by Eva Gates
“I did? I mean, I did. Yes. Last night. You broke into the library and activated our silent alarm.” Charles was as good as any alarm, although he certainly wasn’t silent. “Which alerted me to the fact that we had an intruder. I was on the steps, standing on the first bend, watching as you ran away.”
“I can explain.” He wiped sweat off his forehead. “I wasn’t there to steal anything. You left the door open, anyway. I considered that an invitation to enter.”
“The door was not locked, I’ll admit,” I said, “but it was not open, and you were not invited in.”
“It’s a public library. I assumed—”
“You assumed you were welcome to walk right in in the middle of the night? I find that difficult to accept,” Bertie said. “Which still leaves the question of why you were there and what you were after.”
“I only wanted to … uh … borrow the diary. I would have left a receipt.”
Bertie didn’t look as though she believed him. “Borrowing without asking is also called stealing, Professor. Didn’t your mother teach you that?”
He stopped fiddling with student essays. “I’m sure you can understand, Ms. James. My position here at the university is tenuous. To say the least. Not just me but the entire department. After we failed to secure the Ruddle Collection, we’ve been left high and dry, waiting for the axe to fall.”
Last year, Professor McClanahan had told Bertie and me that the North Carolina history department was in danger of being folded into the college’s regular history department, if not eliminated entirely. Blacklock College was primarily a school for literature and languages, ancient and modern, and highly regarded in that field. In a time of budget cuts, the college board wanted to let institutions that specialized in North Carolina history do that, and leave Blacklock to concentrate on it’s core mandate.
Needless to say, Professors McArthur and Hoskins were vehemently opposed to any such suggestion. Eddie had also told us their reputations in the academic community were such that they’d have trouble finding positions at another prominent institution of higher learning.
“You have to understand my position.” His tone turned wheedling as he glanced between Bertie and me. “Publish or perish—that’s the rule in academic life. I haven’t got so much as an idea for a book. I need to find something groundbreaking, something truly original. The Civil War era was a time of great change in the Outer Banks, but every aspect of that has been covered many times before. I thought … I hoped … one previously undiscovered fishwife’s diary would lead me to something. Something …” His voice trailed off “… worthwhile. All I need is an idea.” His shoulders shook, but he recovered himself, and he lifted his head. “I couldn’t wait. You refused to allow the diary to be available for examination, pending the police investigation into the murder that happened at your library the other night. That wasn’t right; the diary doesn’t belong to you, but to the people of North Carolina. Besides, no harm done, now was there? Except for my car, I’m sorry to say. I had an excessively wet and uncomfortable drive home. How about I make an appointment to view the diary at a mutually convenient time? Say tomorrow afternoon at two? You’ll make an exception for me, I’m sure.” Norm Hoskins smiled at Bertie. He might have thought it was a smile, but it was more the edges of his mouth turning up in a strained grimace.
Bertie didn’t return the smile. She studied his face for a long time before she suddenly said, “Did you return to the library on Monday night after everyone else had left? Did Jeremy Hughes interrupt your attempt to study Mrs. Crawbingham’s diary that night? Did you kill him when he got in your way?”
Norm leapt to his feet. “What! No! You can’t pin that on me. I was at a faculty function that evening. I went there immediately after getting back from Nags Head. Fifty people, highly respectable members of this university and the community, can testify to that. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you.”
I believed him. Professor Hoskins wasn’t much of a liar. I was about to ask again about last night and what he’d hoped to achieve, when I realized he’d spoken in the singular. Not the plural. “Was Professor McArthur also at this faculty function?” I asked.
He glanced at the papers on his desk and shuffled a few of them around. “I … uh … don’t remember.”
Before I could press the point, the office door flew open. Professor Elizabeth McArthur stood there, her mouth set in a tight line and her eyes ablaze. “You really are a fool, Norman. Why are you even talking to these people? They aren’t the police—just a couple of busybodies. Sit down and shut up.”
He dropped into his chair and pinched his lips tightly together.
“Good afternoon,” Bertie said amiably.
“Get out,” Lizzie replied.
Bertie folded her hands neatly in her lap. “If you weren’t at the faculty function on Monday, Elizabeth, where were you?”
“Not doing anything that’s any of your business. Please leave. Now.” She pulled her phone out of a pocket of her ill-fitting trousers. “Or I’ll call security and have you escorted out.”
Bertie stood up. “Very well. Have a nice day. Thank you for your time, Professor Hoskins.”
We left the office, and the door slammed shut behind us. Bertie put her finger to her lips and leaned closer to the door. I did the same. It was a thin bit of wood, hastily installed when a larger room had been broken up into smaller ones, and we could clearly hear Lizzie scream, “Are you out of your tiny mind? You tried to steal that diary? Did you think no one would notice when it showed up here?”
“I thought—”
“I don’t ask you to think,” she yelled. “How many times have I told you, Norman, leave the thinking to me.”
At that moment, a door further along the hallway flew open, and chattering students streamed out of the classroom. Bertie and I made our escape.
* * *
“That was interesting,” Bertie said once we were in my car and rapidly heading away from the college.
“Interesting personal inter-dynamics there for sure,” I replied.
Bertie took out her phone and called Sam Watson while I drove. She put the call on speakerphone so I could listen. Briefly, she told Sam that Norman Hoskins had confessed to us that he’d broken into the library last night in search of Mrs. Crawbingham’s diary.
“Why on earth would he do that?” Watson asked. “He could hardly use the thing if it had been illicitly obtained.”
“I suspect he didn’t think that far ahead,” I said.
“He might have planned to give it to McArthur and hoped she’d know what do to with it,” Bertie said.
“Why?” Watson asked. “Without the map and the code page, it’s nothing but a weather record.”
“Competition can be brutal in academe,” I said. “Trust me. I worked at Harvard. Brings a whole new meaning to the word ambitious. Not to mention vindictive.”
“Glad I work for the police then,” Watson said. “Do you want to press charges for the break-in at the library?”
“No,” Bertie said, “No harm was done, and if I haven’t scared him off trying again, McArthur certainly has.”
“Did anyone check their alibis for the night Jeremy Hughes died?” I asked. “Maybe last night wasn’t the first time one of them tried to get their hands on the diary.”
“Let me see. Hold on a sec.” We heard computer keys tapping, and then Watson said, “An officer from Elizabeth City paid a call on them. Both professors said they were at a party given by the chancellor to welcome new faculty. When the officer checked with the chancellor’s assistant, she told him the party ran from seven until ten.” The gathering at the library to view the contests of the iron box had broken up—when Bertie kicked everyone out—before six. Blacklock College was an hour and a half’s drive from the lighthouse, meaning they would have been able to make it to the reception in time to be fashionably late. “Attendance had been mandatory, and Hoskins and McArthur were expected to attend. The officer asked if they had, and
the chancellor’s assistant said the night was busy and the room crowded, so she couldn’t remember every individual present. She did go on to imply that Hoskins’ and McArthur’s positions are tenuous at the college, so they would have been at the party if they knew what was good for them.”
“Not an alibi then,” Bertie said. “Did anyone follow up?”
More keys clicked. “Doesn’t look like it. Someone dropped the ball, and I can only apologize for that. I’ll have someone go around to the college and try to pinpoint them, but almost a week has passed. Memories fade quickly.”
“I’d suggest you concentrate on McArthur,” Bertie said. “Norm told us about the faculty party, and I don’t think he would have if he wasn’t there.”
“Don’t be so quick to take things at face value, Bertie. Some people can be sneakier than you think.”
“Which is why I’m glad I’m a librarian.” Bertie pushed the red button to end the call.
“Norman told us he didn’t remember if McArthur had been at the faculty party or not,” I said. “Considering how closely they work together, I’m taking that to mean she wasn’t there. He doesn’t strike me as the friendly, gregarious type who gets along with everyone at a cocktail party. If she’d been in the room, he would have stuck close to her the entire time.”
“Agreed,” Bertie said. “But just because she didn’t attend a boring staff party doesn’t mean she was out killing someone.”
Chapter Eighteen
Saturday is always the busiest day of the week at the Lighthouse Library. Ronald has a full schedule of children’s programming; high school and college students need Charlene’s help with their history papers; and people who work during the week come in on Saturday to take out books. Bertie usually takes Saturday off, but she’d dropped in today to make sure everything was on track in preparation for Settlers’ Day tomorrow.
Work on the building had shut down for the weekend, but our miniature version was open and busy all day. Theodore and my Aunt Ellen took the morning’s volunteer shift to keep an eye on the rambunctious and enthusiastic prospective construction workers.
At five minutes before noon, feet pounded the stairs as the fifth-grade reading club let out. Parents emerged from between the stacks, gathered up their own collections of books, and fell into line at the circulation desk.
By the time I’d checked all the books out, the afternoon volunteer shift—Mrs. Peterson and Grace—had arrived to take over.
“Have fun?” I asked Aunt Ellen.
She took off her sun hat and gave me a big grin. “I sure did. There’s something about being around laughing, playing children that makes a woman young again.”
“Give Josie time,” I said. “She’s only been married for five months.”
“That long?” Ellen’s light laugh rang out. “You must be a mind reader, Lucy. I don’t recall saying anything about hoping for grandchildren.”
I smiled at her. “You didn’t have to. The look on your face is enough.” For me, the pressure to present my mother with grandchildren is off. My three older brothers are all married with kids. Not so for Josie, the eldest child in her family. Aunt Ellen would never say anything, but Josie told me she knew her mother had her hopes.
“It’s lunchtime,” Ellen said. “If you want to take your break, I’ll watch the desk for you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Ronald and Charlene are around, and I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.”
I have the worlds’ greatest commute, and I trotted upstairs to my apartment. I reheated the leftovers from a takeout chicken curry I’d first enjoyed last week and sat down at the kitchen table to eat.
I’d been intending to research the Freedmen’s Colony Janelle Washington had talked about, and now seemed as good a time as any. I opened my iPad and read.
The colony had been established on Roanoke Island in 1863, at the height of the Civil War, to be a safe haven for slaves seeking refuge or those freed when the Union took control of Confederate areas. At first the colony thrived as the settlers built homes, worked their land and fished, established trades, and set up their own churches and schools. Some even joined the army or worked as spies, scouts, or guards for the Union. They were paid wages for their work and encouraged in their independence. Literacy spread and families stayed together.
The population grew and the colony soon became so crowded infectious diseases began to take hold. Farming failed on the poor soil of the island; men were involuntarily conscripted for war work.
The colony struggled on.
When the war ended, President Johnson ordered all property seized by Union forces to be returned to its previous owners. That included the people at the Roanoke Island Freedmen’s Colony. The families living there were told they had no rights to the land they’d been promised, on which they’d built homes, farms, workshops, and a community.
The settlers dispersed and the colony was abandoned in 1867. A few years later, only a handful of the freedmen remained on the island. Janelle’s husband Neil came from one such family.
It was a sad story, but so was much of history. Nevertheless, I found it fascinating, and I wanted to learn more. I’d ask Janelle if her husband would be interested in telling me stories passed down through his family. When I had time, I’d see what Charlene could produce from the archives.
Speaking of time … I was running out of it. I had to get back to work.
Connor phoned as I was washing up my single bowl.
“Feel like a little excursion tonight, Lucy?” he asked.
“I’m always up for an excursion. What do you have in mind?”
“I got some news a few minutes ago. It seems as though good news never arrives on a Friday afternoon.”
“What’s happened?”
“Monaghan Corporation has filed a motion in court to put a stop to the environmental review on that plot of land where they’re hoping to build their golf resort.”
“Can they do that?”
“They can and they have. They can ask the courts to stop it, yes. Doesn’t mean the court has to agree, of course, but legal action costs money. There are people on the town council who won’t want to fight it. I won’t say some of my esteemed colleagues are in the pockets of developers but—”
“But they are,” I said. “What does this have to do with our excursion?”
“I want to go to the site and have another look at it. I haven’t been there for a few months. If we’re going to fight this, I need to have a pretty good idea in my mind what I’m fighting for. I called Monaghan’s offices and got permission to go this evening. I thought you might like to come. What time do you get off work?”
“We close at six. I can be ready at one minute after six.”
“I’ll pick you up then,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have any news about the code page and map? You didn’t decipher it and forget to tell me?”
“Sadly, no. I’ve pretty much given up on it. Some secrets are meant to remain secret, I suppose.”
“I haven’t heard anything more from Sam or the police chief about the progress of the investigation into Jeremy Hughes’s murder. I hope that’s something that won’t remain a secret much longer.”
“I’ve heard nothing either,” I said. It was obvious Sam and Butch had kept my confidence and hadn’t told Connor about the break-in on Thursday night. Otherwise, Connor would be sure to have had something to say about security around here.
* * *
Connor was nothing if not punctual. At one minute past six, I was standing on the lighthouse steps as his car pulled up. I checked to ensure the door behind me was locked—for about the tenth time—and ran to join him.
Two of our patrons were standing by their cars chatting while their children chased each other across the lawn. They smiled at me as I ran past.
“Hot date tonight, Lucy?” one called.
I felt myself blushing.
“I remember when I ran to greet Greg,” one of the women said. “I felt
as though I had wings beneath my feet.”
“These days,” the other said, “I run past my husband when he comes in the door. Let him handle the kids for a while.”
As if to prove her point, one of the little boys started crying. “Mommy, she hit me!”
“Did not! You hit me first.”
“Did not!” Screaming children ran toward us.
“And so the romance dies,” the first mother said with a tired sigh.
“Hopefully,” the second said as her weeping son collapsed against her, “to be replaced by something even better. Enjoy every moment, Lucy. I’d better get these guys home. It’s long past dinnertime. Stop crying, Stewart. You’re not hurt. Will we see you tomorrow, Lucy?”
“At the Settler’s Day Fair?” I gave the little girl, grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of getting her brother into trouble, a rub on the top of her head. “Definitely. I’m looking forward to it.”
I waved good night and jumped into the BMW.
“Good day?” Connor asked as he drove away.
“Every day at the Lighthouse Library is a good day,” I said, “except when it isn’t.”
Traffic was heavy coming toward Nags Head as people returned from a day exploring Cape Hatteras National Seashore and the remote communities of Rodanthe and Buxton. We didn’t have far to go before Connor slowed the car and made the turn onto a bumpy construction road. Other than the road itself, I could see no signs of work being done. We bumped along for not more than thirty seconds before we reached a chain strung across the road and a prefabricated shack. A “No Trespassing” sign was slung onto the chain. Connor parked and we got out of the car. A man came out of the shack, dressed in the beige uniform of a local security firm.
“Hey,” he said.
“Good evening,” Connor said. “I’m Mayor McNeil, and I’m here to have a look around.”
The guard nodded. “I was told you’d be here. Go ahead.” He waved to the sand dunes. “Knock yourself out.”
“Won’t be long.” Connor took my hand, and we rounded the barrier. The road turned into a small track weaving between the beach grasses and the dunes. At places the path disappeared beneath the ever-shifting sand. As the noise from the highway died away, my ears became accustomed to the quiet, and I could hear the soft shuffling of the sand and the murmur of the sea rushing to shore on the other side of the dunes. Seagulls flew in lazy circles overhead, and the wind—accompanied by a good number of sand particles—tore at my hair. I breathed in deeply. The air was fresh and pure and salty. We climbed up sand dunes and down again. Not much grew in this harsh environment, and everything that did was tough, hardy, and small. I was able to identify sea rocket, sea oats, pennywort, and prickly pear cactus. Trees didn’t stand a chance here.
