call. “Hi, Stephanie, it's Lucy. Did you or Pat hear from Bertie today?”

“She came around to the house, earlier, to tell us that Will Williamson was found dead this morning. Mom's pretty upset about it.”

“How do you feel?”

“Me? I simply don't know, Lucy. I should hate the man for the way he treated Mom, for not caring about me. I wish I'd had the chance to tell him what I thought about him. But on the other hand, I can't help thinking that I've lost my father. I'm sad. And I'm surprised that I'm sad. Does that make any sense?”

“It makes perfect sense. I can't talk for long. I'm late for work as it is. Do you want to have dinner tonight or something?”

“I'm okay, Lucy, but thanks for asking. Mom and I are going to stay in tonight. Another time, maybe.”

“You take care,” I said.

“I will.”

*   *   *

The morning was busy. Something about police activity and folks needing an excuse to find out what was going on, so they pretended to have been intending to come to the library anyway.

I was on the circulation desk at noon, when Theodore came down the back stairs from the rare-book room. He'd rushed in about a half hour before, saying he desperately needed to consult an old atlas.

“Find what you needed?” I said.

“Jolly good,” he replied. He was wearing a tweed jacket, much too warm for the day.

“Open your coat, please,” I said.

“Really, Lucy, I resent your implications.”

When I first began working here, Bertie had warned me about Theodore. He loved books, the older and rarer the better, but he didn't always worry about how they came into his possession. Taking books from the library without checking them out, and then hunting them down, was almost a game Theodore and Jonathan Uppiton had played.

Bertie, on the other hand, refused to play.

“Coat,” I repeated.

He did as I asked. I could see no mysterious lumps or excessively full pockets. “Thanks,” I said.

He let out a martyred sigh, and then he leaned over the desk and lowered his voice. “What do you know about the untimely and tragic death of Will Williamson?”

“Nothing.”

“I heard you discovered the body.”

“No. Butch did,” I said, telling the perfect truth.

“I hear the recently departed was at book club the other night. I was sorry I had to miss it. Did he have any interesting insights to offer?”

“About
Kidnapped
, you mean? Not a thing. He only came because his girlfriend wanted to.”

“His girlfriend? That is interesting. A friend of literature, is she?”

“I guess,” I said, wondering what Theodore was getting at.

“You don't suppose his demise had anything to do with the book club meeting, do you, Lucy?”

“Of course not,” I said. “How could it? None of us had met Will before last night.”

“You will keep me in the loop, won't you, my dear?”

“There is no loop in which to be kept.”

He touched the side of his nose and gave me what he thought of as a conspiratorial wink.

I winked back.
Let him have his fun.

On his way out, Theodore held the door for Detective Watson, who was coming in. “I need to talk to you, Lucy,” Watson said. Theodore's ears twitched and instead of leaving he snatched up the nearest piece of reading material. I doubted he was all that interested in the most recent issue of
Martha Stewart Living
, which was waiting to be returned to the magazine shelf.

“I can't talk right now,” I said. “Charlene's gone to lunch. When she gets back she can look after the desk for me.”

Watson gave me a long look. Then he turned around and let out an authoritative shout. “Folks, the library's closing. Now.”

Heads popped around shelves, and patrons put down books. Theodore looked up from the magazine.

“If you would be on your way, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you,” Watson said.

“Hey!” I protested. “You said we didn't have to close today.”

He loomed over me, close enough that I leaned back in my chair. He dropped his voice. “I also said that I wanted to talk to you, Lucy. As you cannot leave your work, your work will have to leave you. I don't want half of Nags Head listening in.” He looked pointedly at Theodore.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I'll call Bertie to look after the desk.”

“Excellent idea,” Watson said. He put on his crowd-control voice again. “Never mind, folks. Go back to your business.”

The patrons shrugged and exchanged curious glances. “What's goin' on out there, Sam?” a man said.

“Police business,” Watson replied.

I picked up the phone and told Bertie what was happening. She said she'd be right out.

“You can tell me, Sammy my boy,” the man said. He gave Watson a wink. “It'll go no farther.”

“No farther than the nearest bar,” Watson said. “Surprised to see you in a library, Eddie. Regular visitor, are you?”

“Figured it was time to check the place out. Meet some nice-lookin' ladies.” He smiled at me. I gave him a not very sympathetic smile in return. At seventy years old, with bad hips and a dire shortage of both teeth and
hair, Eddie really shouldn't have been trying to flirt with me.

Bertie said we could use her office. She didn't need to add “again.” Charles attempted to follow us, but Watson was faster, and the door was slammed shut in the cat's disappointed face.

I settled myself in the single visitor's chair and primly folded my hands in my lap and my legs at the ankles. I was wearing a teal sweater and a black knee-length skirt over opaque tights. Very prim and proper and librarian-ish. “How can I help you, Detective?”