by Eva Gates
“She was defending me,” I yelled. “He tried to kill me. He killed Rich Lewiston.”
“Cuff him.” Sam Watson stepped into the circle of light. “Then have the medics check him out. He’s yelling loud enough, the bites can’t be that deep.” He turned to me. “You okay, Lucy?”
I clutched the squirming Fluffy to my chest. She wanted to get down and say hello to all these new arrivals. “The dog saved me. Don’t let them hurt her.”
“I won’t.” He held out his hand. Fluffy sniffed at it and then gave Watson a lick of approval. “Let’s go inside. You need to sit down.”
“That woman’s a lunatic,” Stephen yelled as Watson and I, still holding Fluffy, walked away. “She lured me into the marsh. She threatened to tell the cops I killed Rich if I didn’t pay her off. When I said no, she put her dog on me.”
“Save it for the judge,” Butch Greenblatt said. “I’m not interested, but I have to say, buddy, if I was going to get an attack dog, I’d go for something a bit bigger.”
Beside me, Watson chuckled. “I wouldn’t have thought this little girl had it in her.” The mist was lessening, the tendrils of fog thinning. I could see the vague shape of the lighthouse looming ahead.
“I guess we all have it in us,” I said, “if we have to. To defend ourselves and those we care about.”
“The skin on Stephen’s throat’s bitten, but I didn’t see any outright puncture wounds, although it looks like she did get a nice chomp out of his leg.” Watson rubbed between Fluffy’s ears. “She wouldn’t have been able to keep him down for much longer.”
“In The Hound of the Baskervilles, the spectral hound, nothing but an ordinary dog painted with phosphorus, kills the villain Stapleton when he runs onto the moor in confusion in the fog, and Holmes has to shoot the dog. Thanks for not doing that to Fluffy.”
Watson chuckled. Fluffy woofed.
“What brings you here?” I asked. “In such a timely fashion?”
“After you and I talked, I went around to the Ocean Side to speak to Stephen. Ricky and Evangeline said they hadn’t seen him for hours. I called his number and got no answer. So I started getting worried that he’d try and come after you. I might not have worried too much, knowing you’d be perfectly safe inside the lighthouse, but I then remembered the dog. And that dogs have to be walked. I called to tell you to stay inside but got no answer. So I decided I’d better check things out for myself and bring backup in case Livingstone was hanging around.”
“Thank you for that,” I said.
Connor sprinted across the lawn toward us, mist curling at his feet. “Lucy! What’s going on? Are you okay?” He grabbed my arms and peered into my face.
“I’m fine. Thanks to Fluffy.”
The dog wiggled happily between us.
“What happened? Butch called me to say there was an incident—another incident—at the lighthouse.”
“Let’s go inside,” Watson said. “I need Lucy to make a full statement, and she can tell you at the same time.”
I wanted to fall into Connor’s arms, but I didn’t dare put Fluffy down.
“We can’t say anything about this in front of Charles,” I said. “If he finds out that Fluffy saved the day while he was inside sleeping, there will be no living with him.”
Sam Watson and Connor McNeil laughed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sunday morning as arranged, Connor and I went to Josie’s Cozy Bakery to meet Louise Jane.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I said as the lineup edged toward the counter. “Louise Jane’s enthusiasms have a way of not turning out exactly as advertised.”
“She hasn’t told you anything more about this supposed beach house?”
“No. She likes to play her cards close to her chest, as we well know. Makes her seem mysterious, she thinks. A large low-fat latte and a blueberry muffin, please.”
Connor ordered black coffee and a Danish, and we found seats at a table for two in the bustling bakery. We were supposed to be meeting Louise Jane at ten, and now it was quarter to.
Connor and I had had a long night and an early morning. In the main room of the library, I’d given Sam Watson my statement about what had happened out on the marsh, saying, “Stephen pretty much told me, step by step, how it all happened, but he covered it up by saying if he wanted to do it, this is how he’d have gone about it. That won’t stand up as a confession, will it?”
“No,” Watson said, “but it gives us a darn good place to start. And we’ll start with the attempted murder of you tonight. He’ll deny any ill intent, of course, but he didn’t sneak up on you in the dark and knock you to the ground—”
Connor growled, sounding much like Fluffy had earlier.
“—for a lark. He drove down to the Outer Banks on Monday and then drove straight back to Boston after, allegedly, killing Rich. We’ll find proof of that. A search of his phone history should show that he looked up Jake’s address Monday night. Anything your father finds in Rich’s files proving Stephen was in on whatever was going on will give us motive.”
“He told me he’s scrubbed the records where they showed any involvement on his part.”
“Something always remains,” Watson said. “These guys are never as clever as they think they are.”
“He wasn’t on my radar at all for killing Rich,” I said, “even when we considered that it might have had something to do with what was happening at Richardson Lewiston. I’d been overly influenced, I fear, by The Hound of the Baskervilles. I kept coming back to the inheritance angle.”
“He wasn’t on anyone’s radar,” Watson assured me. “Until you figured it out.”
A woman came into the lighthouse. She was dressed in white coveralls, a hairnet, and white boots and carried a small case. “I need samples off the dog,” she said.
We looked at Fluffy, the hero of the hour, snoozing happily at my feet.
“She’s not as dangerous as she looks,” Connor said.
The woman didn’t laugh. I dropped to the floor next to Fluffy and rubbed her belly while the woman took swabs from her nails. I then scratched under Fluffy’s chin while tissue samples were taken from inside her cheek.
Evidence given, Fluffy returned to her nap.
When the police had left, I turned to Connor. “I’ll have to call Mom and let her know what’s going on.”
“Yup,” he said.
We were awoken early the next morning by a phone call from my dad. “You’re up early,” I said when I answered.
“Haven’t been to bed. Your mother called me after you spoke to her, and I knew I’d be hearing from the police soon. Which I have. I’ve been at the office all night, going through Rich’s papers, trying to sort out what will help the cops with the case against Stephen. I always knew I didn’t like the man. Never would have thought he was a killer, though. Your mother tells me he attacked you. Are you … okay?”
“I’m fine, Dad. The local equivalent of the Hound of the Baskervilles saved me.”
“Whatever that means. I’ve been checking up on Livingstone’s recent activities. I was able to tell the police he called in sick on Monday.”
“The day Rich died.”
“He was, it would seem, driving to Nags Head. He looked none too well, I’ve been told, when he came into the office late on Tuesday morning. Which would be because he hadn’t slept for days.”
“The drive from Boston to Nags Head takes about twelve hours each way, and that’s with no stops or traffic snarls. A lot to cover in two days.”
“On Tuesday afternoon, when I sent word that I wanted someone to go down to North Carolina to be with Evangeline, Livingstone was aggressive about putting himself forward.”
“That was a foolish thing to do. If he’d stayed in Boston, he could have kept himself out of the picture.”
“He couldn’t stand not knowing what was going on and thought he needed to keep an eye on things. More than one criminal’s been caught because they simply can’t stop the
mselves hanging around the police investigation. And because they’re nowhere near as clever as they think they are.” Dad chuckled. “Keeps us in business. This might sound harsh of me, but I’ve ordered Ricky to get back to Boston. Today. I want him on the first flight he can get. He needs to come clean, and fast, about what he did and did not know about what his father and Livingstone were up to. Your mother will accompany Evangeline and Rich’s body tomorrow.”
“That’s good of her.”
“You take care of yourself, honey.”
“I will, Dad.”
We hung up. “As long as we’re awake,” I said to Connor, “might as well get a start on the day.”
He reached for me. “As long as we’re awake …”
Fluffy had run to the door in agreement, and Charles had leapt off the bed and headed for his food bowl.
“Here she is now.”
Louise Jane came into the bakery, and I gave her a wave. She nodded before joining the line. A few minutes later, coffee in hand, she approached our table. “Big happenings last night at the lighthouse, I heard.”
“Big enough,” I said.
“They say Mrs. Lewiston’s dog brought down your attacker, Lucy.”
“Yes.”
“Seems hard to believe. A little thing like that against a grown man.”
“She—”
“I’ve told you many, many times, Lucy, that the spirits of the marsh are not to be trifled with. Haven’t I told her that, Connor?”
“More than once,” Connor agreed.
“Fluffy—”
“Fluffy,” she snorted. “Ridiculous name for a dog. Fluffy might have bitten the man, but we have to ask what made her do that. What forces beyond our understanding caused that miniature ball of fluff not to run away, as you’d expect, but to turn into a killer beast?”
“She didn’t—”
“When we’ve finished seeing the house and you’ve put in an offer, I have to get straight home. I have lot of research to do on paranormal influences on animals.”
“I don’t—”
“Aren’t you jumping the gun, Louise Jane?” Connor said. “We don’t know that we’ll be putting in an offer on anything.”
“You will,” she said, with typical Louise Jane confidence. “Ready to go?”
Connor downed the last mouthful of his coffee, stood up, and took his keys out of his pocket.
“I’ll drive,” Louise Jane said. “My uncle will meet us there.”
The front seat of Louise Jane’s rusty old van was covered in books, maps, and papers, so Connor and I climbed into the back. She threw the van into gear, and we lurched out of the parking lot.
“I feel like I’m being kidnapped,” I whispered to Connor. “Being driven through the streets with no idea of where my captors are taking me.”
“At least she didn’t put hoods over our heads.”
“I heard that,” Louise Jane said. “I want you to relax and enjoy the scenery.”
“I’m thoroughly acquainted with the scenery of Nags Head, thank you,” Connor said.
We drove south, heading in the direction of the lighthouse. Connor and I exchanged looks. Despite Louise Jane saying the property was “on the beach,” I’d expected to be going toward what passes as inland on this narrow spit of sand. Rather than taking the wide turn into Whalebone Junction, she continued straight onto South Old Oregon Inlet Road. Tall, colorful beach houses passed us on either side, and I could see the open ocean between the properties to our left. The road was perfectly flat, with a wide swath of neatly mowed grass on both sides. A culvert ran along our right, a sidewalk to our left. The houses lining the beach were large, new, and expensive. This road led out of town, nothing but the National Seashore and the Bodie Island Lighthouse beyond.
“I was down this way only yesterday,” Connor said. “I didn’t see any house for sale.”
“Because you don’t know the right people,” Louise Jane replied.
“Should we have brought drinks and snacks for the trip?” I asked. “We’re almost at the end of the road, and there’s nothing else out here.” Up ahead I could see the back of the blue sign welcoming visitors to Nags Head.
Louise Jane flicked her turn indicator and slowed. She glided to a halt at the side of the road and said, “Ta da.”
Connor and I stared out the window.
“This place?” Connor said. “First of all, Louise Jane, it isn’t for sale, and second of all, we couldn’t afford it even if it was, not a lot this size sitting right on the beach. Never mind the house, which is, you might have noticed, falling down.”
“All it needs is a bit of TLC,” Louise Jane said. “It’s owned by my uncle Ralph, and even though he doesn’t live in it, he’s kept it up all these years.”
The house stood at the end of the street, on the last lot in Nags Head. It was unpainted, the wood brown and worn, scoured by decades of salt and wind. Large and multistoried, it stood on stilts, with balconies and gabled windows sticking out all over and a wide porch wrapping around the entire second floor.
“There’s Uncle Ralph,” Louise Jane said.
A man was standing next to a car parked in the weed- and sand-choked driveway. “That’s your uncle?” I said to Louise Jane.
“Yup.”
We hurried to get out of the van.
He rolled toward us, his gait that of a man more accustomed to being on the water than on land. His gray hair curled around the back of his neck, and most of his face was covered by an unkempt gray beard and bushy eyebrows. His oatmeal fisherman’s sweater, which I would have thought too hot for the day, was dotted with holes and strands of unraveling thread. His warm blue eyes were the color of the sea, his hand was outstretched, and he was smiling.
“ ’Mornin’, Lucy,” he said to me in a thick Outer Banks drawl. “Mr. Mayor.” He and Connor shook hands.
“Mr. Harper,” I said. “How nice to see you. I didn’t know you were related to Louise Jane.”
“Related to just about everyone in these parts,” he said. “Everyone who matters, anyway. And some what don’t.” I’d met Ralph Harper when he’d been a suspect in a police investigation. A local fisherman from a long line of fishermen, he was reclusive and very, very suspicious of outsiders. For some reason, he didn’t consider me to be an outsider. He’d called me a water woman—high praise indeed. I’m from Boston, but I don’t think that’s what he meant. I never had found out what he meant.
“Like ’er, Mr. Mayor?” he asked Connor.
“I love her.” Connor threw his arms wide. “Every Banker’s dream is to own a member of the unpainted aristocracy. But she needs a lot of work.”
“Which,” Louise Jane said, “is why it’s going cheap.”
“How cheap?” I asked.
Louise Jane looked at her uncle. He named a sum.
Connor laughed. “At that price, you’re going to tell me the property’s been condemned or a toxic waste dump is going in next door.”
“You didn’t tell ’em, Louise Jane?”
“Tell us what?” I asked.
“Let’s have a look around first, shall we?” Louise Jane quickly led the way to the house. “Over the years Uncle Ralph has done what he can to keep the house in some sort of shape, but without anyone living here, things do get out of control.” We climbed the steps, the old boards protesting at our weight.
“Why don’t you live here?” I asked Ralph as he unlocked the door. It creaked as it opened, and we stepped into the light-filled interior.
“Jo won’t have it,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Never mind that now,” Louise Jane said. “Look at that view.”
And we did. The main floor was completely open—no internal walls. Sunlight streamed into the room, reflecting off spiders’ webs and illuminating the dust mites dancing in the air. The large, empty room was bathed in golden morning light, and the open expanse of the sea sparkled in the distance. I could hear the faint sound of waves rushing to
shore. I took a step forward, but Ralph’s arm shot out and he grabbed mine. “Better not walk around willy-nilly. Some of the floorboards need replacing.”
“There’s damp in that ceiling,” Connor said. “I don’t like the look of it.”
“Needs work,” Ralph said. “I won’t deny that. But the bones are good. Darn good. This house has stood for most of a hundred years. Gonna stand a hundred more, iffen it finds someone to love it like my mamma and granddaddy did.”
“How long has it been for sale?” I asked.
Ralph and Louise Jane exchanged glances.
“Okay,” Connor said. “What are you not telling us? Why is the price so reasonable, and why is this beautiful old house being allowed to fall into disrepair?”
“Uncle Ralph would like to live in it,” Louise Jane said. “But Aunt Jo doesn’t want to.”
“Why hasn’t it sold then?” I asked.
“Because it’s haunted,” Louise Jane said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“We put in a conditional offer. Conditional on the inspection not turning up anything Ralph neglected to tell us. Anything structural, I mean.”
“Are you sure that’s wise, Lucy?” Ronald said. “Old houses have a way of drinking money.”
“Connor loved it on first sight. He says he’s often driven past and thought it a shame such a magnificent old house was simply abandoned.”
“Unpainted aristocracy doesn’t come up for sale very often,” Charlene said.
It was Monday afternoon, and the library was about to close for the day. Louise Jane and Bertie were having a private meeting in Bertie’s office, and we’d gathered to hear Bertie formally tell us Charlene was leaving and what would happen next. James had his arm thrown casually over Charlene’s shoulders, and Daisy, who had not the least bit of interest in talk of a house a mere century old, was flipping through a fashion magazine.