by Eva Gates
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you.” Mrs. Eastland turned in her chair and looked at Watson over her shoulder. “Who are you, and why do you want to know anyway?”
“Detective Sam Watson. Nags Head PD.”
Mrs. Eastland sucked in a breath. “The person who died. Here. Last night. Was it …?”
“We’ve identified the deceased as Mr. Jeremy Hughes,” Watson said. “That hasn’t been made public yet, as we haven’t been able to locate his wife to inform her.”
Lynne’s chair fell back with a crash as she leapt to her feet. “You’re lying. Jeremy’s not dead. He can’t be.”
“I’m sorry, Lynne,” Bertie said, “but it’s true.”
Lynne burst into tears and ran for the door. A startled Rankin stepped back and let her pass.
“Go with her, Lucy,” Watson said. “Make sure she’s okay.”
I interpreted that to mean “make sure she doesn’t leave the library.” I followed and had no trouble locating Lynne. I could hear her sobs from the other end of the hallway. I tapped lightly on the door to the women’s restroom. “Are you okay, Lynne?”
“Go ’way.”
“I’ll go away if you want me to, but I think you need a hug first.”
The door opened slowly and Lynne’s tear-streaked face peeked out, a dramatic contrast to her cheerful, sunny dress. Her makeup ran in black rivers, and her nose and eyes were turning red. “Is it … is it true?”
“Yes. It is. I’m sorry. Were you and Jeremy close?”
“We were”—she swallowed—“planning a life together.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” Lynne might have been making plans, but I was pretty sure Jeremy wasn’t. Not long-term ones. “Why don’t you come back to the meeting? Detective Watson will have questions.”
“I … I can’t.” Another round of tears. “People didn’t understand about Jeremy and my relationship. We had to keep it quiet because of his wife. She was being very difficult over the divorce.”
I patted her shoulder. I wanted to get back to the break room and hear what was being said, but I was afraid if I left Lynne alone, she’d walk out. I genuinely did feel sorry for her. The news had come as a terrible shock, and the woman seemed to be genuinely in love with Jeremy. If he wasn’t in love with her in return, that wasn’t her fault. We’ve all been there. “Maybe you know something that would help Detective Watson find the killer. Something important.”
“I don’t know anything,” she sobbed. “You think someone murdered him? Who would do such a dreadful thing?”
I sprinkled cold water onto a paper towel and handed it to her. “You never know what might be important. Sometimes all the police need is one little piece of apparently insignificant information to make everything fall into place. Freshen your face, and let’s go and join the others.”
She wiped at her eyes, leaving raccoon-like black smudges around them. “You think so?”
I took the paper towel out of her hands and used it to dab at the worst of the smeared makeup. “I know so.”
“Okay, then. No one wants to see Jeremy’s killer found and punished more than I do.”
When we got back to the break room, everyone was where we’d left them. Bertie had put a box of tissues on the table, but they weren’t needed. Mrs. Eastland was dry-eyed, and Phil looked upset, but nothing more than that. I assumed neither of them had confessed to following Jeremy into Bertie’s office and murdering him. I helped Lynne into her chair. She kept her head down. I passed her the box of tissues and took my own seat.
“… importance cannot be overstated,” Phil was saying.
“We don’t know that,” Bertie said. “If the killer thought the map and so-called code page important, that doesn’t mean they are.”
“I need to find them,” Watson said. “Tell me about Jeremy Hughes.”
“I have nothing to tell,” Mrs. Eastland said. “He joined the society six, seven months or so ago. He said he was new to the Outer Banks and wanted to get involved in the protection of local history. He was very keen, and we were glad to have him.”
“Glad to have his money anyway,” Phil said.
“Didn’t hurt,” Mrs. Eastland said. “He made a considerable donation to the society when he joined. The Settlers’ Day Fair was his idea, and he put up the money to get the process rolling.”
“What do you know about his family?” Watson asked.
Mrs. Eastland glanced at Lynne, tearing a tissue into shreds. “He was married. I don’t know about any children. He and his wife seemed to spend a lot of time apart.”
“She never came to any functions, not even to the Christmas party, as I recall.” Phil wiggled his eyebrows at Watson trying to pass on a message.
Just between us men.
“That was the first time I met him,” Phil said. “At the Christmas party. We held it in one of the private rooms at Owens.” He named a restaurant that was a long-standing Outer Banks institution. “Jeremy made a point of talking to everyone, had a lot to drink. Took a cab home.”
“Oh yes, the Christmas party,” Mrs. Eastland said. “I remember. He made sure he was the center of attention all night, buying everyone drinks, listening to what people had to say. He made a particular point of talking to the women present.”
Lynne blew her nose.
“He could be charming, I’ll give him that,” Mrs. Eastland said. “Or so some said. I never saw the appeal myself. As for his wife, I tried to get her to help with Settlers’ Day. She was polite, but she let me know in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t interested.”
“I’ve been told y’all were here, at the library, yesterday between approximately five and six o’clock. Is that correct?” Watson asked.
Three heads nodded.
“What did you do after that? Mrs. Eastland, you go first.”
“I went home and made dinner and ate with my husband. We stayed in the rest of the evening and retired around ten, as is our custom.”
“Same for me,” Phil said. “Except for going to bed at ten. I write after supper most nights. That’s when I get my best work done, when the house is quiet. I went to bed around two. My wife can confirm I stayed in all evening, at least until midnight, when she came into the study to say good night.”
“Ms. Feingold?” Watson prodded.
Lynne looked up. She twisted the tissue in her hands. “What?”
“What did you do after six o’clock last night?”
“I went home. I had dinner and watched a movie on Netflix. I went to bed around eleven.”
“Can anyone vouch for that?” Watson said.
She ducked her head. “I live alone. I saw no one and spoke to no one. I … uh … well, I wanted to go for a drink with Jeremy and Curtis but … he … I mean, they wanted a men’s night out.” She gave a strangled laugh. “Men’s talk.”
“Please give Officer Rankin your spouses’ contact information,” Watson said. “We’ll want to talk to Mr. Eastland and Mrs. Cahill. Just a matter of form, you understand.”
“Happy to be of help.” Mrs. Eastland gave him a wide smile.
I studied the three faces, trying not to be too obvious about searching for clues beneath. Only Lynne, chewing her lip and alternately sniffing into her tissue and shredding it in her fingers, appeared to be bothered by the news of Jeremy’s death. Phil Cahill didn’t care one way or the other, and Mrs. Eastland seemed to be excited at being caught up in a police investigation.
Watson’s phone rang, and he glanced at the display. “I need to get this. Thank you for your time. Let me know if you think of anything—anything at all—that might be pertinent. Either about Mr. Hughes or about this diary and its contents.” He signaled to Rankin to follow and walked out of the room, saying, “What’ve you got?”
“As long as we’re here,” Phil said to Bertie, “we might as well get started on the diary.”
“Started doing what?” Bertie asked.
“Examining it, of course. Isn’t that w
hy we’re here? Is Charlene around? Too bad about the separate pages, but at least the diary itself wasn’t taken.”
Bertie got to her feet. “Mrs. Crawbingham’s diary has been moved to a more secure facility and will remain there until the police know more about what happened last night.”
“I for one have no intention of stealing it,” Phil said.
“No,” Bertie said. “It might turn out that the diary is far more valuable than we thought.”
“All the more reason …”
“Bertie’s right,” Mrs. Eastland said. “We can wait until she and the police think it’s safe. I only hope this isn’t going to interfere with our plans for Settlers’ Day.”
“No reason it should,” Phil said.
“Have some respect.” Lynne sniffled into a fresh tissue.
“For Jeremy Hughes?” Mrs. Eastland snorted. “I don’t think so.”
“Mabel,” Phil said in a warning voice.
“We have the money he donated to the Settlers’ Day committee, don’t we? What else do we need from him?” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m off home. Dreadful disappointment about the map and code page. You will let us know, Bertie, if you find them, won’t you?”
“I will,” Bertie said.
“Are you coming, Lynne?” Mrs. Eastland said.
“What?”
“We’re leaving now. Pull yourself together, girl. I need to talk to you about the food vendors at Settlers’ Day. Have you spoken to Josie O’Malley yet?”
“Josie? Oh yes. Yes, I have. The bakery will have a booth.”
“Excellent. Walk with me and fill me in. Come along now, don’t dawdle.”
The two women left, Mrs. Eastland chattering; Lynne, small and silent at her side.
Bertie shut the door behind them and turned to Phil. “What’s the story there?”
“Story?” he said innocently.
“Don’t give me that. I’ve never, ever seen Mabel Eastland be the slightest bit nasty to anyone. She was out-and-out rude to poor Lynne and totally dismissive of Jeremy’s death.”
He grinned. “Jeremy had a reputation, not entirely a good one, as something of a ladies’ man.”
“Not to speak ill of the dead,” I said, “but he was a dirty old man.”
Phil laughed. “Obviously a matter of interpretation. Mabel doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and she thought Jeremy was a fool. She thought any woman who fell for his supposed charms was also a fool.”
“But they worked together in the historical society?” Bertie asked.
“Not many of us liked the man. I didn’t. I thought him far too full of himself. He called himself an ‘ideas man.’ Meaning he’d throw out impractical suggestions and expect someone else to jump to and implement them. He didn’t seem to mind what anyone thought of him and was willing to pay to get along. He pretty much single-handedly fully funded our little group over the last few months. All the seed money for Settlers’ Day came from him.”
“I wondered why you were able to be so lavish,” Bertie said. “You have a couple of quite high-profile speakers coming.”
“Now you know.”
“If no one liked him,” I asked, “did anyone dislike him enough to murder him?”
Phil thought about that for a few moments, then he shook his head. “Not anyone I’m aware of. Admittedly, his money helped, but he did have a genuine interest in Outer Banks history. We’ll forgive a man a heck of a lot if he loves the things we love.”
“True,” Bertie said. I guessed she was thinking of Louise Jane.
Watson’s head popped into the break room. “Mrs. Hughes has been located. She’s in Raleigh and on her way back now.”
“Has she been told of her husband’s death?” Bertie asked.
“Yes. I’m going into town. I’ll be in touch, and remember, no one goes in your office, Bertie. Not even you.”
“I’m unlikely to forget.”
“I’ll walk out with you, Detective,” Phil said. “I’ve been telling Bertie what I know about Jeremy, from the point of view of the historical society. I should fill you in too.”
“Let’s get back to work,” Bertie said to me. “We still have a library to run.”
Chapter Nine
Murder in the library always makes for a busy day. Some of our patrons dropped in because they wanted to make sure we, and the library, were okay. Some came because they hoped to get the latest gossip. Some people we’d never seen before arrived, perhaps hoping to be given a tour of the crime scene.
The latter two groups were to be sadly disappointed. For all intents and purposes, it was a normal day at the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library. Not that any day can be called “normal.”
Bertie staffed the circulation desk while I helped a regular patron select an assortment of books for her daughter, who’d been confined to bed rest with a difficult pregnancy. The poor thing was being driven out of her mind by boredom, and her mom wanted a variety of books to keep her mind challenged and her spirits up.
I was suggesting the entire Harry Potter series (that would keep her busy for a long time) when George Grimshaw came in, stamping dirt and dust off his construction boots.
“You lost my book!” he bellowed at Bertie.
“What book?”
“The book I found yesterday.”
“I did not lose it, and it was not yours,” she said. “The library’s property was stolen last night.”
“I was hoping to put a claim in for half the treasure. My boys dug it up, after all. We coulda snuck it off site when you weren’t looking.”
Bertie huffed. She’d seen the twinkle in his eye. He lowered his voice. “Bad business, what happened. Book woulda been better left in the ground, if you ask me.”
“Maybe it carries a curse.” A patron dropped a stack of historical romance novels on the desk. She was an attractive woman in her fifties, well dressed and carefully presented in that way that means plenty of time for the gym and plenty of money for clothes and grooming products. I recognized her as an occasional patron, but we’d never spoken. “Have you thought of that? Maybe it was buried on purpose. It had to be gotten rid of because it was so dangerous.”
“I don’t think that’s a realistic idea, Cheryl.” Bertie eyed the covers of the books: shirtless men, all muscles and tattoos; women wearing elaborate, but strategically ripped, dresses.
“I bet that’s it,” Cheryl said with a shiver of delight. “Whoever stole it doesn’t know about the curse. Oh dear.” She clutched her books to her chest and left.
Notably she and George Grimshaw had not so much as looked at each other, even though she’d invaded his conversation. “Story there, George?” Bertie asked.
“What?”
“Between you and Cheryl Monaghan.”
“Couple of crooks, her and her husband both,” he said with a growl. “They asked me to give them a quote on some work at that danged golf resort development project o’ theirs.”
My ears pricked up. Monaghan. This must be the development Connor was telling me about, the one he had his doubts about.
“Zack and I had a look ’round. Wasn’t long before I told Monaghan straight up he was outta his mind if he thought that was a good location for a big fancy hotel. Nice little B&B maybe, boutique hotel with swimming pool and sea views, something like that would be okay, but not what he had in mind. We weren’t invited back to complete our quote. I heard they got some company from outta state. Better them than me. I don’t need to be caught up in any lawsuits.”
“That bad?” Bertie said.
“Don’t you be telling anyone I said so. That Rick Monaghan’s mighty quick to threaten to take folks to court.”
“I won’t,” she said.
“Not keen to have any part of that project anyway. Everyone knows the land was stolen from Thaddeus Washington way back in the day.” He harrumphed and changed the subject. “As for that danged book we found, good thing I didn’t try to snatch it. Thief might have done you a
favor, Bertie. Taken it off your hands. Maybe I saved your life.” He chuckled.
“Pooh,” Bertie said. “You might not have work to do today, George, but I do.”
He got the hint and headed outside. I followed him.
“George,” I called, “have you got a minute?”
He turned with a smile. “For you, pretty lady, anytime.”
The heat beat down on my bare head. It was so hot outside, the water beyond the marsh shimmered. Dust from the construction site filled the air, equipment roared, and men shouted at one another. Zack gave me a wave as he trotted past with his ever-present iPad.
“I’m curious as to what you and Bertie were talking about just now. The land development I mean. Sounds like there’s an interesting history behind it. You said the land was originally stolen?”
“Story’s been told and retold,” he said. “Things change over the years, but what I heard from my own grandpappy is that Zebadiah Monaghan out and out stole part of that patch o’ land o’ his from the Washington family.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“After the war.”
“What war?”
“War Between the States, of course. Land was left by Ethan Monaghan to a free black man name of Thaddeus Washington in return for some favor or another, sometime in the years when Washington was a leader of the Freedmen’s Colony over by Roanoke. Ethan’s son, Zebadiah, used his political connections to have the will overturned. Washington himself died around the same time as the old man, and his family couldn’t prove it was intended for him, so they lost it.”
“That’s a long time ago,” I said. “Do people still care?”
“Bankers have long memories.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Zebadiah’s son, Nathanial, was another kettle of fish altogether. When he inherited on his father’s death, he kept the land as it was. Lived in the house he’d been born in for almost eighty years, turned away anyone who wanted to buy some of his property.”
“But he didn’t try to reimburse this Washington or his family?”
“Nathanial Monaghan might have cared about the Outer Banks, Lucy, but he was a man of his time. He didn’t give land away and certainly not to any folks who didn’t have the money to fight him in the courts. He lived out his life in his parents’ house and walked the land he thought was his every morning until the day he died. But what goes around comes around, and his son Rick has it now, and Rick’s got mighty big plans.”
