by Eva Gates
“I intend to do precisely that.”
“Why don’t you take my car, Dad,” I said, “rather than call for a cab. Connor, can you drive me? I don’t feel like driving home alone tonight. I can pick my car up tomorrow.”
“Good idea,” Dad said.
The three of us headed out into the night as the lights inside Jake’s Seafood Bar were turned down behind us. Mom did not call to say Ricky had turned up.
Chapter Seven
A fog moved in as we drove out of town, getting increasingly thicker as the lights of Nags Head dropped behind us. Swirls of mist wound themselves around the car, and Connor’s headlights struggled to illuminate the road ahead.
“Spooky,” I said.
He took a quick glance at me. “You going to be okay tonight?”
“Fog’s common enough around here, as you well know, so it’s not anything to worry about. I rather like the moodiness of it. I’m reading The Hound of the Baskervilles for book club, and this puts me in mind of the ‘great Grimpen Mire.’ ”
“Is that a real place, do you know?”
I’d done my prereading research to get ready for leading the book discussion. “No, it’s not. It’s believed to be based on a real place called Fox Tor. I like that name better—Fox Tor. It’s in Dartmoor. I’d love to visit it someday, it sounds so fascinating.”
“How about England for our honeymoon, Lucy?”
“I’d like that. We could go to Fox Tor and to Yorkshire to see where the Brontë sisters walked, to the Jane Austen House Museum in Hampshire, to Baker Street in London, to Bath where—”
“A literary honeymoon,” Connor said dryly. “How nice.”
“Then again,” I said, “maybe the Caribbean like we’ve discussed.”
He chuckled. “As long as you’re with me, I’ll go anywhere you like.”
“I wasn’t planning on going on my honeymoon by myself.”
He reached out and took my hand, and we turned into the fog-shrouded laneway to the lighthouse, passing beneath the row of tall red pines, their thick trunks indistinct in the mist.
* * *
Charles ran to greet me when I let myself into the library. I bent over and gave him a rub on the top of his head as he wound his body around my legs. I live alone, and I like it, but it’s always nice to come home, particularly when it’s late after an emotionally troubling day, to be greeted by someone happy to see me. Although, I suspect, Charles is more excited about having his food bowl refreshed than seeing me.
Most of the lights in the main room were off, only the lamp in the alcove and one at the bottom of the twisting iron stairs lit. I glanced around the library. I love being alone in the library after closing. I believe that when it’s very quiet, I can hear the rustle of conversation as the characters chat to each other, the wind moving through the sails of ships of old, the chug of a steam-powered train passing through the countryside, or the roar of jet engines bearing a heroine off to adventure and romance.
Louise Jane maintains that the lighthouse is haunted, and she has plenty of stories about people who came to their unexpected and sudden end within these round walls. But I’ve never sensed anything—other than my literary characters, that is. And that’s more than enough for me.
I didn’t bother switching on any more lights as I made my way up to the fourth floor. I knew this building so well by now. Around and around I went while Charles ran ahead, neatly balanced on the railing. I unlocked my door and hit the light switch. Charles ran for the food bowl. He gave it a sniff and turned to stare at me, shocked—shocked!—to find it empty.
I threw my purse onto the kitchen counter, kicked off my shoes, and took the kibble out of the cupboard. I know in what order my priorities lie.
Once Charles was happily tucking in, I grabbed the phone and curled up with it on the window seat. Something had come to mind that I’d not thought to ask Connor earlier. This apartment is so small there’s not room for much more than a bed, a small bathroom, and a kitchen alcove with a table and two chairs. The walls are round and white, with just one tall window set in the four-foot-thick stone walls above a small window seat covered with bright cushions, perfect for reading and gazing dreamily outside. The walls are so thick cell phone coverage is unreliable, so I still have a landline.
I love my Lighthouse Aerie, and I’ve been very happy here. But it’ll soon be time to leave, and I’m not regretting it. Time to move on to the next phase of my life.
With a smile on my face, I called Connor.
“Hi,” he said. “You’re safely inside?”
“I am. Charles is dining, and all is right with the world.”
“The world according to Charles must be a nice place to live.”
“I feel so bad for Evangeline and Ricky. Mom, who should know, says she and Rich didn’t have a particularly good marriage, but they had been married for a long time. And Ricky …”
“I get the feeling Ricky will be fine. I suspect Ricky always is.”
“Hum.”
“How about you? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, as in I didn’t know Richard the Second very well, but the whole thing is still upsetting. On the bright side, this time it didn’t happen here at the library.”
“For once,” Connor said.
Charles finished his meal, checked the entire kitchen floor and under the chairs to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anything, and then leapt onto the bed to wash his whiskers.
“I have a question for you. Who was that guy who came up to our table and knew Ricky and Evangeline?” I asked. “He knew you too, and I got the feeling you don’t like him. You later called him a pest.”
“To put it mildly. I shouldn’t have said that in public, but Gordon Frankland is a pest. Worst of all, he’s a pest with deep pockets. He’s always complaining about something or other, sticking his nose where it isn’t wanted, threatening to sue all and sundry for nothing more than the fun of doing it. He’s mainly based in Boston—”
“Thus he uses my dad’s firm.”
“Right. He has a vacation home in Nags Head as well as a lot of business interests here. His current bugbear is opposition to plans to tear down a bunch of homes that are too close to the waterline. He claims they’re of historical value, which is true, but that’s largely irrelevant, as another big wave is going to wash them all out to sea.”
“Historical value? Not some of the unpainted aristocracy, I hope.” I was referring to several big old cottages, beloved of Bankers for their history and admired by tourists for their charm, so called because their natural wood has been allowed to age gracefully over the decades until they match their ocean-side surroundings.
“Thank heavens, no. Not them. It would be nothing short of a tragedy if any of the unpainted aristocracy have to come down.”
I smiled to myself at his tone of voice. Every time we drove past one of those marvelous old houses, Connor sighed wistfully. Connor’s family has lived in the Outer Banks for many generations, and its history is important to him. He’d love nothing more than to live in a historic house or cottage, but the unpainted aristocracy in particular are family heirlooms and almost never come up for sale.
“What do the homeowners have to say about Frankland getting himself involved?”
“They’re furious. They want to rebuild on firmer ground, and they’re in danger of being tied up in court for years. As for me personally, I used the word pest advisedly. He’s always on his high horse about something or other and demanding I drop everything on my plate to meet with him. He was out of state through most of the last election, thank goodness, but now he’s threatening to back a challenger to me next time around, on the grounds that I am, and I quote, ‘uninterested in the concerns of the average Nags Head citizen.’ ”
“How do you feel about that? You said you aren’t going to run again.”
“And I’m not. I’ve done my bit, Lucy, and as I’ve told you, seeking higher office isn’t for me. I intend to return to my practi
ce and to enjoy married life.”
“I like the sound of that.”
He chuckled. “I can say that until I’m blue in the face, but no one believes me. They all think I’m biding my time until it’s right for a state or even federal run. I was interested to hear Frankland’s not happy with his legal representation. That might be significant. The death of his lawyer—if ‘Richard the Second,’ as you call him, was the head of his legal team—has the potential to set his plans back.”
“Don’t say that! Not even to me. We don’t need anyone implying that Rich’s death has benefited you.”
“I can’t ask for a better alibi than I had.”
“There is that.”
“One thing before I go. I got a message earlier from our realtor saying she has a house for us to view tomorrow night. Are you free?”
“Yes.” Connor and I were trying to find a house to buy together. It was not proving to be easy. We wanted to stay within the town of Nags Head, both because he was the mayor and so I wouldn’t be too far from my own work, but as in most hugely popular tourist destinations, prices are exorbitantly high for residents.
“I’ll pick you up at seven, and we can meet her there. Good night, Lucy.”
“Good night, Connor.”
As I went through the usual going-to-bed routine, I thought about Rich Lewiston. I hadn’t known him well; the man had been nothing but a vague background shape in my childhood—partner of my father, husband of Evangeline, father of Ricky. Ricky and I had gone on a couple of cruises with our moms over the years (yes, even when we were a couple, we holidayed with our mothers), but I don’t recall either Rich or my dad coming along. The Lewistons had a lake home in New Hampshire, and my parents and I went there a few times when I was young. About all I remember about those visits was the time when I was twelve and my brother tried to drown me in the lake—ha-ha, such a great joke!—with Ricky helping him. Dad and Rich spent most of the vacation in Rich’s study talking business, their heads enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke and glasses of whiskey at their elbows. I vaguely recalled Mom telling me recently that they’d sold the New Hampshire property.
Maybe Rich had been coming to realize that things couldn’t go on as they were: a listless marriage, an uninterested son, a failing career. Had he decided to pop down to Nags Head as a surprise for Evangeline? Maybe suggest they stay on for a few days and have a romantic little vacation together?
That didn’t sound like something Rich would do, but then again, I didn’t really know what he would do. I’d probably never know. But whatever had happened to him, Rich Lewiston hadn’t deserved to end up knifed in the back and left to die alone in a back alley.
My copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles was resting on the blue-and-yellow cushions in the window alcove where I’d left it. I crossed the room and reached for it, intending to read for a few minutes in bed.
As I did so, something outside caught my eye, and I peered out into the night. My window looks over the marshes to the national seashore and the open ocean beyond. I’ll miss this incredible view when I move, but there wasn’t much of a view tonight: the thousand-watt light at the top of the lighthouse tower could do little to break through the dense fog.
A wooden boardwalk winds through the marsh, leading to a small pier bordering a pond with an outlet to Roanoke Sound. It’s a popular spot for birders and hikers and anyone interested in the wildlife of a saltwater marsh.
No one goes there at night. Certainly not on a night as dark and misty as this one. A flash of light at about the midpoint of the boardwalk had caught my attention. The light was extinguished, and I blinked, thinking I must have imagined it. Then I saw it again. Vague and insubstantial in the drifting mist. On. Off. On again. And then off. I leaned toward the window, as though I could see better if I got an inch or two closer. High above me, the great first-order Fresnel lens flashed to life after its 22.5-second dormancy, lighting the way, as it would all through the night, to sailors at sea. Then it went out, darkness settled once again, and no more flashing lights appeared. I gave my head a shake; it must have been my imagination. I picked up the book and snuggled into bed with it. The perfect read for a spooky night.
* * *
Another thing I’ll miss when I move is this commute. The next morning, I walked down the one hundred steps to the library. As usual, I was the first to arrive. The second if you count Charles, who ran on ahead of me, eager to start another day.
I wasn’t quite so eager. I’d read long into the night, enjoying Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s story of the legendary hound, the race across the dangerous, gloomy moor, Sherlock Holmes’s usual keen observations, and Dr. Watson’s usual befuddlement. When I finally turned out the light and laid the book to one side, I hadn’t thought about Sir Henry Baskerville and Sherlock Holmes but of Rich Lewiston, what might have brought him so unexpectedly to the Outer Banks, and who might have wanted to ensure he never left.
Over my usual breakfast of muesli and yogurt, I surveyed the local news, but I learned nothing new. The police had issued a statement saying they were investigating a suspicious death, providing few details. I gave Mom a call, and she told me she was still at the Ocean Side, where she and Evangeline were enjoying a room-service breakfast. Ricky hadn’t called, and no one had answered Evangeline’s frantic knocking at the door of his room. Evangeline had finally gone to bed, but Mom heard her all through the night, tossing and turning and pacing and periodically getting up to check her phone. “Her anxiety’s transferring itself to Fluffy, who’s more wired than ever. I wouldn’t have thought that possible.”
“Are you going to go home today as planned?” I asked.
“I don’t know, dear. Let’s see what the morning brings. Your father’s been in touch with the office, and someone there will liaise with the police and take care of the arrangements.”
“Nice to have an office,” I said.
“It is, isn’t it? I’ll call you when I know more. Ellen is due here shortly, bringing fresh clothes for me.”
Charles froze at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the front door. Suspecting a mouse had crossed the threshold in the night, I left him and went into the staff break room to put the coffee on. When I came back out, the big cat was standing at the door, the fur along his back erect, his ears at attention, still staring.
“What are you up to? Is someone out there already?” Obviously a staff member would just come in, but perhaps we had an early patron. It was five minutes until nine, so I unlocked the door and threw it open.
A body fell in.
Chapter Eight
I screamed. Charles hissed and swatted at the man lying in the doorway in front of us.
Richard Eric Lewiston III groaned and rolled onto his back. There he lay, spread out on the black-and-white tiles blinking rapidly up at me through red-rimmed eyes. He grunted.
“What are you doing?” I said in a louder voice than perhaps I’d intended.
“Good,” he said. “You’re finally open.” Charles peered into his face. “Hello,” Ricky said. Charles meowed. Ricky struggled to get up. I leaned over and held out one arm. Ricky grabbed it, and I hauled him upright.
“What are you doing here?”
“Is that coffee I smell?”
“Yes.”
“I’d kill for a cup.”
Bad choice of words, considering the events of last night. I didn’t say so. Instead I said, “Sit down, and I’ll get you one.”
When I returned to the main room, an enormous mug of strong black unsweetened coffee in hand, Ricky had settled himself into the wingback chair next to the magazine rack. His head was thrown back and his eyes were closed. Charles perched on a high shelf, watching him.
Ricky looked, quite simply, dreadful, and he didn’t smell all that good either. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair this morning, and deep purple circles lay under his eyes. He wasn’t wearing his blazer, but he still had on the white shirt and jeans he’d been wearing last night. The shirt was
white no longer but dotted with what looked like beer and grease stains as well as dirt off our front steps. The hems of his pants and his handmade Italian loafers were covered in sand and mud.
“Ricky,” I said. “Wake up.”
He started and his eyes flew open. I handed him the coffee, and he took a long, grateful drink. “Thanks, Lucy. I needed that.”
“It would appear that you do. What’s going on? Where have you been and why are you here?”
“ ’Morning!” Ronald called as he came in. “Oh, sorry.” He looked at Ricky and then at me. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. This is a … friend of my family. Ricky Lewiston, Ronald Burkowski.”
“Okay.” Ronald studied my face. I gave him a slight nod to say everything was good here.
Ricky struggled to stand up. I grabbed the mug out of his hands as Ronald leapt forward and took his arm.
“I’m going to take him upstairs and throw him under the shower,” I said.
“Are you sure, Lucy?” Ronald asked.
“Not really.” I peered into Ricky’s bloodshot eyes. He blinked at me and breathed out noxious fumes. “Ricky, have you spoken to the Nags Head Police today?”
“Why would I want to do that? I only had a couple drinks.”
“More than a couple,” Ronald muttered.
I reconsidered taking Ricky up to my apartment. Not that I was worried he’d attack me or anything, but I didn’t think he could manage the stairs, and I wasn’t about to get myself involved in trying to undress him. “We’ll go into the break room. I’ll hold his head under the tap in the sink. But first, I need to call Detective Watson.”
“Why?” Ronald asked. “I heard about a suspicious death in town on the news, and I was thanking our lucky stars it didn’t have anything to do with us this time. Does it?”
“Sorta,” I admitted.
“I’ll find out what sorta means later. First I’ll take care of your friend here. You call Watson. Come on, buddy. We’ll have you as fit as a fiddle in no time.”