by Eva Gates
I poured myself a cup of tea and added a splash of milk and a generous spoonful of sugar. I checked that Charles was comfortably curled up on the pillow-covered bench seat under the apartment’s only window, and then I sat back down at the table with my tea, a stack of unused paper to write on, and the printouts of the map and code page.
If it was a code page.
Once again I tried looking for patterns. What was the most common letter? W. Did it remain the most common throughout the page? Yes. Was there a pattern to the placement of the W’s? Not that I could see. I tried some simple substitutions. Nothing became clear. Reading backward didn’t make any more sense.
I next searched for anagrams, rearranging the letters. That proved difficult because the words weren’t really words. In most cases, there were too many letters between the spaces. At least the printing was clear and legible. Bad handwriting would have created a whole new nightmare in deciphering the text.
When my head started to hurt, I put the code page aside and studied the map. Most of it was recognizable as the Outer Banks, although crudely drawn, but some was not. I didn’t know anything about how the land and sea had changed over time, but there were bound to be books in Charlene’s collection that could tell me.
I attempted to decipher the meaning of the numbers on the map page. Did they relate to the few numbers scatted among the letters on the code page? I substituted an A for the 1, and a B for the 2, and so on until H. But still, nothing became clear. I did it backwards. No help at all.
I studied the pages of paper on which I’d written my deciphering attempts. All I saw were lines and more lines of absolute gibberish.
Maybe this wasn’t a code after all. Maybe it was just the scribblings of an illiterate person copying something they didn’t understand and making a mess of it. If anyone got hold of the pages I’d written tonight, they’d search in vain for any rhyme or reason to it.
* * *
I started awake at a simultaneous buzzing and ringing. My head ached, my throat was parched, and I had a crick in my neck.
A cat’s paw swatted at my hand, and big blue eyes stared into mine. I blinked.
I’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table. I hadn’t pulled the drapes shut, and sunlight streamed in. The fog in my head slowly cleared, and I understood that my phone was buzzing, and the doorbell to the library was ringing.
Charles leapt off the table as I fumbled for the phone and ran for the intercom that would allow me to see who was outside and talk to them. “What? I mean hello?”
“Lucy?” It was Bertie.
I spoke into the phone. “I’m here. What time is it?”
“Eight thirty.”
“Sorry—I overslept.”
“You have to let me in. I don’t have a key for the new lock.”
I pushed the button to bring up the security camera. My boss’s face appeared in front of me. She held her phone to her ear.
Memories of last night flooded back. New door. New lock. New keys.
“Sam phoned me earlier and said we could open the library today. He also said he’d told the locksmith to leave the keys on the circulation desk.”
“So you need me to let you in?” I asked. Maybe I wasn’t entirely awake yet.
“Yes, Lucy, I do.”
“Be right there.” I dashed down the stairs. The keys were on the desk, as promised. The door was new, and when I pulled it open, I realized it was a good deal more substantial than the one that had previously been here.
“Good morning,” I said to Bertie.
“Good morning.” She looked fresh and awake, ready for a new day. It was supposed to be another scorching hot day, and she wore a sleeveless pale blue cotton dress that swirled around her calves and sturdy Birkenstock sandals. She glanced around the main room. “Everything seems back to normal. More or less as we left it.”
Despite all the comings and goings last night, this morning our beloved library was once again just a library.
“Sam told me I cannot go into my office,” she said. “Not even to get my computer or take any papers I might need to work on. So I’ll be out here most of the day, getting in everyone’s hair. I can help on the desk. Were you up late?”
“Yes, but not because the police were here. I was having a go at deciphering the code. If it is a code.”
“I gather you didn’t have much luck?”
“Not one bit. I fell asleep over it. If anything came to me in my dreams, I don’t remember. Oh, that reminds me. What about the historical society? Are they still coming at nine?”
“I didn’t call them to tell them not to,” Bertie said. “I had the radio on in the car on my way here. The news mentioned there’d been a death at the library last night, but police were withholding the name of the deceased pending notification of next of kin.”
“So they might not know it was Jeremy,” I said. “We can watch their reactions when you tell them.”
“Detecting again, Lucy?” There might have been a hint of amusement in her tone.
I shook my head vehemently. “No. Absolutely not. I’m curious, that’s all. Oh, something else happened that you might want to know about.” I filled her in quickly on our visit to Louise Jane.
Bertie threw up her hands. “I can’t fault someone for loving our library so much, but sometimes …”
“Sometimes,” I agreed.
“You don’t think Sam’s considering Louise Jane to be a suspect, do you? I can’t imagine anything more ridiculous. If Louise Jane had fought with anyone to protect library property, she’d be bragging about her role in saving it.”
“I don’t know what he’s thinking. I’ll get dressed and be right back.” I headed for the stairs.
* * *
I had a quick shower, washed and dried my hair, and was back downstairs at five to nine. Instead of having a toasted bagel or bowl of cereal and yogurt in my apartment as I usually do, I stuffed a granola bar into my pocket to serve as my breakfast. I wanted to be on hand when the members of the Bodie Island Historical Society got here.
The first person to arrive was Detective Sam Watson, accompanied by Officer Holly Rankin and Mayor Connor McNeil, bringing a wave of heat with him. Not yet nine o’clock and the temperature outside was already approaching the nineties. I shouldn’t have bothered with my hair. I could practically feel it turning into a ball of frizz in the humidity. Officer Rankin, with her pale skin, red hair, and English heritage, wiped sweat off her brow.
“To what do we owe the honor?” Bertie asked them.
“Last night you mentioned the historical society would be coming in this morning to examine the documents,” Watson said. “Did you call to tell them not to bother?”
“No.”
“Good. I want to see their reactions.”
“And I,” Connor said, “don’t need an excuse to pop into the library. But if I did, I’d say I’m here to watch your backs.”
Watson pointed to a small paper bag Rankin carried. “I’m returning the diary. We fingerprinted it and found nothing at all useable. Not even your prints.”
“Charlene made us wear gloves to handle it,” Bertie said.
“Hughes was wearing gloves last night. Not proper historian’s gloves, but a leather pair that probably belonged to him. Unless you were up to no good, you’d never wear gloves in heat like this, so it’s possible whoever was with him last night did so also.”
Rankin handed the parcel to Bertie, and my boss clutched it to her chest. “Thank you. I’m going to lock this upstairs in the rare books room. No one is to see it without my express permission. Library employees included.”
“Understood,” I said.
“Lucy,” Watson said, “you might be interested to know that the clerk in the grocery store nearest to Louise Jane’s house remembers her coming in around eight. It was raining heavily, and Louise Jane was soaking wet. They’re friends, so she asked Louise Jane where she’d been, and Louise Jane replied, ‘On a fool’s errand.’ She didn’t no
tice any cuts or bruising on Louise Jane’s face.”
“Why do we need to know this?” Connor asked.
“I’m sure all will be revealed,” I said. I appreciated Watson telling me. I didn’t believe Louise Jane had killed a man in our library, but it was nice to have some confirmation that my instincts were right.
“That’s not proof positive,” Watson said, “but it does help verify her story.”
“Louise Jane needs a story?” Connor said.
“Apparently, she was sneaking around outside last night,” Bertie said.
“Really? Did she see anything?”
“She says she was gone before Jeremy or anyone else arrived,” Watson said.
“Did you learn anything from Curtis about what Jeremy got up to last night?” Connor asked.
Watson glanced between Bertie, Connor, and me. I tried to look serious. He had no reason to tell us, of course. “No,” he said at last. “According to Curtis, he had to drop Diane off at her home after the meeting here, and when he got to the bar, Jeremy was waiting, as arranged. They had a couple of drinks and left, separating in the parking lot. He didn’t see if Hughes got into his own car or if he walked or was picked up by someone else. According to Curtis, ‘a couple of drinks’ means they had one beer each and switched to soda.”
“That sounds like Curtis to me,” Connor said dryly.
“Right. He wasn’t entirely sure of the time. Around nine, he thinks. Jeremy said nothing to him about where he was going, and Curtis went home. Diane Uppiton didn’t get home from her family dinner until around ten, and she says Curtis was in bed asleep when she did.”
“Do you believe him?” I asked.
“I have no reason not to.”
“I don’t suppose he showed any physical signs of being in a fist fight?”
“He did not,” Watson said. “Not that I could see at any rate.”
“Good morning, everyone,” Charlene said as she came inside. “Is that a new door? What happened to the old one? Storm damage?”
Watson gave Bertie a slight nod.
“We had a bit of trouble in the night,” Bertie said. “Someone broke into the library after we’d all left and … died.”
“A break-in? Oh my gosh. Was anything stolen? Was he after money, do you think?” She looked at me, her eyes wide. “Lucy! Are you okay? He didn’t try to get upstairs, did he?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I wasn’t even here at the time.”
“We think he was after the notebook,” Bertie said.
“The notebook? You mean Mrs. Crawbingham’s diary? The one George’s crew found? Why on earth? Who would do such a thing?”
“It was Jeremy Hughes,” Bertie said.
If I hadn’t been watching Charlene closely, I wouldn’t have seen it. Shock filled her eyes. She gave her head an almost imperceptible shake, and the expression disappeared as quickly as it had come. She dug in her purse and pulled out her iPhone and the earbuds that would remain attached to her head for the rest of the working day. “Sorry to hear that. I didn’t know him. What happened? Was it an accident?” she asked Watson.
“Not an accident, no,” he said, “which is why I’m here.”
“Is the diary okay?” she asked. “It wasn’t damaged, I hope.”
“The diary’s fine,” Bertie said. “But the two enclosed pages were taken.”
She gasped. “That’s awful.” She turned to Watson. “Sorry, Detective. I’m an academic librarian. Sometimes I forget that archives aren’t more important than people. Are you saying the notebook and papers might be more valuable than we first thought? They must be, if someone killed to get them.”
“I’m working on the assumption,” Watson said, “that I’ll find the missing pages when I find the killer.”
Charlene put the buds in her ears. “I’ll be upstairs if anyone needs me.” She hurried off, heading for her office.
Bertie hadn’t told her that the historical society was coming this morning specifically to work with her. No point, as we didn’t have anything for them to work with. Bertie had made it plain that the diary would be kept under lock and key until we knew what was going on.
I couldn’t help but think Charlene had shown a surprising lack of curiosity about Jeremy Hughes’s final actions. Or that she, who had a passion for old documents, hadn’t hung around to ask Watson what he intended to do about finding the pages. I glanced at Bertie. She was watching Charlene go, a worried look on her face.
The door opened again, and Louise Jane marched in. Her lip had swollen overnight. She’d applied makeup in an attempt to cover the dark purple bruise on her left cheekbone, but it wasn’t having the desired effect. “I thought I might find you here this morning, Detective Watson. I decided to forgive and forget your insulting visit last night and do whatever I can to help.”
Connor studied her face. “Now I’m starting to get it.”
“Are you all right, Louise Jane?” Bertie said. “That’s a bad cut.”
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you for asking, Bertie. I slipped and fell into the kitchen cabinet. You should see the other guy.” Her attempt at a joke fell flat.
“Help?” Watson said. “I don’t recall asking for your help.”
“Not a problem. I’m happy to do what I can. We need to find those pages, and fast. Who knows what damage they might suffer in the hands of an inexperienced person, suddenly exposed to the sunlight and sea air after being protected for decades.”
“You’re not entirely in the clear, Louise Jane,” Watson said. “You getting those bruises on your face last night is quite the coincidence.”
“Nevertheless, coincidences do happen, don’t they? Pay no attention to him, Bertie. Having a suspicious mind goes with the territory, I guess. Now, I propose we start by searching the black market in historical artifacts. I called my grandmother this morning and asked her to put her ear to the ground.”
Watson, I thought, showed enormous restraint by not rolling his eyes.
Bertie stood by the window, caught in a beam of sunlight that threw a halo around her mass of piled silver hair, as though she were the subject of a Renaissance painting. “The first of our guests are arriving.”
“Take them into the break room,” Watson said. “I’ll join you there.” He glared at Louise Jane. “Not a word about what happened last night.”
“My puffy and cracked lips are sealed,” she said.
“See you keep them that way. Did you get the tires on your van fixed?”
“Uh, no. I haven’t had a chance yet.”
He pulled out his phone. “You were told to have that done first thing. I’ll get a tow truck out here. It’ll be expensive getting your van into town, and they won’t necessarily take it to the cheapest or most convenient garage, but it has to be done.”
“Why don’t I take care of that now?” she said. “No need to bother you, Sam. I’ll be back later, Lucy, and we can put our heads together.” She fled, and Watson watched her go. I didn’t care for the look on his face. Surely he wasn’t still considering Louise Jane for the killing of Jeremy?
Louise Jane passed Lynne Feingold, Phil Cahill, and Mabel Eastland on her way out. Lynne wore a sundress with a pattern of big yellow flowers that I thought too young and flirty for her, and she’d drenched herself in an expensive, floral perfume. Phil wiped sweat off his brow and said, “It’s going to be another hot one.”
“As you seem to have everything in hand here,” Connor said. “I’ll get back to town. I’ve a meeting with the financial controller this morning. I’d hoped to have a good excuse to postpone it.” He gave me his private smile, and I returned it.
Our new front door was getting a lot of use. Connor left, and Ronald arrived. “Morning all.”
“Good morning,” we said.
“What happened to the door, and why are the police here?”
“There was an incident last night,” Bertie said. “It’s been on the news.”
“I prefer not to catch up o
n the news in the morning. Guaranteed to start my day off badly. What sort of incident?”
“We can talk later. In the meantime, I can’t keep these people waiting. Will you watch the desk, please, Ronald?” Bertie said. “Lucy and I won’t be long.”
“I caught the news,” Phil said. “Something about someone who died here last night. I have to say, I was worried about what I’d find when I got here, but you all seem hale and hearty and not particularly distraught. What happened? I hope it was no one we know?”
Bertie didn’t answer. She led the way out of the main room, and the members of the historical society fell in behind her. “I know no more than you,” Mrs. Eastland told Phil. “But quite obviously the police are involved.”
Watson, Officer Rankin, and I brought up the rear.
We went into the staff break room, and everyone took seats. Everyone, that is, except for Detective Watson, who stood against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and Officer Rankin, who stayed by the door. She peeked at Watson, and then also crossed her arms over her chest and tried to look foreboding. Phil Cahill gave Watson nervous glances, but the women of the historical society didn’t react.
“We can’t start before Jeremy gets here,” Lynne said.
“I’m not waiting all day,” Phil said. “It’s after nine now. Where’s Charlene? Where’s the book?”
“I called Jeremy this morning to ask if he wanted to get a ride with me,” Lynne said.
“I’m sure you did, dear,” Mrs. Eastland said.
Lynne threw her a poisonous look. “Just being friendly, Mabel. You should try it sometime. He didn’t answer the phone. I thought maybe he’d gone into town for coffee first and would meet us here.”
“Did you speak to Mrs. Hughes?” Watson asked.
Lynne studied her freshly manicured nails. “They’re not together anymore.”
“Is that so?” the detective said.
“They’re never together,” Mrs. Eastland said, “unless they are. They have a strange marriage.”
“She left him,” Lynne said. “Walked out. He’s finally had enough of her tantrums, and initiated divorce proceedings.”
