by Eva Gates
The police had been asking anyone who’d been at the library or passing by at the time in question to get in touch with them. I’d assume a respectable helicopter pilot would have done so.
Then again, there were less-than-respectable ones, weren’t there?
How much did it cost to hire a helicopter and a pilot willing to operate under the radar? Probably a heck of a lot.
The idea, I realized, was silly. A helicopter would have left a pretty big mark behind to show where it had landed.
Had Maya thought Jeremy really was going to the library late at night for an assignation with Charlene, and decided to finally get rid of him? I thought it unlikely. No one in their right mind—and I had no doubt Maya was that—would plan to kill someone if a witness was going to be on hand. More likely, if she’d followed him and killed him, she’d been intending to do so for a while and took advantage of the opportunity when it presented itself.
How would she, if she was away in Raleigh, have known he was planning to go to the library that night? Even he didn’t know that until around six, when he was told to come back tomorrow to see the diary.
Then again, maybe she was simply following him, saw him go to the library, and took her chance. Which, of course, precludes the use of a boat or climbing a rope ladder into a helicopter to make her escape.
As for why, finding a motive would be the least of my (I mean the police’s) problems. Maybe Maya was in line to inherit Jeremy’s share of his mother’s money if he was dead. If the elder Mrs. Hughes was such a believer in the sanctity of marriage, it was possible. Maybe Maya wasn’t prepared to stay in a sham marriage in expectation of money she might not get for years, but wanted to inherit from Jeremy himself right now. They had to have some money of their own. That house was worth a bundle, and Maya didn’t appear to live or dress cheaply.
Then again, what did I know about their finances? They might be in debt up to their eyeballs.
Which made me think about life insurance. Did Maya need to get rid of Jeremy sooner rather than later so as to grab the insurance payout before their debt overwhelmed the miserable couple?
I needed to know the contents of Jeremy’s will, the condition of the couple’s bank accounts, and the state of their life insurance policies.
Highly unlikely I could persuade a bank or insurance company to talk to me on the pretext I was helping the police.
I’d found myself getting involved, despite my determination not to, when first Louise Jane and then Charlene had come under suspicion. But those suspicions, thankfully, had led nowhere.
Time to leave this with Watson. He had access to all the necessary information, and he’d met Maya Hughes. He’d arrive at the same conclusions I had. If she’d killed her husband, for whatever reason, Watson would find the proof he needed and charge her.
Although … If Maya had followed Jeremy to the library and killed him, for whatever reason, what happened to the papers from the diary? Jeremy might have broken into Bertie’s desk and taken them out, but I couldn’t see Maya stopping to pick them up after killing him. She wouldn’t have had any interest in their historical value, and on first glance they were nothing but some old papers. They didn’t look as though they had any monetary worth.
If the theft of the papers was directly related to the death of Jeremy Hughes, then it was unlikely Maya was the killer.
I suppose it was possible Maya killed Jeremy, and after she left, someone else just happened to be passing, saw the open door, and went directly to Bertie’s office to grab the diary.
Unlikely to the point of improbable. But not impossible.
I turned around and retraced my steps to my car. Thinking about the diary made me want to have another try at decoding it.
That was the thing about puzzles: I simply couldn’t admit defeat.
Chapter Thirteen
“It’s unfortunate what happened,” Phil Cahill said, “but we can’t let that interfere with our plans. We’ve gone to so much work already.”
“Unfortunate,” Lynne Feingold sniffed. “You mean it’s unfortunate that a man, your friend and colleague, died.”
“I wouldn’t call Jeremy either a friend or a colleague. I barely knew the fellow, and he had yet to prove himself to the society as anything other than a good source of funds.”
“How can you say something so rude?” Lynne said. “Without his ideas, Settlers’ Day would be just another of our little picnics in the park.”
“Stop squabbling,” Mrs. Eastland said. “I declare, it’s like dealing with a pack of unruly children. If you two can’t behave, I’ll send you outside to the play area.”
“Tea?” I asked. “I made a fresh jug this morning.”
“That would be lovely, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Eastland said.
I poured the drinks and was serving the icy glasses when Bertie came into the break room. “Sorry. I was on the phone to one of my colleagues at another library and simply couldn’t get off the line.”
Watson had told Bertie she could use her office again, and on Wednesday morning she returned to her staff reports, budget spreadsheets, and board meeting minutes, muttering about the weighty responsibilities of management and how she preferred sitting at “gossip central.”
“We’ve been saying how much we’re going to miss Jeremy’s input,” Lynne said.
“We were?” Phil said.
Mrs. Eastland’s glare was positively poisonous.
“Oh yes,” he said. “So we were. Invaluable.”
The group from the Bodie Island Historical Society was here to finalize plans for Sunday’s Settlers’ Day Fair, and I’d been asked to sit in to take notes. I’d known they were expecting a lot of people to come, but hadn’t realized what a big deal it was turning out to be. A podium and a scattering of chairs would be set up on the lawn for the three lectures. A representative of the Elizabethan Gardens in Manteo would give a talk about farming techniques and what crops and garden produce would have been known to the first European settlers. A university professor was going to discuss the changing landscape of barrier islands, and a historical author would give a talk on both the Lost Colony of 1585 and the Freedmen’s Colony. After my chat yesterday with Janelle, I was looking forward to learning more about the latter.
Phil Cahill planned to sell his own books and give a talk aimed for preteens at his booth. Shops from town and local artisans and crafters would have booths in which to display all manner of goods. The Elizabethan Gardens were going to sell plants and garden features; a food truck would be serving pulled pork sandwiches and coleslaw; a street vendor grilling hamburgers and hot dogs out of his cart; and Josie’s Cozy Bakery would be on hand with plenty of marvelous baked goods. Volunteers were coming in historical costume, and attendees were encouraged to do so also. There would be period-appropriate games for the children and a contest for best costume in three categories: children, adult female, and adult male.
“We’re hoping for several hundred people over the course of the afternoon,” Lynne said. “Jeremy would be so pleased!”
Phil rolled his eyes.
“You will pay tribute to Jeremy, won’t you, Mabel?” Lynne said. “He won’t be with us in person, but I know he’ll be here in spirit.”
Phil swallowed a mouthful of tea too quickly and burst into a bout of coughing. I tried hard not to glance at the wall between the break room and Bertie’s office. The spirit of Jeremy Hughes was not something I wanted hanging around the lighthouse.
“Bertie will welcome us to the library, and then I’ll open the festivities,” Mrs. Eastland said. “I’ll mention Jeremy, yes.”
“Lucy,” Bertie asked, “is the mayor coming?”
“Connor’s coming,” I said, “but I don’t know if he’s doing so officially. He might not want to be formally introduced.”
“Imagine, a politician who doesn’t want to stand up on a stage,” Phil said. “Will wonders never cease.”
“This isn’t an official town function,” I said.
“Connor doesn’t think he should be welcoming people.”
“That’s why I voted for the guy,” Phil said. “Most of them would trample their grandmother to get up there, and they’ll make a speech at the opening of an envelope.”
“I voted for him because he’s so handsome,” Lynne said.
Bertie threw a look at me, and I smothered a laugh. “Everything seems to be well in hand,” she said. “We have some experience here with large outdoor events, and I don’t anticipate any problems.”
“It’s the problems we don’t anticipate that are the worst,” Mrs. Eastland said.
“True enough,” Bertie replied.
Lynne rummaged inside her giant tote bag. “Do you have a space to display this?” She unrolled a larger version of the poster I’d seen earlier around town, advertising the day.
I leaned across the table and took it from her. “I’ll stick it on a whiteboard and put it up next to the circulation desk.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Now that’s over, what’s happening about the missing pages?” Phil asked.
“I don’t know,” Bertie said. “The police are investigating the murder of Jeremy, and we’re hoping that when they find the person responsible, they’ll find the pages as well.”
“If only you’d let us study the diary that night, like we wanted to,” Phil said, “instead of waiting until the morning, we might have been able to figure it all out.”
“You can hardly blame me for not foreseeing that a thief was going to break in,” Bertie replied sharply. The diary and its pages, I knew, were starting to get on her nerves. The other night at dinner, Professor McClanahan had scarcely said a word; instead, he spent the entire meal poring over the printouts. She’d encountered me, more than once, sneaking into the break room to give them one more look, and had come up behind Ronald, when he was working on the computer, to ask him about children’s programming for the fall, and found him on a cryptography website. Louise Jane had taken out every English-to-foreign-language dictionary we had, trying to identify word patterns, and asked Bertie to order a Welsh-English dictionary. A number of people from Wales had settled in North Carolina in the early eighteenth century, she explained. Bertie had gone down the hall to her office without a word. We heard a door slam, and Louise Jane said, “I wonder what’s gotten into her?”
“Unfortunately,” Phil said, “I was not gifted with a photographic memory. I saw the diary and the separate pages, but I simply can’t remember the details well enough to try to make sense of them.”
Bertie and I kept our faces impassive. I’d been surprised that word hadn’t leaked out that a picture had been taken before the pages were stolen. The library staff could be counted on to keep mum—it was after all, library business— as could Connor and Professor McClanahan. But even Louise Jane hadn’t breathed a word. I wondered if she kept the piles of dictionaries she’d lugged off to her house out of sight or if visitors thought she was planning an extensive European trip.
Bertie got to her feet. “I think we’re done here. See you all Sunday morning.”
“Oh, I can’t believe I forgot.” Lynne slapped her hands to her face. “Those lovely people from Blacklock College have agreed to give a small lecture.”
“They’ve what?” Bertie said.
“Isn’t that nice of them? I met them on Monday, when we were all here, and she—Professor McArthur—called me the next day. She offered to speak at our fair. Her topic will be the industrialization of North Carolina.”
Bertie’s mouth flapped open.
“Is that wise, Lynne?” Mrs. Eastland said. “The subject doesn’t exactly sound thrilling, and university professors aren’t always known for their public speaking skills. They can be rather dry in their areas of expertise, and we want to appeal to the general public, including children. The sort of people with not much more than a vague idea of history, but a desire to learn more.”
“Not even that,” Phil added. “Most of them want to get the kids out of the house for a day and have a chance to eat as much of Josie’s pecan squares as they can handle.”
“I think it’s very wise,” Lynne replied. “Which is why I invited them to come and speak. You can’t un-invite them.”
“I certainly can,” Mrs. Eastland replied. “We have three lectures scheduled. Four is too much.”
“No it isn’t,” Lynne said. “The fair runs from one until six. That’s five hours. Plenty of time. We can slot her in third, so the day closes with the talk on the Lost Colony and the Freedmen’s Colony, as planned.”
“I suppose it’ll be all right,” Bertie said, albeit reluctantly. “No one will be forced to sit and listen to them. We agreed to keep the booths open while the speakers are at the podium, so as to have the activities constantly moving.”
“Moving in my direction, I hope.” Phil got to his feet. “I’ve ordered a lot of books I intend to unload. I mean offer to eager buyers.”
After walking our guests to the door I pulled a whiteboard mounted on a three-legged stand out of the storage closet, stuck the poster to it, and placed it close to the magazine rack, where everyone could see it. I then went back to the break room to put the tea jug away and wash up the glasses. I found Bertie still in her chair, jotting notes on a pad of paper. “I think that went well,” I said.
“It should be a good day. The society’s donating handsomely to the library for the use of our grounds and doing most of the work.” She lifted her head from the papers in front of her. “Lucy, have you considered Lynne for killing Jeremy?”
“Lynne? No. The thought never crossed my mind. She seems so … mild mannered. Do you think we should have?”
“Perhaps. It’s obvious she was infatuated with the man. I didn’t get the impression he returned her feelings.”
“That’s no reason to kill him.”
“Not to you and me perhaps, but humiliation can be a powerful motive.”
“Do you know her well?”
“She comes to my yoga classes.” Bertie was a part owner and instructor in a yoga studio in Nags Head. “Not regularly, but on occasion. She was married at one time and has two, or maybe three, adult children. The children moved away and don’t visit often. Her husband left her a year or so ago, after thirty-five years of marriage, for another woman.”
“Humiliating,” I said.
“Yes. I’ve heard she didn’t take the divorce well and has thrown herself into local activities, such as the historical society, to give herself something to do. She hasn’t, as far as I know, murdered her ex-husband, so maybe I’m reaching here …”
“Then again, you think it’s possible the second round of humiliation became too much for her to bear?”
“Something to think about,” Bertie said.
“I’ve been wondering how the disappearance of the diary pages ties into the murder. Did the killer know what they were? Why take the separate pages and not the main book? Did he, or she, intend to take it all, but had to flee suddenly for some reason? Was taking the diary their main aim that night, and Jeremy got in the way? Or was the theft an accidental byproduct of the murder? How likely is it Lynne stole the pages for her own ends?”
“Highly unlikely, I’d say. Her interest isn’t so much in history itself, but belonging to the society gives her a purpose and a chance for social interaction. Everyone knows the pages have been stolen. She can’t produce them now and pretend to have found them lying around somewhere.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. “But I’m not getting involved. What do you think about our two professors from Blacklock College participating on Sunday?”
“I think I’d rather have a visit from the bubonic plague.”
Chapter Fourteen
Wednesday evening I was preparing for the arrival of my book club. It was Ronald’s day off, so before leaving for the night, Charlene helped me arrange chairs and the refreshment table in the third-floor meeting room. I didn’t tell her about my visit to Maya Hughes. I di
dn’t intend to ever let her know Maya believed Jeremy was more serious about Charlene than he’d been about other women he’d dated. Serious to the point of giving her a family heirloom.
What would be the point in telling her? She was better off without the jerk, and I didn’t want her to start wondering what might have been.
“Sam Watson,” she said, as I laid out glasses for tea and lemonade and plates for the cookies, “has been noticeable by his absence today.”
“And that, I’d say, is a good thing. It means he’s looking elsewhere for Jeremy’s killer and not at our library community. Has he spoken to you again?” I ripped open the bags of cookies.
“No. And that definitely is a good thing. Why are you serving supermarket-bought cookies?”
“I fear our guests are going to be severely disappointed tonight. Josie usually brings leftovers from the bakery, although I suspect she doesn’t have many leftovers, certainly not in July, but she makes up a batch specifically for us when that’s the case. Even when she can’t make book club, she sends something over with Steph or Grace. She’s so busy this week with the extra baking for Sunday, she’s working tonight and needs all her nonexistent leftovers.”
Charlene studied the arrangement and selected a lemon cream cookie. “If I spent my life making pecan squares and coconut cupcakes, I’d weigh three hundred pounds. I can’t imagine how Josie keeps herself so thin.”
“All that energy, I suspect. You know Josie—she never stops moving. She didn’t go into work last Sunday, saying she needed a day off. She used it to paint the living room.”
