by Eva Gates
He pulled a scrap of paper toward him, picked up a pen, and jotted a note. I strained my neck, trying not to be too obvious about it, trying to read what he’d written. He flipped the paper over. I might have seen a grin tug at the corners of his mouth.
“You’ve given me something to think about, Lucy. I’ve had my officers looking into Hughes’s relationships, if he has any, with collectors, shady and otherwise, of historical documents. That he was at the library last night to steal the contents of the tin box is almost certainly the case. Doesn’t mean his killer had the same object in mind.” His desk phone buzzed, and he picked it up.
“Show her to interview room one.” He put down the phone and stood up. “Mrs. Hughes is here. I know you’d like to hear what she has to say …”
My hopes soared. Was he going to invite me to take part in the interview?
“But you can’t,” he said. My hopes deflated. “Thanks for coming in, Lucy. You can see yourself out.”
“Uh, okay.”
Watson tossed the last of his peanut butter cookie into his mouth and slipped the bag into a drawer, no doubt intending to finish the rest of them later. He headed toward a back hallway, clutching his coffee cup.
I went in the other direction, through the main room, heading for the exit. As I reached the door to the reception area, Officer Holly Rankin was coming through it, accompanied by an older woman. She was in her mid-fifties, dressed in blue boat shoes, blindingly white capris, a white-and-blue-striped T-shirt, and a blue linen jacket crumpled around the back, indicating she’d spent a lot of time sitting down since putting the jacket on. Perfectly sculpted waves of golden hair framed her face, and thick bangs fell over her forehead. Her makeup had been applied with a trowel, albeit an expensive trowel. Diamond studs were in her ears, and a diamond and white gold tennis bracelet was wrapped around her wrist. My mother was fond of jewelry like that, and when my parents had been having marital problems (hopefully now resolved), my dad bought her a bracelet much like this one. It cost in the five-thousand-dollar range. I knew that because Mom had told me.
It wasn’t hard for me to guess who this woman was.
“Hi, Officer Rankin,” I said in my friendliest voice. “How are you today?”
“Okay, thanks. Uh …”
“I’m Lucy, remember? We met yesterday at the library?”
“Oh, right,” the young officer said. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping Detective Watson,” I replied. I turned to the woman next to her. “Hello.”
“Hi,” she said.
Officer Rankin was young and new and trying to make a good impression. She was also a Southern woman. Of course she introduced us. “Maya Hughes, this is Lucy Richardson.”
I thrust out my hand, and Maya took it in hers. The sapphire on her right hand dug into my fingers. The square-cut diamond on her left hand could be used to send signals to space.
“Nice meeting you,” I said as I slipped away.
* * *
I wasn’t getting involved. Not this time.
I’d told Detective Watson what I knew about the deceased, but that wasn’t “getting involved.” It was being a responsible citizen.
I wasn’t getting involved. But I did know people, and I thought it couldn’t hurt to put the word out.
As I walked back to Josie’s I called Theodore Kowalski.
“TK Rare Books,” said a deep, distinguished English voice that put me in mind of a member of the royal family. “How may I be of assistance?”
“Hi, Theodore. It’s Lucy.”
“Oh, hi, Lucy,” said a young voice with a North Carolina accent. “What’s up?”
“You heard what happened at the library last night?”
“Yes, I did. It’s been on the news. Jeremy Hughes died. They aren’t saying it was deliberate, but I can put two and two together. The report said he was alone in the building when he was found. Which seemed rather odd to me.”
“It was odd. He broke in after hours, almost certainly either to steal the diary George’s crew found or to have a private peek at it.”
“And the diary?”
“It wasn’t taken. But the two separate pages were. Presumably by whoever killed Jeremy.”
“That is most unfortunate. Those were rare and potentially significant items.” Theodore sounded more distressed over the loss of the pages than the man. “As I told you I would, I asked my mother what she knows about the Crawbingham family. I’m sorry to report that she’s never heard of them.”
“Did you know him? Jeremy Hughes?”
“Not personally. I knew of him. I’ve seen him around, but that’s all. He isn’t … wasn’t a book collector.”
“Speaking of collecting, if something like that diary or the separate pages came up for sale, would they be of interest to you?”
“It’s not my field, Lucy, but a dealer is always on the lookout for a potential deal. I know people who know people who collect private letters and the like. A personal record written in the year or two prior to the war would be of interest. A hand-drawn map, probably even more so.”
The hot noon sun poured down on my head; waves of heat radiated up from the pavement beneath my sandal-shod feet; and passing cars spat out hot exhaust fumes. With my free hand, I unobtrusively shook at my skirt, trying to get some air moving. Beads of sweat dripped from my hairline. I could see Josie’s up ahead. Lovely, cool, air-conditioned Josie’s. The lineup was fractionally less than it had been earlier.
But I didn’t want anyone overhearing this conversation, so I didn’t hurry to take my place. Instead, I stood on the sidewalk and slowly, steadily melted. “Can you keep your ear to the ground, maybe try to find out if anything like that’s coming onto the market?”
“If the pages were stolen, which they seem to have been, then, unless our thief is a total amateur, they’re unlikely to be advertised in the more respectable forums.” He coughed modestly. “Fortunately, I know some of the less respectable ones, and I’m happy to be of help. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
“Not me. Tell Detective Watson. I’m not getting involved.”
“Whatever you say, Lucy.”
“Bye, Teddy. Oh, are you coming to book club on Wednesday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said. “Mr. Verne always takes me back to my childhood. My father loved the classic tales of adventure.”
* * *
The lineup at Josie’s moved slowly but steadily, and before too long I was through the doors, gratefully wrapped in cool air. A sign had been stuck to the front window, featuring a silhouette of a couple—her in long dress and bonnet, him carrying a musket—advertising Sunday’s Settlers’ Day festivities. Inside, every table was taken, and the staff ran to and fro, delivering orders and clearing off tables.
“Hey, Lucy. Nice to see you,” Alison said when it was my turn to be served. “What can I get you?”
I asked for a roast beef sandwich on rye, chicken salad on a croissant, ham and cheese on wheat bread, and an heirloom tomato with arugula on a baguette. I dithered over the dessert selection. Josie’s pies, tarts, cakes, and cookies were simply the best I’d ever eaten.
Conscious of the restless line behind me, I finally said, “I’ll have four of whatever you want to give me.”
Alison rang up the bill. I paid and went to stand at the end of the counter while my sandwiches were being prepared.
The head baker herself came out of the back, wiping floury hands on her apron. My cousin wrapped me in a hug. She smelled of cinnamon and pure vanilla. “Thought I heard your voice,” Josie said.
“Bertie decided we needed a treat after last night. She keeps feeding us to keep us from quitting. Your food is the only reason we’re still in business.”
Her cornflower blue eyes sparked. “Glad to be of service.” Josie and Jake Greenblatt, brother of Butch, had been married over the winter. I never had to ask how marriage was treating her. My cousin had always been a beautiful woman, but since t
he wedding she shone with an extra glow that seemed to light her up from inside. The sparkle faded fractionally, and she lowered her voice. “Yeah, I heard about what happened last night. You had an intruder and he died. Butch told Jake you weren’t there when the guy broke in, thank heavens. This isn’t the place to talk.” She indicated the busy bakery with a nod of her head. “You can tell me all about it on Wednesday. That’s if book club’s still on?”
“It is.”
“Great. I’m enjoying the book, and I appreciate how short it is. I don’t have a lot of time to read over the summer.”
“No kidding,” I said.
“I like to read a couple of chapters in bed every night. It helps calm my mind and get me to sleep.”
I didn’t make a silly joke about not needing her new husband to help her get to sleep. Josie owned a bakery, so she got up extremely early and worked full out until late afternoon. Jake ran a successful restaurant, meaning he started work in late morning and rarely got home until after midnight.
Their schedules might not match, but they were the two hardest-working people I knew, and they made it work for them.
“Hey, Josie!” a voice yelled from the back. “Where’d you put that bag of coconut?”
“No rest for the wicked,” she said to me. “You take care, sweetie. I don’t like to hear about people creeping around in the night and getting themselves killed.”
“Who got themselves killed?” the sandwich maker asked as he handed me two bulging bags.
“Figure of speech,” I said. “Say hi to Jake for me.”
“Will do,” Josie said.
I stepped outside into the searing heat and headed for my car. We didn’t often get this sort of relentlessly hot and humid weather in the Outer Banks, as the lovely ocean breezes normally play a moderating role. I spotted someone I knew standing patiently in the line, waving at me, and made a quick detour to say hi.
“Sure is hot.” Janelle Washington looked lovely and cool in a red and white sleeveless dress that showed off her dark, well-toned arms.
“You can say that again,” I said. “That’s a pretty dress.”
“Thanks.” Her face twisted, and I guessed that she hadn’t been flattered by the compliment, although it had been sincerely meant.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“No. I’ll agree that this dress fits me well and looks nice, but I have to say, I don’t like it.”
“Why do you wear it then?”
She glanced around, checking that no one was listening to us, and lowered her voice. Instinctively I leaned closer. “One of the realtors in my office gave it to me. She told me it didn’t fit her any more as she’d lost weight. As if. She always makes a big show of extending charity to me, and I’m supposed to be so grateful for Her Ladyship’s bounty.”
As she talked, we kept an eye on the progress of the line and edged steadily toward the door. Every time someone entered or left, the people at the front sighed happily as they were hit by a wave of cool air.
“I’ll admit things have been tough since Neil’s injury put him out of work,” Janelle said. “But we manage. I only hope I don’t have to wait until the end of the month to be reimbursed for this lunch.”
“What do you mean?”
“She sent me to get lunch for the office. ‘Too hot to go out,’ she said. Not too hot for me to go out, apparently. Sandwiches, drinks, desserts—the works for ten people. When she went to get her purse—guess what? She’d left her pocketbook at home. How silly of her. She promised to pay me back tomorrow. So now I’ll spend the rest of the week trying to remind her without sounding as though I’m desperate.” Janelle forced out a smile. “I’m so sorry, Lucy. I don’t mean to complain, and I hardly know you. I guess you were just here at the right time—the wrong time for you—when I felt like dumping on someone. Forgive me?”
“Nothing to forgive,” I said. “We all need to vent now and again.”
It was our turn, and we stepped into the bakery. Janelle pointed to the sign in the window. “I’m planning on bringing the girls to that. They’re excited about it. Are you going to be there?”
“I am. My mother’s family came to the Outer Banks sometime in the mid-nineteenth century. The men fished, the women worked in the fish plants.”
“Life was hard here,” Janelle said, “for most of our ancestors. Despite that, I hope they got pleasure out of it in the way we do. The beach, the ocean.”
Alison stepped up to the blackboard behind the counter that advertised today’s specials and put a thick line through lime shortbread cookies. Half the people in the place groaned.
I was about to say goodbye to Janelle when I had a thought. “What’s the name of this woman in your office?”
“Cheryl Monaghan. She’s one of our lesser-selling realtors, so I don’t know how she manages to get away with acting like the queen of the roost, but she does. The influence of her husband’s family name, probably. The Monaghans have been in the Outer Banks for a long time. As long as the Washingtons, come to think of it, but no one seems to consider us OBX royalty.” She shook her head and gave me a wry grin. “I’m sorry, Lucy, really I am. I’m still complaining; I should know better than to let her get to me. You won’t tell anyone I said things about her, will you? It could jeopardize my working there, and I really need this job. At least until Neil gets back on his feet.”
“Of course I won’t. What you’ve said ties into something I heard earlier today. A local family named Washington claimed to have been given land by the Monaghan family a long time ago. Was that your husband’s family?”
“Yes, it was. His name was Thaddeus, and he made a good living as a boat builder. People still talk about that. Bankers have long memories.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Every once in a while, Cheryl reminds everyone that her husband’s family has owned some of the best land in the Outer Banks for generations. She pretends she’s being nonchalant about it, but she peeks out of the corner of her eyes at me, hoping for a reaction. It’s all water under the bridge to Neil’s family. Happened so long ago. His wasn’t the first black family to have been cheated out of what was rightfully theirs. It happened to everyone at the Freedmen’s Colony.”
Janelle was next to be served, and I needed to get back to work. I knew a little about the Freedmen’s Colony, a community on Roanoke Island established by escaped and freed slaves during the Civil War years, and decided I’d like to learn more. “Did your husband or his family ever talk about someone named Crawbingham?”
“Not that I remember, and surely I would have. That’s quite the name.”
“What can I get you?” Alison asked. Janelle pulled a list out of her bag, and I said, “I have to be going. The construction playground will be up for at least another two weeks, so bring the girls around.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks for being a good listener, Lucy.”
Chapter Eleven
When I got back to the library, Bertie told me she’d asked Charlene to read through the diary, to see if she could find any clues relating to the code page or the meaning of the map. I trotted upstairs to see if Charlene needed anything. I met her locking the door of the rare books room behind her. Her earbuds were draped around her neck, the thin white cord trailing into her pocket, but the sound had been turned off.
“Any luck?” I asked.
“No. Bertie was hoping for a line saying something like, ‘To solve the code do this and that, and then apply that and this to the map.’ But it’s nothing but an account of the weather and the tides. Not even a mention of what’s for dinner. The last entry is dated November 1870, and the following pages are all blank. The last page is ripped out. I suspect that’s the one that was used to write the code.”
“Although the map page wasn’t taken from that book, which is interesting. Can you tell if the diary was written in the Outer Banks?”
“I don’t think so. Not at the beginning anyway. I haven’t had much of a chance to
compare weather records.”
“The historical society was going to try to do that, but now Bertie won’t let them see the diary.”
“On one day when I know there was a heavy rain storm here, Mrs. Crawbingham just says, ‘Cloudy with threat of rain.’ When I have the time I can do a proper comparison. I don’t know that it matters, though.”
“Perhaps not. Lunch is laid out downstairs. Bertie sent me into town for a run to Josie’s.”
“Thanks. That was nice of her. And of you.”
“I had to go to the police station anyway. I wanted to talk to Sam Watson.”
“Getting involved again, Lucy?”
“Not at all,” I said firmly.
* * *
The library wasn’t particularly busy that afternoon. The hot weather had everyone who didn’t have work to do heading for the beach.
“The forecast for the weekend is promising,” Bertie said to me. “Temperatures dropping to reasonable levels and no rain. Fingers crossed.”
“Fingers and toes,” I said. Rain on Sunday would not be a good thing as the Settlers’ Day festivities were going to be held outside. “I saw signs advertising the event when I was in town. The historical society’s going all out. No one thinks it’s a bit tasteless after Jeremy died? And here, so close to where it happened?”
“Mabel called me earlier. They’re calling the event a tribute to Jeremy. She said he would have wanted it to go ahead. I think it’s more that no one particularly liked him, so they don’t much care what he would have thought.”
“Isn’t that a bit harsh, Bertie?”
“I’ve been hearing things,” she said. “It’s interesting sitting at the circulation desk. I need to spend more time here. This spot is Nags Head Gossip Central.”
“It can be that, all right,” I said.
Bertie checked her watch, noticed that it was almost six o’clock, and called out. “Five minutes to closing, people.”
The handful of patrons waved at her and began gathering up their books. I had no plans for tonight—Connor had a business dinner—and I was looking forward to finishing Journey to the Center of the Earth and having an early night. My lunchtime sandwich had been so enormous, and I’d indulged in a coconut cupcake (my fave!) on my afternoon break, so I wanted nothing more substantial than a bowl of soup for dinner. But first, I planned to head to Coquina Beach for a dip in the cool waters and a nice long, head-clearing walk in the surf.
