by Eva Gates
Fluffy and I left Charles basking in compliments, as was his due. We had a quick walk and then scurried back inside for lunch. I opened and heated a can of vegetable soup, which I ate with a piece of toast and cheese. Then, disappointed that there’d been no leftover baked treats last night, I called my mom. “Any developments?”
“If you mean have I heard from Evangeline about her returning to Boston, no.”
“How long are you planning to stay?”
“As long as Evangeline does. She’s having lunch with Leon—again—and we’re going to the spa later. Would you like to join us?”
“I have this thing called a job. I’m on my lunch break now.”
“Oh yes. A job. So tedious.”
I briefly wondered what it must be like to have never had a real job. Then again, as “wife of,” Mom had worked hard enough.
“I’m getting the feeling you’re starting to get a bit impatient with Evangeline, Mom; that’s why I’m asking.”
“Impatient would be an understatement. I don’t expect you to understand, dear. Your life is so … different than mine.” A long silence came down the line. “I envy you, Lucy, but that’s neither here nor there. Yes, I don’t like Evangeline and I never have, but our lives are entwined in a way that’s difficult to explain. We’ve always had to pretend to be close, and that has made us close.”
“Even though you don’t like each other.”
“Even though.”
I hadn’t reacted when Mom said she envied my life. I’ve always known I never wanted hers. The pretense of a happy marriage, the country club circuit, the “frenemies,” the social expectations. No thanks.
Mom and I were getting on so much better these days, but I couldn’t forget that she’d tried to push me into following in her footsteps and marrying Ricky. Into marrying for social status and to keep the firm in the family rather than finding my own way and my own path to love.
“I’ll stay,” Mom said, “as long as Evangeline needs me to stay. And before you ask, Ellen and Amos are fine with that.”
Maybe. Mom and Ellen had never been friends either. Despite growing up in the same house, with the same parents, their life paths had been too different. In that, I was more like my aunt Ellen than my mother. Mom had not been happy that it was Ellen who introduced me to Bertie James when Bertie was looking to hire an assistant library director for the Lighthouse Library.
All water under the bridge, I reminded myself.
“Ricky might be going home soon,” Mom said.
“Before his mom? Why?”
“They dragged me into joining them for a quick drink after your book club last night, and Ricky said certain things are happening at the office that he needs to be, in his words, on top of. Evangeline was obviously surprised at that. He’d told her he’d stay here, in Nags Head, until they could take his father home. She started to have words with him about leaving early, but he cut her off. Too many people listening, I suspect.”
“Meaning Leon and Stephen?”
“Yes.”
“Speaking of Ricky—Mom, do you know anything about the state of Evangeline’s finances?”
“Why do you ask?”
“We know Rich was carrying a lot of debt. I’m wondering if Evangeline has money of her own.”
“It’s possible but unlikely. Her parents are both alive and seem to be in reasonably good health. They’re people of comfortable means but not excessively so, as far as I know. Evangeline has one younger sister, so I assume the family’s money will go to Evangeline and her sister eventually. Why do you ask?”
“All that talk last night about the estate of Sir Charles Baskerville and the search for an heir got me thinking.”
“Surely you’re not thinking Ricky killed his father for the inheritance?”
“To protect the inheritance, if Rich was squandering what money he had. Watson’s thinking it.”
“Do you know that for sure?”
“No, I don’t, but if I were him, I would be. If Rich was in danger of losing everything, and if Evangeline doesn’t have immediate prospects in that area, then maybe … You have to admit it, Mom, both of them had a motive.”
“I will not admit anything of the sort. The idea’s preposterous.”
“Ricky doesn’t seem all that interested in his legal career. As feeble as it seems to be.”
“What does that mean?”
I nibbled on a piece of toast and thought. “I honestly don’t know, Mom. Then again, maybe his career will start to be important to him now that his father’s dead and he’s next in line to be the Lewiston name on the door. You did say he’s thinking of heading in to work.”
“I have no idea what’s going through Ricky’s mind, dear. Millar has never been what I’d call full of praise for Ricky’s legal acumen or his work habits. But people can change, and the sudden death of a parent is a powerful incentive for reevaluating one’s life. Enough of that. I enjoyed your book club last night. It was fun and an interesting discussion. You have some intelligent friends.”
“That I do,” I said. “Talk to you later, Mom.”
We hung up. I finished my soup, washed up my few dishes, and headed downstairs to the library.
I was wearing a light pair of ballet flats today, so my feet made no sound on the iron stairs as I descended. Charlene’s door was open just a crack. Remembering how she’d shut it in my face the other day, I was about to hurry past when I heard voices. Louise Jane and Charlene don’t usually see eye to eye on the pursuit of historical knowledge, so I was surprised that Louise Jane was in Charlene’s office. I pricked my ears up, and I might have leaned slightly to one side in order to catch snatches of their conversation.
Louise Jane: “So soon? … wait a moment longer than … have to.”
Charlene: “… England. Mom will …”
“What does Bertie …” Louise Jane must have turned, so I didn’t hear the rest of the sentence.
Charlene: “… good timing. You’ll be …”
“Have you lost something, Lucy?”
I jumped and felt color rushing into my face. Louise Jane stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips.
“No. Nothing. I haven’t lost anything. I was wondering what I’d been intending to do. Getting absent-minded in my old age. Nice seeing you, Louise Jane. Have a nice day.” I took the steps two at a time.
Behind me, Charlene’s office door slammed shut.
* * *
Friday afternoon the board of the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library met for their regular meeting. Recent departures from the board meant several new members would be joining them today for the first time.
“I’m not looking forward to this, Lucy,” Bertie said as I laid pens and paper and water glasses on the long table in the staff break room.
“You never look forward to board meetings,” I said.
“This one less than usual. I hate numbers, as you know, and the board will be going over the proposed budget for next year with a fine-toothed comb. I suppose I should be grateful Mrs. Fitzgerald managed to talk Cindy McMaster into coming on board. Goodness knows we’ve long needed a proper accountant, but Cindy’s a stickler for accounting for every penny. I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s called me over the last week for a full explanation of one line item or another.”
“Does she love libraries and books?” I asked.
“Oh yes. With a passion.”
“Then we’re lucky to have her.”
“That’s true, although sometimes I almost miss Diane and Curtis. They might have hated the library and everything it stood for, but Curtis always insisted on having our meetings at a restaurant and enjoying a nice lunch—”
“With free-flowing wine.”
“With free-flowing wine. All on the library’s budget, of course. Cindy balked at getting in cookies from Josie’s. I believe Mrs. Fitzgerald’s baking today’s treats herself in order to economize.”
I smiled at my boss. The look on Bertie’s f
ace didn’t match her words. The library had been preciously close to having to close recently when unforeseen expenses threatened to exceed our ability to pay for them. The library community had come through and we’d been saved. But money was always on our mind.
“Connor’s been invited to come and say a few words to the new board,” Bertie said. “How’s the house hunting going?”
“Don’t ask,” I said. We went into the main room to greet the board members as they arrived.
Connor held the door for Mrs. Fitzgerald, and the rest of the board trailed in behind her. I was introduced to the new members, including Cindy McMaster. I recognized Cindy as a regular patron, but it was nice to formally meet her. She was in her early sixties and couldn’t have looked less like an accountant in a calf-length, multicolored, multilayered dress, rows of earrings in her left ear, clanging bangles covering her wrists, and spiked gray hair dyed purple at the tips.
Then again, I’m often told I don’t look like a librarian—whatever a librarian looks like.
I took Mrs. Fitzgerald’s cookie tin from Connor, and he gave me his private smile.
“If you’ll follow me.” Bertie had begun to lead the way when the door flew open and Gordon Frankland stomped in. He checked out the group and said, “Good. You haven’t started yet.”
“Mr. Frankland,” Connor said. “Are you a member of the library board?”
“No, but I have a few things to say to them.”
“This is a preliminary budget meeting, so it’s closed to the general public. When the budget’s ready for approval and discussion, the public will be invited to participate.”
“You mean, when you’ve decided what you want to do, the so-called public will be allowed to parrot their approval.”
“That’s not the way it works.”
“Of course it is. It’s always the way it works. This library’s a drain on the resources of the community. You need to be charging for access to the lighthouse and the marsh as well as your programs.”
“We’re a library,” I said, shocked to my very core. “We exist to serve the citizenry, not to make a profit off them.”
“My point exactly. It’s time you expanded your mandate. I’ve brought a proposal for—”
Bertie glanced between Connor and Gordon. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Perhaps not, but I know who you are. Albertina James, library director. You own a business in town. I hope you don’t take time away from what I’m paying you, as a taxpayer, to do while you run your yoga studio.”
“I—” Bertie said.
“Mr. Frankland,” Connor interrupted. “You’ve never before showed the slightest interest in the business of this library. I have to assume you’re here today in an attempt to up the stakes on the suit you recently filed against the town. If you have issues with me and with the town council, please don’t bring them here. Let these people go about their business.”
Charles had been watching the exchange from the top of a shelf. His ears were pressed flat against his head, his eyes narrow, his tail moving slowly back and forth. When Gordon Frankland took a step toward Bertie and the board members, Charles, staunch defender of the library, made his move. He sailed through the air, a ball of furious white-and-tan fur and flashing claws, and landed directly in front of Gordon.
Frankland screeched, threw his hands in the air, checked his stride, lost his balance, and pitched forward.
He would have crashed into a shelf had Connor not grabbed his arm in the nick of time.
Rather than graciously extending his thanks to Connor, Frankland yanked his arm free and yelled at Bertie and the gathered board. “That cat’s a menace!”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “He’s usually very well behaved.”
Frankland turned on me. “Doesn’t look like it, does it? I could have been badly injured. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” I said. “Nothing was injured but your pride. You should be thanking His Honor for helping you, not threatening us.”
He stared at me. The spark in his eyes told me he was enjoying this. “I know you. You’re Amos O’Malley’s niece.”
“I am.” I should have known better, really I should. But this man’s casual maliciousness pushed me over the edge of common sense. “I am also Millar Richardson’s daughter, and I know you’re acquainted with his firm. You were at Jake’s on Monday night.”
“So I was. What of it?”
“Lucy, I don’t think—” Connor began.
“Monday night. The night my father’s law partner Richard Lewiston Junior was murdered moments after you insulted the same Mr. Lewiston in front of his son and his wife and his law partner. You left the restaurant shortly, very shortly, before Mr. Lewiston was attacked. Did you kill him?’
Bertie sucked in a breath. The assembled board members watched, wide-eyed. Connor took a step toward me. Charles, who’d leapt onto the returns cart to watch the action, hissed at Gordon and displayed his always-impressive teeth.
“I hope you’ve prepared the tea, Bertie,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said. “I’ve developed a powerful thirst.”
No one took the hint.
“Are you accusing me of being a murderer?” Frankland said to me.
“No, she isn’t,” Connor said. “This isn’t the time or the place, Gordon.”
I stood my ground. “I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I simply asked the question uppermost in my mind. Did you kill Rich Lewiston, Mr. Frankland?”
The edges of Gordon’s mouth turned up, and too late I realized that I’d gone too far. I’d given him exactly what he wanted.
He smirked. “Sounds like an accusation to me. A baseless, unfounded accusation designed to slander my reputation in front of all these people.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said. “Did you hear anything, Bertie?”
“Not me,” Bertie said.
“I didn’t know you had a reputation that could be slandered, Gordon,” Cindy said.
He heard the jab, but he didn’t turn away from me. “I’ll see you in court, young lady. Better get yourself a lawyer, and you’ll want a good one. Not Richardson Lewiston. They have enough troubles these days.”
Then, with his back to everyone else in the room, he winked at me, before turning and marching purposefully out of the library.
That is, he would have marched purposefully had Charles not jumped off the cart, charged across the room, and planted himself between Frankland’s feet. Gordon swore and danced and stumbled into the door. He raised his right foot, aiming it at Charles. I yelled, “Don’t you dare!”
He lowered his foot, wrenched open the door, and disappeared. The door slammed behind him.
I scooped Charles up. “That,” I said, “didn’t help.”
Charles’s eyes sparkled. Trying to trip Gordon Frankland a second time hadn’t helped the situation any, but it made Charles feel better.
“I declare,” one of the new board members said, “is this library always this exciting?”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said. “Shall we begin our meeting?”
“Do I need a lawyer?” I asked Connor.
“No. You didn’t accuse him of murder, and you didn’t even imply he’d done it. You simply asked.”
“We all heard what you said,” Bertie said. “The man’s a pest.” She looked at the cat, now washing his whiskers. “I hope Charles hasn’t gone too far this time.”
“Nothing will come of that threat either,” Connor said. “Any suit would be frivolous, and although that wouldn’t stop Frankland from pursuing it, his reputation is getting out of hand. He’ll have trouble finding a lawyer to take it on.”
“We can only hope,” I said.
Bertie led the way to the meeting room, and Connor followed, after giving me an encouraging smile.
Fortunately, Gordon Frankland couldn’t sue me for what I’d been thinking. Because I had b
een thinking he was an excellent suspect for the murder of Rich. He’d been in the area at the time, he’d had poisonous relations with the dead man, and only minutes before he’d had a confrontation with Rich’s son. Had Gordon left the restaurant and run into Rich Lewiston coming in?
Had they exchanged words? Had one thing led to another and things gotten out of hand?
Had it been an accidental encounter, or had Gordon sent the note telling Rich to meet him? I needed to ask Watson what he knew about Frankland’s movements after leaving Jake’s. The detective had earlier told me that information was confidential, but now I had a good reason to insist—I had to defend myself against a threatened lawsuit.
It wasn’t long before Connor left the board meeting. He greeted some of the patrons he knew and then came to the desk. We exchanged our private smiles.
“Plans tonight?” he asked.
“I’m meeting Josie, Grace, and Steph after work. Sorry, girls’ night. You’re not invited.”
“I suppose I can live with that. If I must. Is your mom still in town?”
“Yes. She’s staying until Evangeline can take Rich home.” I lowered my voice. “Connor, would you say Gordon Frankland is mentally unstable?”
“I’m a dentist, not a psychiatrist, but I wouldn’t say unstable, no. He gets a kick out of making trouble, and he’s spoiled enough to have the money to indulge himself. Are you seriously thinking he might have killed Rich?”
“The thought has crossed my mind. Mrs. Johannsen, let me take those from you.”
The patron dumped an enormous stack of cozy mysteries on the desk.
“You’ve got a lot of reading ahead of you,” Connor said.
“I do wish Ellen Byron and Essie Lang would write faster,” Mrs. Johannsen said. “I’m reduced to reading my favorites a second time while waiting for new books.”
I checked her books out, dropped them into her canvas book bag, and she left. Another happy patron.
“It’s nice,” I said to Connor, “having a job where you help people and make them smile.”
