by Eva Gates
Ronald and Nan, his wife, had been in theater in New York City in their youth. I sometimes thought they must have brought an entire wardrobe department with them when they moved. The children’s Halloween party had been held this morning, and Ronald had dressed for it as a sea captain. His thigh-length, high-collared blue jacket had a double row of gold buttons down the front, and gold epaulettes with tassels on the shoulders. He wore black pants tucked into high boots and a big tricornered hat. Fake whiskers were stuck to his jawline.
“You look marvelous, by the way,” I said.
He grinned at me. “Thanks. Nan’s coming to give us a hand soon. With all the activity going on outside, we don’t want to lose sight of a child.”
I glanced out the window again. “Good heavens, is that a clown I see?” A brightly costumed figure with giant shoes and a wild pink and lime-green wig wandered the grounds, twisting balloons into fabulous shapes for excited children.
“My friend Rosemarie McGovern,” Ronald said. “Nan asked her. Hope that’s okay, Bertie?”
“The more, the merrier,” Bertie said.
We didn’t want to close the library in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, so it had been arranged that Charlene would staff the circulation desk and assist patrons who weren’t interested in the talk. Bertie would introduce Louise Jane, and Ronald would keep an eye on the children. My job was to keep things outside running smoothly.
“Have you heard anything more from Jay Ruddle?” I asked Bertie.
“No, but it is the weekend. I don’t suppose anything was mentioned at your book club last night?”
“The subject didn’t come up. Julia seemed to enjoy herself. She participated eagerly in the discussion—she’s very well read—and Greg sat there looking totally bored.” I didn’t mention that Theodore leapt in to agree with every word Julia said and cut Greg off when he did try to speak. “Butch called her ‘the fair Julia,’ and she seemed amused at that.”
“I’ll worry about Jay Ruddle and his collection tomorrow,” Bertie said. “Now, let’s get out there and make this another Lighthouse Library success. Lucy, is the mayor coming to open the festivities?”
“Last I heard, he intended to.”
“Good,” she said. “Everyone in the audience needs to be reminded he needs their vote.”
“He won’t campaign,” I said. “Not at a library function.”
“I know that, and good for him. His presence should be enough.”
Charlene took the desk, and the rest of us went outside.
It was a lovely day for an outdoor event. A handful of small, fluffy white clouds drifted lazily across the blue sky. The temperature was in the mid-seventies, perfect for people sitting out in the open.
I was watching the clown form a swan out of a balloon for an excited child, when Bertie slipped up beside me. “Drat! I was hoping they’d forget to come.”
I turned to see Diane Uppiton and Curtis Gardner walking up the path.
“Diane insisted on being the official representative of the library today,” Bertie said.
“Why not Mrs. Fitzgerald?” I asked, referring to the board chair.
“She’s in Raleigh for the weekend, visiting her daughter.”
Diane had obviously vacated the beauty parlor only moments earlier and was dressed to the nines in a pink suit with gold jewelry. She saw us watching and waved. I waved back. Curtis wore a suit and tie. He did not wave. They picked their way across the lawn toward the small section of chairs in the front row marked as reserved. The minute they sat down, they pulled out their smartphones and began typing.
As the expected audience grew and the venue expanded outside, almost by themselves formalities began to fall into place. Not only would an official welcome from the library board be extended, but the mayor himself had been invited as an honored guest.
More cars were arriving, and people either found seats on the lawn or wandered around, checking out the booths. Some of the earliest arrivals, those eager for a good seat, pulled thermoses and packets of sandwiches out of beach bags. More than a few produced books and settled back to read.
“I wonder if next year we might want to do more,” Bertie said. “We didn’t advertise except among our own patrons, and look at the turnout. Perhaps we could invite a local author or a guest lecturer from a university.”
“Louise Jane won’t like that,” I said. “Half the people in the audience are probably her relatives.”
“Don’t you worry, Lucy. I know better than to shove Louise Jane off center stage. She’ll appreciate a warm-up act or two.”
“Ms. James?” A couple stood in front of us. He was tall and exceedingly thin, with slicked-back black hair and a full dark mustache. She was short and chubby, with coke-bottle-bottom glasses and gray hair tied in a bun. Her expression indicated that her shoes pinched. He peered down his long nose at us.
Bertie smiled. “I am she. Welcome. Are you here for the lecture? We’ll be starting in about fifteen minutes.”
“We thought we’d drop by and see what all the fuss is about.” He glanced up at the lighthouse tower. “This is your library? It’s rather … small isn’t it?”
“It’s bigger inside than it appears from the outside,” I said, rushing to defend my beloved library. “Sort of like the Tardis or Hermione Granger’s beaded handbag.”
“The what?”
“Never mind,” I mumbled.
“I get the reference,” the woman said. “Still, small is small. You’re close to the ocean, and this building is old. It must get exceedingly damp.”
“Everything in the Outer Banks is close to the ocean,” I said. “That’s why we love it here.”
“You might,” the man said, “but damp is not good for old documents.”
A lightbulb went off over my head. “Even Blacklock College isn’t far from the coast.”
Bertie’s eyes opened wide.
“Fortunately, we have adequate space to incorporate the most up-to-date methods of climate control,” the woman said.
“Fortunately for us, we have a highly qualified librarian well acquainted with the preservation of documents far older than anything to do with North Carolina.” Bertie was referring to Charlene, who’d spent several years working in the hallowed halls and bookshelves of the Bodleian Library in England. She’d quit the job she loved and came home to Nags Head when her mother fell ill and needed care. No one had said so, but I thought it likely the Lighthouse Library was on the short list for the Ruddle collection because Charlene would be the curator. “You know my name,” Bertie said. “May I have yours?”
“I’m Norman Hoskins and this is Elizabeth McArthur.”
Bertie introduced me, and we all shook hands. Elizabeth’s grip was firm, but Norman’s felt like the last piece of cod in the fishmonger’s display case at the end of a long, hot day.
“You’re welcome to have a look inside,” Bertie said. “We’re a public library, and we’ll be open all day.” A group of children—a pirate, Batman, and something all in black—ran inside. “As you can see. But the rare books room will be closed while the lecture is in progress.”
“Perhaps later,” Elizabeth said. “As long as we’re here, I’m interested in what this amateur lecturer has to say. Most of the seats are taken, Norman—we should get ours.”
They nodded politely, although a bit formally for a sunny day in the Outer Banks, and left us.
“The competition,” Bertie said. “I’m not impressed. I’ve remembered something I have to do. I’ll be in my office.” I assumed she was rushing off to check out Norman Hoskins’s and Elizabeth McArthur’s bios.
Chapter Five
I wandered into the crowd, smiling and greeting library regulars. Louise Jane’s tales of the history and legends of the Outer Banks made her popular, and the depths of her family’s roots ensured she was related to about half of the permanent population.
Grace and Stephanie had found seats toward the front, and Theodore was standing at the end of their row,
chatting to them. When they spotted me, they gave me enthusiastic waves and thumbs-up. My aunt Ellen had joined a group of library volunteers who would be helping with the after-presentation refreshments.
We definitely should have brought in more chairs. A couple of parents nudged their children to give up their seats.
Theodore left Grace and Steph and wandered over. “Impressive turnout.” He spoke to me but kept one eye on the driveway.
“Aunt Ellen sent one of her friends into town for a rush on the supermarket to buy more cookies and drink mix. Plus a whole lot more plastic cups and napkins. We’ve brought out all the office chairs that will move. We’ll be starting in a few minutes. You’d better find a seat—not many left.”
Teddy was in his early thirties and perfectly capable of sitting on the ground. But somehow he never seemed like a ground-sitting sort to me.
“I can stand,” he said. A moment later, an Escalade pulled into the lot, and his entire face lit up. “She’s here!”
Three people emerged from the car. Theodore’s face fell. “That … assistant … tagged along.”
“Perhaps you can nab two chairs together. Leaving no place for Greg.”
“Excellent idea!” He hurried to meet the fair Julia and stumbled through a greeting. She smiled shyly at him. A ray of sunlight flashed on a small diamond at the center of the thin gold necklace around her throat. Jay Ruddle detached himself from his party and approached me.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Richardson. You’ve got a nice day for it.”
“And a nice crowd,” I said. “There’s far more people here than we were expecting.”
“Adds to the festive atmosphere.”
“You should have been here the day we decorated the outside of the lighthouse to advertise the forthcoming election.”
He studied the building. “Decorations?”
“They soon started to look wind-blown and tattered, so we had them taken down. They’d served their purpose.”
Over Jay’s shoulder, I saw Curtis Gardner get to his feet, his face set in a deep frown. Diane stuffed her phone into her purse and plucked at his sleeve. Two rows back, Norman Hoskins nudged Elizabeth McArthur and pointed toward us. Her already thin lips formed a tight line.
“I don’t see Ms. James,” Jay asked. “Is she around?”
“She’ll be out in a minute to start the program.”
“I’m not interested in listening to a bunch of fables about ghost ships and wandering spirits, but Julia thought it would be interesting. I don’t know why; she’s never expressed any interest in supernatural rubbish before.”
Could it be that Julia returned Theodore’s admiration? I couldn’t help but glance toward them. He was showing her to a seat in the center of a back row. Teddy dropped into the next chair, the only one vacant. He couldn’t hide a triumphant smile as Greg was left standing on the edges.
“I thought I’d bring her and take the opportunity to examine your map collection,” Jay said.
I was about to tell him that the rare books room was closed this afternoon. But I decided this man could be trusted to handle the precious things properly. Not to mention that Bertie would have my head if I turned him away. “I’ll unlock the room for you.”
We reached the front door as Bertie was coming out. “Oh. Jay. I didn’t expect to see you today. Not that it isn’t a pleasure, of course. We’re somewhat busy, I’m afraid.”
“Not a problem. I like to see libraries well used.”
“Mr. Ruddle wants to spend some time in the rare books room,” I said.
“Let me take you up,” Bertie said. “Charlene’s on the circulation desk at the moment, but it will be quiet when the lecture starts, so I’m sure she can help you find anything you need.”
“Thank you. I don’t want to disturb anyone’s work.”
They went inside. I checked my watch. Almost two. All the chairs had been taken, and the crowd overflow leaned against the lighthouse walls, stood behind the rows of chairs, or sat on the lawn. The mood was festive as people browsed the booths, munched on their sandwiches, shared thermoses of tea (or perhaps something stronger), and chatted to their neighbors. Children ran through the long grasses of the marsh, threw balls to one another, or squirmed in their seats. A line had formed at the face-painting table.
I was beginning to wonder if Louise Jane was going to be late, when I saw her making her way down the path, grinning from ear to ear at the size of the crowd. Today, she was dressed in an eighteenth-century ordinary seaman’s outfit, the clothes ripped and torn. Black makeup created deep circles under her eyes and accented her sharp cheekbones, and she had a dirty rag with spots of red paint dotted on it wrapped around her head.
I hurried to greet her. “You look like one of the sailors on that model ship.”
“That,” she said, “is not a coincidence, Lucy, honey. Quite the crowd.”
“Nice costume,” I said.
“I decided last night not to wear the Miss Havisham getup. Despite what some people might think, I do not make my stories up. I believe in total historical accuracy. Where’s the ship?”
“What ship?”
“The Rebecca MacPherson. I want it near me to illustrate my talk. Let’s get it. You can carry the table. Set it up beside the podium.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“Of course it’s a good idea. It’s my idea, isn’t it?”
I shrugged. “Whatever.” The wind was picking up, bringing the strong scent of salt off the ocean.
Louise Jane and I set the table and the model ship next to the podium. The tiny sails fluttered in the wind. A few people left their seats to give it a closer look.
“I sent my biography to Bertie earlier,” Louise Jane said. “Where is she? She’s going to introduce me, isn’t she? I can’t just go up there and start talking.”
“Yes, Louise Jane. It’s all organized.”
“I would hope so. What’s the time?”
I glanced at my watch. “Three minutes to two. Nervous?”
She gave me a withering look.
“Too bad you don’t have a book to sell, Louise Jane.” Aunt Ellen had wandered over to join us. “The bookstore is here, and you have a ready-made audience.”
Louise Jane’s eyes lit up. “What a great idea! I can call it Supernatural Legends of the Outer Banks. My grandmother and great-grandmother know all the real stories. The ones too terrifying, too real to put in the tourist books. Like the Rebecca MacPherson or Frances, known as the Lady who lives in your apartment, Lucy.”
“She does not.” But, as usual, I protested in vain.
Bertie joined us. “Jay’s happily settled in the map collection. I might have dropped hints that we’d love to have a roomier space for our rare books, but funds are limited. Ready, Louise Jane?”
“Need you ask?”
“Is Connor coming, Lucy?” Ellen asked.
“Last night he said he was. Maybe he got delayed.” I glanced toward the crowded parking lot. “That looks like him arriving now.”
“Then we can begin. I have a short bio of Louise Jane here somewhere,” Bertie said. Papers fluttered in the breeze. “Not that Louise Jane needs much of an introduction to anyone from the Outer Banks. Lucy, you go up and get everyone’s attention.”
Feeling hugely self-conscious, I approached the podium and tapped the microphone. No one paid me any mind. “Attention, please. Can I have your attention.” My tinny voice rang out over the marsh. A flock of Canada geese took flight.
Ronald’s friend in charge of the sound equipment gave me a thumbs-up. The front row shifted slightly as Connor arrived, nodding and greeting people and shaking hands. He sat down and mouthed, “Sorry.” He then puckered his lips into a kiss. I felt flames leap through my face. I glanced over the crowd to give myself a second to compose myself. Grace and Steph waved.
I tapped the microphone again, and eventually the buzz of conversation began to die down. People took their seats, and children were re
ined in. Smiling faces looked up at me. “Thank you,” I said. “Please welcome Bertie James, the director of the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library and your host for this afternoon.”
I stepped down to polite applause as Bertie took the podium.
Bertie finished her words of welcome, invited everyone to partake of refreshments on the lawn after the program, and—reluctantly I thought—called on Diane to say a few words on behalf of the library board.
Bertie stepped back about half an inch as Diane took the podium. Diane was in the midst of regaling those assembled with memories of her late, lamented (not by her, as we all knew) husband, Jonathan, who’d been the chair of the board, when Bertie yanked the microphone aside. “Thank you so much, Diane. Now, it’s my pleasure to introduce our mayor, Connor McNeil.”
Connor simply thanked everyone for coming, thanked the library for hosting the event, said he was looking forward to what our guest had to say, and wished everyone a safe and happy Halloween. He then sat down.
Short and to the point. What everyone loves in a politician.
Me, most of all.
Louise Jane took her place, cleared her throat, and began to talk. She was a born storyteller, and her deep voice was soon rolling over the marshes. Perhaps, I thought, the idea of her putting her stories into a book wasn’t a bad one. It should do well. Tourists loved to buy books about local history, and it might make her happy enough to stop plotting to get rid of me. Louise Jane had never liked me, thinking—incorrectly—that I’d stolen her job at the library, but I tried hard to get along with her. I sometimes thought her shell was cracking, but then she’d turn on me and make another well-placed jab. She particularly delighted in relating stories of the supposed haunting of the lighthouse in general and my apartment in particular, hoping to frighten me right out of North Carolina and back to Boston, where I’m from.
“It’s said that the crew of the great ship cursed their cold-hearted captain, and for their treason, the curse was turned upon them when…”
Despite my skepticism, as she talked I felt myself falling under her spell.
The stories for this afternoon were kept child and family friendly, suitable for a sunny afternoon as well as the audience. Louise Jane had plenty of darker stories, truly frightening ones. She’d bring those out on Halloween evening, when she was scheduled to give an adult lecture at the library.