by Eva Gates
Butch pulled up in a marked patrol car. Watson opened the rear door for me, and I climbed in.
I soon decided I didn’t like it much back here. A wire partition separated me from the front seat, and no handles were on the doors or windows. It was like being in a cage.
“Hello?” I said.
“We can hear you, Lucy,” Butch said with a chuckle. “If we pass anyone you know, duck.”
“Most amusing.” Wouldn’t that get the rumor mill working overtime!
We drove toward town, passing no other traffic on Highway 12 until we arrived at Whalebone Junction. Butch carried on through and we drove into the town of Nags Head on the Croatan Highway. Eventually he made a left turn into a winding street of small homes and came to a halt. I’d never been to Louise Jane’s house before. It was a small blue building with a single-car garage and a tiny yard consisting mostly of brown grass, sand, and a few scruffy bushes.
Louise Jane’s car was parked in the driveway, next to two green trash bins. Butch switched off the engine, and he and Watson got out of the cruiser. Sam Watson held the back door open for me while Butch pulled his flashlight off his belt and knelt down next to the right back tire on Louise Jane’s rusty old van. He shone the light on the tire, nodded once, and stood up.
“Yup,” he said to Watson. “Same tire I fixed last week.”
“Get some pictures,” Watson said.
The lamp over the front door came on, the door opened, and Louise Jane stood there. The harsh light shining down on her emphasized her craggy face, flat chest, and bony frame, and threw deep circles under her eyes. She had changed her clothes since I’d seen her last and was dressed in a pair of baggy blue sweat pants and a well-worn T-shirt. Her lip was cut, and a dark bruise was forming on her left cheek. The tinny sound of a TV spilled out from the room behind her. “What on earth are you three doing poking around in the middle of the night?” she called.
“Evening, Louise Jane,” Watson said. “May we come in?”
Louise Jane didn’t look at either of the police officers. Instead, she studied my face. I automatically smiled at her before remembering this wasn’t a social call. I dropped the smile.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“We can talk better inside,” Watson said. “We don’t want the neighbors gossiping.”
“Don’t see that that matters. They do nothing else anyway.” But she stepped back and made a sweeping gesture with her arm.
The front door opened directly into a small living room. The furniture was cheap and plain, scarred with age, but everything was clean and tidy. The walls were hung with drawings and paintings of historic Outer Banks scenes, some old and yellowing, some fairly new, their colors bright and modern. A two-inch-high model of the Bodie Island Lighthouse sat on a table next to the TV. I didn’t recognize the movie playing on the big flat-screen television that was the centerpiece of the room, or any of the actors dressed as medieval soldiers and peasants.
“I’d offer you a drink,” Louise Jane said, “but I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”
“No,” Watson said.
“Can you turn the TV off, please?” Butch asked. I felt sorry for him, in his dark uniform and bulletproof vest. The house wasn’t air-conditioned, and the two big fans did little but stir hot air around.
A remote control sat on a side table next to a brown La-Z-Boy, beside a half-finished mug of coffee and a library copy of Journey to the Center of the Earth. Louise snatched it up and pressed a button. The light of the screen faded, and silence filled the room.
“Thank you,” Watson said.
“That’s a bad cut on your face,” Butch said. “How’d you get it?”
She lifted one hand and gingerly touched her lip. “I tripped over my own big feet. I was carrying groceries and did a face-plant into the countertop in the kitchen.”
“Is that so?” Watson said. “Louise Jane, I need to ask where you were this evening, say between seven and ten o’clock.”
Her eyes flicked toward me. “Here. Home.”
“All that time?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Why doesn’t matter. But I am asking.”
“Okay, if you must know, I went to the library and then to the grocery store. I wanted to talk to Lucy, but she wasn’t there.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I wasn’t there.”
“What time was this?” Watson asked.
“I don’t know for sure,” she said. “It started to rain as I was leaving the house. It was still light out, but the sun was low. Seven thirty, eight o’clock maybe.”
“When you discovered Lucy wasn’t at the library, what did you do then?”
“I went to the market and came straight home. I carried the groceries in, and that was when I fell. I stepped in a puddle outside; my sneakers were wet, and I slipped on the kitchen floor.”
“I’ve been told you were at the library around five. Why did you go back later?” Watson asked.
“I thought of something I wanted to ask Lucy.” Her eyes moved around the room, not settling on any of the people facing her.
“Why did you need to ask her tonight? Rather than wait until tomorrow morning?”
Louise Jane shifted from one foot to the other and avoided looking at me again. “It wasn’t late. I figured she’d still be up.” Louise Jane was a good actor—she specialized in storytelling—but her nervousness was giving her away. She’d been up to something tonight, all right. And not just an after-hours social call.
“You drove all the way out there without calling first?” Watson said.
“It was a nice night for a drive. I didn’t mind.”
“By seven thirty, it was raining heavily,” Watson said. “The wind was high, which you well know means a chance of waves washing over the road.”
Her eyes flicked toward me, and then she faced Watson directly and spoke quickly. “I thought maybe Lucy’d let me have a peek at the notebook they’d found. Did you hear about that?”
“Yes.”
“Bertie hustled everyone out awful fast, but I don’t know why I couldn’t examine it first instead of that ridiculous so-called historical society. Bunch of rank amateurs, if you ask me. I took a chance Lucy’d be in, that’s all. I still don’t know why you’re asking me this. Did something happen?”
“Did you see anyone on the library grounds?” Watson asked.
“No.”
“Any cars in the lot?”
“Just Lucy’s.”
“Did anyone arrive at any time while you were there?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone hanging about?”
“No. No one.”
“It was raining when you say you left, raining hard. Did you see anyone walking along the road? Maybe someone hitching a ride?”
“Hitchhikers? Why are you asking me about hitchhikers? I know better than to pick up a hitchhiker on a lonely stretch of road.”
“I didn’t ask if you picked anyone up, Louise Jane. I asked if you saw anyone.”
She shook her head firmly. “No. There wasn’t much traffic at all. And no one ever walks along that stretch of highway. It’s way too far out of town.”
“You’re sure about how you hurt your face?” Watson asked.
“Of course I’m sure. I didn’t black out or anything. It was no big deal.” She touched her lip again. “Maybe I was a little bit annoyed at wasting my time going all the way out to the library, so I wasn’t watching my footing and slipped—what of it? Why are you asking me all these questions? What happened? Obviously something did.”
“Thank you for your time, Louise Jane. I might have more questions later, so please don’t leave town without checking with me.”
“Questions about what?” She threw a look at me. “Has someone stolen the diary? If so, you have to believe it wasn’t me.”
“Get those tires replaced,” Butch said. “First thing tomorrow morning. Or next time I see that van of yours o
n the road, I’m going to impound it.”
Thinking the subject had changed, she visibly relaxed and threw me her customary smirk.
Louise Jane’s story was simple enough, and her presence in the vicinity of the library tonight believable, but she’d been jumpy, nervous at answering Watson’s questions. She hadn’t been wary, I realized, of him, but of me.
“You weren’t hoping to find me in,” I said. “You were hoping to find me not in. Which you could have guessed I’d be, as Connor had come to pick me up for dinner.” I turned to Watson. “Louise Jane came back after everyone left, thinking we’d all be gone and she could walk right in.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said, her voice much higher pitched than normal. She coughed. “I mean, how could I do that? The door would be locked.”
“You can’t. Because we haven’t hidden another key outside. You remember, Detective, the spare key an earlier librarian put under a rock on the lawn because she kept forgetting hers.”
“I remember,” Watson said. “It caused me no end of trouble last summer when I realized anyone who knew about that key could have simply marched in and walked out with the Austen books.”
I’d only learned about the existence of the hidden key when Louise Jane used it to let herself in around the time the collection of first edition Jane Austen novels we had on special loan were disappearing. After that, Bertie ensured the key was removed from under its rock, and we’d never tried to find another hiding place.
“Okay. I’ll admit the thought had crossed my mind.” Louise Jane laughed lightly. “You can be awful absent-minded sometimes, Lucy.”
“I’m never anything of the sort.”
“Don’t let it bother you. Everyone finds it perfectly charming.”
I sputtered.
“Although I can’t imagine why. I thought it worth a try. I admit it. I checked under a few rocks. No key. So I left.”
“Did you try the door?” Watson asked.
“Guilty as charged.” Now her secret was out, Louise Jane’s confidence had returned. “As I said, Lucy can be forgetful, so I hoped she’d forgotten to lock up.”
“I never forget to lock up!”
Another patronizing smile. “If you say so, honey.”
“Thank you for your time, Louise Jane,” Watson said.
“Are you going to tell me what all this is about?”
“I’m going to tell you something you already know,” he said. “Entering someone’s home or place of business without their permission is an offense. Even if you happen to find a key where it was not left for you.”
“I’ll remember that in the future,” she said.
Watson turned as if to leave, then he swung back around to face her. “Oh, one more thing. Do you happen to know a man by the name of Jeremy Hughes? I heard he was at the library tonight with the rest of you.”
Louise Jane didn’t react to the name. “I’ve met him once or twice. Fancies himself a big man about town. He has family money, or so they say, so he took early retirement from some sort of internet sales company and moved to Nags Head a few years ago to tell us how to best run our town. I can’t say I was pleased to see him at the library tonight, not as part of the historical society. His interest in the history of the Outer Banks is about as deep as mine is in the workings of the internet. His other interest—or so they say—is in women. He’s known to be quite the ladies’ man.” She sniffed. “Can’t say I found him the least bit appealing, did you, Lucy?”
I suppressed a shudder. “I’ll agree with you there.”
“Is that so?” Watson said. “Thank you for your time, Louise Jane.”
“Get those tires replaced tomorrow morning,” Butch growled at her.
We went back to the cruiser. I glanced at the house as we drove away. Louise Jane stood in her living room window, watching us go.
“She was at the library before Jeremy and his killer arrived,” I said. “She went up to the door to check if it was locked and didn’t notice it smashed almost to bits. That would have been hard to miss.”
“Do you believe her story?” Watson asked me.
“I do. Louise Jane has a possessive attitude toward the library. It didn’t surprise me in the least to hear she thinks she can walk in after hours as and when she likes.”
“You don’t think this possessive attitude could turn to murder? If she saw someone damaging the library?”
Butch snorted.
“Is that your professional opinion, Officer?” Watson asked.
“As good as,” Butch said. “I know Louise Jane. She’d be more likely to tell anyone she suspected of meaning the library no good that she’d sic one of her invisible friends on him.”
“Her what?”
“She believes the library’s haunted,” I said. “She tells everyone she can commune with the spirits.”
“Oh, yeah. That. CeeCee’s told me about that. What did you think about the bruising on her face? It looks as though a fight took place in Bertie’s office tonight. I didn’t see any signs of blows to Hughes’s face, and he had gloves on his hands, so I didn’t see his knuckles, but I’ll ask the autopsy doc to check for any bruising.”
“I agree with Butch.” I offered my opinion although I hadn’t been asked. “The only wrongdoing Louise Jane got up to tonight was to try to sneak into the library because she knew I’d gone out. She was open enough about what happened with her slipping and hurting her face. She didn’t seem the least bit defensive about it until you started with the questions. I will admit that she seems to have an animosity toward Jeremy and the historical society. Probably because they don’t take her seriously as a historian.”
“Animosity can lead to a lot of nasty things, Lucy,” Watson said. “Including murder.”
“I’m guessing by the questions about people walking on the highway or hitchhiking, you didn’t find any other tire prints in the parking lot?”
“Nothing laid down after the rain started, apart from Connor’s car and Hughes’s. And Louise Jane’s. It’s entirely possible the person or persons in question left their car on the side of the highway and walked in despite the rain.”
“They might have come with Hughes in his car,” Butch said.
“If so, how did they get back to town?” Watson muttered to himself as much as to us.
“A boat?” Butch asked.
“Perhaps. But the timeline’s tight for someone to be able to arrange alternate transportation, follow Hughes to the library, do the deed, and get away. Lucy, I’ll drop you at the library and then pay a call on Curtis Gardner. See if he can tell me anything about Hughes’s movements after leaving the meeting at the library.”
“It’s a long way to go just to take me back,” I said. “I’ll come with you.”
“No,” he said.
Curses, foiled again.
Chapter Eight
When at last I let myself into my apartment, cradling a grateful Charles, I was dead beat, but I knew I’d never be able to get to sleep. Far too much was whirling around inside my head.
I put fresh water and food out for Charles, took a shower, and got into my pajamas. I then put the kettle on for hot tea and settled at the kitchen table. I would have loved nothing more than to lie awake in bed, remembering every beautiful detail of my night with Connor. Unfortunately, the beautiful night with Connor had turned into, first, an attempt to decipher the code and, second, wondering what on earth had happened at the library tonight.
Watson might not be so sure, but I believed Louise Jane. She would never have killed Jeremy, or anyone else. It’s entirely possible, I thought, if she found him damaging the library or its contents, she’d demand he put a stop to it. And arguments had a way of turning into fights.
But I couldn’t see it. She’d been nervous and edgy when we showed up at her door, but all that ended when she confessed to hoping to find a key, and she returned to her confident self. She hadn’t been trying to hide guilt at a murder, and she genuinely didn’t seem t
o understand why Watson wanted to know how she’d hurt her face.
So, if not Louise Jane, then who? And why?
The how was obvious. I hadn’t taken much of a look at Jeremy. I hadn’t wanted to—a quick glance was more than enough. I’d seen no obvious wounds such as caused by a gunshot or a knife, but the state of Bertie’s office looked as though he’d been in a fight. It was likely he’d either been hit on the side of the head or had struck his head when he fell.
I thought over the scene earlier in the day in Bertie’s office: everyone excited, arguing about the contents of the tin box. But something had happened before that.
When the group from the historical society arrived, Charlene had ducked her head at the sight of Jeremy and slipped out of the library without a word of greeting to the new arrivals. He’d grinned at her, and he hadn’t stopped grinning as she scurried away, as though her actions amused him because he knew her well.
Or knew something about her.
Did Charlene and Jeremy have a history? The moment I met him, he’d triggered my lecherous creep radar, and Louise Jane had said outright that he had a reputation with women.
Until I could ask Charlene about it, I’d keep her reaction to myself, but his behavior might have provided the motive for his murder. Maybe his death didn’t have anything to do with the papers in the tin box. Was it possible he’d been at the library after hours for another reason, and his killer had been waiting for an opportunity to get him on his own and do the deed?
Why then, would that person have taken the papers? Because Jeremy was interested in them, and so his killer wanted to see what they were?
I let out a long puff of breath.
I simply didn’t know enough about Jeremy, his life, and his acquaintances to speculate.
Besides, I wasn’t going to get involved. Not this time.
But I could try to find out what I could about the code page and the map. We didn’t have the papers themselves—they’d been stolen—but the images were on my phone. I called them up and sent them to the printer. My own printer wasn’t nearly as good quality as the library’s, but it would do for tonight. The police were still moving about downstairs, and I could hardly wander down in my shower hair and shorty pajamas.