Read and Buried

by Eva Gates

  “You’re lying.” Lynne spat out the words. “He loved me. Me! He stayed with you all these years because he was a man of honor who wanted to respect his marriage vows, but your constant demands were becoming too much for even him to bear.”

  Maya laid a gloved hand on Lynne’s arm. “If it helps you sleep at night, dear, go ahead and believe it. It must be so hard to be your age and realize your best-before date is long past.”

  Lynne shook her off. “Maybe it was you who killed him because you knew he was about to leave you. Leave you, and take all his money with him.”

  “His money?” Maya threw back her head and laughed. “He told you he had money of his own? How absolutely delicious. Everything Jeremy had was courtesy of either his mother or me.”

  Lynne’s eyes filled with tears. Her mouth opened and closed as she searched for a cutting response, but nothing came. She ran away.

  “That wasn’t kind,” Mabel Eastland said, watching her go.

  “I’ve never pretended to be kind,” Maya replied. “But I can always be counted on to speak the truth.”

  “When it suits you,” Mrs. Eastland said.

  Maya batted her eyelashes in response and then looked out over the crowd. A steady stream of people were arriving, and cars cruised the lot, searching for a parking spot.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Bertie said. “I’ve things to do.” She walked away, shaking her head. I considered following her but hesitated. I had absolutely no desire to hear any more of Maya Hughes’s catty pettiness, but the subject of a possible motive for her husband’s murder had come up. I was on the verge of asking Maya if this was her first visit to the lighthouse, when she spoke again.

  “I’ll be ready as soon as you want me to speak, Mabel. But don’t wait too long. People will start getting restless. Oh my goodness. There’s Mayor McNeil. Isn’t he quite the handsomest man in Nags Head? I heard he has a girlfriend, but I’m sure that’s only temporary.” She laughed. “If not, I can make it so.”

  “Speaking of best-by date,” Mrs. Eastland said, “isn’t Connor McNeil a bit young for you, Maya?”

  “Oh, darling, they’re never too young for me.” Maya scurried off.

  I recovered my wits. “Good heavens. She’s a … not-nice person, isn’t she?” I watched as Connor caught sight of Maya descending on him, a hawk intent on her prey, and ducked behind my Uncle Amos.

  “She and Jeremy were made for each other, all right,” Mrs. Eastland said. “Do you have a cane handy, Lucy?”

  I blinked. “A cane? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, but I might need to hook it around Maya’s neck to drag her off the stage.”

  She walked away, and I glanced around, looking for something I could be helping with. Two library volunteers were at the children’s play construction area, keeping one eye on the kids while they chatted. A handful of people had found seats in front of the impromptu stage, waiting patiently for the program to begin, and the booths and tents were busy. A clown wandered through the crowd, twisting balloons into fascinating, complicated shapes for eager children. Holly Rankin had come dressed in street clothes, walking with a man about her age. I saw Butch munching on a hot dog while Stephanie flicked through the books on display at the Island Bookshop table. They both were in their regular clothes, as were about half the people here. The rest had come in some sort of costume, like the elaborately attired woman talking to Aunt Ellen. As if sensing me watching her, the woman turned and waved at me.

  I realized my mouth must be hanging open. I snapped it shut, gave my head a shake to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, and made my way toward them.

  The woman was a vision out of another time, in pale blue silk. The dress was enormous, yards and yards of fabric draped over hoops and crinolines, the edges trimmed by yellow satin. Her dark hair was twisted up and fastened in place under a huge hat of matching blue with a wide yellow satin band tied into a bow under her chin. She grinned at me and twirled the lace-trimmed blue parasol she held in one of her wrist-length, fingerless yellow gloves.

  “You look absolutely amazing,” I said to Louise Jane. “Where on earth did you get that?”

  “A little something my mother’s had in the back of her closet for years,” she said.

  “Louise Jane’s mother was an actress,” Aunt Ellen told me. “She had a few good parts in Hollywood movies in her youth, as I recall.”

  “That career ended when her costumes, as well as other props, kept disappearing from the wardrobe room,” Louise Jane said. “Or so my grandmother says. Oh well, Hollywood’s loss is Nags Heads’s gain.” She swirled around, her huge skirts flaring out. “Like it?”

  “I love it. But I’d hate to wear it—doesn’t it weigh a ton?”

  “All fake. The underneath is made of lightweight modern materials, and there are a few discretely placed breathing holes here and there.” She lifted her arm to show me a slash running down the side seam. “And if it should rain, I’m ready.” She opened the parasol, tucked it over one shoulder, and cocked her head, giving me a broad wink and a friendly grin.

  I smiled back, realizing this was probably the first time Louise Jane and I had exchanged smiles that didn’t have layers of tension and hidden meaning beneath them.

  “Too bad you didn’t take the time to go to any trouble yourself, Lucy, honey,” she said, because she was, after all, Louise Jane and had probably had the same thought I had. “Ronald and Nan look splendid in their pirate costumes, and Charlene is a real Outer Banks fisherwoman.”

  “Speaking of costumes,” Aunt Ellen said, “look who’s just arrived.” Louise Jane and I turned to see what she was pointing at.

  Curtis Gardner had gone all out as a Civil War soldier. His gray uniform was immaculate, complete with knee-high black boots, double-breasted frock coat, high collar, and gold sleeve brocade. A gold sash was tied around his waist above the sword belt holding a replica sword. Not a soldier fresh from battle, but a general on parade, Curtis walked through the crowd, nodding left and right and accepting compliments. Diane Uppiton scurried along behind, her heels sinking into the soft grass. She wore her usual attire of pastel-colored skirt suit with pearls and heels, totally unsuited to a summer outdoor festival on the Outer Banks.

  “Poor Curtis,” Aunt Ellen said. “He’s determined to make sure everyone knows his ancestor was an officer in the Confederacy.”

  “Wasn’t he?” I asked.

  Louise Jane laughed. “If Curtis would just let the story die, no one would care that his great-grandfather was a private who apparently ended up deserting. We all have skeletons in our family closets. Which makes for far more satisfying stories than being the pillar of respectability as your family was, Ellen.”

  Aunt Ellen winked at me. “I believe someone made mention of skeletons.”

  “That story will have to wait for another day,” I said. “I’m going to get one of those hot dogs. Aunt Ellen, can I get you something?”

  “No, thank you, dear. I see Mabel heading for the stage. I’ll find myself a seat, as I want to hear the first speaker.”

  “A hot dog sounds good to me.” Louise Jane fell into step beside me.

  Mrs. Fitzgerald veered toward us when she caught sight of Louise Jane. “You look absolutely splendid, my dear,”

  Louise Jane beamed. “So do you.”

  Our board chair was dressed in a poodle skirt and saddle shoes. “Did your family move to the Outer Banks in the 1950s?” I asked.

  “We arrived on these shores long before that, Lucy. But this is my Halloween costume, and I didn’t feel like making up another. One costume a year is enough for me. Unlike Louise Jane here, who can always rise to suit the theme of the day.”

  “I do my best,” Louise Jane said, flushing with pleasure at the compliment.

  More admirers approached to ask Louise Jane about her costume or take pictures. I left her to chat and pose and joined the queue at the hot dog cart. Connor caught up to me in the line. He slipped his hand into
mine and said, “I’m hiding from an overly friendly citizen.”

  “The Widow Hughes.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “Is that who that was? Jeremy Hughes’s wife?”

  “Plantation girls gone wild? Yup, that was her.”

  “She has a unique interpretation of widow’s weeds.”

  I laughed, wrapped my arms around him, and leaned my head into his chest.

  “Keep the line movin’ there, Mr. Mayor,” a man shouted. “We haven’t got all day here to wait while you do your courtin’.”

  I pulled away, my cheeks burning, as everyone in earshot laughed.

  “Leave the man alone, Milt. Lucy doesn’t want to wait some twenty years for him to make his move like you did with Ethel Stainsbury.”

  “I was worth the wait,” Milt replied, and the lineup laughed again.

  Connor and I got our hot dogs and piled the buns high with condiments. I took the first welcome bite and chewed happily. I caught sight of Elizabeth MacArthur and Norman Hoskins checking the selection at the bookstore tent, and chewed less happily. Couldn’t those two stay away? They seemed to have an unhealthy fascination with the Lighthouse Library and were always popping up. They’d not come in costumes. No doubt they thought history too serious to be played at.

  I tried to remember if I’d locked the front door of the library.

  Yes, I was sure I had. But I’d better go back and check, just in case.

  “The stage program’s about to start,” Connor said, wiping mustard off his chin. “I want to hear the first speaker. He’s done some original research into shoreline erosion. Are you coming?”

  “You go ahead. I’m not officially working today, but I feel some responsibility to keep an eye on things. I can listen to the opening remarks from here.”

  He kissed me lightly on the cheek and walked away. I watched him cross the lawn, exchanging greetings with almost everyone he passed. I felt a smile cross my face, and then I realized two elderly ladies were watching me, sparkles in their eyes and grins on their faces. My cheeks caught fire once again, and I buried my face in my hot dog.

  “Young love,” one of the women said to the other. “There’s nothing on this earth like it.”

  “You think so, Esther?” her friend replied. “Been so long, I’ve forgotten.”

  “I haven’t,” Esther said.

  * * *

  The Settlers’ Day Fair was a huge success. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves enormously. I know I did. I checked, for about the twentieth time, that the door to the library was locked, and then spent some time at the construction playground, keeping an eye on the children, but mostly I just chatted to friends and library patrons.

  The day’s first two lectures—the one on the dunes environment and the talk on gardening in the early days—were well attended, but much of the audience left before the third lecture: Elizabeth McArthur on the industrialization of North Carolina. She was, to put it mildly, an uninspiring speaker, and gradually people began getting up from their chairs and slipping away. Some of them had the grace to look shame-faced about it. Soon Professor McArthur was speaking to a crowd of no more than half a dozen people. Those people, I thought, must either be very interested in the topic or too polite to walk away.

  “Glad I’m not one of her students.” Charlene carried a tray with two pulled pork sandwiches and drinks.

  “How’s your mother doing?” I asked.

  “Great. She’s really enjoying herself. She’s meeting up with so many people she hasn’t seen in a while. Although I fear at the moment Lizzie is sending her to an early nap.” Charlene nodded to the back of the row of chairs, to where Mrs. Clayton sat in her wheelchair. “We’ll probably be leaving once we’ve finished eating. See you tomorrow, Lucy.”

  Norman Hoskins had taken a seat in the front row. He nodded enthusiastically at everything Lizzie said.

  Which reminded me …

  I took a minute to walk around the lighthouse in search of a moment’s privacy. A few people had done the same and were strolling on the boardwalk that leads through the marsh to a dock on the sound. I pulled out my phone and called Sam Watson. He answered.

  “Good afternoon, Detective,” I said. “Lucy here.”

  “What have you got, Lucy?” he asked.

  “Uh. Nothing. Sorry. I’m at the lighthouse for Settler’s Day.”

  “CeeCee and her mother have gone to that.”

  “I saw them,” I said. “They seem to be having a good time.” I didn’t mention that CeeCee had showed me her husband’s birthday present. A book on The Lost Colony.

  “Glad to hear it. Is that why you called?”

  “No. I was wondering about Elizabeth McArthur’s alibi for Monday night. You were going to check on that?”

  A long silence came down the phone. “Why do you think I would share that information with you, Lucy?”

  Fortune favors the brave, or so they say. I plunged in, trying to be brave. “Because I’ve been of help to you in the past. And I’d like to be of help again. McArthur and Hoskins are here now. She’s boring the audience. What’s left of her audience anyway.”

  “Elizabeth MacArthur did not attend the faculty reception. No one we spoke to remembers seeing her there. A few people spoke to Hoskins; they remember him.”

  “Meaning she doesn’t have an alibi,” I said.

  “Meaning no one saw her at the party. Still doesn’t mean she was in the Outer Banks. I have a call into her as it happens. You say she’s there now?”

  I peered over the top of the crowd. McArthur was still on stage, standing behind the podium, her arms stiff at her sides, her back erect, droning on. “Yes.”

  “Thanks. I think I’ll drop by. Don’t tell her I’m coming, Lucy, and don’t ask her about her alibi.”

  “I won’t.”

  He hung up. I put my phone away, feeling quite proud of myself. I had been of help to the police.

  So there.

  Next I went to the bookstore tent. The selection, I noticed, was thinning out. If I wanted to get something I’d better do it soon. I bought a couple of books on Outer Banks fishing history for my mother’s Christmas present, even though I knew she’d probably not bother reading them. She’d gladly left her family’s fishing past behind her when she married into a patrician Boston family, but all the talk today about people who’d settled here had reminded me of how important the contributions of everyone had been to building this marvelous community. Maybe my mom needed to be reminded of that.

  I took my purchases and turned, almost colliding with Phil Cahill.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  He grinned at me. “No harm done.” Phil had come as a nineteenth-century farmer—overalls, big hat, checked shirt.

  “Are you pleased with the day?” I asked. “I’d say it’s a huge success.”

  “So it seems. I’ve been busy at my booth. I’m taking a break to grab something to eat before it’s all gone.”

  “I’m impressed with the trouble some people have gone to over their costumes. Everything from farmers or fishermen to pirates, to soldiers, to gentlemen and ladies of leisure.”

  “The intention was that everyone came as their ancestor.” Phil said. “I doubt very much Curtis Gardner is descended from a general in the army of the Confederacy or that Louise Jane’s ancestors swanned about in dresses like that one. Not to mention that ridiculous getup Maya Hughes is in.”

  He actually looked angry at the thought, so I tried to make light of it. “Louise Jane is genuinely wearing her ancestor’s clothes. Her mother was an actress, and that was one of her movie costumes.”

  “Not exactly what I meant.”

  “People are in the spirit of the day—isn’t that what counts?”

  As if to prove my point, a man slipped past us, heading for the book table in red breeches; white stockings; blue vest over a wide-sleeved, high-collared white shirt; and a metal hat that reflected the light from the sun. “You’re from the Lost Colony, I assume,” I sai
d, referring to the group of Elizabethan settlers on Roanoke, the first Europeans to permanently settle in North America, who’d disappeared without a trace.

  “Got it in one, Lucy,” he said. “Great day, Phil. Good job.”

  Phil harrumphed.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I want to hear the results of the costume contest.” McArthur had finished, to weak, scattered applause, and left the stage. It was quarter to five, but the grounds were still busy and business brisk at all the booths. Most of the items listed on the blackboard at Josie’s table had been crossed out.

  “At least I don’t have to put up with whatever Jeremy was planning to wear,” Phil said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Jeremy was a snob. He had airs considerably above his station. He would have wanted to come as George Washington or maybe J. P. Morgan.”

  “Was J. P. Morgan from the Outer Banks?”

  “No. Which is my point, Lucy. Jeremy would have made the day all about him. We’re better off without him.” Phil walked away.

  Phil Cahill seemed not to have heard of the expression Don’t speak ill of the dead. How worried had he been that Jeremy would ruin the Settlers’ Day Fair?

  Worried enough to kill him?

  It seemed rather a drastic step to go to in order to make sure the man didn’t wear an inappropriate costume. Still, I filed the comment away in the back of my mind. Sam Watson had said he was coming to speak to Elizabeth McArthur. When he got here, I’d let him know what Phil had said.

  Bertie, Connor, and Mrs. Eastland had climbed onto the stage. It was time for the awarding of the prizes for best costume. Almost everyone who was still here gathered around. To no one’s surprise, Louise Jane won for best women’s costume and Curtis Gardner for best men’s. The best child’s costume was a double award, given to a brother and sister who came dressed as an eighteenth-century farming couple, complete with miniature hoe (him), baby doll (her), and a well-behaved cocker spaniel dressed like a cow. The award winners and the award givers posed for photographs, and then they left the stage, accompanied by enthusiastic applause.