by Eva Gates
I stood behind Louise Jane and off to one side, looking over the crowd and into the marsh surrounding the lighthouse. It’s a popular place for bird-watchers, nature enthusiasts, and walkers. A boardwalk crosses a section of the marsh, leading to a small dock on the calm waters of Roanoke Sound. No one was out there at the moment. Earlier I’d seen a group of hikers dropping onto the lawn to listen to Louise Jane.
It was a bright sunny day in the Outer Banks, the sun hot on my shoulders. As I watched, at the edges of the marsh, a fog began to roll in. My first thought was to be glad Louise Jane’s program was only speaking, and it wouldn’t matter if visibility was restricted. That might even add to the atmosphere. But once it arrived, the fog settled into place and didn’t come any closer. Tendrils of mist waved and shifted, and gradually a vague shape began to form. A horse, a tall sleek white horse. It tossed its mane and pawed the ground, the long tail sweeping the mist behind it. It lifted his head and stared directly at me.
It was incredibly beautiful and totally mesmerizing. Louise Jane’s voice fell away, and all the people between us faded into insignificance as I gazed into the deep, liquid brown eyes.
I blinked at a burst of applause and glanced toward Louise Jane, expecting her to draw everyone’s attention to the horse, but she didn’t seem to have noticed it. “Men who go down to the sea in ships, more than anyone else, know to fear the power of the unworldly. The Rebecca MacPherson…”
I looked toward the marsh again. The mist was moving, thinning, dissipating, the yellow ball of the sun reemerging. The horse was gone.
“Time to get to work,” said a voice at my elbow.
I jumped. “What!”
“Heavens, girl!” Aunt Ellen said. “You were a thousand miles away. I didn’t think Louise Jane’s story was that interesting. You asked us to help with the refreshments.”
Two of the women from the Friends of the Library group stood with her.
“Oh, right. The refreshments. Yes. Thanks.”
I led the way into the library. Everything we needed had earlier been laid out in the staff break room. Jugs of tea and lemonade were in the fridge, and cookies were stacked on trays on the table. We hadn’t asked Josie to cater today, but instead we bought packages of baked goods from the supermarket in an attempt to keep costs down.
The sound of a broken-hearted creature came from the utility closet. “Good heavens,” a volunteer said. “Has one of Louise Jane’s ghosts gotten trapped inside?”
“That’s Charles, the library cat,” I said. “He’s trying to get your sympathy.”
“It’s working,” she replied.
“Everyone seems to be enjoying the talk.” Aunt Ellen picked up a tray laden with cookies.
“Louise Jane is an Outer Banks treasure,” one of her friends said. “Her understanding of the old stories comes from her grandma and her mama before her. That’s the sort of knowledge you can’t find in books.”
“She’s talking again on Halloween night,” the second woman said. “Are you planning to come?”
“Heavens no! Some of the stories her great-grandmama told would scare the life out of you.” She shuddered. “I only came today because I knew children were going to be here.”
“I’ll carry out glasses and napkins,” I said, “if you can bring the drinks and the cookies, please.” Charlene got up from the circulation desk and followed me outside, saying no one would be in the library while food was being served. Bertie called to Ronald, asking him to stand by the door, to keep an eye on the place while everyone was outside.
A plastic orange cloth had earlier been placed over a folding table, held down by four rocks, and we laid out the spread as Louise Jane wrapped up. “Thank you.” She bowed deeply.
Applause rang out over the grounds, scaring birds out of trees. And the rush for the refreshments was on. Aunt Ellen and her friends poured drinks while I stood behind the table, telling the pushier of the kids, “One cookie at a time, please.” Bertie and Charlene moved through the crowd, accepting compliments on the day. The clown twisted balloons into fabulous shapes, and the bookstore and jewelry booths were doing a brisk trade, although everyone pointedly ignored the political party tents. Louise Jane remained beside the podium and her model ship, talking to a group of admirers.
Diane Uppiton was trying to push herself into a circle of women chatting on the lawn, but Curtis Gardner had disappeared. The people from Blacklock College stood apart, clutching glasses of tea and muttering darkly to each other. Connor casually worked the crowd, shaking hands and slapping backs. He’d wanted to keep this event nonofficial, so Dorothy, his campaign manager, wasn’t with him. Everyone here knew Connor was a strong supporter of the library, whereas Doug Whiteside wanted to see us shut down and the lighthouse and marsh turned into a “revenue-generating” attraction.
“Excellent day, simply excellent,” Theodore said to me. “Two glasses of tea, please.” Aunt Ellen handed the drinks to him, and he thanked her. He then stood on the outskirts of the pack clustered around the refreshments table, holding a plastic glass in each hand and looking around as if searching for something. Or someone. I didn’t see either Julia or Greg.
“Are any of these treats gluten-free?” a woman asked me. “I’m on a strict diet.”
“I don’t think so.” I said. “Sorry.”
“Oh, well. I suppose one won’t hurt.” She snapped up a chocolate-chip cookie, considered it, and then took a lemon cream also.
Gradually people began to disperse. The pitchers were empty, and all that remained of the cookies were a handful of crumbs. Final purchases were made, children corralled, goodbyes said, hugs and kisses exchanged. A steady line of cars drove down the pine tree–lined road heading to the highway.
I helped Aunt Ellen and her group clear up the crumpled napkins and empty glasses, and then the friends departed. The bookstore, the jeweler, the clown, and the face painter packed up their goods and thanked Bertie for letting them participate. Ronald, Charlene, and I began stacking chairs, and Grace and Steph pitched in to help.
Theodore had located Julia, and they sat together, their knees almost touching, while Greg loomed over them like an eighteenth-century chaperone.
“Up you get,” I said. “We’re putting the chairs away.”
Julia smiled at me. She wore a scooped-neck blouse, and I noticed that the necklace she’d had on earlier was missing. “That was so interesting. Your library is fabulous. Not only the setting, but the sense of community you have and the obvious love you all have for it. Everyone I spoke to says it’s an absolute treasure. I’m going to insist Granddad give you his collection.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t get people’s hopes up, Julia,” Greg said. “Your grandfather and I will make that decision based on what’s best for the artifacts, not community sprit or the quality of the lemonade.”
“Surely they’re one and the same,” she said.
“Quite right,” Teddy said.
“Speaking of Granddad,” Julia said, “he must be enjoying your maps, but I’m ready to go.”
“Why don’t I give you a lift back to your hotel, Julia?” Theodore said quickly. “No need to bother Mr. Ruddle.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Greg said, “but that won’t be necessary. Jay loses track of time when he gets caught up in old documents. He’ll be ready to go.”
Theodore’s face fell.
“It’s kind of you to offer,” Julia said.
Theodore’s face recovered.
“I have to get back to work,” I said. “I’ll tell him you’re waiting.”
A few people had come into the library after their snack and were browsing the shelves. Ronald and Nan had helped Louise Jane bring the model ship back inside, and she was carefully checking the placement of every sailor and sail.
“Good job, Louise Jane,” I said.
“Thank you, Lucy. It’s awful kind of you to say so after all the opposition you and Bertie put in my way regarding this event.”<
br />
“I didn’t…” I said. Never mind. There was never any point in arguing.
The blue velvet rope we strung across the back stairs when the rare books room was closed was nowhere to be seen. I cursed under my breath. Some child fooling around, no doubt. Fortunately, this staircase only went up one level. I hoped the miscreant hadn’t disturbed Mr. Ruddle. I climbed the spiral iron staircase to the landing. The door to the book room was closed. I tapped lightly before pushing it open.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Ruddle, but the event’s over, and your granddaughter’s ready to leave.”
Our rare books room resembles a library of old. Whereas the rest of the library is a modern place with warm light, comfortable seating, bright colors, and no stern librarians putting their fingers to their thin lips and scolding, “Shush,” this room is a place for reading and contemplation. There’s no window at this level, so no danger of sunlight touching the papers. The yellow bulb in the ceiling casts a weak light that barely reaches the curved, whitewashed walls or the corners of the aged wooden bookshelves. A red leather chair that squeaks when you sit in it and a gorgeous antique secretary occupy the center of the small room. The secretary is made of aged oak polished to a brilliant shine, with a high back dotted with pigeonholes and multiple drawers.
It’s the perfect environment in which to read old manuscripts or examine historic maps and sailing charts. I love a modern library, these days as much a community center as a place to store books, but there’s something magic about a true old-fashioned library that speaks to me of centuries of learning, the sharing of knowledge, and the reach of civilization.
If we were lucky enough to get the Ruddle collection, I’d argue for it to be kept in a room such as this. Someplace Wilkie Collins, Washington Irving, or Edgar Allan Poe would feel at home in.
Although if those gentlemen did pop in for a visit, we’d forbid them their cigars and glasses of whiskey.
Jay Ruddle sat in the leather chair, an old map spread out across the secretary and a couple more stacked beside him. His head rested on the document.
I coughed. “Mr. Ruddle?”
He didn’t move.
I was conscious of my heart beating in my chest. My hands suddenly felt clammy. I crossed the room in two quick steps. “Mr. Ruddle?”
I touched his shoulder. He didn’t stir. I lifted his hand. A thin gold chain hung from between his fingers. I pressed my own fingers to the inside of his wrist and felt nothing move.
A blue velvet rope was wrapped around his neck. It was the one we used to mark off the staircase, and it was tied far too tightly.
Chapter Six
I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Cell reception in these thick stone walls is irregular at best, and I couldn’t get a signal. I ran downstairs and headed for the front door. Startled patrons watched me pass. I threw the door open.
Only a handful of people remained on the lawn. Theodore, Julia, and Greg faced the marsh. Theodore’s arm was raised as he pointed something out. Bertie had walked with Connor to the parking lot, where they stood by his car chatting. I didn’t want to run and get them. I had to go back to the rare books room before anyone wondered what was going on and went to investigate. I texted Bertie: Code Blue. It’s Jay. Then I sent a message to Connor: Come to the lighthouse. Urgent!
To my great relief, I saw Connor check his phone. He said something to Bertie, and she pulled hers out.
Ronald climbed the steps to stand next to me. “What’s going on, Lucy? What’s wrong? You’re as pale as one of Louise Jane’s ghosts.”
I kept my voice low. “Jay. Inside. Dead.”
He didn’t bother to ask, “Are you sure?” Instead he pulled out his own phone. “Have you called 911?”
“Not yet. Bertie first.”
“I’ll do it.”
Connor arrived at a run, Bertie following. Heads turned to watch them pass.
“Upstairs,” I said. “I think … he’s dead. Ronald called 911.”
Patrons’ heads popped out from between the stacks, and they murmured to one another.
“What happened?” I whispered to Ronald. “I thought you were watching the door.”
“I saw the Manikan twins heading off toward the marsh. I don’t know why their mom brought them, but she did. Couldn’t get a babysitter maybe, as she had the baby with her too. As usual, she wasn’t paying much attention to the boys, so I figured I had to chase after them and drag them back. Then, well, you know how it is, Lucy: one parent wanted to chat, and Mrs. Peterson cornered me with this great idea for an advanced reading program for Primrose, and—”
“Not your fault,” I said.
He glanced at the ceiling. I couldn’t keep my eyes from following. “I should have been here.”
“You’re going to have to say something to the people still here, Bertie,” I said to her. The sound of sirens was approaching.
“I’ll talk to the people outside.” Connor kept his voice low. “I’ll tell them a guest has taken ill, and hope they’ll leave without asking any awkward questions.”
“Like that’s going to happen,” Ronald muttered.
Bertie straightened her shoulders and spoke in her best stern-librarian voice. “Everyone, can I have your attention, please. A visitor has taken ill in the upstairs room. If you don’t mind, I’d like you all to leave. The authorities will need room to work. Thank you so much. Don’t worry about checking out your book, Mrs. North. We know you’re good to return it.”
I whispered in Bertie’s ear. “I don’t think they should leave. The police will want to question them.”
“The police?” She forgot to keep her voice down and the word ‘police’ spread throughout the room. Noticeably, a rush for the exit did not begin.
The door burst open. Paramedics came in, pushing a stretcher.
“Follow me,” I said. “Up the back stairs.”
I led the way and then stood outside the room with my back pressed up against the wall. I could hear the paramedics talking to each other. They did not sound as though they were in a big hurry.
Butch Greenblatt ran up the stairs, his equipment belt jangling. “Lucy, what’s going on?”
I jerked my head toward the rare books room. “He’s in there.”
“Wait here.”
I stood in the doorway and watched him speak to the medics. The woman handed Butch the blue velvet rope and gestured to Jay’s neck. They’d turned him over and unbuttoned his shirt.
“Gone,” one of the medics said.
Butch spoke into the radio on his shoulder.
I swallowed and went back into the hallway.
Butch joined me a moment later. “Do you know that guy?”
“His name’s Jay Ruddle. He wanted to examine our map collection, so we let him work here while our presentation was going on outside. I came up to tell him it was time to leave and … found him. Have you called a detective?”
“Yes. Looks like we need one.”
I nodded. “I agree. This wasn’t natural causes.”
“No!” Julia darted past us and ran into the room. “No!” She threw herself on top of Jay. Before I could move, Theodore had wrapped his arms around her and was lifting her to her feet. “Come away,” he said, his voice calm and soothing. “Don’t look, don’t look. Lucy?”
“Take her downstairs and into the break room,” I said. “I’ll get help.”
Julia pushed Theodore away. Greg moved to take her arm, and she swatted at him. “You’re wrong, Lucy. No one would harm him deliberately. My grandfather’s the nicest, kindest man in the world.” She burst into tears.
“Julia’s right,” Greg said. “Mr. Ruddle is in excellent health, but the man is eighty-two years old.”
“Why don’t you wait downstairs?” Butch said. “Someone will want to talk to you.”
“Theodore, you know where the break room is,” I said. “Put the kettle on.”
“Excellent idea. A cup of hot tea would hit the spot.”
; Theodore took Julia’s arm, but she pulled away. “He’s not dead. I don’t believe you! Greg, tell them he’s napping. He does that sometimes, falls asleep at the oddest moments.”
The medics stood in the doorway watching. “I’m sorry,” one of them said.
“Come with me, please, Julia,” Greg said. “You don’t need tea—you need to lie down. Officer, we’ll be at our hotel. We’re staying at the Ocean Side.”
“No one goes anywhere until the detective says so,” Butch said.
Greg looked as though he was about to argue. Theodore gave the other man a quick glance and then also assumed an argumentative face. Butch stepped forward, and Greg and Teddy deflated. Julia swayed between them.
“Lucy?” Butch said.
“Come with me,” I said. “We’ll find you someplace comfortable to wait.”
I started down the stairs. Julia followed, and Greg and Theodore brought up the rear, jostling for position on the narrow staircase.
I considered showing Julia to Bertie’s office so she could have some privacy, but I knew (unfortunately, from experience) Detective Watson would want to use it to interview witnesses. The break room would have to do.
Bertie, Charlene, and Connor clustered at the bottom of the stairs.
“What’s going on?” Bertie said.
“Julia needs to sit down,” I said. “Detective Watson’s been called.”
Bertie gave Charlene a nod.
“Come on, honey,” Charlene said. “We’ll wait in the staff break room. I’ll put the coffee pot on, and we might even have a box of cookies in the back of the cupboard. There’s an old CD player in there somewhere. I’m sure I can find some music to keep us entertained.” She led the way. Greg and Theodore followed, Julia between them.
“How are you?” Connor asked.
“I’m fine, Connor, truly,” I said. “I hate to say it, but I’m getting used to this.” A soft murmur of conversation came from the main room. “What’s happening? Are many people still here?”