by Eva Gates
“But she doesn’t have my number.”
I rolled my eyes. Charles yawned. Poor Theodore. Like Ichabod Crane, a fool for love. And equally hapless. “I’ll handle that,” I said. “But only if you promise me you’ll go home and stop hovering over her.”
“I knew I could count on you, Lucy. You’re very wise in these matters. I promise. I have some detecting to do, don’t I?”
“That you do,” I said.
We hung up and I, reluctantly, called the Ocean Side Hotel. I was hoping to get the voicemail for Julia’s room, but she answered.
“Hi, it’s Lucy here,” I said. “I’m calling to check that you got back to the hotel okay. You were pretty upset when you left the bakery earlier.”
“I’m fine, Lucy. It’s kind of you to think of me.”
“Why don’t you take my phone number?” I said. “If you need anything you can give me a call.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
I gave it to her and then I said, oh so very casually, “I have to be back at work tomorrow, but if you need anything during business hours, Theodore Kowalski would be happy to help. Why don’t I give you his number too?”
“Okay,” she said. I rattled it off, and we said goodbye.
Oh great. Now I’m not only a detective but also a matchmaker.
I next called my aunt Ellen. My mother and her sister were Outer Banks natives, the daughters of a long line of fisherman and fish plant workers. My mom fled the coast and the small-town life the moment she could, but Aunt Ellen had remained. My best childhood memories are of summer vacations with Aunt Ellen and Uncle Amos and a pack of sun-kissed, sand-encrusted cousins. I said much the same to my aunt as I had to Theodore: think over yesterday afternoon and if anyone in particular might have wanted to see Jay Ruddle dead.
“I won’t say he was a popular man around here, honey,” she said. “Not among some of the old-timers, at any rate. But life goes on, and we all have other things to worry about. Jay wasn’t the first, and is definitely not the last, to deliberately run local families out of business. Not many of them left any more. I heard last week that Leon Badenberg sold his family’s hotel to a big chain, and his old mama is mighty angry. So angry, they say he’s been told he’s not welcome at her house for Thanksgiving dinner. Anything Jay Ruddle might have done is likely long forgotten.”
I thought of Curtis Gardner. “Maybe not entirely. Jay only gave up total control of his business two years ago. If he made enemies when he was starting out, it’s likely he continued that pattern. I’m just asking you to keep your ears and eyes open.”
“I can do that, honey.”
* * *
I would have loved to spend the rest of the day relaxing over my book in the comfortable window seat in my apartment while Charles snoozed on the bed, but I’d made an appointment for the afternoon and I had to keep it.
I changed out of jeans into my more respectable librarian “uniform” of black skirt with pantyhose, blue button-down shirt, and pumps with one-inch heels. As rain was still threatening, I tossed a folding umbrella into my tote bag, told Charles to guard the lighthouse, headed back out, and drove into town toward Connor’s campaign office.
With only a few days remaining until the election, the place was hopping: volunteers staffed phones and folded brochures, and canvassers dashed in and out. As I arrived, Nancy, the volunteer coordinator, put down the phone with a puff of a breath. She saw me and gave me a wave. Her phone rang, and she shrugged at me and answered while pointing toward a pile of brochures stacked on a table by the door.
I scooped them up. They’d been tied into a bundle secured by an elastic band with a sheet of paper tucked underneath, containing a map with a list of street addresses.
The door opened and Josie came in. “Don’t you look the proper politician’s wife,” she said to me with a laugh.
I felt myself blushing. “I didn’t intend to.” I eyed her outfit—denim capris, red T-shirt, black jacket cropped at the waist. “Do you think I overdressed? This is what I wore Tuesday evening when I hit the streets with Connor.”
Nancy put down the phone. “You’re perfectly fine, Lucy. Sunday afternoon’s a mite less formal, but together you two remind folks that Connor has a variety of supporters.”
Josie laughed. “In dress sense, if not exactly demographic. Particularly as Lucy and I are first cousins.”
“Good thing some of us have other groups covered then.” An elderly black man glanced up from the printer. “Are you two first cousins going to chew the fat all day or get out there?”
Josie saluted. “We’re on it, Eugene.”
“Is Connor in?” I asked. The door to the back room was closed.
“He’s having an early lunch at a seniors’ home, a late lunch at another seniors’ residence, afternoon tea at a third, and then attending a pre-dinner wine and cheese reception at a service club,” Nancy said. “Once all this is over, poor man won’t be able to move for a month. He told Dorothy to keep his dinner hour clear.”
I hid a smile. Dinner would be with me.
Josie read my mind, as she usually did, and gave me a wink.
We headed out, brochures in hand.
Josie and I had been assigned an area of nice houses on large treed lots at a point where the peninsula thickens enough that the usual Outer Banks yards of sand dunes, beach grass, and sea oats are replaced by grass and trees: live oaks, hickories, and beech. Many of the homes back onto the network of canals that cut through the thin strip of land between the open ocean and the calm waters of Roanoke Sound. I parked my car beneath a grove of pines, and my cousin and I set about door knocking.
The threatened rain held off, the sun came out to play, and we enjoyed the afternoon. We handed out brochures, chatted about policy and Connor’s vision for the future of Nags Head, and otherwise made polite conversation. Most people, we were pleased to see, assured us that Connor had their vote, and those who were supporting Doug Whiteside were polite about it. We usually found someone at home, it being a Sunday afternoon with rain in the forecast, but if they weren’t, we put a brochure in the mailbox with a handwritten note saying, “Sorry to miss you!”
One woman, after hearing our pitch, asked me when Connor and I were getting married. She’d seen a picture of us together in the paper. “Young people these days,” she told me, “are waiting too long to tie the knot.” She eyed me. “Children are for the young.”
“I totally agree,” Josie said. “Once the election is over and Connor’s comfortably settled back into office, he can give some thought to his personal life. It would be too bad if he had to rebuild his dental practice first. A lot of work’s involved in that.”
The woman took our information, and we left.
“Another vote in the bag,” Josie said.
“You don’t think it was somewhat underhanded to suggest that he needs to win so he can get married?”
“Whatever works,” she said.
We turned onto the sidewalk. Two little girls sped toward us on tricycles, horns beeping and colorful steamers flying from their handlebars. Their mothers walked behind them, takeout coffee cups in hand. “Good luck, Lucy!” one of them called to me as they passed. “Any friend of the library has our vote.”
I gave them a thumbs-up and said, “Thanks.” I turned to my cousin. “Speaking of getting married, any news on that front?”
“On the part of anyone other than my dad’s mother and aunts, no. The season’s slowing down, but we’re still busy at the bakery, and I want to help out with the election whenever I can.”
“Thus you are here today with me, on your day off, rather than having tea with your mother and planning your wedding.”
“Exactly. There’s plenty of time. Jake and I want a small, casual, family wedding. The reception’s going to be canapés at the restaurant, so that’s a whole lot of details settled right there. Mom and I will send out a few invitations in early November, and you and I will go dress shopping one day. What e
lse is there to do?”
“Put like that, it does sound pretty straightforward. What’s happening with your grandmother?”
Josie groaned. “My dad’s from Louisiana.”
“I know that. Can’t mistake that old-fashioned Southern charm.”
“They’re an old plantation family fallen on hard times after the War of Northern Aggression, according to his mother.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, she doesn’t think a small, casual, family affair is at all suitable for her only granddaughter.”
“Good thing she doesn’t live near here then,” I said.
“Good thing. But her tentacles reach far and deep.”
We stopped chatting and put on our friendliest smiles as we turned up the next walkway. No one was at home, so Josie slipped campaign literature under the door. From inside the house, a dog barked at us.
“What do you hear in the café?” I asked Josie as we continued on our way. “About the election, I mean.”
“Not a lot,” she said, “I don’t serve the customers, but my staff know Connor and I are friends, so they keep me posted. It’s not going to be a cakewalk, Lucy. Doug Whiteside has his supporters.”
I snorted.
“For plenty of reasons, but mostly because they think he’ll be better for attracting new business and development.”
Another snort.
I would never forgive the odious Doug for taking advantage of the death of his estranged sister Karen to promote his political agenda and to attack the Lighthouse Library at the same time.
As if we’d had a premonition, the issue of Doug came up at the next house we visited.
The door was opened by a middle-aged man neatly dressed in golf shirt and chinos. The sound of Mozart drifted through the air behind him, and something delicious was roasting in the oven.
“Lucy,” he said. “Good afternoon. Nice to see you.”
Library patron. Two preteen boys. Twins. I struggled for his name. He thrust out his hand. “Brian Covington.”
I shook and introduced Josie.
“From the bakery,” he said. “Best muffins in town.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“My mother’s Glenda Covington.”
“Oh, yes,” Josie said. “She’s good friends with my mom.”
“And a stalwart of the Friends of the Library volunteer committee,” I added.
He read the campaign buttons fastened to our shirts. “Connor’s got the vote in this house—don’t you worry. I left OBX for a few years, couldn’t get back fast enough. Doug Whiteside might have some not-bad ideas about development, but he’ll move too far and too fast. Once changed, things can’t be put back.”
Josie and I nodded enthusiastically.
“Sorry to hear about the death of Jay Ruddle,” Brian went on. “I wasn’t there, but Mom was helping serve refreshments after the lecture. I can’t imagine Doug’ll be too pleased.”
“Why do you say that?” I said. “No one was pleased at the man’s death.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I phrased that badly. Although, according to my mother, some folks will be dancing a jig at the news of his passing. I meant Doug was counting on Jay’s support to influence some of his friends in Raleigh.”
“Meaning?” Josie asked.
“Meaning, Doug hasn’t got any important political contacts. No friends in high places to help him get the rougher parts of his agenda through. That’s assuming he wins, of course.” He winked at me. “If I was even inclined to consider voting for Doug, my mother would disown me if there’s the slightest chance it might benefit Jay Ruddle in any way.”
This was news to me. I had no idea Jay had any intention of getting himself involved in Nags Head politics. He didn’t even live here anymore. Was he looking for something to do with his time and energy? He’d sold his business interests and was giving away his historical collection. A man needs to keep busy in retirement. Was Jay planning to work for Doug if we were unlucky enough to see him installed as mayor? How effective could Jay have been? As Brian had reminded us, Jay had a bad reputation with some old-timers.
How much influence did the old families have on local politics these days anyway?
I had absolutely no idea. I’d had no involvement in politics until I met Connor, and I was only working on his campaign because … well, because it was for Connor and because he was a huge supporter of the library. Did it matter if Jay was not popular with the established Outer Banks families? Younger people and newcomers wouldn’t care if he’d undercut his competition fifty years ago.
Maybe Jay wasn’t going to get involved. Not publically anyway. Might he have wanted to pull strings from behind the scenes?
“I haven’t heard anything like this,” Josie said to Brian. “How do you know?”
“I keep my ears to the ground,” he said with a smile. Men always smiled at Josie. “I have to. My wife and my mother are both powerful forces in the birding and wetlands preservation communities, and I own a construction company. We build houses. I have a foot firmly in both camps. Sometimes, that’s not a safe place to be.”
We laughed, and Josie said, “Thanks for your time.”
Another smile. “Always a pleasure.”
“Next time you’re in the bakery, ask for me. Muffin’s on the house.”
“I’ll do that,” he said.
We walked away. The moment the door shut behind us, I said to Josie, “Now we’re bribing voters? Isn’t that illegal? Even if the currency of exchange is one muffin.”
“Brian’s a good guy, or so my mom says. He tries to balance his construction business with our delicate beach and dune environment. Not easy sometimes.”
“Do you think Connor knows about that? About Jay and Doug, I mean?”
“I have no idea. But he’ll want to. For no other reason than to have a heads-up in case someone attempts to imply that Connor wanted Jay dead to foil Doug’s ambitions.”
I sputtered. “That would be ridiculous. If what Brian said is true, Jay was going to advise Doug if he became mayor. He wasn’t involved in the campaign.”
“He might have made a hefty donation,” Josie said.
“So? Even if he did, that’s no reason to kill the man now.”
“Rumors don’t have to make sense, Lucy. Sometimes the less sense they make, the faster they spread. Give him a call.”
“Give who a call?”
“Connor.”
“He’s busy with all that eating and tea drinking and being friendly.”
“True. Dorothy will be minding his phone.”
I made the call. As Josie guessed, Connor’s campaign manager answered. “I’m sorry, Lucy,” she said, “but Connor can’t talk to you at the moment.”
“It’s not a personal call,” I said. I told her what we’d heard.
As always her voice gave nothing away. “Thank you, Lucy. I’ll give His Honor the message. How are things on the street today?”
“Generally going well,” I said. Our stack of brochures was almost finished, and most of the houses on our list had been ticked off.
“Glad to hear it.” She hung up.
Josie and I finished our assignment and headed back to the campaign office to report in.
* * *
I’d enjoyed my afternoon of door knocking and canvassing, and as an added bonus it had completely taken my mind off Julia Ruddle and her troubles. As I let myself into the lighthouse, I began thinking about it again, and I wondered if there had been any new developments. I hoped Theodore had taken my advice and was waiting patiently for Julia to call him—or not.
Unlikely. Patience was not one of Teddy’s strong suits.
I stood in front of my small closet, deciding what to wear for dinner with Connor tonight. We might dine alfresco, which meant comfortable and relaxed attire, but the evening was likely to be cool. A flowery, summery dress with a jacket would do the trick, I decided. I pulled out the dress and held it up against me for inspection. “Wha
t do you think?” I asked Charles.
He jumped off the bed and went to the kitchen to see if he’d forgotten to eat any of his dinner.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said.
I’d left my phone on the windowsill to pick up any incoming calls. It buzzed to tell me I had a text.
Connor: Sorry, dinner’s off. Police chief has called press conference for seven.
I stabbed at the buttons to reply: OK.
Connor: Quick drink at the LH after?
LH, I knew, meant “Lighthouse.” Without taking time to think, I replied: Sorry. Bushed.
I took a deep breath. Why, oh, why had I done that? All he wanted was a quiet drink and a chance to kick back and relax after what would surely be a stressful press conference, on top of a day of being at his most charming. Whether he wanted to be charming or not.
Connor: Another time then. Night.
The reply was short and brusque. His hurt feelings almost came through the phone. I cursed myself. I liked Connor. I wanted to be with him.
I was a darned fool. I considered texting back. Something like: Sounds like a great idea! And finish it off with a line of little Xs.
I didn’t. Somehow, that would make things even worse.
When it came to other people’s love lives, I might be, as Teddy had said, wise. When it came to my own, I was quite the failure.
Chapter Ten
Monday morning, I pulled back the drapes to reveal a wall of thick gray fog. When the great first-order Fresnel lens high above me flashed, it did little to break the gloom. Tendrils of mist, as insubstantial as the fingers of a ghost, drifted around the solid walls of the lighthouse. As I peered out, a patch of fog separated, and far below, at the edges of the marsh, something moved. It wasn’t a morning for bird-watchers or nature lovers, so I grabbed my binoculars. At first, all I could see was shades of gray. I searched where the marsh should be, but found nothing. I was about to put the glasses down, when the fog shifted once again.
And, to my shock, I saw a horse.
I couldn’t tell if the animal itself was gray or if a blanket of fog covered its coat, but it was tall and slim and powerful. Muscles rippled beneath the smooth, glistening coat. I could see no rider, nor anything to hold a person on. No saddle, stirrups, or bridle. The strong, sleek neck turned; the big head lifted; and I swear the animal looked straight at me through liquid brown eyes. As I watched, tendrils of fog closed in again, and the horse slowly disappeared back into the mist.
