by Eva Gates
“Can we get back to this book?” Theodore said. “I’ll ask my mother about the Crawbingham family. Her knowledge of Outer Banks history surpasses even yours, Louise Jane.”
“As if,” she said.
“And if my mother doesn’t know, she won’t pretend she does.”
“Hey! I never—”
“I’ll talk to the society today,” Mrs. Eastland said. “We don’t need to check official weather records; we have plenty of diaries from the times, and many of them recorded the weather regularly.”
“Thank you,” Bertie said. “We close early on Mondays. Invite them to come in tomorrow morning, if they’d like, for a quick peek. In the meantime, I haven’t forgotten that the town owns this library. Thus, I will assume, until I’m told otherwise, the town owns the contents of the box. Lucy, when you get a chance, can you call the mayor and inform him of the find?”
“Happy to,” I said, feeling a warm flush on my cheeks. The mayor of Nags Head just happens to be my boyfriend, Connor McNeil. I knew Connor would also be interested in our find on a personal level. Like Louise Jane and Theodore, he was descended from a proud longtime Outer Banks fishing family.
“I don’t want any talk about codes and treasure maps,” Bertie said, “or we’ll have every crank in town wanting to have a go at deciphering it.” She studied our faces. “Am I understood?”
“Sure.”
“Fine.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Got it.”
“I hear you.”
“Meow,” added Charles.
“Good. In the meantime,” Bertie said, “I’ll lock this away in my desk drawer.”
She reached for the box, but I snapped it up. “Let me help you,” I said with a smile.
“It’s not heavy.”
“Happy to be of assistance.”
The front door flew open, and Ronald, surrounded by a pack of kids, came in. “I could have used some help out there, Louise Jane,” he said.
“I’ve been busy,” she replied. “My historical expertise was needed.”
“Whatever,” he said.
* * *
“I assume you want to talk to me about something before Mabel joins us for the meeting?” Bertie said when I’d put the box on her desk.
“I’d like to take some pictures of the map and the code page. If it is a code page. I’m rather good at anagrams and word puzzles, if I do say so myself. I can take a crack at figuring it out.”
“I don’t see a problem with that. As long as you do it on your own time.”
* * *
In telling us to keep the contents of our find a secret, Bertie might as well have saved her breath. Not an hour passed before people began pouring through the doors. And not just “every crank in town.” A good number of highly respected citizens showed up as well.
Including His Honor, the Mayor.
My heart lifted at the unexpected sight of him. Although he was the mayor of our town, Connor was only a year older than me, and heart-stoppingly handsome, with dark hair that curled in the mist off the sea, prominent cheekbones, eyes the color of the ocean on a sunny day. He’d come from the office, so was dressed in a dark blue business suit, crisp white shirt, and red tie. It was mid-afternoon, but traces of dark stubble were already breaking through his jawline.
“I thought you said you were in meetings all afternoon.” That’s what he’d told me when I called to tell him about the find.
He formed his lips into a pucker and threw me a silent kiss. As I was facing into the room, and people were standing behind him, I didn’t return the gesture, but I gave him a private smile.
“On the phone, you said George had dug up a historic relic. I assumed you meant a farm implement or uniform buckle, but word’s spreading that it’s a map to pirate treasure.”
“Oh dear,” I said.
“Meaning it’s not? My ten-year-old self is mighty disappointed.” He put on an exaggerated pout that was so cute I laughed.
“I’ll let Bertie show it to you. You can go on in.”
“Still on for dinner tonight?”
“Not even a chest full of Spanish doubloons will keep me away. What’s a Spanish doubloon anyway?”
“A gold coin. You close at five tonight, right? I’ll pick you up at six.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Connor went down the hallway to Bertie’s office. A room full of people watched him go. A few tried to follow. I called out, “Sorry, staff only past that point.”
One or two didn’t intend to let my protests stop them, but the presence of Charlene, looming up to block the hallway, did.
* * *
For the rest of the afternoon, I felt the photo of the code (if it was a code) burning a hole in my pocket. I kept touching the phone, as though I could read the words through my fingers.
I didn’t dare take a moment to check it. If I did, I’d become so quickly engrossed in trying to solve the puzzle, I’d forget to go back to work.
I wondered if Connor would mind if we spent our dinner huddling over a printout of the picture.
Probably not. It would appeal to the ten-year-old boy in him.
It appealed to the ten-year-old girl in me.
Chapter Three
At quarter to five the library was clearing out for the day. Connor had left, giving me a wink, and when Bertie didn’t come out of her office to address the waiting crowds or show them the map, they drifted away. The construction crew finished work at the regular time of four thirty. Their machinery fell silent, and their trucks and cars revved up as they drove away.
“Never a dull day at the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library,” Ronald said as he headed for the door.
I looked up from the computer. “You can say that again. How’s the construction playground working out?”
“Stroke of absolute genius. The kids love it; the parents are happy to have their children playing in the fresh air; and upstairs I’m pulling out picture books about construction work and reminding the girls that all trades are open to them. See you tomorrow.”
“Good night.”
Ronald left as Charlene clattered down the stairs. “I’m late, I’m late,” she said. “See you tomorrow, Lucy.”
At that moment the door opened, and four people came in. Mrs. Eastland was among them. and I recognized two of the others as members of the Bodie Island Historical Society, a group of amateurs with a keen interest in the history of our area and the preservation of historic buildings and artifacts. They often consulted with Charlene about the library’s collection of old documents and had been in and out of Bertie’s office over the past few weeks, keeping her up to date on plans for the forthcoming Settlers’ Day event.
When she saw them, Charlene sucked in a breath. Her shoulders and neck stiffened, and color flooded into her face. She dropped her head and kept her eyes on the floor. “Night, Lucy,” she mumbled. “Excuse me. Sorry—gotta run. I’m late.”
The man I didn’t know broke into a huge smile the moment he spotted her. He said, “Charlene! I’ve been hoping we’d run into each other,” in a booming voice. She avoided his eyes and mumbled something as she pushed her way past the new arrivals and almost sprinted out of the library.
He watched her go, his smile getting even bigger. He was in his early to mid-fifties, not bad looking, but there was something I didn’t like or trust about that smile or the way he turned to me and almost leered. “Hi there,” he said. “We’re here to see the notebook you found.”
I threw a questioning look at Mrs. Eastland.
“Have you two not met?” she said. “Lucy, this is Jeremy Hughes, the newest member of our little group of history lovers.”
“We’re so lucky to have him. It was Jeremy’s idea for Settlers’ Day,” the other woman giggled. Giggling, I thought, didn’t suit her. Her name was Lynne Feingold, and she was a short round woman in her fifties, full of nervous mannerisms and bursting with an excess of enthusiasm. She was involved in anythin
g and everything to do with arts and culture in Nags Head, and had once been on the library board, although she was no longer.
“I told them Bertie gave us permission to examine your find,” Mrs. Eastland said.
The others nodded.
“I believe I said you could see it in the morning.” Bertie came into the room. “The library’s closing now.”
“We couldn’t wait a minute longer,” Jeremy said.
“We knew you wouldn’t mind,” Lynne said.
“I told them it’s absolutely marvelous,” Mrs. Eastland added.
“Tomorrow,” Bertie said.
“Tonight,” Jeremy said, “Right now. Come on, Bertie. It’s not even five o’clock yet. We should be able to make a quick judgment as to authenticity. If it’s not of the era you claim, then we don’t need to waste anyone’s time tomorrow.”
“I haven’t claimed it’s anything at all, but it wasn’t buried at the base of the lighthouse tower last week,” Bertie said.
“Allow me to be the judge of that,” Jeremy said.
I saw Bertie’s back stiffen. This man was already rubbing her the wrong way. If he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself barred from seeing the notebook at any time. From his spot on the top of a bookshelf, Charles hissed at Jeremy.
Phil Cahill, the fourth member of the group, coughed lightly, and said in his quiet, polite voice. “If it wouldn’t be too inconvenient Bertie, we would appreciate it. Just a quick peek.” Phil was around sixty, reserved and taciturn, a passionate lover of the Outer Banks, and the author of popular nonfiction books about the earliest settlers to the eastern seaboard. He did much of his research in our rare books room and was a vocal supporter of the library. He’d donated generously to the building restoration fund over the winter.
Bertie gave in. “I suppose a quick peek wouldn’t hurt. Lucy, can you lock up, please.”
I headed for the door, but I arrived too late. It flew open to admit two more people, almost hitting me in the face. I suppressed a groan. Professors Elizabeth McArthur and Norman Hoskins from Blacklock College.
“What’s this?” Elizabeth shouted, “You’ve found wartime letters from President Lincoln? We came the moment we heard.”
“Lincoln!” Lynne’s hands fluttered. “Oh, my goodness, I never dreamed. I wonder how they came to be here?”
“We’ve found nothing of the sort,” Bertie said. “It’s an old journal. A fishing wife’s record of the weather and the tides.”
The newcomers’ faces fell.
“What it is remains to be seen,” Jeremy said. “Which is why we’re here. I don’t recall inviting you to join us, Professor McArthur.”
“I don’t recall you being invited to invite anyone,” Bertie muttered under her breath.
“I don’t know that I need an invitation from you or anyone else,” Elizabeth McArthur replied. “If this is a document of potential historical importance, it needs to be examined by professionals, not a pack of enthusiastic amateurs.”
“I don’t consider myself—” Phil began.
Elizabeth cut him off. “You, Mr. Cahill, merely write up in popular format what others have spent years of scholarly devotion studying.”
Phil bristled. “My books bring history to life so folks can appreciate—”
Bertie didn’t allow him to finish his explanation. “What are you doing here, Professors?”
We’d encountered Norman Hoskins and Elizabeth McArthur before. They were professors of North Carolina history at Blacklock College in Elizabeth City, and last year they’d been in competition with us for possession of a valuable collection of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century maps and sea charts. In the end, no one got the collection when the owner died and his granddaughter assumed management of it. The methods McArthur and Hoskins employed in their attempts to secure the papers were not entirely aboveboard.
“Word reached us,” Elizabeth said, “of this discovery. Naturally we decided to come and take a look for ourselves.” Norman said nothing, but he nodded enthusiastically as she spoke.
“Might as well make a party of it,” Bertie said.
“Oh good, I’m not late.” Louise Jane burst into the room, panting heavily, as though she’d run the entire way. “Accident at Whalebone Junction, and I got delayed. A couple of cars turned into the driveway behind me. I think one of them is Diane and Curtis.”
“This is ridiculous!” Jeremy said. “We’re here on an important, perhaps vitally important, historical mission, and everyone and their cat”—he threw a hostile look at Charles—“thinks they can barge in.”
“It is my library,” Bertie said.
“Barge in!” Louise Jane shouted. “I’ll have you know I was present when the notebook was found. I’ve already seen it. You’re lucky I agreed with Bertie that it should stay in the library. She wanted me to take it home so my grandmother could examine it.”
“I didn’t—” Bertie said.
“Your grandmother!” Lynne yelled. “That old fraud.”
“Notebook?” Norman said. “You mean they’re not letters from President Lincoln?”
“My grandmother and her family before her were part of the history of the Outer Banks when your ancestors were living in New York City, Lynne.” Louise Jane managed to make it sound as though living in New York was some sort of crime.
Maybe to her it was.
Lynne sputtered, but Phil spoke over her. “Lynne is as proud a Banker as you and your grandmother, Louise Jane. At least she’s not chasing ghosts up and down the coast.”
“Paranormal research is an important part—”
“You people aren’t still insisting this library is haunted, are you?” Elizabeth said.
“We’ve never …” I said.
“Look who we found.” Diane Uppiton and Curtis Gardner were next through our doors. An apologetic-looking Connor McNeil tagged along behind them.
“Sorry I’m early, Lucy,” Connor said. “I stopped into Josie’s to grab a coffee after a meeting, and I ran into Diane and Curtis, and …” His voice trailed off.
Diane was dressed in one of her pastel Chanel suits. She must have come directly from the hairdresser: the scent of the hair spray holding her solid black helmet in place surrounded her like a noxious cloud. “I asked Connor what was going on at the library, but he wouldn’t tell us. We decided we had to come and have a look for ourselves. Good thing we did. We seem to be the only representatives of the library board on hand.”
“Figured you’d want us here,” Curtis said.
Charles jumped off the bookshelf where he’d been sitting to best hear the conversation, and hurried over to greet the new arrivals. By greet, I mean he stretched out his claws and took a swipe at Diane’s leg. She screeched and leapt out of the way before he could ruin her stockings. Goal achieved, he smirked and leapt back to his place.
Charles didn’t like Diane and Curtis, and he rarely failed to display his disapproval. I didn’t like them either, but I was never so obvious about it. Curtis and Diane might be members of our board, but they were no friends of the library. Diane inherited her position when her husband, who’d been chair of the board, died. At the time of his death, they were going through a highly acrimonious and very public divorce. She’d hated everything he cared about, and she still did. Including the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library. She and Curtis took up housekeeping together shortly after Diane’s husband’s death, and she managed to get Curtis on the board to serve as her ally. He didn’t care about the library one way or another, but he knew who was paying his bills—Diane—and he took her side on every matter, whether he understood it or not.
“Lucy, lock that door!” Bertie shouted.
I did so before the remainder of the population of Nags Head and environs could get wind of what was happening and decide to join us.
Bertie clapped her hands in an attempt to be heard over the babble of voices. No one paid the slightest bit of attention, so I decided it was time for me to intervene. I have three ol
der brothers, and growing up I’d learned a trick or two.
One of which is to whistle.
I put my fingers in my mouth and blew. To my intense satisfaction, the sound rang throughout the room and bounced off the curving, whitewashed stone walls. Everyone stopped arguing in mid-sentence.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” Connor said with what sounded like genuine admiration.
“Thank you, Lucy,” Bertie said. “Now that I have your attention, we will proceed in an orderly fashion into my office. I’ll lay out the notebook, and you can all have a look. But no touching.”
“What do you mean, no touching?” Jeremy said. “If you want us to examine it, we have to have a close look.”
“Examine what, exactly?” Diane asked. “Bertie what’s going on here?”
“See what I mean about amateurs?” Elizabeth McArthur said. “Proper analysis needs to be done to authenticate the age of the document. We have the facilities at Blacklock College. I can take it tonight and start work tomorrow.”
“It’s a fisherman’s wife’s journal,” Mrs. Eastland said, “not a lost copy of the Magna Carta.”
“What’s a carta?” Curtis asked.
“You mean all this fuss is over some diary?” Diane said. “My mother’s kept a diary her whole life. Most boring thing I can imagine.”
“A great many documents of considerable importance have been mistaken at first for common or garden items,” Elizabeth pointed out.
“I for one would prefer a settler’s diary,” Louise Jane said. “The Magna Carta’s been read already.”
Bertie led the way, and I brought up the rear. “Don’t say anything about the map,” I whispered to Connor. “Bertie doesn’t want to start rumors of buried treasure.”
“Too late,” he said. “I have a mental image of everyone in town out with picks and shovels digging up the shoreline.” Connor dipped his chin to indicate Curtis. “Led by you-know-who.”
I shuddered. “Perish the thought.”
Chapter Four
A painting hung on the wall behind Bertie’s desk. It showed a woman on the beach, doing a downward dog, framed by the light of the rising sun. It was beautiful and calming, and I always gave it an admiring look when I came in here.