by Eva Gates
“Washington. That wouldn’t be Janelle and Neil Washington would it?”
“Might be. Far as I know that family stayed on when the Freedmen’s Colony was broken up. I know Neil. Used to work for me.” He shook his head. “He was a darn good worker. After he hurt his back so bad, I tried to give him some office work so as to keep him on, but even that got too much. How they doin’?”
“Janelle comes to the library regularly and brings her twin girls. She’s an assistant at a real estate office, so I think they’re managing okay. The girls are lovely—polite and well-mannered, although pretty much of a handful. They’re always nicely dressed and look healthy and happy.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “It’s hard, though, when the man of the family can’t put bread on the table.” He turned at a shout from one of his crew. “Better get back at it.”
“Thanks, George,” I said. “That was interesting.”
* * *
“I need to talk to Charlene for a moment,” I said to Bertie. “Be right back.”
Bertie waved a hand at me from behind the circulation desk.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor. The door to Charlene’s office was open, and she was at her computer, typing away, earbuds in place. The powerful lamp on her desk threw a circle of light around her. Her office was small—just enough room for the desk and one chair—made even smaller and darker by the rows upon rows of shelves bulging with books. All the books in here were reference materials. The rare books themselves, of which we had a good number, were kept in their own secure space.
“Hi,” I said. “Got a minute?”
She pushed her chair back, stretched her shoulders, and pulled out the earpieces. The driving sound of rap music leaked from the buds. “Happily. I’ve been asked to provide some advice on costumes for Settlers’ Day. I’m happy to do so, but I’m getting tired of telling people that women who crossed the sea from England in the sixteenth century did not dress in silk and lace and jewels. And it’s unlikely many of the men looked like this.” She pointed to the computer to show me a photo of Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow.
“Realism in historical reenactment only goes so far,” I said. “Not many people are going to wear their costume every day for a year without washing it, to get the scent authentic.”
Charlene chucked. “And thank heavens for that. What’s up?”
With Charlene it was always best to get straight to the point. I did so. “Jeremy Hughes.”
She rubbed a hand across her eyes. The track on her music changed, and a woman began to sing. Or shout. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference. “What about him?”
“What’s the story there?”
“You think there is a story?”
“You left mighty quickly when he arrived Monday night. Couldn’t wait to be out the door, I thought.”
“I didn’t know he’d joined the historical society. All the people I’ve been dealing with for Settlers’ Day have been women or Phil.”
“Is there a reason you should have known?”
“Yes,” she said. “So I’d keep myself well out of it.”
“I know it’s none of my business. Except that—”
“The man died here. In our library. That makes it our business.”
“Much to Detective Watson’s dismay, it does.” I studied her face. She didn’t look particularly upset.
“Do we know what he was doing in the library last night?” she asked.
“We can guess he was after the diary and papers. Why he couldn’t wait until this morning, and who was with him, are questions the police have to find answers for.”
“I didn’t come back after Mom was asleep to meet Jeremy Hughes, or anyone else, in order to conduct some sort of assignation, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It is not. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, but I get a strong feeling there’s some history between you two.”
“History. That’s the right word. He and I had a … fling, I guess you’d call it. It’s totally over and done with, and has been for a long time.”
I’d been expecting something like that, but it still came as a shock. The notoriously lecherous Jeremy and the practical, down-to-earth Charlene? I couldn’t see it. I said nothing.
She let out a long sigh. “What can I say? It was a mistake. A bad one. It happened two years ago. I’d just returned from England and moved in with my mom. I love my mother very much, Lucy, and I had no problem coming back to Nags Head when she needed me. My dad died when I was five years old—cancer—and she was left with pretty much nothing except his hospital bills and me. She worked darn hard and went without a lot of things to make sure I got a good education. I remember my rebellious teenage years, when she just said over and over and over that I was going to college and that was that. She was nothing but delighted for me when I was offered my dream job at Oxford, and she insisted I go to England. ‘We’ll have plenty of years together, Char,’ she said when I told her about it. ‘It’s your time now. You follow your dream.’”
She paused and ran her hand over the book on her desk, Costuming in the Seventeenth Century. There’s no window in this room, and shadows filled the corners.
“I’ve no excuses, not really, but I was adrift when I got back. Most of my friends had moved on, and my mom was in a bad way. I landed this job and was darn lucky to get it, so with that and her small savings, I could hire a good caregiver for Mom. In the back of my mind, I was angry and resentful. And so guilty for feeling that way.”
“That’s natural enough,” I said.
“I was easy pickings for a slimeball like Jeremy Hughes. I must have been out of my mind to find him attractive, but he turned on the charm and the flattery. And, I have to say, he spent money on me. Fancy restaurants, nice presents. He paid for a sitter for Mom so I could go out in the evenings and bought her little gifts. I knew he was married—more fool, me—but he fed me the same old story. They were soon to be divorced, and his wife didn’t care what he got up to.”
I thought of Lynne before asking, “I’m guessing the wife did care.”
Charlene laughed without humor. “Funny thing is, that, at least, was true. She didn’t care what he got up to. Not one bit. Most of the time. She tracked me down, came to my house one day, and told me there was no pending divorce, and I was but the latest in a long line of foolish girls hoping to snag a rich man.”
“Why would she do that if she didn’t care if he was having affairs?”
“He gave me a ring. Not an engagement ring—he never said it was that—but it was nice, a ruby. It belonged to her, so she said, and she wanted it back.”
I was horrified. “Oh my gosh, Charlene. How terrible for you.”
“The words ‘total and complete humiliation’ come to mind. I didn’t think—not for a moment—to believe she wasn’t telling me the truth. When I thought about it after, I realized all the signs were there. She must have told him she’d been to see me, because he never called me. I literally never spoke to him again. Nags Head’s a small town, but not that small. Our paths never crossed. I soon forgot all about him and settled down to enjoy my life. My job, my friends.” She smiled at me. “My coworkers. I still have my mom. She might not be able to get around anymore, but she’s as fun and witty and loving as she ever was. The way I look at it, I had a lucky escape. Jeremy and I only dated for a few months.”
“Bertie was going to ask you to work with him on the diary. It would have been awkward for you to be around him.”
“Nah,” she said. “It was a shock to see him here at the library, in my safe place—that’s all. I’m totally over it.” The smile she gave me was forced, and I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I changed the subject. “Are you any good at word puzzles?”
“Not in the least. You want me to look at this code page I’ve been hearing about?”
I’d printed several more copies this morning, and I handed her one. She reached up and tilted her desk lamp
so the light fell fully onto the page. “I suppose there’s a pattern in there somewhere, but I don’t see it. I’m great at reading unintelligible handwriting and minuscule print faded almost to nothing, but not something like this. Sorry. Can I keep this?”
“I’ve made copies.”
“If something occurs to me, I’ll let you know, but I don’t expect anything will. I can only wish some of the historical documents I come across have writing as neat as this. I’d love to know what it says, from a historical perspective.”
“The latest rumor’s that the diary’s cursed and it was buried deliberately, sort of like the North American version of a mummy’s tomb. The curse is what got Jeremy.”
“No ancient Egyptian curse killed Jeremy Hughes,” Charlene said, and I caught a glimpse of something deep and dark behind her eyes. “But a woman scorned might well have.”
Chapter Ten
I went downstairs full of thought. “Can I have a few minutes?” I asked Bertie. “I have something I need to tell Detective Watson.”
“What about?”
“I’ve only met Jeremy Hughes once, but I do have some impressions of the man I’d like to share.”
“I haven’t met anyone who didn’t have an opinion about him,” said Bertie. “One way or the other. Take what time you need.” She checked her watch. “It’s coming up to noon. Why don’t you go into town, talk to Sam, and then pick up lunch for me at Josie’s? And get something for yourself. My treat. Come to think of it, get sandwiches, drinks, and some sort of dessert for us all. I’d tell you to dip into petty cash, but that’s in my office, and I’m still forbidden from entering. If you pay, I’ll reimburse you later. I’ll expense it to the library budget. We deserve a treat after what happened here last night. You most of all.”
“I won’t argue with that,” I said.
I ran upstairs for my purse and car keys. Cell phone reception within the thick stone walls of the library is poor at the best of times and nonexistent at others, so I waited until I was outside before calling the good detective.
Despite the heat, the children’s construction site was busy, and two volunteer parents chatted in the shade of the umbrellas while keeping a close eye on the goings on. Kids filled the back of trucks with sand and pushed them a few feet before dumping them out, while other children reloaded the trucks and drove the sand back. One guy was building a road, patting down and smoothing out the sand, while a little girl, so cute in a pink construction hat, played with a toy jackhammer, her body jerking to a rhythm only she could hear.
At least her jackhammer was silent. The one at the real site hadn’t been used today, thank heavens, but when it was, the noise rattled the very walls of the lighthouse, not to mention my back teeth. To the east side of the lighthouse tower, George and his crew were hard at work. The lawn was completely torn up, and the tracks of heavy equipment churned through the earth. Most of the work was being done underground, giving me not a hint of how they were progressing, but as far as I knew, George hadn’t been into Bertie’s office to complain lately. They wouldn’t be finished before Sunday, Settlers’ Day, but the construction area was safely marked off by the wire fence, and plenty of open space remained to accommodate all the day’s participants and guests.
Thank heavens, George’s crew hadn’t found a dead body or a skeleton in the excavations. That would have brought work to a screeching halt. Zack saw me watching and sauntered over. He politely touched the brim of his bright yellow construction hat.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Good,” he said. If the job were proving to be a total and complete disaster, Zack would still say, “Good.”
“I’m going into town. Do you want me to bring you anything? A sandwich or a soda?”
“Brought lunch,” he said.
“Zackary! What do you think you’re doing?” George bellowed. “Get over here! Son of mine or not, I’m not paying you to flirt with pretty young women.”
Zack touched his hat once more, slowly turned around, and sauntered back to work. He might seem to move at a snail’s pace and not react to much at all, but I’d soon learned Zack had a mind that moved like lightening. He did many of the measurements and calculations for his dad’s construction jobs in his head and only used his ever-present iPad as a backup.
I placed my phone call, feeling strangely pleased at being called a “pretty young woman.”
Sam Watson answered immediately. “Lucy, what’s up?”
“I want to talk to you about Jeremy Hughes,” I said.
“Do you know who killed him?” Watson rarely beat around the bush.
“Uh, no. Sorry. I’ve made some observations you might not have.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“’Cause you’re not a woman.”
“So my wife tells me. About observations, I mean. I’m in my office—come on in.”
“How about if I make a stop at Josie’s on my way? Can I bring you a coffee and a cookie?”
“I never say no to Josie’s.” He hung up.
My cousin Josie O’Malley owns Josie’s Cozy Bakery in town, not far from the police station. As well as Sam Watson’s favorite lunch spot, Josie’s is rapidly becoming the in spot in Nags Head for coffee, sandwiches, and pastries.
It was quarter to twelve when I pulled out of the library parking lot. I would have suggested Watson and I meet at the café and grab something for lunch, but at this time of year, in the height of tourist season, it could be almost impossible to get a seat in the small, hugely popular bakery. Traffic heading both north and south on Highway 12 was heavy, and it got worse when I passed through Whalebone Junction and headed into town. Half the cars I saw were from out of state, and many were piled high with camping equipment or beach paraphernalia. I joined the slow crawl along South Virginia Dare Trail, and soon Josie’s place came into sight. I’d been right: a line stretched out the door, and every parking space in the small strip mall where the bakery was located was taken. I parked on the street and approached the bakery. Earlier this season Josie had installed an express line, so those wanting a cup of plain coffee or glass of tea or soda with a baked item could move through faster than people in search of fancy drinks, full lunches, and seats.
The bakery was not far from the police station, so I could leave my car here and come back for the library lunch order after meeting with Sam.
The express line moved quickly, and I soon had a plain coffee, which I knew he took black, for Watson and an iced tea for me. I also carried a white paper bag containing a handful of assorted cookies.
Watson came out of the back of the police station to meet me as soon as he was told I’d arrived. We walked through the busy open office—people yelling into phones, people yelling at one another, computer keys clicking, printers spitting out paper, a radio somewhere playing hard rock—to the quiet (comparatively) corner where Sam had his desk. He cleared off a stack of papers by simply dumping them on the floor so I could put down the drinks and bag of treats.
He gestured to me to take a seat, pulled out his wallet, handed me a ten-dollar bill, and took the lid off his coffee. I’d long ago given up offering to pay. Maybe he was afraid I was trying to bribe him with a cup of Josie’s coffee.
And cookies. Mustn’t forget the cookies. Josie’s pecan peanut butter and lime shortbread cookies were so rich and intense they were almost illegal.
Watson took a seat in his own chair. “Hughes.”
“You heard him referred to as a ladies’ man by Louise Jane and then again in our staff break room this morning?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a … bit older than me …”
“Meaning I’m an old fogey, yes.”
“I didn’t quite mean that. But you are of an earlier generation and you’re not a woman, so you might not realize that referring to someone as a ladies’ man is no longer meant as a good thing. It doesn’t, to a lot of younger women anyway, mean a harmless flirt. It means a dirty old man.”
“Do you have a personal reason to know this?”
“Yes, I do. I’d never even met Jeremy Hughes before yesterday, and he made a determined effort to oh-so- casually brush up against me. Several times. It wasn’t comfortable.”
“Understandably.”
“On the other hand, you might have noticed that Lynne Feingold was completely overcome by news of his death.”
“It hadn’t escaped my notice, Lucy. You and she talked after she ran out of the break room.”
“She told me she and Jeremy were having an affair, although she didn’t use that word. She said they were, quote, planning a life together. She said Jeremy and his wife were in the process of getting a divorce. Another woman of my acquaintance—and I won’t tell you who so don’t ask—says he told her the same thing, but she soon realized no divorce was pending. They—he and my friend—broke up once she realized the situation. This happened, so I’ve been told, a couple of years ago. Sounds to me like there’s a pattern there.”
“So it does. Officer Rankin went around to Ms. Feingold’s house earlier to have another chat. I thought she’d be more open away from the rest of the historical society. She doesn’t deny what you said; in fact she confirms it. She was expecting Hughes to leave his wife and marry her. I wasn’t aware, so thank you for telling me, that this is a pattern of behavior with him. I therefore have to ask if Ms. Feingold knew he planned to betray her.”
“She doesn’t have an alibi for last night.”
Watson sipped at his coffee. His expression never gave anything away. “She said she was at home alone. And before you read anything into that, plenty of people who live on their own, as she does, spend their evenings alone at home. Phil Cahill’s wife and Mabel Eastland’s husband confirm they were home all evening, although Mrs. Cahill says she went to bed before her husband did. Again, I’ll caution you that that means nothing. It’s their normal pattern, according to her.”