The Spook in the Stacks

by Eva Gates

  I stood at the window for a long time, searching, but the only thing I saw was the glow of headlight beams as Bertie’s car turned into the parking lot, and I realized I would be late for work if I stood here much longer.

  I fed Charles, who’d had no reaction to what I’d seen (thought I’d seen?), and put on a pot of coffee to brew while I showered and dressed. When I next went to the window, the air was clearing as the rising sun burned the mist away. I could see no horses, fog draped or otherwise. I shook my head.

  The book I’d been reading lay on my night table. Bracebridge Hall, which I hadn’t finished in time for book club last week. Bracebridge Hall is not a novel as we know it, with a linear plot leading to a climax and conclusion. Instead, it’s a series of character sketches about a group of people gathered at an English country house, visiting and telling stories. Many of the stories they tell are traditional, to do with tales of the supernatural. Noises in the marsh. The Wild Huntsman. A ghostly horse. A storm ship.

  Must have been a combination of the book, the remnants of a dream, my mind clouded by the fog, and the approach of Halloween.

  I poured my coffee into a travel mug and shoved a granola bar into my pocket, and Charles and I went downstairs to work.

  Bertie stood at the window, looking out. She turned at the sound of footsteps on the iron stairs and gave me a smile. “Good morning.”

  “Morning. What are you looking at out there?”

  “We have company. And not of the good sort, I fear.”

  “What sort of company?” Charles leapt onto the windowsill, and I peered over Bertie’s shoulder. At first, I thought she meant the horse’s rider was about to knock on the library doors, but that wasn’t it at all. Four cars and one satellite van bearing the logo of a TV station had arrived, and people—some of whom carried large cameras—were poking around the grounds. Of the fog, only a light cover remained, rolling rapidly away over the wet ground of the marsh.

  “Other than those people, whoever they are, you didn’t see anything … unusual when you arrived, did you?” I asked my boss.

  “Unusual? In what way?”

  I was reluctant to tell her what I’d seen. Or thought I’d seen. “Anything out of the norm.”

  “I couldn’t see much at all, normal or not. The fog was particularly thick. I have to say, for a moment it put me in mind of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson dashing across the cobblestones of London. It’s breaking up now, and the forecast is for a nice day.” She changed the subject as we watched some of the new arrivals snapping pictures of the lighthouse and the grounds, while the others poked around, presumably searching for signs of murder and mayhem. “Did you watch the press conference last night?”

  “I don’t have a TV,” I said, “but the local station put some of it on Twitter, and I followed that. It was picked up by the cable news networks.”

  “A considerable number of outside journalists came to hear what the police had to say. Interest seems to be growing. Jay’s death is becoming more than a local story. I wouldn’t have thought Jay Ruddle was worth that much attention, but he was rich, and these days rich equals celebrity I suppose. I came in early, in an attempt to avoid anyone hoping for a statement from me. Good thing I did, as the pack is assembling. I don’t have to tell you, Lucy, that no comment is the only statement any of us will make.”

  “Goes without saying. How did the press conference go?”

  “Fine, I thought. Sam Watson and the chief handled themselves well, as they usually do. Sam said nothing of consequence, without appearing to be holding anything back. Connor came on at the end to remind people that Nags Head is a safe place for residents and visitors alike.”

  “Was anything said about the election?”

  “No. Doug Whiteside tried to get a word in edgewise when the formal press conference ended, but the outside reporters weren’t interested in anything he had to say.”

  “I bet he had a few things to say privately.”

  “No doubt,” Bertie said.

  “At least Doug and Bill Hill, his campaign manager, are in the clear this time. I didn’t see them here on Saturday, and if they had been, Doug doesn’t exactly make himself unobtrusive.”

  “That he doesn’t. Here’s Ronald. He’s about to be ambushed.”

  We watched as our children’s librarian pulled up and parked his car. He got out, looking highly surprised as a cluster of eager reporters gathered around him. Cameras were produced, pictures snapped, and questions shouted. I could only hope the accompanying newspaper copy would explain that the photos had been taken during Halloween week. Ronald had worn his pirate costume. He hefted his stuffed parrot in one hand, his leather briefcase in the other, and made his way through the crowd to the lighthouse.

  I opened the door for him, in he dashed, and I slammed it against the babble of shouted voices.

  “What on earth was that all about?” he said.

  “We are,” Bertie said drily, “in the news.”

  “Are we going to open as usual?” I asked. It was five minutes to nine.

  “Yes,” she said. “A stern ‘no comment’ will be given to every question. Photographs will be permitted—I don’t see how we can stop it—but fortunately there’s nothing to take pictures of. Ronald, put the ropes with the private sign across both sets of stairs.”

  “The police have taken away one of them,” I reminded her. No need to also remind her it had been used as a murder weapon.

  “I can find something to replace it,” Ronald said.

  “Access to the upper levels will be restricted today,” Bertie said. “We can’t keep an eye on the ladies and gentlemen of the press if they’re wandering all over the place willy-nilly. What time do the children’s programs begin?”

  “The preschool story time is at eleven,” Ronald said. “Then nothing until after school, when we have the first-grade Halloween party.”

  “Hopefully, we can get rid of the press before then. If any children are on the premises, we will absolutely forbid photographs. Except by parents and others we know personally. Your instructions for today are to be totally boring.”

  “At the Lighthouse Library?” I said with a weak laugh. “That won’t be easy.”

  “The press have short attention spans. If nothing happens, and I certainly hope nothing does, they’ll be gone before long.”

  “What about Halloween itself?” I said. “Are we going ahead with the plans? Louise Jane is giving a talk at the party for the younger teens at five, and then another for adults who don’t have a party to go to or children to take trick-or-treating.”

  “Wild horses wouldn’t keep Louise Jane away.” Bertie rubbed at her eyes. “Certainly not a little murder.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Ronald said, “if she alerts the press herself.”

  “I considered canceling all our Halloween events,” Bertie said. “It does seem tasteless in light of what happened here on Saturday. But then I decided it’s best to carry on as normal. Our patrons expect the unexpected at the Lighthouse Library.”

  I eyed Ronald the Pirate. “That’s certainly true.”

  “And we never want to disappoint the children. I’ll stay out here with Lucy this morning as long as the press are here. Ronald, you are free to escape to the children’s library.”

  “Happy to.” He fastened his parrot to a clip on his shoulder; growled, “Argh, matey!”; and made a dash for the stairs. He disappeared after putting the rope in place.

  The hands of the big clock over the circulation desk reached nine, and I unlocked the door. I was almost knocked off my feet as the press flooded in. Bertie stood by the entrance, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and a no-nonsense scowl on her face. I was pelted with questions—Had I met Mr. Ruddle? Had I seen anyone acting suspicious? Where exactly had he died?—to which I merely shook my head and tried to look like the village idiot. Pictures were taken, but as the police had never said exactly where the man was found, or even how he had died, no
one made a beeline for the rare books room.

  Not being at all wary of journalists or bad press, Charles jumped onto the returns shelf, where he sat preening and posing for pictures. “Oooh,” a woman cooed, “what an adorable cat.” She scratched his favorite spot behind his ears, and he purred happily. The traitor.

  When one enterprising woman—all short, tight skirt, heavy makeup, and long, flowing blond locks—tried to bypass the private sign on the stairs, Bertie cleared her throat and thrust out her arm. The woman retreated rapidly and said, “We’re done here, Jerry,” to a man with an enormous camera on his shoulder. They left, and the rest of the pack soon followed. Only Charles was disappointed to see them leave.

  By nine thirty, the library was once again just a library.

  “If they come back,” Bertie said, “let me know.” She headed toward her office. Charles jumped off the shelf and went upstairs to see what Ronald was doing.

  I peered outside. Most of the reporters’ cars were driving away, although the blond woman was standing at the edge of the marsh, talking into a microphone while Jerry filmed her. No doubt they were collecting background color. And it was colorful. All traces of the morning’s fog had gone, and the big yellow sun was rising in a soft blue sky. As I watched, a flock of Canada geese flew overhead in the classic V formation, calling loudly to stragglers to keep up.

  Of gray horses, there remained not a trace.

  Of course not, I told myself. I’d been dreaming while awake.

  * * *

  I’d lain in bed last night for a long time, wide-awake, my mind churning. I’d gone over—and over and over—every detail of the moments surrounding Jay Ruddle’s death, thinking about Connor and wondering why I was being such a coward in the face of romance; and, it would seem, rehashing stories of headless horsemen and ghostly horses. In the midst of all that, I finally decided I could do nothing more about investigating Jay’s death. Sam Watson wouldn’t thank me for my help, and it had been highly presumptuous of Teddy to tell his new friends I was some sort of hotshot private detective. I wanted to believe in Julia’s innocence—for Theodore and because I liked her—but I had to admit to myself that some people could be deceiving. “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” If something in his Outer Banks background had caused Jay’s death, my friends would find it and hand that information over to the police.

  With that thought, I finally drifted off to sleep with the contented Charles at my side.

  Shortly after noon, all my good intentions fled when Norman Hoskins and Elizabeth McArthur from Blacklock College walked through the door. Parents and caregivers were collecting children after story time, and the library was packed with pirates and princesses, ghosts and gracious ladies, Star Wars characters and Ninja warriors, and a good number of other costumed characters I didn’t recognize.

  Bertie had come out of her office to exclaim, in either delight or fear (as appropriate), over the children’s costumes. The children had run upstairs, laughing and chattering, and the parents settled down to find books for themselves or have a good gossip while waiting. Charles hadn’t reappeared, and I knew he’d stay upstairs for a while. Charles enjoyed preschool story time as much as any of the children.

  I was pleased the events of Saturday hadn’t ruined everyone’s mood for the holiday. It’s mighty difficult to put a preschooler off Halloween.

  Elizabeth cringed as a child dressed as a scientist in large glasses, frizzy wig, and white lab coat darted past her, and Norman forced his face into a smile. “Good afternoon. Is Ms. James in?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “We’d like a few minutes of her time,” Norman said.

  Ronald had come down to say goodbye to the kids. He wiggled his eyebrows at me, and the parrot on his shoulder bounced. Charles leapt onto the returns shelf beside the desk and eyed our visitors.

  “I’ll see if she’s free,” I said.

  Charles arched his back and hissed.

  “A … cat,” Elizabeth said.

  “Most unsanitary,” Norman added. “You don’t let that creature anywhere near the historical documents, I trust.”

  I didn’t reply. Charles hissed again.

  Bertie came out of her office and nodded politely to the visitors. “Can I help you?” The three of them stood stiffly, arms at their sides and backs straight. Three fake smiles were locked firmly in place.

  “Perhaps we can help each other.” Norman looked around. The library was full of patrons, parents selecting books, and kids laughing and playing. “Can we talk in private?”

  “Certainly,” Bertie said. “Ronald, will you take the desk, please? Lucy, you can join us.”

  I didn’t ask why she wanted me there. As a witness, no doubt. Bertie politely stepped back to allow them to precede her down the hall. I mouthed, “Coffee?” and she shook her head. Uninvited, Charles followed us.

  Elizabeth and Norman took the visitors’ chairs in the library director’s office. I stood next to the wall. Charles took a seat on a high shelf, from where he could glare malevolently down upon our visitors. He was normally a very friendly animal. But sometimes he almost seemed to have an instinct for people.

  Bertie sat at the chair behind her desk and said, “How can I help you?”

  “Let’s get straight to the point, Ms. James,” Elizabeth said. “We want the Ruddle collection.”

  Bertie’s right eyebrow rose. “That is straight to the point. I don’t see why you’re telling me. I don’t have it. You don’t have it. You are aware Mr. Ruddle passed away on Saturday?”

  “We are. He died right here. In your library.”

  “Very careless of you,” Norman said.

  Bertie fought down an angry retort. “Which is why I have to ask what brings you here.”

  “Mr. Ruddle had narrowed his options down to us at Blacklock College and to you at this … library. In light of his death, we’re assuming his only heir, who we understand to be his granddaughter, will continue with his plans.”

  “She might. She might have ideas of her own.” Bertie threw me a glance. I shook my head. I hadn’t told her that it was possible, likely even, that Julia would want to keep the collection.

  “Why don’t we wait until we hear from Ms. Ruddle,” Bertie said.

  “Wills can take a long time to sort out,” Norman said, “although as Mr. Ruddle has only one blood relative, we assume that will not be the case here. And then we’ll have another round of inspections and negotiations over the collection. All of which is simply delaying the inevitable. We would like you to withdraw yourself from the running.”

  High above our heads, Charles’s tail swished back and forth. Back and forth.

  “Why on earth would I do that?” Bertie said. “But first, let me say this conversation is in extremely poor taste. The man died two days ago. His granddaughter is grieving.”

  Norman straightened his tie. “His granddaughter is about to be charged with the murder.”

  Bertie gasped. Her eyes flew to me. I gave my head another shake.

  “And as your library is implicated—”

  “Preposterous.”

  “—we’re prepared to offer you a tidy sum to thank you for your trouble,” Elizabeth said.

  “If Julia Ruddle is charged,” I said, “then won’t any will leaving his estate to her be null and void?”

  “Not necessarily,” Elizabeth said. “As she is his only living relative, the bulk of his estate will go to her even in the absence of a will or concerns over the cause of his death. We believe Ms. Ruddle will be happy to have the collection taken off her hands. It was her grandfather’s last wish, after all.”

  “I still don’t see why you’re talking to me about this,” Bertie said, “and not to Ms. Ruddle.”

  “We’re asking you to take your … library out of the running, Ms. James. We’ll pay you for your inconvenience, and the path for Ms. Ruddle will be clear.”

  “You’re making a lot of assumptions,” Bertie said.<
br />
  Norman straightened his tie. “Always best to be ahead of the game. We all know Blacklock College is the natural home for the Ruddle collection. Our North Carolina History Department is without equal, and we don’t”—he glanced toward the shelf—“allow felines anywhere near valuable artifacts. Will a thousand dollars do it?”

  Bertie laughed.

  “We’re authorized to go to two thousand,” Elizabeth said. “And not a penny more. All we ask is a simple phone call from you to Ms. Ruddle, telling her you’ve decided you can’t assume the responsibly of the collection.”

  Bertie got to her feet. “This conversation is over.”

  I opened the door for our visitors.

  “Can we trust that you’ll think about it?” Norman said.

  “You can trust that I think that’s about the rudest offer I’ve ever had,” Bertie said. “Good day.”

  They stood up. Charles braced himself to leap off the shelf. I braced myself to intercept flying claws. Norman headed for the door, but Elizabeth leaned over Bertie’s desk. “The man died here, in your little public library. And today you have people in costume running through the place. I saw a woman give a child a candy, of all things! He grabbed it with his sticky fingers. Never mind a cat wandering at will. The Lighthouse Library is no home for something as valuable as the Ruddle collection. I made you a generous offer, Ms. James. I withdraw it, but I can assure you that I’ll see your entire rare books collection removed, if I have to. Imagine, a library in a lighthouse! You have no idea how to care for historic and priceless documents. A man died in here, for goodness sake.”

  “And that wasn’t the first time either,” Norman said.

  “Get out.” Rage flashed behind Bertie’s eyes. She was a part-time yoga instructor, into careful breathing, relaxation, and thoughtful contemplation. The picture behind her desk was intended to spread an aura of peace and goodwill throughout the room. Today, it failed to have the desired effect.