by Eva Gates
She just about leapt out of her chair. She spun around so quickly she knocked her elbow into her bookcase. Her office isn’t very large. “Lucy,” she snapped. “What are you doing sneaking up on me?” She hit the power button on her computer monitor, and the screen went black.
“Sorry. I wasn’t sneaking up. I wanted to say hi and ask how things are going with your visiting professors.”
“They’re going fine. I’m busy; is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, I guess not.” I backed away. Charlene rolled across the few inches of floor and slammed the door in my face.
* * *
I closed my iPad with a sigh. I’d been looking at properties for sale that Connor and I might be interested in, and I was mightily discouraged. Not much was available that I liked and that fell within our price range.
I could always move into the house Connor was renting. That had been suggested, but, as nice as it was, it was Connor’s house. We wanted a place that would be our house from the beginning.
I looked around the Lighthouse Aerie—the curving whitewashed walls, the colorful cushions, the bright watercolors of Outer Banks scenes, the single tall window with the comfortable window seat and great view.
The bed taking up most of the available space, the two chairs around the tiny table in the kitchen that wasn’t even a kitchen but more a nook in which one could throw together a quick meal.
Not exactly a great home for a newly engaged couple.
The phone rang, and to my surprise, it was Detective Watson, and he wanted to speak to me. “In person.”
“What about?”
“Why don’t we discuss that when we meet? I could use a walk in the marsh, get my head cleared. Ten minutes?”
“Sure.” I hung up before I remembered that this morning the marsh wasn’t going to be any sort of head-clearing place—not with Ronald, his pack of children, and all the helpers.
“Feel like a walk?” I asked Fluffy.
She seemed to recognize the word and jumped to her feet, ears up, tail swinging, entire rear end wagging. I’d tried a few simple commands on her—sit, stay. She’d responded, so she clearly had some training.
I got the pink leash off the coat hook, snapped it onto her pink collar, and picked her up. Charles was downstairs, hard at work in the library. I hoped Charles wouldn’t realize that the dog didn’t have to work but spent the day lazing around, snoozing, going for walks (outside!), and keeping me company.
Charles on strike would not be a pleasant cat to live with.
I hadn’t made up my mind about whether to take Charles to live with Connor and me. Charles was the library cat. He’d been the library cat before I arrived, and he’d simply followed me upstairs one day after closing and made himself at home.
Would he miss me when I was gone?
Would he want to live in a house, even if I brought him to work every day?
I glanced at Charlene’s closed door when I passed. That incident earlier bothered me, a lot. It had been totally out of character for her. Charlene was a warm, friendly person. She was passionate about her work and always delighted in sharing that passion with anyone who showed an interest. She loved her music and wanted everyone else to love it too. That people fled when she tried to press her musical selections on them made her only try all the harder.
No one ever minded. Not too much, anyway, because everyone loved her.
Something was up with Charlene, and I feared I knew what it was. If she was falling in love with James under the nose of his wife, that could not possibly end well.
What about James himself? Did he return Charlene’s feelings? Was he having fun stringing her along, or did he simply not realize what was happening with her?
The latter was possible. He was quiet but generally friendly to everyone. Had Charlene mistaken that friendliness for something more personal?
What a mess.
Again, that led me to wonder what had caused Evangeline to react so strongly to James. He’d said he’d not previously been to America since he was a child. Was that true? If he was a cad, cheating on his wife, giving Charlene false hope, what else might he be capable of?
Fluffy was sniffing a patch of grass and I was reminding myself that I’d not be thanked for interfering in Charlene’s love life when Watson drove up. He’d come in his own car, and he’d come on his own.
Fluffy and I met him at the top of the path.
“Is this Mrs. Lewiston’s dog?” he said, bending over to let her sniff his hand. “Looks like it.”
“Her name’s Fluffy, and I’m looking after her while Evangeline’s at the Ocean Side, from which Fluffy has been evicted for misbehaving.”
Watson straightened up. “That’s nice of you, Lucy.”
“No, it’s not. I was given absolutely no choice in the matter.”
“You could have taken her to a kennel.”
“Now that you mention it …” I grinned at him. “Maybe not. I’m growing rather fond of the little thing. Fortunately, she’s small enough to fit in my apartment. Thank heavens Evangeline doesn’t have a Saint Bernard.”
Watson chuckled. “Let’s walk.” He pointed to the boardwalk. “There seems to be a lot of people over there. What’s going on?”
“Ronald has a marsh wildlife expert visiting, and they’ve taken the kids out. We can go the other way.”
“Let’s,” he said.
I fell into step beside him and we walked down the lane, which took us southwest toward the path to Blossie Creek, which opens onto Roanoke Sound. Fluffy trotted happily at my side. Watson walked with his hands thrust into his pockets, his gait slow and casual, appearing to be enjoying the feel of the warm sun on his head and the salty wind on his skin. He was, I thought, appreciating the chance to be outside in the fresh air, taking a moment to relax, even if the reason he was here had to do with murder most foul. Two yellow-and-black butterflies fluttered past his face, and he smiled as he watched them go. A flock of ducks took off from the calm waters of the creek, wings flapping, calling loudly to each other to keep up.
“Evangeline Lewiston,” Watson said, when the ducks had passed and all was quiet once again. “Tell me about her.”
I sucked in a breath. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just tell me, Lucy. You’ve known her a long time.”
“Her husband—her late husband—and my dad are law partners. Their fathers founded the firm. I’ve known her for a long time, my entire life, but I know next to nothing, apart from what’s obvious to everyone, about her. She was one of those people who was simply around when I was growing up. You should ask my mom about her, not me. I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to anyone in my parents’ crowd. What kid does?”
“Fair enough. I have spoken to your mother, but she neatly brushed aside my questions about Evangeline’s personality and other aspects of her life. She claims they were wives of partners, not friends.”
“Mom’s good at that. I bet you were out the door before you realized she hadn’t actually answered your questions.”
“And here I thought I was a good interrogator. In my years with the NYPD, I dealt with some of the toughest people in the world, but I fear I’ve met my match in your mother.”
“My mother was an eighteen-year-old girl named Susan Wyatt from a North Carolina fishing family who’d barely finished high school when she married my dad. Which means she married his blueblood family, his father’s law firm, his mother’s social circle, and generations of expectations. She swam with sharks far sharper than any you’ve had to deal with, Detective. She not only survived but thrived. Evangeline would have been one of those circling sharks, just waiting for her to fail. Friends is a nebulous term. An outside observer would think Mom and Evangeline are friends, but they only spent time together as required by their husbands’ positions. They never liked each other. Even now, Mom’s stayed on in Nags Head out of a sense of duty, not any bonds of friendship.”
“That’s why I�
�m talking to you, Lucy. You observe things. You’d be surprised at how rare that can be. You know people.”
Fluffy stopped to sniff at yet another patch of grass, and I gave the leash a tug. I considered letting her run free, but I didn’t know if she’d stay close or come when I called, and I didn’t want to risk it. If I lost Fluffy, Evangeline’s wrath would be terrible to behold. “You’re thinking Evangeline killed her husband.”
“Not necessarily. She can’t account for her time between roughly eight and nine thirty on Monday night, and that means I can’t dismiss the possibility. You’ve told me before you and your mother came to the Outer Banks regularly over the years.”
“Mom brought the kids here every summer to visit her sister. I remember those summers as some of the best times in my life.” I thought of Connor and picnics at the beach and smiled to myself. “Until now.”
“Did Evangeline ever come with you?”
“No. Definitely not. Mom wasn’t trying to reconnect with her sister or even give her kids a great vacation. Coming here was her escape, a few weeks away from the pressures of that life—keeping up with the country club circuit, the constant disapproval of Dad’s partners’ wives, not to mention her own in-laws, always waiting for her to slip and display the slightest trace of working-class southern habits.” I didn’t mention that in the latter years of my childhood, Mom had been escaping from her own husband and a lonely, failing marriage.
Two people approached us, large binoculars and cameras with long lenses hanging around their necks and bulging backpacks slung over their shoulders. They nodded politely and paid no mind to Fluffy, who was dancing on her hind legs in greeting.
“Did you ever run into Evangeline on any of those visits?” Watson asked. “Have you seen her since you moved here?”
“No and no. Why are you asking me that? She told me she’s never been to Nags Head. Isn’t that true?”
“It would seem she’s not been entirely truthful with either you or me. She originally told me the same—she’d never been here before—but a minor amount of digging proved that to be a lie.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Isn’t it? She got a speeding ticket in Duck three years ago. Five years ago her purse was stolen from a restaurant in Manteo, and the theft was reported to the police. When people lie to me, Lucy, I have to ask why they would do that.”
“Have you asked her?”
“I did. She bluffed, badly, and said she thought I meant had she ever been to Nags Head specifically, not the general area. She then admitted she’s come to the Outer Banks on occasion. For short, spontaneous getaways, in her words. Always on her own. Would you say she’s the sort of woman to vacation alone?”
“No, I wouldn’t. My mom needs what she calls her ‘me time.’ She’ll check into a spa for a weekend or even go to New York City on her own for shopping and to see a play, but Evangeline’s the sort of woman who’s not comfortable in her own company. I could be wrong, Detective, but that’s my impression.”
“It’s because I trust your impressions that I’m asking you, Lucy. I’ve got people going through records with a fine-toothed comb. I intend to find evidence she’s been to Nags Head itself. And if I do, when I do, I want to know why she’s lying.”
“Do you know a man named Leon Lions?”
“Never heard of him, and that’s not an easy name to forget. Why?”
“He lives in Kill Devil Hills, and he and Evangeline are old friends. Apparently they met years ago when he lived in Boston. He’s been to the hotel to see her. They had lunch together yesterday and breakfast today and are meeting for lunch later.”
“What are you saying, Lucy? How much of a friend of hers is this guy?” Watson’s face rarely showed any emotion or reaction, and it didn’t now. But his voice lifted slightly, and I knew I was telling him something he didn’t know. I was strangely pleased. “On his part, he wants to be very friendly, and that’s quite obvious. On hers, I can’t say if she regards him as an old acquaintance or if there’s something more. She called him this morning, immediately after you left her, to invite him to join her for breakfast, and he walked through the door so soon he had to have been circling the block. So soon that you passed him on your way out. You held the door for him.”
“What’s he look like?”
I tried to describe Leon Lions, but the words I used were mostly “average” and “normal.” Not particularly helpful. I finished with “bald.”
“I’ll see if I can find anything out about him.”
“Has Evangeline ever been to England?” I asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“She had a strange reaction when meeting one of Charlene’s visiting researchers from Oxford University. Like she recognized him and was surprised to see him. He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to know her. I thought it was odd, that’s all. I wasn’t going to mention it to you, except …”
“Except that ‘it has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important’?”
“Sherlock Holmes?” I asked.
“A suitable quote for every occasion. What’s this researcher’s name?”
“James Dalrymple. He’s in his midthirties, so highly unlikely to be a former lover of hers.”
“Never assume, Lucy.”
“Stranger things have happened. He told me he was born in Nags Head but his mother took him to the UK, where she’s from, when his father died, and he hasn’t been back since his American grandparents died when he was a child. If that’s true—and you should be able to find out easily enough—if Evangeline knows him, she has to have gone to the UK. Then again, a heck of a lot of Americans go to England, so I don’t suppose that means much.”
We hadn’t reached the water’s edge yet, but Watson said, “Shall we turn back?” and we did so. “You asked me earlier if we found Rich Lewiston’s passport on him or in his car. That was a good question, Lucy, and as I said, we did not. Evangeline told me they keep their passports in a safe in the house, and I had Boston police look for it. They found both his and hers. The suitcase in his car contained clothes for a day, maybe two. He hadn’t cleared out his bank accounts, made any transfers to overseas accounts, or even had an excess of cash on him.”
“So he wasn’t planning to skip the country, with or without his wife and son.”
“Without going into details, I’ll tell you we have forensic accountants going through his personal accounts as well as those of his firm’s financial records which he had control over, and what you told me about his monetary situation seems to have been correct.”
“Meaning he had debts.”
“More than he could reasonably pay while still maintaining his lifestyle, not to mention his personal and professional reputation. Those debts, by the way, at least the ones I’ve been told about so far, are to banks, credit card companies, and reputable credit agencies. Not organized crime.”
“Too bad.”
“Why’s that too bad?”
“Because if the mob offed him, then Ricky and Evangeline didn’t, and I don’t have reason to be involved and I can go back to planning my wedding, which I haven’t even started doing yet, and finding a house to buy, which I have started and isn’t going well.”
“Things aren’t easy for a young couple starting out today.”
“No, and Connor and I are in a better position than many.”
“I want to show you something we did find in Rich Lewiston’s possession.” Watson took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. “This is a good-quality photocopy. Tell me if it means anything to you.”
He handed it to me. I studied it carefully, trying to think like Sherlock Holmes. The paper was white and plain, with a crease in the middle, indicating it had been folded in half. It contained nothing but a single line of text. The print appeared to be from a computer, the typeface Times New Roman 12.
We have to talk. Jakes Seafood Bar in Nags Head. 9 o’clck.
The letter wri
ter had spelled clock wrong, which indicated the sender must have been in a hurry. Even if they couldn’t spell the word, the spell checker would have put a red line under it, and anyone paying attention would have corrected it before printing the note. I pointed that out to Watson and added, “If they had spell checker turned on, that is.”
“It’s possible not to?”
“Yes.”
Watson grinned at me. A rare occurrence. It made him look almost handsome. Human, even. “I knew there was a reason I wanted to show you this. No one else told me that. My desktop computer was set up for me, and I’ve never dared go into the settings. I’m afraid of breaking something. Same as the one at home. CeeCee fixes it if there are any problems. I assumed spell check was always on. Never assume, Sam,” he added to himself. “First rule of policing.”
“Other than that,” I said, “this doesn’t tell me much. We now know why Rich was at Jake’s when he was, but we still don’t know why he was in the Outer Banks in the first place. The note isn’t signed, meaning Rich must have known who it came from. Or he thought he knew, but it was someone other than the person who sent it.”
“Could his wife or son have sent it?”
“I wouldn’t have thought they’d have such a formal relationship, but I can’t say for sure. Why not phone or text? Did you find his phone?”
“It was on him. He’d received no calls or texts since Friday afternoon that hadn’t come from clients of his or people he worked with. Nothing from Evangeline or Ricky. I haven’t shown this note to anyone else, not yet. Please don’t mention it.”
“I won’t.”
Now that Watson was in what passed for him as a chatty mood, I asked, “When I saw him, it looked as though he’d been stabbed. Was that what he died of?”
“He was knifed in the back, yes. We’re searching for the weapon, but I’ve little doubt it’s at the bottom of the Sound or the ocean by now.”
“Not many people carry knives around with them. Certainly not the sort of people Rich Lewiston was acquainted with.”
“Which means the murder was an act of malice aforethought. The killer arranged to meet Rich at Jake’s with the intention of killing him. By the way, Jake has done an inventory of his steak and cooking knives, and all are accounted for.”
