by Eva Gates
“Strange place for a golf course,” I said. “Will grass even grow in all this sand?”
Connor didn’t reply. We climbed another dune, and the ocean stretched out before us. Sandpipers and oystercatchers dashed through the surf; avocets searched the shallows; a lone pelican glided majestically above the water; and higher up, gulls circled as they cried out to one another.
It was unbelievably beautiful.
Connor pointed south, further down the beach to where a single house perched on the dunes. It was a typical historic Outer Banks house, all dark, unpainted wood and blue shutters, built on stilts, four stories tall with outdoor staircases, multilevel balconies, and covered verandas. A path led to the sea. It was hard to see from here, but a fenced-in area at the back of the house was probably a pool and patio.
“That’s the Monaghan house,” Connor said. “First built in the 1930s by Nathanial Monaghan.”
“You mean Rick’s father? The one who died recently? He must have been mighty young back then.”
“The Monaghans are a long-lived family. Zebadiah died at ninety-seven, rare in those days, and Nathanial was one hundred and two.”
“How old is Rick? I’ve never met him, but his wife Cheryl seems to be around fifty.”
“He’s the same age as her. Nathanial was a recluse. He didn’t marry until late in life and had only one child, Rick. I believe Nathanial was in his late fifties when Rick was born. They were long-lived men, but not very procreative. Nathanial was Zebadiah’s only child, also born late in his father’s life.”
“If that’s Nathanial’s house, this must be the land you told me he walked every day.”
“It is. They say he insisted on going on his morning stroll in the face of an incoming hurricane. Rick’s plan is to convert the old house into part of the hotel and conference center, and extend the building north, toward where we’re standing now, and inland. Separate buildings—guest cottages and the club house—will be built along that ridge there.” He pointed. “The golf course will be across the dunes behind us.”
“The beach environment will be destroyed.”
“Yes, it will. Although he’s going to argue he’s doing everything possible to preserve as much of it as is feasible.”
“And when it turns out it’s not feasible to save much, everyone will say, ‘Gee, that’s too bad’?”
“Probably. Don’t look now, Lucy, but we’re being watched.”
Of course I looked. Two figures stood on one of the upper balconies of the old house. They held binoculars to their eyes and were looking directly at us.
“Should I wave?” I said.
“That would be unnecessarily provocative,” he said with a chuckle. He waved.
The binoculars were lowered. I thought I recognized Cheryl Monaghan. The man with her was tall and round bellied. “Is that Rick?”
“Yes. Let’s go. I’ve seen enough. How about dinner?”
“A good idea. I need to get the taste of this development out of my mouth.” I stuck out my tongue and picked particles of earth off it. “As well as the taste of this sand.”
Chapter Nineteen
I decided not to wear a costume for Settlers’ Day. If anyone asked, I’d explain that I was a true settler, being new to the Other Banks, so I was coming as myself.
I wouldn’t tell the truth—which is that I hate dressing up, mainly because I have no imagination. Other people seem to be able to whip together an authentic-looking, humorous, or whimsical costume at the drop of the hat with a handful of things pulled out of the back of their closet. I’d considered renting a long dress from a costume shop, but I forgot about that until I was turning in on Saturday night after dinner with Connor.
I can’t even rent a costume efficiently.
It shouldn’t matter what I wore. Plenty of other people could be counted on to show up suitably attired, if not always historically appropriate.
Connor and I had enjoyed a nice dinner at Jake’s. We hadn’t talked about our walk among the dunes, nor did we discuss the code page or Mrs. Crawbingham’s diary. I said nothing about Thursday night’s break in at the lighthouse or Bertie and my trip to Blacklock College and what we learned there. Instead, I told him I’d been doing some research into the Freedmen’s Colony.
“Did you not know about that?” he said. “The Fort Raleigh National Historic Site over in Roanoke has information about it.”
“I knew about it, yes. I vaguely remember reading about it when we toured the site many, many years ago. Come to think of it, that might have been the summer I was fourteen. I had other things on my mind that year.” I rested my chin on my hand and twisted my face into something resembling deep thought. “I wonder what that might have been.”
The edges of his mouth turned up, and his sea-blue eyes twinkled. “Oh yes. That summer.”
I first met Connor McNeil when I visited my Outer Banks cousins the summer I was fourteen and he was fifteen. We had the sweetest, most innocent of summer romances, which ended when I went back to Boston for another school year, and we fell out of touch. When we next met again last summer, we found the feelings we’d had way back then, waiting to be rekindled.
“Do you know Neil and Janelle Washington?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Don’t think so.”
“Neil’s family was part of the Freedmen’s Colony. I guess meeting someone with such a direct, personal interest has sparked my curiosity. I’m hoping to learn more about it.”
“One thing the Outer Banks has,” Connor said, “is no shortage of history.”
“Even as someone coming from Boston,” I said, “I can agree with you on that.”
We’d then lifted our wine glasses in a toast to history.
I enjoyed a long lie-in Sunday morning, only getting out of bed when Charles’s pleas to be fed got too insistent to ignore any longer. I drank copious cups of freshly brewed coffee and munched on muesli and yogurt while checking the online news from Boston and the Outer Banks gossip. The historical society had started a Twitter meme of #OBXSettlersFun, and plenty of people were chiming in to say they were looking forward to it.
Breakfast finished, I showered, washed my hair, and dressed in white capris with a blue stripe down the leg, a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt, and sturdy sports sandals. A costume of sorts—the twenty-first-century newcomer.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Ronald said when I came downstairs, ready to dive into helping with the setup.
I eyed his pirate costume: big hat with sweeping feather, parrot on the shoulder, eye patch, pants tucked into high leather boots. “The role of Captain Jack Sparrow has already been cast,” I said.
“Nice of you to say that I do a good imitation of Johnny Depp,” he replied. The stuffed parrot wobbled, and Ronald adjusted it.
“What’s Nan coming as?” I asked, referring to Ronald’s wife.
“Anne Bonny.”
“Who’s that?”
“A notorious pirate in her own right. She was born in Ireland and came to the Carolinas in the early 1700s. For their time, pirates could be remarkably gender neutral. Several women had reputations as efficient pirates and good fighters.”
“I’m constantly amazed at how much North Carolina history I still have to learn,” I said.
The library door opened, Charlene swept in, and Ronald and I burst out laughing.
“Like it?” she said with a big grin.
“Perfect,” I said.
“I came early in case you need some help setting up. I have to go back for Mom at one, but in case I get held up, I didn’t want to have to worry about getting changed later.”
Charlene was dressed in oil slickers, with a big yellow hat and heavy boots, looking exactly like a fisherman returning to land after a day spent on the water. “I’m my great-great-grandfather on my dad’s side. They came from England and got jobs on the fishing boats. All I can say is thank heavens that hot spell is over. What are you going to wear, Lucy?”
I he
ld out my arms. “This is my costume. I put a lot of thought into it and decided to come as a settler from Boston who moved to the Outer Banks to work as a librarian in the twenty-first century.”
Charlene laughed. I had the feeling I was going to get very tired of explaining myself before the day was over.
“Now,” she asked, “what have we got to do?”
“Nothing, really, until the historical society people get here. They’re bringing everything.”
“Looks like them now.” Ronald pointed out the window. “A truck’s pulling up.”
We went outside in time to see a rental panel van, followed closely by a small car, slow to a stop. Phil Cahill jumped out of the car, and two men got out of the truck. They opened the back doors and began pulling out stackable chairs and loading them onto trolleys. Ronald, Charlene, and I hurried to help.
The rest of the historical society soon followed, along with vendors and performers. Cars and trucks backed up and unloaded, and people ran about jostling for the best position to advertise their wares. Jewelry makers, hat sellers, potters, a couple of painters of local scenes, several food booths, an ice cream truck, a face painter. The people from Island Bookstore erected a big tent, where they set up a table covered with volumes on local history, both fiction and nonfiction, and to do with the environment of the Outer Banks. Many of the titles were aimed at children.
My cousin Josie arrived, and she and her assistant, Blair, set up their booth. Before she’d even opened for business, volunteer workers were lining up for fresh bakery-made cookies and tarts or warm-from-the-oven Danishes and croissants.
By quarter to one, the lighthouse lawn had been turned into a fairground with tents and tables under colorful umbrellas and a small stage facing neatly laid-out rows of chairs. Almost all the vendors had come in some sort of costume. A cheerful yellow sun shone in a brilliant blue sky, and a light cooling breeze blew off the ocean, sending the decorative flags fluttering.
“Couldn’t ask for a better day for it,” Bertie said to me.
Bertie hadn’t come in costume, or perhaps, like mine, hers was so subtle I didn’t realize it was a costume. I didn’t ask.
“We’re not working today,” she said. “And this is not a library function, but it is on the library grounds, so we will need to keep an eye out. Did you lock the front door, Lucy?”
“Yes.” I’d checked about ten times already.
“Good. No one’s to go in the building for any reason whatsoever. Present company excepted.”
“Got it,” I said. “A couple of porta potties have been set up around the back.”
Mabel Eastland, Lynne Feingold, and Cheryl Monaghan picked their way across the lawn toward us.
Mabel wore a simple dress of brown cotton that swept the ground, under a white apron, and a white bonnet, and Lynne was in something similar, but her dress was dark gray rather than brown. Cheryl, on the other hand, might have been presiding over afternoon tea at a Louisiana plantation, in a yellow satin and lace gown stretched over wide hoops and yards of crinolines. Her hat was weighted down with feathers, fake fruit and stuffed birds, and still more lace. A steady stream of sweat dripped from under the brim and ran down her bright red face. I figured she was probably already regretting trying to dress like a lady of the manor. Those clothes were suitable for sitting on the covered front porch in the heat of the day, sipping mint juleps, and being fanned by servants. Not for running around an open patch of lawn under a bright sun.
“This is so exciting,” Mabel said. “Looks like people are starting to arrive early.” A steady stream of cars was making its way down the long driveway.
The Washington twins ran past us, and their mother hurried after them. The girls were dressed in the costumes they’d worn to the library, and Janelle had on the clothes of a farm wife or servant woman of the nineteenth century. She stopped by our little group to say hello.
When we’d exchanged greetings, Bertie asked who would be the first speaker.
“A professor from Duke, talking about the constantly changing landscape of barrier islands,” Mabel said.
“How dreadfully exciting.” Cheryl suppressed a fake yawn.
“I’d think you’d find what she has to say both interesting and important,” Janelle said, “considering your family’s plans to build a multimillion dollar hotel on a foundation of sand.”
“Thank you so much for your concern, dear,” Cheryl said. “When I want your advice on my husband’s business matters, I’ll ask for it.”
“Never hurts to listen to what the experts have to say.” Janelle kept her voice calm and even.
“We have consulted with plenty of experts, dear—don’t you worry about us.”
“Oh, I never worry about you, Cheryl,” Janelle said.
“Does everyone like my costume?” Cheryl said, wisely changing the subject. “I’ve come as Eula, Mrs. Zebadiah Monaghan, Rick’s grandmother. They say Eula was the greatest beauty of her generation, and Zebadiah was one of the most important men in the Outer Banks in his day. He owned a lot of land around these parts.”
“I think we’re all aware of who Zebadiah was, dear,” Mrs. Eastland said. “We are members of the historical society, after all.”
Cheryl gave her a poisonous look before turning to me with a strained smile. “Newcomers such as Lucy might not be aware of the importance of my husband’s family’s history to this area.”
“So helpful of you to ensure everyone knows,” Mrs. Eastland said.
“Is that Fred McIntosh, I see?” Cheryl said. “Why, I do believe it is. I need to speak with him. Do give me a shout, Mabel, if you need any help.” Cheryl bustled off, lugging her heavy skirts.
“I could use lots of help,” Mabel said. “But for some reason Cheryl never seems to be around when the time arrives.”
Bertie and Lynne chuckled.
“I wasn’t aware Cheryl was a member of the historical society,” I said.
“Only peripherally,” Lynne said. “And only when it suits her to remind us how important her husband’s family is.”
“Don’t let her needling get to you,” Mabel said to Janelle. “She speaks to everyone that way.”
“Everyone she regards as her inferior on the social scale,” Lynne said. “I’m quite sure she’s not talking to Fred McIntosh like that. I heard she and Rick are desperate to get Fred to invest in their project. He, however, has the brains God gave him, and he doesn’t want any part of it.”
“Don’t y’all worry about me,” Janelle said. “I got my brains from my mama, and I know better than to let Cheryl bother me.” She turned to me. “I came over to ask if the children’s construction site is going to be usable today.”
“Feel free, but be aware Ronald won’t be on hand all day to supervise.”
“Thanks. The twins have already lost interest in stories of their family history and want to play at building things.” She hurried after her children. I started to walk away but turned around when I heard Lynne mutter, “What on earth is she doing here?”
Maya Hughes had also come as an antebellum lady of means, but in her case I thought the costume might be more suitable to running a house of ill repute rather than a respectable plantation. The long dress was tight in all the right places, the neckline plunging, the shoulders bare. She lifted her skirts in both hands and picked her way across the lawn, teetering in her twenty-first-century stiletto heels.
“Isn’t this a lovely turnout,” she said. “Mabel, darling, it’s been far too long.” She exchanged air kisses with Mrs. Eastland. I managed to dodge a perfume-scented hug by thrusting out my hand. She returned the shake limply and said, “Nice to see you again, Detective. Are you making any progress on the brutal murder of my husband?”
I avoided looking at Bertie and the others, and said to Maya, “Nothing official. I’m here to enjoy Settlers’ Day.”
Maya turned her smile on Lynne. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Lynne crossed her arms over her c
hest and scowled.
Deciding the other woman wasn’t worth worrying about, Maya turned back to Mrs. Eastland. “I hope you’re going to pay tribute to Jeremy today. The historical society, and this day, was so dreadfully important to him.” She sniffed delicately, pulled a lace-trimmed, lavender-scented handkerchief out of her glove, and wiped at dry eyes.
“I plan to mention Jeremy’s dedication to the historical society when I say a few words to open the afternoon,” Mrs. Eastland said.
“Why don’t I do that?” Maya said. “I knew him best, of course. I went to the trouble of preparing a few words.” She smiled at Mrs. Eastland. Mrs. Eastland looked at me. I looked at Bertie.
“Why not?” Bertie said.
“Good, it’s settled then,” Maya said.
“I hardly think you’re the appropriate person to talk about Jeremy,” Lynne blurted out. “After all, he was about to leave you for another woman.”
Mrs. Eastland’s eyes opened wide. “I don’t think—” she began, but Maya cut her off with a wave of her hand.
“I assume you’re referring to yourself.” Maya laughed, the sound low and cruel. She openly studied Lynne, top to toe. “As if. You poor little dear, you don’t need to tell me. He was leaving his miserable shrew of a wife to take up a life of middle-aged bliss with you. You can count yourself lucky he died before he laughed in your face.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or did you kill him because you knew he was about to dump you as he did all the others before you?”
