by Eva Gates
“Imitation maybe? Or someone who’d lost their mental faculties trying to recreate something they remembered?”
“That’s discouraging.”
“I’m only being practical. As for it giving clues to the meaning of the map, that’s a mighty big stretch too. The map might just be a map and the numbers have no meaning other than to the map drawer.”
I sighed. “You’re probably right. I’m letting myself be influenced by Jules Verne.”
“If it does give directions to the center of the earth, I don’t know that I’d want to go there,” Connor said. “Isn’t it hot?”
“Can’t be much hotter down there than it is up here this week. Mr. Verne’s knowledge of chemistry and physics wasn’t extensive. The science in the book is absolute rubbish. Other than that, it’s a good story.”
“Hey!” Connor leapt up, almost upsetting his beer. As often happens along the coast, out of seemingly nowhere, a storm struck. A sudden gust of wind lifted the printout off the table and hurled it toward the deck railing. Connor snatched it out of the air in the nick of time.
“Nice catch,” I said.
“Close one,” he said, securing it on the table with a salt shaker.
Around us people scurried for cover, and waiters adjusted umbrellas. Our table was under an awning, and we remained snug and dry as rain pounded on the roof and splashed at our feet. The temperature dropped about ten degrees in a matter of minutes, and I was glad of it.
I folded the printout, put it and my shopping list in my bag, and settled down to enjoy my dinner and the company.
When we finished eating—with me having declined dessert and Connor vacuuming up an enormous slice of key lime pie made at my cousin’s bakery—and were relaxing over our coffee, Connor said, “You can look at it again, if you want.”
“Look at what?”
“The so-called code.”
“More mind reading?” I had been thinking about it.
“More like I’d like another peek.”
We studied the page in silence. The back of the grocery list was now covered with seemingly random letters, many of them scratched out or overwritten. The rain stopped as quickly as it had begun, leaving the wooden boards of the deck glistening and clear drops dripping off the umbrellas.
“I could stare at this all night,” I said, “and make no more sense of it than when I first saw it. We need that key.”
“If there is a key.”
“Do you want me to make you a copy?”
Connor threw up his hands. “Oh no. I’d never get any work done—and probably get no sleep either. I’d keep thinking, One more try.”
“Which is likely to be what I’ll be doing the rest of the night.”
“Ready to go?”
“Yes. Sorry if I seemed distracted.”
“You were distracted. And so was I. There’s something about word puzzles. We simply can’t let go. It’s early still. I hear good things about that band playing at The Tidal Wave Lounge. Want to go and hear a set?”
“I’d like that,” I said.
We left the restaurant and splashed through newly formed puddles to Connor’s car.
* * *
The band had been good and we’d stayed to listen to several sets. It was after ten before we headed back to my place.
“How are the plans for Settlers’ Day going?” Connor asked as he drove through the dark, wet streets.
“Well, as far as I know. It’s nice not to have much to do. The historical society’s taking care of all the details. They’re in charge of the day. We’re just providing the space on our lawn.”
“I’ve heard good things about that Jeremy Hughes,” Connor said. “He put the money up to get the plans underway, and he’s been generous about donating to some of the environmental initiatives.”
I considered telling Connor I had a bad feeling about Jeremy. I hadn’t liked the way Charlene ducked her head and fled at the sight of him, or the way he looked at me and “accidently” brushed up against me. Charles had clearly not taken to him. Charles, I had found, is an excellent judge of character.
I decided to say nothing. If Charlene had a problem with him, it was up to her to tell us, if she wanted to. I would try to ensure I wasn’t ever alone with the man.
“Speaking of environmental issues, what’s happening with that controversial development you’ve been worried about?” I asked.
“My allies on the town council and I are working hard at our end to keep it under some sort of control, so it matches the needs of the environment and the desires of people in the adjacent streets, but powerful forces want to see that resort built into the biggest and the flashiest around.”
“Why has this come up now?”
“Most of that land has been in the Monaghan family for generations. Nathanial Monaghan was a local legend, fiercely dedicated to the preservation of the Outer Banks. He refused to sell off any of the land, no matter how much he was offered, determined that it wouldn’t be developed. And so that parcel has been untouched for more than seventy years while the Outer Banks built up around it. The old man died two years ago, leaving the property without condition to Rick, his only child. Rick’s arguing that he can do what he wants with it. On the positive side, his company’s having some trouble raising the last of the needed cash before they can get the final permits and start work. Without that, they’ll have to scale back their plans.”
“Let’s hope,” I said.
“Rick Monaghan has badly overstretched himself, but once people started opposing his plans, he dug his heels in, and now he can’t allow himself to be seen to back down. He refuses to admit that the smaller hotel is a better option for everyone. Including his family.”
We drove in silence for a few minutes. When the flash of the lighthouse beam appeared in the distance, I said, “It would be fun, wouldn’t it, if we had found an important historic document buried literally under our feet?”
“I don’t know about ‘fun.’ Without even knowing what it is, you had the university people and the historical society squabbling about it. Not to mention Louise Jane wanting her grandmother’s take, and everyone’s ears pricking up the moment someone mentioned treasure.”
“Are you coming to book club on Wednesday?”
“I plan to. I guess I know what I’ll be doing for the next couple of nights.”
“The book’s not overly long. Not like some classic works.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
He pulled into the long, winding lane that led between rows of tall red pines to the lighthouse and the marshes surrounding it. The road was wet and the BMW’s tires spat rainwater on either side of the car. Overhead the clouds had moved on, and a three-quarters moon had come out.
Two cars were in the parking lot: my teal Yaris and one other I didn’t recognize. It hadn’t been there when we left, but I gave it no mind. People often came to see the lighthouse at night or to enjoy a moonlight stroll along the boardwalk to the marsh.
Connor parked at the top of the path.
“Far be it from me to interrupt your reading,” I said, “but do you want to come in for a bit?”
He didn’t turn to look at me.
“Connor?”
“Lucy, did you lock the door?”
“Of course I … oh.”
The front entrance to the library was open. Images flashed through my mind. I’d been the last to leave. Connor and Bertie had been outside, chatting while Connor waited for me. All the others, those here to argue over the notebook and the map, had gotten into their cars and driven away before us.
It was possible Ronald or Charlene had come back for something, but their cars weren’t here. And they wouldn’t have left the door open.
I might have forgotten to lock up, although I didn’t think so, but I never would have left the front door standing open.
“Charles!” I jumped out of the car.
“Lucy, no! Wait!” Connor ran up the path after me. He grabbed m
y arm. “Don’t go in.”
“But Charles.”
“Charles can look after himself.” He took his phone out of his pocket. “You were last to leave. Are you sure you shut the door?”
“Positive.”
“Might Bertie have come back?”
“She might, but she would have locked up when she left.”
“I’ll go in and check it out. You wait here.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Lucy.”
I slipped my hand into his free one. “Let’s go.”
As soon as we got closer, we could see that no one had simply forgotten to set the lock. Shards of what had once been the door flapped in the wind. The wood around the lock and the handle had been smashed as though someone had gone after it with a sledgehammer.
Connor cautiously pushed the broken door aside, and we stepped into the library together. “Hello!” Connor yelled. “Anyone here? The police have been called.”
We held our breath. All was quiet. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. The computer sat on the circulation desk, dark and quiet, as were the three computers used by our patrons. The books were neatly lined on the shelves, the magazine rack tidy.
I normally love being in a library at night. The peace, the quiet. Being surrounded by thousands of pages waiting to be turned, millions of words waiting to be read. But tonight, the silence was ominous, the dark foreboding.
Connor pointed to the spiral iron stairs, twisting upward into the dark. I shook my head. There would be no reason for anyone to go up there. My apartment had a good solid door and its own lock, and the only window was a hundred feet above the ground. The rare books room, where we kept items of value, was accessible by the back staircase, and it also had its own lock.
I was desperately worried about Charles. He hadn’t come out to greet us, as he always did—not, I was sure, because he was happy to see me, but to remind me it was time to fill the food bowl.
It was always time to fill the food bowl.
“Office,” I whispered.
Barely breathing, we crept down the hallway. Connor gripped my hand firmly, and I clung to his in return. The door to Bertie’s office was closed, but a thin line of light leaked out. Bertie was a tyrant in terms of electricity use. She never would have left a light on.
Behind the door a shadow moved across the light.
I yelped.
Connor pushed buttons on his phone and spoke quickly but calmly. “This is Mayor McNeil. There’s an intruder at the lighthouse library.”
“I’m sending someone now, Your Honor. Please keep this line open and wait for us outside.”
“Will do,” he said. He stepped backward, pulling me along with him.
A screech that might have come from the center of the earth broke the silence. Charles! I didn’t even think of what else might be lying in wait behind that door. I dropped Connor’s hand as he cried, “Lucy, no!” and I wrenched open the office door.
I’d last been in this room about four hours ago. It had changed totally since. The visitor’s chair was overturned, and books had fallen off the shelves and lay tumbled on the floor. The computer monitor was face down on the desk, and the keyboard and mouse were nowhere to be seen. Papers littered the floor like giant snowflakes.
Only the painting of the woman doing yoga on the beach was still in place, silent and serene and now looking so very out of place.
Charles sat on the desk, next to the overturned computer monitor, staring at me as if to say, “About time you showed up.” He jumped down, landing on the far side of Bertie’s desk.
I walked slowly across the room, feeling Connor close behind me as we rounded the desk. The keyboard and mouse dangled in the air, swinging at the end of their cords. The drawer where Bertie had locked up the tin box and its contents was open, the lock smashed.
A man lay on the floor. Charles sat beside him, but he made no attempt to push the cat away. It was Jeremy Hughes. Leather gloves were on his hands, and his eyes were open. He stared at the ceiling, unseeing, not moving.
Chapter Six
“Tea?”
“What? Oh yes. Tea. Thank you.”
“I put extra sugar in.”
“Thank you.” I accepted the steaming mug.
“Where did you get a cup of hot tea out here at this time of night?” Connor asked.
“It’s mine,” the young police officer said. “I carry a thermos when I’m working nights. My mother’s from England. Nothing better than a cup of hot tea, she always says. Although she calls it tea, not hot tea.”
I breathed in the warm, herby, sweet fragrance. “Because hot tea goes without saying in England.”
“Right.” She held out her hand, and I accepted it. She was short and stocky and very young, with a sprinkling of freckles across her pale face and frizzy red hair pulled into a tight ponytail. “I’m Holly Rankin. I started working here yesterday.” She turned to Connor. “You must be Mayor McNeil.”
They shook hands. “Sorry to meet you this way, Officer Rankin,” he said.
Connor and I were sitting outside on the steps of the library. Officers, including our friend Butch Greenblatt, had arrived shortly after we found the body of Jeremy Hughes, and we’d been hustled out of the building mighty quick. Officer Rankin had been assigned to watch over us. Why they thought we needed watching over, I didn’t know. Maybe it was to give Holly Rankin something to do.
The storm had done nothing to break the heat; instead, it seemed to have only laid another level of humidity on top of it, but the hot tea was welcome nonetheless.
The moon had slipped behind a fresh bank of clouds, and this far from town it was very dark. The single lamp above the smashed and broken door threw a small circle of light onto the steps. At regular intervals the great 1000-watt bulb high above us flashed its steady rhythm of 2.5 seconds on, 2.5 seconds off, 2.5 seconds on, and 22.5 seconds off.
In these days of illuminated towns and cities and vast ribbons of highway, as well as radio satellites and GPS systems, lighthouses no longer perform the lifesaving function they were built for—to guide ships at sea—but I find the Bodie Island Light comforting in its regularity and reliability. Steady and unchanging in an unsure, constantly shifting world.
Back on the ground, more red and blue lights flashed as cars sped down the lane. An ambulance had been one of the first to arrive, and the medics had run inside. When they came out, they walked more slowly and did not have Jeremy with them.
Connor and I had known he was dead the moment we saw him, but Connor had dropped beside him to check for life signs, and we’d stayed with him until Butch arrived. A quick glance at the open tin box showed me that the diary was still nested within as it had been for more than a hundred years.
Charles had rubbed against my legs, and I bent down to stroke him, seeking comfort in his thick, warm fur.
For his pains, the big cat was now confined to the broom closet while the police did their work. He didn’t sound very happy about that, and his plaintive cries echoed around the building.
“Evenin’, Connor, Lucy.”
I looked up at the sound of my name. Connor got to his feet and said, “Sam.”
Detective Sam Watson—crew cut, strong square jaw, penetrating gray eyes—had arrived. “Want to tell me what you know before I go in there?”
I let Connor speak. Quickly and efficiently he told Watson about noticing the broken door and us venturing cautiously into the library to find … what we found.
“The nine-one-one operator told you to leave the building until a patrol could get here,” Sam said. “Why didn’t you? He could have been standing behind that door with a gun.”
“I—” Connor said.
“It was me,” I confessed. “I didn’t think. I heard Charles cry out. I thought he needed me.”
“Charles. You mean that dratted cat.”
Detective Sam Watson was not a cat person.
“Charles alerted us to the presence of a body in the o
ffice,” I said. “That’s a good thing.”
“Do you have any idea what he was doing in there?”
“He must have followed Jeremy and whoever was with him, and got trapped inside when the door shut as that person left,” I said.
“I mean what the deceased was doing, not the cat.”
“Oh. No, sorry.”
“I can hazard a guess,” Connor said, “but it’s complicated.”
“It’s always complicated when the lighthouse library’s involved,” Watson said. “Lucy said his name was Jeremy. You know him?”
“Yes, we do. Jeremy Hughes from the Bodie Island Historical Society. He was here, at the library, earlier. As were a good number of people wanting to look at an artifact the diggers found.”
“What sort of artifact?”
Connor and I exchanged a look.
“As I said,” Connor said, “it’s complicated. You might want to wait until Bertie gets here, and she can explain. I assume she’s been called?”
“She has. Are you talking about the map leading to pirate treasure that was dug up earlier? Everyone at the station’s talking about it, and I assumed it was nothing but a wild rumor. You’re saying there’s something to it?”
“We don’t believe it’s a treasure map,” I said. “But right now we don’t know what it is.”
“Is it something worth killing over?” Watson asked.
Connor and I exchanged another glance. “I wouldn’t have thought so,” I said.
“But now you do?”
“I don’t know, but someone broke the drawer where Bertie had locked the papers for the night. We found not only a map—guide to pirate treasure or not—but a leather-bound diary dating from the Civil War era, along with a couple of loose sheets of paper. They were in a tin box, buried underground next to the lighthouse tower. The box is still in Bertie’s desk drawer. We have to assume Jeremy came back tonight either to steal it or to have a private look it.”
“We have to assume that, do we?” Watson said.
“A reasonable assumption,” Connor said. “It’s also reasonable to assume someone else wanted to do the same. You’ll see what I mean when you see the office, Sam. You’ve been in there often enough to know Bertie is neat and well organized. Lucy and I touched nothing except for the man himself when I checked for signs of life.”
