by Eva Gates
Deadly Ever After
A LIGHTHOUSE LIBRARY MYSTERY
Eva Gates
For my daughters, Caroline, Julia, and Alexandra
Chapter One
Is there anything more perfect than a day at the beach?
Sun, sand, water. The stuff of life, and time to enjoy it.
I love the beach the most when I’m alone, walking for miles through the surf thinking about nothing much at all, relishing the feel of the salt-filled wind in my hair and the cool ocean waters on my feet, watching sandpipers dart through the surf and pelicans soar overhead. I also love the beach when Connor and I have the chance to grab some quality time together, to talk about our lives and our friends and our jobs or to simply enjoy being in each other’s company.
I love the beach in the summer when the sand’s so hot you have to do a mad dance to get across it to reach the water. I love the beach in winter when the tourists are gone and the waves are high and rimes of blue ice edge the shore.
I live in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, near Coquina Beach, part of the Cape Hatteras National Seashore, an endless stretch of pristine oceanside wilderness facing east to the wilds of the Atlantic Ocean, and I’m so lucky to be here.
The beach is my happy place.
Particularly today.
I don’t usually like the beach as much when it’s crowded with people, but today I made an exception. Because these people were all here for me.
For me and for Connor.
My cousin Josie and her mom had wanted to throw us an engagement party, but in true Josie fashion, she decided to put a twist on it, and here we were at Coquina Beach.
Gripping hands tightly, Connor and I made our way through the sea oats and tough grasses and over the high dunes, following Josie and Aunt Ellen. This wasn’t a surprise party—I knew about it—but I was excited to see what Josie had arranged and whom she’d invited.
We crested the final ridge, and I let out a gasp of pleasure. Beside me I heard Connor’s deep chuckle. In front of us a wide swath of beach was dotted with umbrellas in joyful shades of primary colors. A stack of blankets were laid out beneath each one, with a scattering of chairs to provide seating for elderly guests. A larger umbrella shaded a table loaded with plates, cutlery, pretty paper napkins, and acrylic glasses. Next to it sat a galvanized steel bucket overflowing with ice and bottles. Two big chairs, one covered in pink cloth and one in blue, secured with color-coordinated bows, had been set up on the wet sand, and the table next to them was piled high with brightly wrapped parcels.
“I hope one of those chairs isn’t for me,” Connor said.
“No.” Josie punched his arm. “I put it there in case some other recently engaged gentleman wandered down the beach this afternoon. Come on, you two.” She grabbed my free hand and pulled me down the sand to the cheering, clapping crowd. I stumbled after her, laughing, feeling my cheeks flushing and my already curly hair curling even more in the damp breeze.
About fifty people applauded as we ran across the sand. Everyone was dressed in beachwear—sandals or flip-flops, shorts and T-shirts or light summer dresses. I recognized my closest friends, my coworkers from the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library, library board members and faithful patrons, Connor’s coworkers from town hall, his close friends, and his parents.
And—I blinked in surprise—my own parents, Suzanne and Millar Richardson. I wrapped my mom in a hug while my dad shook Connor’s hand.
“This is a surprise,” I said. “Although a good one,” I added quickly.
“We wouldn’t miss it, Lucy,” Mom said. “Even if I wanted to, Ellen wouldn’t have let me.”
“Darn right,” Aunt Ellen, Mom’s sister, said.
It was nice to see them. My parents live in Boston, and they don’t get to North Carolina often. Mom had visited a couple of weeks ago, shortly after Connor and I announced our engagement, to congratulate us and throw us a small dinner party, but I hadn’t seen my dad for several months.
They both looked good, I thought. Of course, Mom always looks good. She makes sure of that. She’s always been an exceptionally beautiful woman, and she still is, even with traces of fine lines gathering around her eyes and mouth. I suspect she’s had a bit of a nip and tuck here and there. She’s the same height as me—a measly five foot three—and unlike me, she’s as skinny as the legs of the sandpipers darting around on the beach, with wide hazel eyes in a thin face, sharp cheekbones, and light-brown hair highlighted in shades of caramel that turns under at her slightly pointed chin. I have her eyes, but aside from our height, that’s about it for the resemblance between us. My face is round and my cheeks chubby, and my black curls can always be counted on to be some degree of out of control.
Her outfit, as could be expected, had probably been chosen directly from a Ralph Lauren catalog listing under “Beach Party”: tight orange capris patterned with green leaves and blue flowers paired with a high-collared, three-quarter-length-sleeved, buttoned white shirt with the tails knotted at her thin waist.
“You’ve got a good day for an outdoor party,” Dad said as he pecked my cheek in what for my father was an expressive gesture. He also looked good, I thought. His color was better, he’d lost a bit of weight, and his smile was broader than it had been for many years. My parents’ marriage had almost ended a year ago, but they’d worked hard to keep it together. I hoped he was finally letting go of some of the workload at his law firm, passing the burden on to his younger partners.
“Would I have arranged anything else, Millar?” Aunt Ellen said.
“I can almost believe you control the weather, Ellen.” Dad gave her a grin that I was pleased to see. Aunt Ellen and my father had never exactly gotten on. In all the years of my parents’ marriage, my dad had been to the Outer Banks exactly once before, earlier this year for Josie’s wedding. Mom and Dad met when she, daughter of an Outer Banks fishing family, was still in high school and he, scion of one of New England’s oldest, proudest, and richest families, was on vacation from his law studies. They married far too quickly, without the approval of either of their families. Dad returned to law school and later joined his father’s firm. Mom eagerly took up the life of a Boston socialite, which wasn’t always as easy a life as you might think.
As for me, I was raised in Boston in the social whirl of my parents’ circle, but I escaped every summer to the Outer Banks and the loving arms of Aunt Ellen and Uncle Amos. When my life in Boston imploded, where else would I go but to my favorite place in all the world?
I haven’t regretted that decision for a minute.
I caught Connor’s eye and gave him a smile.
He smiled back.
Our friends gathered around us, exchanging hugs and kisses, slapping backs and shaking hands. Someone pressed a beer into Connor’s hand, and I accepted a glass of champagne. The flawless two-carat diamond set into my engagement ring caught the light of the sun and flashed as though it were sending a signal to ships at sea. Connor had had the ring designed for me, but he hadn’t bought the center diamond; that had been a gift from a library patron whose long-lost family heirloom I’d found.
* * *
It was a great party. Laughing and protesting, Connor and I were led to our chairs and told to sit. My dad and Connor’s mom, Marie, toasted the happy couple, and several guests said a few words that had me giggling and Connor actually blushing. Connor’s the mayor of our town, so he’s used to being surrounded by people and being the center of attention, yet I was pleased to see how boyishly embarrassed he was today. This was personal, not political, and he knew the difference.
At Josie and Ellen’s insistence, the gifts were small and inexpensive. Some were practical—a stack of tea towels; some were frivolous—a plastic Halloween pumpkin to s
tand by the front door; and some were touching—a second-edition copy of Pride and Prejudice in recognition of the opening-night reception for the Jane Austen exhibit at the library at which Connor and I had reconnected for the first time since our teenage years.
Once the presents were opened and words said, the food arrived. Josie owns Josie’s Cozy Bakery, a popular spot in Nags Head, and she’d (as usual) done the catering herself. Not wanting to have the food sitting out in the hot sun, she’d arranged the timing of the party so her staff could bring it after the bakery closed at four. A huge tureen of cold leek-and-potato soup and another of chilled gazpacho were laid out beside platters piled high with a variety of cold meats, cheeses, pickles, sliced vegetables, and condiments, next to Josie’s fabulous mini baguettes and freshly baked rolls. Dessert was a thickly iced hummingbird cake decorated with yellow flowers and two intertwined doves made of fondant.
Cradling my cake and a glass of iced tea (I didn’t want to have more champagne than was good for me), I dropped onto a blanket under the umbrella where the library gang had gathered.
“Great party, Lucy,” Charlene Clayton said.
“Thank Josie, not me,” I said. “I didn’t do anything but show up.”
“Which is all you had to do,” Bertie James, our library director, said. Bertie looked great curled up on a blanket surrounded by the yards of blue fabric of her dress, the long gray hair she wore in a tight bun to work pinned loosely back from her face and allowed to flow in a silver river down her back.
“I like your hair like that,” I said. “I like yours too,” I said to her date, Professor Edward McClanahan. He blinked and touched his tousled mop in confusion. Perhaps I had consumed more champagne than was good for me.
“We’ll all so happy for you, Lucy,” Charlene said. “You and Connor.”
“Of course,” Louise Jane McKaughnan, enthusiastic library volunteer, said. “I could have told you months ago to stop fussing about and get on with it.”
“Of course.” Charlene rolled her eyes at me, and I smothered a laugh.
“I agree with Louise Jane. And that doesn’t happen very often,” Theodore Kowalski said in a flawless English accent. “I don’t think I’ve ever known a couple so perfectly suited to each other.” He straightened the paisley cravat at his throat and peered at me through the round rimless glasses perched on his nose.
“Thanks, Teddy.” I knew Theodore didn’t have a wealth of experience in dealing with people and relationships. He was a rare-book dealer, and he thought the English accent, which he’d learned by watching Downton Abbey, and the old-fashioned clothes made him seem more respectable than the thirtysomething Nags Head native he was. He didn’t even need the spectacles; they contained nothing but clear glass.
“Do you know,” I said, feeling tears welling behind my eyes, “that I love you guys?” Definitely, I’d had more champagne than I should have.
We all leaned in for a spontaneous hug.
“You’re not going anywhere, Lucy,” Theodore said. “You’re staying at the library, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes. I’ve no plans on that score. Except …” I cleared my throat. “I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you, Bertie. Connor and I are looking for a house to buy together.”
Bertie nodded. “I expected that would happen. Sooner or later.”
A spark of interest flashed in Louise Jane’s eyes. She glanced quickly between Bertie and me and then took a deep swallow of her beer.
I live on the fourth floor of the lighthouse, in a tiny perfect apartment I call my Lighthouse Aerie, which comes with the job. The commute can’t be beat and neither can the view, but it’s a long way from town, and it’s barely large enough to accommodate one person without a lot of stuff.
Charlene let out a long sigh and pushed herself to her feet. “This has been great fun, but I’d better be off. Josie promised to save me some treats to take home to Mom.”
“How’s your mother doing?” I asked.
“She’s doing great, Lucy. Thanks for asking. I see a small improvement every day, and her doctor’s extremely pleased with her progress. She would have loved to come out today, but”—Charlene nodded toward our surroundings—“she can’t manage the dunes and the soft sand.”
“Tell her I say hi.”
“Not to talk about work,” Ronald said, “but …”
“Not to talk about work,” Bertie said to Eddie, “means they’re about to talk about work. In order that my staff can complain about me without me listening in, let’s join Ellen and Amos.” She gathered her skirts in her hand and started to stand. Theodore leapt to his feet like the true southern gentleman he is and gave her his arm. Once Bertie was standing, Eddie struggled to push himself off the ground, and Theodore gallantly extended a hand to the older man.
“Believe me, Bertie,” Ronald said, “We have no complaints about you. I want to ask Charlene how things are going with those researchers she’s working with.”
“Good,” Charlene said. “Although they scarcely need my help. They’re both so totally competent. James in particular.” Perhaps only I noticed a touch of color creep into Charlene’s cheeks.
“What are they working on?” Eddie asked.
“Immigration patterns between Britain and the Carolinas in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.”
“Interesting stuff,” he said.
“And,” Louise Jane said proudly, “because so much of immigration has to do with ancestors and family stories, I’ve been helping them.”
“Louise Jane,” Bertie said. “Please don’t tell me you’ve told a pair of researchers from Oxford University that you can speak to the ghosts of these immigrants.”
“Give me some credit, Bertie,” Louise Jane sniffed. As though Louise Jane wasn’t constantly trying to contact what she called the spirits. That she failed every time never seemed to dampen her enthusiasm. “No, I simply told them that my grandmother and great-grandmother might be able to help them sort through the wheat to get to the chaff, so to speak.”
“Louise Jane is being helpful,” Charlene said. “For once. She does have a wealth of contacts, and James and Daisy are interested in hearing the local legends and family stories. Legends, as we all know, often have a basis in fact.”
Louise Jane threw Bertie a smug look that said so there.
“James and Daisy?” Theodore said. “Two of them?”
“James and Daisy Dalrymple,” Bertie said. “Both are professors of North American history at Oxford University in England.”
“James and Daisy Dalrymple.” Theodore chuckled. “You can’t find a more English name than those.”
The color in Charlene’s cheeks deepened, and she ducked her head. I hadn’t been working the day Professors Dalrymple first arrived and were shown around the library, but I had subsequently been introduced and had greeted them on several occasions as they passed through the main room of the library heading for Charlene’s office or the rare-books-and-maps room. Daisy was cheerful and friendly and sometimes stopped briefly to chat about the weather or ask my advice on where to go for dinner, but James’s focus on his work never wavered. He greeted me with a grunt and didn’t slow his march directly for the stairs. Or, I now thought, was he eager to see Charlene? If so, that would not turn out well.
None of my business.
“We’re off, dear, and wanted to say our good-byes.” Marie and Fred McNeil appeared at the edge of the umbrella. I leapt to my feet and gave my future in-laws big hugs. “Thanks so much for coming.”
“Don’t thank us,” Fred said. “I never need to be forced into eating Josie’s food.”
Marie gave her husband a light slap on the arm. “Oh, you,” she said in a tone that carried years of fond teasing.
I gave them both a smile. I liked Connor’s parents a lot, and they’d been delighted to hear of our engagement. Connor clearly took after his mom, adding a masculine strength to the beautiful wide blue eyes, thick dark hair (in her case, touched up ev
ery three weeks at the hairdresser’s) with a slight curl, prominent cheekbones, and strong jaw. Both of Connor’s parents were tall and slim, and all three of them towered over me. I’d been pleased to see Mr. and Mrs. McNeil chatting with my parents and Aunt Ellen and Uncle Amos. It mattered to me that all the members of my family—the old and the new—got on well.
“I can’t believe I haven’t given you a hug yet, Lucy.” Stephanie Stanton wrapped her arms round me. For once, I was being hugged by someone shorter than me. I liked the feeling. The next person to envelop me in an embrace almost forced the breath out of me. Steph’s boyfriend, Butch Greenblatt, was not—to put it mildly—short.
“I’d stay to help clean up,” Butch said, “but my shift starts soon.”
“Any excuse to get out of the dishes,” Steph said.
“Got that right,” he said.
“I heard that,” Josie interrupted, “but it’s not necessary. Your brother ordered me to relax and enjoy this party and to pretend my own staff aren’t catering it.” Josie held a half-full glass of champagne in her hand, and I smiled to see it. I hadn’t believed she’d be capable of letting other people do all the work. Maybe marriage to Butch’s brother Jake was helping my cousin let go, if only a fraction. Then again, Josie’s Cozy Bakery was a huge success; she shouldn’t have to work so hard anymore. To make things even better, Jake had come to the party. He owned his own restaurant, where he was also the head chef, and he usually missed family events because of his schedule.
“Remind me again, Lucy, what book we’re supposed to be reading for book club,” Butch said.
Mrs. Fitzgerald, chair of our library board and enthusiastic member of the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library Classic Novel Reading Club, had made this month’s recommendation: The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
I told Butch, and Stephanie clapped her hands together. “I love that story. So spooky: the moor, the demon dog, the family curse.”
“And Sherlock Holmes,” Butch said. “You might even get Sam Watson out to talk about that one.”
