by Eva Gates
“I didn’t expect anything like that. Jay wouldn’t have hired him if he had a criminal record.”
“That sort of man can pull the wool over people’s eyes, Lucy. You don’t … uh … think Greg’s handsome, do you?”
I glanced over to the fiction shelves, where Greg was pretending to read the back of an Andrew Pyper book while keeping an eye on the fair Julia. He lifted his hand and brushed at a lock of hair. Greg was strikingly handsome. I’d never dare say so to Teddy. “What on earth makes you ask me that?”
“I overheard heard one of the teenage girls talking to her friend. They seemed to think so.”
“Teenage girls. What do you expect?”
He grinned. “That’s exactly what I thought, Lucy. Have you heard anything more about the situation? Anything that might help Julia, I mean?”
“The police have other suspects, and they’re working hard on it.”
“Not all that hard, it would appear,” he said. I turned to see Sam Watson and his wife CeeCee arrive. She was in costume, but he was not. Somehow that didn’t surprise me.
“He’s allowed some time off,” I said.
“He shouldn’t be.” Theodore spotted Eunice Fitzgerald, seated stiffly in a wingback chair, with her cane at her side, like Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey. Her poodle skirt was spread out around her, and her ponytail moved as she spoke. Our board chair was chatting with my aunt Ellen, and Theodore went to join them.
CeeCee caught up with Butch and Stephanie, in their Laurel and Hardy costumes, who’d arrived minutes before, but Watson took a spot against the wall. A spot, I couldn’t help but notice, where he could keep an eye on everyone. Julia Ruddle included.
The room was filling up fast. This library is small, but it seems to be able to stretch at the seams to accommodate everyone it needs to. I wasn’t expecting the next people to arrive. Elizabeth McArthur and Norman Hoskins stood in the doorway, blinking in surprise.
I looked quickly around for Bertie. She was trapped against the wall by Diane Uppiton. I hurried across the room to greet the newcomers. “Hi, welcome.”
“What on earth is going on here?” Elizabeth said.
“A Halloween party.”
“In a library?” Norman said.
“Where better?” I gestured to the guests. “Many people have come as characters from books.” Did I detect the slightest of smiles touch the edges of Elizabeth’s mouth? “What are you doing here, if you didn’t come for the party? As you can see, we’re pretty busy right now.”
The door opened again, and in came Anna and Dave. The violinist swooped down upon me and wrapped me in a deep hug that pretty much expelled all the breath from my lungs. “I invited these nice people to come along to your little library, moya dorogaya. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“You know each other?”
“We do now.” Anna slipped her hand through Norman’s arm and gave him a radiant smile. He blushed to the roots of his thick black hair, and the edges of his mustache twitched.
“Oh, look,” Dave said. “Cookies. Those look great. I haven’t had dinner yet.” He wandered off.
“We met these lovely people at the hotel.” Anna said. “We were walking through the lobby when I overheard them ask the receptionist to put them through to Julia’s room.”
Elizabeth shifted from one foot to the other. Norman studied the bookshelf behind my head: Roberts to Zelazny. “Naturally, I introduced myself,” Anna said. “They’re from a university, and they want to talk to Julia about Jay’s tedious little collection. Apparently, it contains some important artifacts. Isn’t that interesting?”
Julia spotted us and came over. After she freed herself from one of Anna’s enthusiastic hugs, she was introduced to Elizabeth and Norman. “It was nice of your mother to invite us,” Elizabeth said. “We were hoping to catch you at your hotel before you went out to dinner, but this is much more convenient.”
Julia didn’t return her smile. “I’m not going to discuss my grandfather’s collection here. This is a party.”
“You are so right, my darling,” Anna said. “But it never hurts to meet the interested parties, does it? These nice people would like Jay’s collection to come to their university. It seems he was going to give it to them, but he died before the papers could be signed. I told them they must have been mistaken, as Jay would never give something of value away. You and I will be negotiating a fair price.”
“I’m sorry.” Julia looked directly at Elizabeth. “You’ve come all this way for nothing. My mother is not my business advisor. My grandfather’s estate has not been settled, and if I should be bequeathed his collection, I intend to manage it myself.”
We smiled awkwardly at one another. All except Anna, who let out one of her light, tinkling laughs. “That sounds more like Jay Ruddle. I found it hard to believe he’d give anything away. No, that was nothing but an opening ploy on his part.” She patted Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Leave it with me.”
Julia shook her head.
“There’s your nice young man.” Anna took her daughter’s arm. “You mustn’t leave him standing all by himself, moya dorogaya. You never can tell what men will get up to when they are left to their own devices.”
“He’s not my young man,” Julia protested. Anna paid no attention and dragged her daughter away. She was heading for Theodore, but Julia managed to pull herself free and stop next to Charlene.
I was left with Elizabeth and Norman. “As long as you’re here, you’re welcome to stay for the program and have some refreshments.”
“You were at Blacklock College yesterday,” Norman said. “I saw you and Ms. James poking about. If you came to accept our generous offer, why didn’t you come to our offices? We were in.”
“We were there on library business,” I said.
“Spying, more likely.” Elizabeth couldn’t help stealing a glance at Anna. “Now, more than ever, you can forget about us paying you to withdraw from bidding for the Ruddle collection.”
“Whatever.” I left them standing by the door.
Charles was sitting on the windowsill, watching the festivities. Earlier he’d checked out the food offerings. Clearly dissatisfied to find sugary baked goods rather than thin slices of salmon or a bowl of smoked trout dip, he’d looked almost as disappointed as the teenage Darth Vader when Mrs. Peterson had ordered Charity to change seats with her sister. I gave the big cat a rub on the top of his head. He purred and together we watched the partygoers. Greg was filling a glass with lemonade and ice, and Theodore watched the other man like Charles might eye a mouse, ready to pounce if Greg made a move toward the fair Julia.
I bent over Charles and whispered into his ear. “I want you to keep an eye on everyone. Give me a signal if you identify the killer.” Since coming to work at the library and being adopted by Charles, I’d come to realize that he was an excellent judge of character. I glanced at Detective Watson, standing with Butch. Watson might be talking to the other man, but his eyes never stopped moving around the room. He was, I realized, working.
I could imagine what he’d have to say if I told him I’d solved the murder based on Charles’s reaction to one or another of the suspects.
The door opened, and a handful of last-minute guests came in along with a wave of cold damp air. Charles leapt off the windowsill and went to find a warmer place to observe the festivities. He found it in Mrs. Fitzgerald’s lap and settled in for a good long pat.
If Charles wasn’t going to be any help, it might be up to me. I joined Butch and Watson.
“Good evening,” I said. “No costume, Detective?”
“I’ve come as an undercover police officer.”
I laughed. “I used that line myself earlier. If that’s your costume, it’s a pretty poor one. You might as well have ‘cop’ tattooed on your forehead.”
Butch grinned.
People swirled all around us, and I lowered my voice. “That’s Julia’s mother over there. The woman in the red cloak. That’s not a co
stume, by the way—it’s how she dresses all the time.”
“I know,” Watson said.
“You do? Did you meet her?”
“I am a police officer, Lucy. That means I have sources. And, as you are obviously still curious, I’ll tell you that my sources say Ms. Marakova was on a flight from Rome to the United States that left early Sunday morning Italian time.”
“Meaning she wasn’t here, in the rare books room of the library, Saturday afternoon East Coast time.”
“Meaning precisely that. She appears to have caught a flight as soon as she heard the news about Jay Ruddle’s death.”
“Have you given any thought to Curtis Gardner or Diane Uppiton?”
Watson’s piercing gray eyes studied me. “Why would I do that?”
“Curtis believes, and through him Diane, that Jay Ruddle was out to destroy his business. His stores are more than simply a business to him. His father started the company, which means a lot of emotion is involved. I heard that back in the day, Curtis’s father and Jay were rivals for the hand of the same woman. She married Mr. Gardner, and Jay left the Outer Banks.”
“And he held a grudge for something like fifty years? Really, Lucy, your imagination carries you away some times.”
I bristled. “So? It seems as though some imagination is needed to get to the bottom of this case.”
To my surprise, Watson grinned at me. Butch said, “I’m not getting involved in this,” and left us.
“It’s not common knowledge, Lucy, but not confidential either,” Watson said. “Gardner’s business is in serious trouble. Not through the machinations of some evil millionaire with an ancient grudge, but changes in the tourist economy as well as sheer incompetence on the part of management. Ruddle Furniture saw an opening and took it. I doubt Jay himself was involved in the decision.”
“Oh,” I said. “But Curtis and Diane think—”
“Yes, Curtis thinks Jay was responsible. And that is worth keeping in mind. Anyone else you want me to keep an eye on?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. See those two over there? Standing by themselves, not exactly taking part in the fun? They’re the ones from Blacklock College that are after Jay Ruddle’s collection of historical documents.” I glanced around the room. Except for Curtis, all the suspects were here, I realized.
“Hope I’m not late,” a voice said in my ear, pulling me out of my thoughts. I felt a rush of pleasure as I turned and looked up into Connor’s smiling blue eyes.
“You’re not late, although I fear you’ve missed the pecan squares and ghost cookies.”
“I’ll have to live with that.”
“I’m glad you could make it.”
He pulled at his tie and stuffed it into his pocket. “Meeting with the chief went overtime.”
“Any developments in the Ruddle case?” Watson asked.
“Not that he told me. We were talking about budgets. Never my favorite topic.” Connor glanced around the room. “Nice crowd.”
“CeeCee’s waving at me,” Watson said. “She’s saved me a seat. Talk to you later, Mr. Mayor.”
Most of the chairs were taken, or places saved with bags or books. About half of the guests had come in some sort of costume, and the dim lights from the bookshelves and the alcove cast a charming glow over the room. People ate and drank, laughed, and chatted with their neighbors.
“Give me a minute to say hello to Bertie and the board,” Connor said. “Then I’ll come back and join you.”
“Okay,” I said.
I watched him work the room. He moved quickly, going from one person to another, smiling, exchanging greetings and handshakes. He was back with me in a few minutes. “Now that that’s over, have you got a minute to talk in private?”
My heartbeat went from normal to end of a marathon in a second. “Yes.”
His smile was warm: his real smile, not the politician one. “Let’s step outside. Any minute now old George Delahunt is going to spot me and come rushing over to remind me that they want speed bumps installed on their street.”
Talk. Connor wanted to talk. I didn’t know if I liked the sound of that. Had he grown tired of my evasiveness and intended to dump me? Or maybe he was going to propose? Either option filled me with dread. We walked to the door, my thoughts rolling like a dinghy cast adrift in a hurricane. He couldn’t be proposing. He was too old-fashioned to do that in the middle of a party. On the other hand, this was a good situation in which to dump me. I wouldn’t throw a fit and burst into tears, not surrounded by my coworkers and friends.
I never did find out what Connor wanted to talk about. He opened the door, and a bright white light hit us full in the face. “Mr. Mayor,” a woman’s voice called, “do you think it’s proper to be attending a Halloween party in the Library of Horror?”
Chapter Eighteen
“Turn off that blasted light,” Connor said, “so I can see who I’m taking to.”
The light shifted to one side. The woman who’d spoken was the thin blond TV reporter who’d been here earlier. The man with her had his camera mounted on his shoulder. Several others were gathered around them, armed with more cameras and microphones.
“Hampton Hitchcock. Raleigh Daily Bugle,” a man called out of the darkness. “Care to make a statement, Mayor McNeil, on the suitability of having a party at the site of a recent tragic death?”
Like Superman dashing into a phone booth, Connor changed before my very eyes. His whole body stiffened, his posture straightened, his head rose, and the soft blue eyes I loved so much darkened.
Soft blue eyes: he wouldn’t have been looking at me in that way if he’d planned to dump me. Would he?
The eyes I loved so much: If I did love them, and him, it was time I remembered that. Before it was too late.
“The Bodie Island Lighthouse Library is a public place,” Connor said, his words clipped, his voice formal, “as well as a beloved Outer Banks institution and a place of great historical importance. We’re deeply sorry that a visitor to our magnificent seaside died here, and our heartfelt condolences are extended to his family.”
Shutters clicked and the TV camera was back in our faces. I didn’t know what to do. I should probably step away, but might that look as though I, a library employee, was distancing myself from Connor and his statement? I forced out a smile and then dropped it. I didn’t want to look happy as we talked about Jay Ruddle’s death. I was glad I wasn’t wearing a ridiculous costume.
“You don’t consider a Halloween party to be at all inappropriate?” the TV woman asked.
“The residents and visitors of Nags Head, North Carolina, are welcome to continue to enjoy the beloved holiday as they see fit, at one of their favorite places, if they so choose. I have nothing further to say. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Doug Whiteside, mayoral candidate, released a statement a short while ago, calling this party tasteless.”
“He would,” I muttered.
“What’s that, Madam?” The cameras and microphones swung toward me. “May I ask your name?”
“No,” Connor said, his calm beginning to snap. “You may not.”
“Lucy,” called a voice from the back of the pack, “can you make a statement on behalf of the library?”
“Uh,” I said.
“Let’s get some shots inside,” the TV woman said, “of partygoers celebrating at the death scene.”
“You can’t come in,” I said. “Fire regulations. The building’s at capacity. Mayor McNeil and I were stepping outside to ensure no other patrons are arriving. Sorry.”
“We’ll choose a pool reporter then,” someone said.
“You will not.” The door had opened so quietly I hadn’t heard Sam Watson come out. “The library is closed, and this is a private party. You people have not been invited.”
“Detective Watson, do you have a statement to make to the press?”
“Any updates on the case?”
“Is an arrest imminent?”
&n
bsp; “As I am with my wife, enjoying an evening out,” Watson said, “I’m not taking questions at this time. Good night. Your Honor, Ms. Richardson, why don’t you folks come back inside.”
More pictures were taken of our retreating backs. The door slammed shut behind us.
A few people had been aware of what was happening outside, but not many. The refreshments were finished, and the seats were filled, leaving standing room only. The buzz of conversation filled the room.
“What’s going on?” Bertie asked.
“Doug Whiteside causing trouble,” I whispered.
“I saw the pack when I left the office,” Connor said. “I told them I had nothing to say. They must have followed me here. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Bertie said. “Vultures, the lot of them.”
“I told them not to come in,” Watson said. “But I can’t order them to leave the property, and even if I could, they’d lay in wait on the road.”
We all grumbled.
“Bertie, are you doing the introductions?” Watson said. “Maybe you should get started.”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“Sorry about that,” Connor said to me once they’d departed.
“Not your fault.”
“We can talk later,” he said.
Together we found a place by the window. Charles jumped up to join us, and he rubbed himself against Connor’s arm. Connor rewarded him with a scratch under the chin. I trusted Charles’s instincts, but I already knew he liked Connor. Tonight, Charles was falling down on the job: he was doing nothing to help identify the killer.
Louise Jane’s second set of stories was much darker than the first. She talked briefly about the Rebecca MacPherson and other seafaring ghostly legends, mentioning that it was rumored that the Flying Dutchman itself had been seen in these waters. She then went on to talk about hauntings (supposedly) in the very building in which we were having our party. Bertie, I knew, would not be happy. Neither would Theodore, who was beginning to shift uncomfortably as the mood of the stories darkened.
“This lighthouse has a long and troubled history. Many of you are familiar with some of the stories. Perhaps the best known is the tragic fate of Frances, known as the Lady.”
