by Eva Gates
“A few are talking to Louise Jane.”
We walked slowly down the hallway together and through the library. From the broom closet, Charles howled to be released.
The Rebecca MacPherson was back in its place, and a handful of people clustered around admiring it and asking Louise Jane where she’d found it.
“I have a campaign stop I can’t get out of,” Connor said. “Tea at a seniors’ residence.”
I smiled at him. “And as we all know, seniors are reliable voters.”
“Exactly. I’ll call you when I’m done.” He laid his lips on my forehead. And then he left, leaving a lovely warm spot in the center of my head. He opened the door to find Detective Sam Watson and a uniformed officer about to come in.
“Going somewhere, Mr. Mayor?” Watson’s picture could be used to illustrate the word cop in a dictionary, with his square jaw, crew cut, and piercing gray eyes.
“I have an appointment, Sam,” Connor said. “I don’t know anything about what went on here, but I can pop into the station later and make a statement if you need me to.”
“The caller tells me this looks like a suspicious death.”
“Butch Greenblatt’s upstairs. He seems to think so.”
Watson looked past Connor into the library. His eyebrows rose when he saw me watching, and he let out a sigh. “CeeCee told me she was coming to some function here. How many people do you think you had, Lucy?”
“Seventy-five, maybe a hundred? Far more than we were originally expecting.”
He groaned. “You can leave, Connor. We’ll talk later.”
Connor left, and Watson looked around the room. Interested faces stared openly back. “All you folks give your names to Officer Franklin here and be on your way. I’ll contact you later for a statement.” The policewoman moved into the room, pulling a notebook out of her pants pocket. A circle quickly gathered around her, eager to help. Anyone who didn’t care for police attention would have slipped away long ago.
“Lucy, who else is in the building?” Detective Watson asked.
“Ronald’s in the children’s library. Bertie and Charlene are in the staff room with Julia and Greg.”
“Who are they?”
I explained. “Oh, and Theodore Kowalski.”
“All the usual suspects,” Watson muttered.
The door opened once again, and people carrying heavy equipment bags came in. “Be right with you,” Watson said. “I’m going to have a quick look at the scene, and then I want to find out what’s been going on here. I’ll talk to you first, Lucy. Don’t leave.”
“I don’t intend to.”
The paramedics came down the stairs. They did not have Jay with them. I couldn’t help glancing at the ceiling as they left.
One by one the last of the patrons filed out. The policewoman put her notebook away and then went to join Detective Watson.
Ronald came down the stairs and dropped into a chair. He’d taken his sea captain’s hat off. His jaunty costume didn’t suit the mood that had fallen over the library. The Halloween decorations were no longer fun—simply cheap and tacky, and seriously out of place. “Any idea what happened, Lucy?”
“No. But I’m sure it has nothing whatsoever to do with us.”
“Except for him dying in the library.”
“Except for that. This time I am absolutely not going to get involved.”
Watson beckoned to me from the hallway, and I went to join him. “We’ll use Bertie’s office,” he said.
“Can I get Charles? He’s sounding very distressed. I promise, I’ll keep him with me.”
Watson gave me a look as though I’d asked if our cat could play with all the nice forensics equipment his people had brought. “No.”
“Okay,” I mumbled.
The feline in question howled as we passed the door to the broom closet. I tried to close my ears. The sound of a woman crying and low voices came from the staff break room.
Once in the library director’s office, I sat in the visitor’s chair, and Watson took Bertie’s seat. I focused my eyes on the poster behind the desk. A woman doing a downward dog on the beach as the rising sun outlined her in shades of orange. I took deep, calming breaths. In and out. In and out. I lifted my hands to my chest and lowered them again. Up and down. Up and down.
“Are you okay, Lucy?” Watson said.
“Just trying to center myself.”
“You look centered to me,” he said dryly. “Okay. CeeCee told me about this shindig here today. Louise Jane doing something for Halloween.”
“That’s right. Mr. Ruddle brought his granddaughter, Julia, but he wasn’t interested in Louise Jane’s lecture, and he asked if he could look through our map collection.”
“Jay Ruddle. I’ve heard of him. I don’t mean in my professional capacity—just as a man lots of people know. I wasn’t aware he’d come back to the Outer Banks. Was he a regular patron here?”
“I’d never met him until the other day. He still lives in New York City.” I explained about the collection and Jay’s search for a new home for it.
“You say you found him. Take as much time as you need, and tell me about that.”
I swallowed and began. I told Watson about showing Jay to the rare books room and leaving him there. And how, when the program was finished and Julia ready to leave, as I was coming into the library anyway, I offered to tell her grandfather it was time.
“Were you alone when you found him?”
“Yes, and I ran downstairs to get Bertie and Connor and call 911.”
“Did anyone other than emergency personal go into the room after you?”
“Julia and Greg. And Theodore.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Greg works for Jay as the curator of his collection, and Julia is Jay’s granddaughter. I’d never met either of them, or Jay either, until they came into the library on Thursday to talk to Bertie about possibly giving the collection to us.”
“What does this collection consist of?”
“Historical documents, including maps and ships logs, from the earliest days of exploration along this coast.”
“How much is it worth?”
“I can’t say. I haven’t been involved in the discussions. Bertie and Charlene are handling it. Considering that he has an employee whose job is to manage it, probably a lot.”
“What’s Teddy’s interest? I thought he collected mid-twentieth-century detective and spy fiction.”
“Serious collectors will collect anything that might prove of value later down the road. But in this case, I suspect he’s more interested in the fair Julia than in old maps.”
“‘The fair Julia’? Why do you call her that?”
“Just a line from a book.”
Watson’s penetrating gray eyes studied me. I shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair.
Surely he wasn’t considering that I had a reason to want Jay Ruddle dead?
“So this man was alone in the library. For how long, until you found him?”
“Probably an hour and a half.”
“Alone in a locked lighthouse,” he murmured.
“Uh. No. Not exactly.”
“Not exactly? I hope you’re not referring to that cat if you mean someone else was in here. Who?”
“He was alone, but the lighthouse wasn’t locked. The library wasn’t even closed. The main event was happening outside, but we were open as normal. Some of our patrons weren’t interested in Louise Jane’s talk. Charlene was on the circulation desk while the rest of us were outside, but…”
“But?”
“When the refreshments were served, she came outside.”
“Leaving the library unattended?”
“Uh … yes. Ronald was supposed to keep an eye out, but he got distracted by some wayward children.”
“So seventy-five to a hundred people could walk in and wander upstairs unnoticed?”
“Even before that, I’m afraid. When we’re on the desk, we’re not
exactly chained to it. We can go to the restroom, get a glass of water, help a patron find a book, shelve stray books—even work on the computer. We don’t always know who’s in the building at any given time.”
“Your security is a thing of wonder.”
“We’re a public library. Not a bank or a jewelry store. The rare books room is always locked when it’s not in use.” And my apartment, of course. But Watson knew that from past … inquiries.
“Tell me about this Greg and the fair Julia. Where were they at the time in question?”
I thought. I thought hard. I couldn’t place anyone with any degree of certainty. The lawn was packed, people coming and going all the time. Even when Louise Jane was speaking, the people standing shifted position, chased children, or greeted their friends. Things were even more confusing when the refreshments came out and the vendors and entertainers went back to business. “Theodore Kowalski seems somewhat enamored of Julia. He stuck to her like white on rice, as they say.” I stopped talking.
“You’ve thought of something.”
Theodore had fetched lemonade for himself and Julia. When he’d taken the drinks to her, he couldn’t find her. I remembered his blank expression as he searched the crowds, plastic glasses in hand. “I’m sorry, but I can’t say for sure if they were together all the time. Easy to get separated.”
About the only person I could be positive hadn’t killed Jay Ruddle was Louise Jane. She’d talked to me from when she’d first arrived until she went to the podium, where she’d been in plain view of a hundred people. After her lecture, friends gathered around to compliment her and ask questions. She was still with people when I came downstairs after finding Jay.
“Most of the folks who’d been at this talk had left by the time I arrived,” Watson said. “It’s going to be a nightmare gathering all the names. Give Officer Franklin a list of everyone you can remember.”
“I will.”
“I’d like to talk to the fair Julia next. She’s in the break room?”
“You can’t keep calling her that,” I said.
“I suppose you’re right.”
I led the way down the hall and opened the door. Theodore, Julia, and Greg were seated at the table. Charlene had stayed to keep them company. Theodore and Greg sat straighter, and Julia looked at me through red eyes. She blew her nose into a tattered tissue. I didn’t introduce anyone, knowing Watson liked to do things his way.
“Good afternoon. I’m Detective Watson. Can you tell me who you are please?”
“This is Julia Ruddle,” Greg said, “Mr. Jay Ruddle’s granddaughter. I’m Greg Summers, Mr. Ruddle’s curator.”
“I am Theodore Kowalski, rare book collector and close friend of Julia.”
“I know that, Teddy, thanks,” Watson said.
“Just stating it for the record.”
“What’s a curator do?” Watson asked.
“I manage Mr. Ruddle’s collection of rare and valuable artifacts and documents. All that is surely irrelevant at the moment. You seem to be under the impression foul play was involved here. Have you caught the person responsible?”
“Give me time,” Watson said. “Ms. Ruddle, I’d like to speak to you in private, please.”
Greg’s chair clattered as he pushed it back. “I’ll accompany Julia.”
Theodore leapt to his feet.
“I said, ‘in private,’” Watson said. “You’ll get your turn. Wait here. Both of you.”
I followed the detective and Julia out and closed the door behind me. “Won’t be too much longer,” I shouted to the broom closet as I cowardly ran past. I averted my eyes from the people coming and going on the back staircase, ran though the library, and burst out the front door into the welcome fresh air and sunshine.
An officer was guarding the door, logging everyone who came in or out into his notebook.
Chapter Seven
Watson remained ensconced in Bertie’s office with Julia for a long time. Next he spoke to Greg and then gave them permission to leave. I gave her a hug and told her to call me if she needed anything. Teddy was still hanging around and offered to drive Julia back to her hotel.
“Thanks, buddy,” Greg said, laying a protective hand on Julia’s arm, “but we came in a car.”
“Perhaps we’ll run into each other again, Theodore,” Julia said.
His face lit up. “I certainly hope so.”
They left. Theodore stood on the front steps, watching her walk down the path.
“Time you were going too,” I said.
“Do you like Julia?” he asked me.
“Yes, I do. She seems very nice.”
“I think so too. It’s a shame about her grandfather. She was obviously extremely fond of him. I hope this doesn’t mean she’ll be going home to New York anytime soon.” He walked away.
Watson decided that as the murder had happened in the room off the back staircase, he wouldn’t need to secure the entire building. Instead, yellow police tape was strung across the stairs, and we were told to keep out until further notice.
The library, however, was closed for the rest of the day. The last of the lingering patrons were told to leave. Eventually, only the library employees and Louise Jane remained.
Watson gave her a look and opened his mouth to tell her to leave, but she spoke first. “Halloween is fast approaching, Detective. The night before All Saints Day. It’s a well-known fact that the spirits are on the move this week.”
“Not in my jurisdiction they aren’t,” Watson said.
“Why don’t I give the room a quick going-over for you?”
“My people can do that,” he said.
“Not in the way I mean. If I don’t sense something, my grandmother would be willing to come down. She’s powerfully attuned to the spirit world.”
“If you go up there, Louise Jane,” he said, “with or without your grandmother, you’ll be investigating the spirits in cell block C. And I can tell you, they come from the corner liquor store, not from beyond the grave.”
She huffed. “I’m only trying to help.”
“Duly noted,” he said. “Make sure Officer Franklin has your contact information. And then get out of here.”
After giving their statements, Ronald, Charlene, and Bertie were told they could go home. As the library director, Bertie insisted on staying.
A van arrived from the coroner’s office, and Jay was taken away. Bertie and I stood close together, watching silently.
Bertie gave me a hug. “Are you going to be okay here tonight by yourself, honey?”
Two forensic officers lumbered past with their equipment.
“I will. There’s nowhere I feel safer,” I said. And that was the truth.
“Don’t let Louise Jane’s stories get to you.”
“They don’t,” I said. “I’ve never felt anything the slightest bit supernatural here.” An image of the shadowy horse I’d seen on the marsh flashed through my mind. I pushed it aside. “Louise Jane would say that’s because I don’t have much of an imagination. I’d say it’s because I’m a practical Yankee from a long line of practical Yankees on my father’s side.”
“As was Ichabod Crane,” she said with a smile.
“True enough. But poor Ichabod was a fool for love.”
“As we should all be at least once in our lives,” she said, and I caught a trace of sadness in her voice. “Good night, dear.”
“Good night, Bertie.”
At last I was able to free Charles, and I carried the furious, squirming ball of tan and white fur up the one hundred steps to my Lighthouse Aerie.
I fed the cat and then got into a warm pair of flannel pajamas. By the time I’d brushed my teeth and washed my face, Charles was curled into a contented ball in the center of the bed. I hadn’t had dinner (nor lunch, come to think of it), and it wasn’t even fully dark out, but I needed to be snuggled up, warm and comfy. I checked the voicemail on my landline phone, hoping for a message from Connor, but found nothing. Th
inking that he might have called my cell, forgetting about the spotty reception, I climbed onto the window seat, opened the window, stuck my arm out, and squinted at the little screen. One bar appeared. No messages.
I clambered back down.
I didn’t know if I was disappointed or not.
I didn’t know what I thought these days.
Connor had been loving and warm and affectionate toward me this afternoon. It had been nice—more than nice—but I was bothered by a sense of unease.
I cared for Connor, a lot. I liked him very much—I might even love him. But was I ready to settle down? To choose him to be the one?
I wasn’t sure. For almost as long as I could remember, I’d been paired with Richard Eric Lewiston III, the son of my father’s law partner. For years, it had been expected that we’d be married one day, and I simply went with the flow. It was only when Ricky finally made the long-awaited formal proposal that I realized I would be falling into a trap if I married him. Not only that, but I didn’t love him. He’d become nothing but a habit, someone I was used to having around, the habit nurtured and tended by my mother and Ricky’s mother.
And so I’d fled Boston and my job at the Harvard Library, and come to my favorite place on earth, the Outer Banks.
All that had happened a few short months ago.
I suspect Ricky was relieved. He hadn’t exactly hurried down to the Outer Banks to persuade me to come home.
I hadn’t heard from him at all. Mom tells me he’s “giving me space.”
Had I fled the habit of Ricky only to fall into the habit of Connor? My feelings for Connor were much different from those I’d had for Ricky, to be sure. But was it enough? Maybe I needed some time to be on my own to sort out what I wanted in life.
If I ask for too much time, will I lose him?
I rubbed my eyes. I’d think about that tomorrow.
I snuggled deep into the covers. Charles crawled onto my chest and purred gently as he drifted off to sleep.
I was awoken by the sun streaming through my east-facing window. I’d slept more than twelve hours and felt much better for it.
