by Eva Gates
Charlene laughed and finished her cookie. “I’m off. Have a good evening.”
“Thanks. You too. Say hi to your mom.”
I finished arranging the room before going downstairs to greet book club members as they arrived. We had a core contingent of regulars who came to almost every meeting, as well as library patrons who popped in if they had the time or were interested in that month’s book. It being July, and the lingering daylight giving people the opportunity to go for an evening walk on the beach, dawdle over drinks on their decks or porches, or play with kids and grandkids on the lawn, I wasn’t expecting a big turnout tonight. I was surprised to see a row of cars coming down the long driveway between the red pines.
My good friends Stephanie Stanton and Grace Sullivan came together. Steph explained that her boyfriend, Bruce Greenblatt, had been called in for an extra shift tonight. CeeCee Watson, wife of the detective, came, as did Mrs. Peterson and her eldest daughter, Charity. Judging by the expression of sullen defiance on Charity’s face, she thought she had better things to do of a summer’s evening than come to her mother’s book club.
I hoped Mrs. Peterson hadn’t used book club as a punishment. No better way to turn a child off a lifetime of reading than making it something they had to suffer through. Mrs. Fitzgerald, chair of the library board, caught a ride, as she usually did, with Louise Jane.
“Before you go inside,” I said, “have a look at what you all helped pay for.” I gestured to the side of the lighthouse tower.
“I see nothing but a lot of dirt,” Grace said.
“I know. Isn’t it marvelous? What you don’t see is the building crumbling to ruin.”
“When are they going to be finished?” Steph asked.
“About another two weeks yet. George told Bertie they’d run into no unexpected difficulties, so everything is on schedule. And within the budgeted cost too.”
“Yahoo!” Mrs. Fitzgerald gave the building a whack with her cane. It did not crumble into dust, and we all cheered.
As they filed into the library, Theodore Kowalski slid up beside me. “No news, I’m sorry to report,” he whispered.
“News on what?”
“Mrs. Crawbingham’s journal.”
“Oh, that.” I’d forgotten he said he’d check with the world of illicit historical artifacts.
“Doesn’t mean it’s not out there. The new owner might be waiting for the coast to be clear before offering it for sale.”
“Anyone interested in obtaining it should know by now it’s contents were not only stolen but associated with a murder. And thus likely to be of considerable interest to the police.”
“You never know,” Theodore said, “what some people want to collect. I’ve met people who’ve seen basements full of valuable artifacts that never see the light of day. Sometimes even the owner never looks at them again. Possession is enough.”
“Possession of pages from a fishing wife’s diary?”
“You’re looking for them, Lucy. The police are looking for them. The Bodie Island Historical Society is looking for them. Half of Nags Head is looking for them. Yes, some would think that alone gives them value. Not to mention the romantic allure of a page written in code and a map leading to supposed pirate treasure.”
“You mean we might never see them again? That’s a discouraging thought. I guess I’ve been assuming that when the police find Jeremy’s killer, they’ll find the stolen items.”
“Even if the killer’s the same person who took the pages, once items slip into the underworld, they can disappear so thoroughly the person who stole them originally doesn’t know where they ended up. Not to worry, that’s only speculation. We still have hope for a safe return, Lucy. May I escort you upstairs?”
“I see Connor pulling in. I’ll wait for him.”
Theodore trotted off, and I walked up the path to meet Connor. He greeted me with a long kiss. When we separated, he said, “I don’t suppose you can skip the meeting.”
“No, I cannot. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’m looking forward to the discussion. Aren’t you?”
“I am, but I thought a drink at Jake’s, maybe a walk on the beach after would be nice.”
“Perhaps we can do that after the meeting,” I said.
“I’d like that.”
To my considerable surprise, the next vehicle to arrive was Curtis Gardner’s Corvette. Diane Uppiton had bought it for him so soon after the death of Jonathan Uppiton the Nags Head grapevine had been scandalized. “There’s a shock,” I said to Connor. “Curtis and Diane have never come to book club before. I wasn’t aware they could read.”
Connor chuckled. “Always a first time.”
“Good evening,” I said as the couple approached. “Are you here for the book club?”
Diane wrapped me in a hug. Another first. I held my breath against the scent of excessively applied perfume. She then latched on to Connor and held him even longer than she had me. I watched his ears turn pink. Curtis scowled.
“Journey to the Center of the Earth,” Diane squealed when she finally let my boyfriend go. “I love that book! When I heard that your little club would be talking about it, I said to Curtis, ‘We have to go!’ Didn’t I say that, Curtis?”
“Yes, you did,” he said. “Should be … uh, fun.”
We went into the library and climbed the stairs to the third floor. “Goodness,” Diane said, “if I’d known how far up it is, I’d have worn better shoes.” Her red patent leather Jimmy Choos had four-inch heels. “Now I know why you always wear such sensible shoes, Lucy.”
My wardrobe choices had been insulted, but it was one in a long line of Diane’s snide jabs and backhanded compliments, and so I let it go, as I always did.
By the time we got to the meeting room, the refreshments table had been decimated. Charles had taken his regular seat on Mrs. Fitzgerald’s lap. He glanced up when we came in. The fur along his back rose, and he hissed at the new arrivals.
“I’ll never understand why you keep that dangerous creature around, Lucy,” Diane said.
If I was ever inclined to evict Charles from the library, I’d remember how much he annoyed Diane and let him stay.
Charles had proved himself to be an excellent judge of human character, and he’d taken Diane’s measure the instant he met her.
“Nice kitty.” Curtis reached out a hand, intending to give Charles a tentative pat.
“Do be careful, Curtis,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said. “He might bite.”
Curtis’s hand jerked back, and he gave our library board chair a sickly grin. He poured himself a glass of tea, scooped up the last handful of cookies, and found a seat.
“Before we begin,” I said, “I want to remind everyone about the Settlers’ Day Fair on Sunday. It goes from one until six, and there will be activities for all age groups.”
“We wouldn’t miss it, would we, Charity?” Mrs. Peterson said.
Charity studied her fingernails.
“There will be prizes for best historical costume,” I said.
Mrs. Peterson squealed. “I know just the thing. You can wear that dress you wore for the school play two years ago.”
Charity gasped in horror. “Mother! I was twelve then. Not even a teenager.”
“Prizes!” Diane said. “How exciting. I still have the dress I wore to the library’s fund-raising party a few years ago. That was when Jonathan was in charge of the library, Lucy. Before your time, of course.” She patted her ample hips and giggled. “Although it might be a bit loose now. Curtis, you can wear Jonathan’s costume.”
“I’m not—”
Diane ignored him. “Is there a prize for best couple, Lucy? Curtis and I will be sure to win.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “The historical society is the organizer, not the library.”
“I told you, Diane,” Curtis said, “I’m wearing my Confederate army uniform.”
“But I don’t have an outfit to match it,” she whined.
“The historical society wanted me to be one of the speakers,” Louise Jane said, “but I suggested it would be better to invite someone new. Everyone in Nags Head’s heard me many times.”
“Journey to the Center of the Earth was written in 1864,” I said. “Do you think it’s aged well?”
“It’s stupid,” Charity said. “Like there’s going to be plants and stuff growing where there’s no sunshine.”
“It did stretch suspension of disbelief to the breaking point and then some,” Connor said.
“I loved how they practiced scaling a mountain and descending into the center of a dormant volcano by climbing a church steeple a couple of times,” Steph said. “It was so cute.”
“What about the old book they found at the beginning, and the code in it?” Theodore said. “That made for an exciting opening.”
“The same thing happened here,” Diane said.
“What happened here?” Mrs. Peterson said.
“I don’t think we want to talk about—” I said.
“George’s crew found a book buried under the lighthouse, and it had some silly code in it,” Diane said. “The same book that disappeared when Jeremy Hughes was murdered.” She glanced at the floor. “Right below our feet.”
“I heard the diary itself wasn’t taken,” Grace said. “Only the enclosed pages.”
The police had never publicly said what had been stolen, just “historical artifacts.” The rumor mill had done the rest.
“It was in code?” Charity said. “Then it can’t have been very old.”
“Not computer code,” Theodore explained. “Cipher. Secret writing.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Cool!”
“I heard about a diary being found and then stolen,” Steph said, “but nothing about it being in code.”
“It bothers Connor that the science in Journey to the Center of the Earth is so unrealistic. What did the rest of you think?” I struggled to get the conversation back on track. “Did that distract from your enjoyment of the story?”
“Can I see it?” Charity asked.
“The pages were stolen,” her mother reminded her. “And a man died.”
“Didn’t you take a picture or anything? What’s wrong with you people?”
I started to lie. “We didn’t—”
“We have a copy, yes,” Louise Jane said.
“Shush!” I said. “That’s a secret.”
“Oh, a secret! Do tell.” We had Charity’s attention now. I’d have preferred it if she was still studying her fingernails.
“Give it up, Lucy,” Louise Jane said. “We’re getting absolutely nowhere trying to decipher it.”
“How’d you get that cut on your lip?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked. “And is that a bruise on your cheek you’ve tried to cover with makeup?”
“If you must know,” Louise Jane said. “I tripped over my own big feet. Let me assure you, I did not break into the library and fight a man to the death.”
“I wasn’t implying—”
“We need help. We’re all friends here. Right?” Louise Jane dug in her bag and pulled out a piece of paper.
“Bertie said—” I protested.
“Bertie’s not here, is she? Let me see that.” Grace snatched the paper out of Louise Jane’s hand. She was sitting between CeeCee and Diane, and the two women leaned in closer to have a look. Curtis and Theodore got up from their seats and gathered around.
“Make more copies, Lucy,” Louise Jane said.
“I most certainly will not. We don’t want that document floating around town.”
“Too late, I’d say.” Mrs. Fitzgerald held out her hand. “Give me that, young lady. I am the head of the board of this library, remember.”
Grace obediently handed it over.
“Is this evidence in the murder Sam’s working on?” CeeCee asked. “Does he know about this?”
“He knows,” I said. “He wants us to keep a lid on it.” I looked at the circle of eager faces. “Obviously that’s not going to happen.”
“I bet if we all have a go, we can solve it together,” Curtis said.
Mrs. Fitzgerald studied the paper. Everyone studied Mrs. Fitzgerald.
“It appears to be a substitution code,” she said at last.
“We don’t have the key,” Louise Jane said.
“Then we must find it,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said.
“Easier said than done,” I said.
“I know something about codes,” Charity said.
“You do not,” Mrs. Peterson said.
“Gee, Mom. You don’t know everything I know.”
Mrs. Peterson gasped.
“How difficult can it be?” Curtis said, “if we work together. Now, what’s the most common letter? That’s usually meant to be an e. We can start from there.”
“Charity, clear off the table.” Mrs. Fitzgerald lifted Charles off her lap and put him on the floor. “Many hands make light work. Let’s see what we can accomplish as a group.”
I gave up trying to lead the book club discussion. Everyone except Connor and me wiggled their chairs closer to the table. Scraps of paper and pens came out of pockets and purses, and much muttering commenced.
“Any more of those cookies, Lucy?” Curtis called.
“No. In Journey to the Center of the Earth,” I said to Connor, “the scientist professor decides his nephew will have more incentive to solve the code if he locks all the doors and doesn’t allow any food into the house. Do you think that will work here?”
Connor chuckled.
“Your mother’s family’s from Denmark,” Louise Jane said to Mrs. Fitzgerald. “Do you see anything that might be Danish in there?”
“Hard to tell,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said. “I don’t see much of anything.”
“I’m taking Spanish and French in school,” Charity said. “I’ll try them.”
“Wasn’t there some sort of map that went along with this?” Diane said. “It looked a bit like this section of the Outer Banks and had eight numbers on it that didn’t seem to correspond to anything.”
“We believe that was nothing but a guide to places of interest to the diarist,” I said. I hadn’t given anyone except Sam Watson—not even Louise Jane—a copy of the supposed map. That, at least, I wanted to keep secret.
“The number seven was in the middle of the ocean,” Curtis said. “I don’t see—”
“That’s the problem,” Louise Jane said. “We don’t see anything. Anything that makes any sense.”
“Lucy, get me some paper, will you? I have an idea,” Curtis ordered.
“I can’t find a pen,” Stephanie said. “Has anyone got a pen?”
“What the heck.” I went to the main room and found sheets of computer paper and a handful of pens. Back upstairs I handed them out. Even Connor took one.
For the rest of the night, the members of the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library Classic Novel Reading Club struggled to decipher the code.
Most of the members anyway. Charles got bored at the lack of attention he was receiving and left the room, his tail twitching in disapproval. Diane lost interest in the code almost immediately, took out her phone, and started tapping away. Mrs. Peterson pulled her copy of Journey to the Center of the Earth out of the depths of her tote bag and said, “Let me refresh my memory as to how they discovered the meaning of the code in here. They read it backwards, as I recall. Has anyone tried that?” Connor went downstairs after whispering to me that he owed his mother a call and this was as good a time as any.
Despite the combined effort of the group, they had no more luck than anyone else, and by nine o’clock I was ready to throw them all out. The table was strewn with sheets of paper, most of them full of crossed out and overwritten words.
“Is there any possibility the key’s in the diary itself?” Grace said.
“We’ve looked,” I said. “Nothing.”
“Nothing you’ve seen,” Curtis said. “Why don’t we all have a look at it?”
�
�The diary is locked up, and I don’t have a key for that drawer. Sorry. I think it’s about time to leave.” No one paid me the slightest bit of attention.
Connor got to his feet and bellowed, “Lucy is locking the doors. Now.”
Heads popped up. Louise Jane and Mrs. Fitzgerald reached for the copy of the code page at the same time. They glared at each other across it, and finally Louise Jane released it. “I can get another,” she said.
“You do that,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said.
“That was a waste of good drinking time,” Curtis said. “Probably nothing to it, anyway.”
“No one goes to that much trouble to hide nothing,” Louise Jane said.
“You’re assuming they meant it to be trouble,” I said. “Maybe it was a game, or a love letter in a language known only to the participants.”
“Oh,” Charity sighed, “that would be so romantic. Their parents didn’t approve, so they had to communicate in a secret language.”
Mrs. Peterson huffed.
“There are plenty of tales of lost treasure along this coast,” Louise Jane said.
“None of them,” Steph said, “are at all believable.”
“Pirates’ treasure,” Diane said. “You mean like gold and jewels? Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”
“Plenty of ships went down in the Graveyard of the Atlantic over the years,” Louise Jane said, “taking their valuable goods with them.”
“In that case, these valuable goods would be at the bottom of the ocean, wouldn’t they?” ever-practical Steph replied.
“It’s entirely possible the treasure washed up on shore or was salvaged after the wreck,” the never-practical Louise Jane said.
“The diary is dated beginning in 1858,” I said. “Pirates were long gone by then. If whoever wrote the code page knew where any treasure was hidden, they would have dug it up themselves.”
“It might be other treasure then,” Diane said.
“That date could be more significant than you realize, Lucy,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said. “It’s always been rumored around these parts that some families hid their valuables at the start of the war, when the Union army attacked the forts on Hatteras Island and then took Roanoke a few months later. Curtis, you’re the Civil War buff. Isn’t that true?”