by Eva Gates
“Mrs. Lopez? Mom and I both spoke to her. She wasn’t at the house on Sunday, she doesn’t work weekends, and she didn’t see Dad on Monday, which is normal, as he goes into the office before she arrives for work. She didn’t know anything was wrong until she got Mom’s call on Tuesday morning to say we’d be home later than planned and why.”
“Has she been with your parents for long?” I asked. “Meaning, is she likely to know their secrets?”
“Less than a year,” Ricky said. “Mom has … uh … trouble keeping staff. When I spoke to Mrs. Lopez, she told me a suitcase seems to be missing from Dad’s closet, as are some of his clothes and shoes and his traveling toiletry bag.”
“How many clothes?”
“Does that matter?”
“It matters very much. Two days’ worth? A week? What you’d take if you were skipping the country forever? What about his passport?”
“I didn’t ask her.”
“Ask,” I said.
Ricky made the call and asked the housekeeper to check his dad’s closets again. While he was waiting, our meals arrived, and we picked up knives and forks. Ricky tucked the phone between his chin and shoulder and sliced his sausage, and I applied a liberal helping of ketchup to my home fries and sprinkled hot sauce on top.
I saw my mom, who was picking at the blueberries on her parfait, eye the mountain of food in front of me. Once upon a time, she would have made a comment about keeping oneself slim or the perils of overeating.
Demonstrating how things had changed between us, she said nothing.
“We haven’t decided when we’ll be home yet, but I’ll keep you posted. Thanks.” Ricky put his phone away. “She can’t tell for sure, but not much seems to be gone, and he took a carry-on suitcase, not one of the bigger ones. She’s never seen his passport and doesn’t know where he keeps it. It’s probably in the safe—always was when I lived at home. The police, by the way, have been to the house asking the same sort of questions.” Ricky speared a slice of sausage and put it in his mouth. “You think Dad might have been planning to leave?”
“The thought crossed my mind. If he had more debts to unsavory elements than he could possibly hope to repay, he might have thought fleeing was the best option. That would explain why he came to Nags Head. To either get your mother or to say good-bye to you both.”
“I can’t see it,” Mom said. “Rich simply didn’t have the imagination.”
I wasn’t so sure, but I said nothing. Who knows what lengths people will go to if they believe they’re in danger.
If Rich had been fleeing organized crime, and if, realizing his intent, they’d killed him, then it really would be none of my business.
I could only hope. But, until we knew that for sure, I intended to keep asking questions. “This is going to be difficult for you to answer, Ricky,” I said, “but the question has to be asked. Was your dad perhaps involved with another woman?”
Ricky’s head jerked up. “What kind of a question is that?”
“I’m just thinking out loud. Maybe he was planning to run away with his secretary or someone and came to tell your mom so.”
“He wasn’t involved with Jackie McKenzie, who’s happily married.”
“That doesn’t always—” Mom began.
“In this case it does. Jackie’s married to a woman.”
“Oh,” I said.
“She was in the office all day Monday, remember, scrambling to rebook Dad’s appointments. As for anyone else—honestly, Lucy, I’ve never heard so much as a whiff of any rumors like that, and I would have if they’d been going around the firm. I hadn’t recently noticed any change in his behavior either.”
That, I thought, meant nothing. It was unlikely Ricky had ever paid much attention to his dad at all.
I was scraping my plate clean when Mom said, “There they go.”
I threw down my fork, grabbed my bag, leapt to my feet, said, “Catch you later, Mom,” and ran out of the restaurant.
“Detective,” I called. “A moment, please.”
Watson stopped. He sighed and slowly turned around. “How can I help you, Lucy?”
“A quick question, if you don’t mind.”
“Only one?”
“One to start with. Did Rich Lewiston have his passport on him?”
“He did not.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“No one knows what he was doing in Nags Head. I thought maybe, if things were getting bad enough financially for him, he might have been thinking about leaving the country and came to get his wife.”
“That doesn’t appear to be the case,” Watson said. “Let me ask you a question. Why do you think Rich Lewiston was in financial difficulties?”
“Because everyone from his son to my father to the junior partners in the law firm say so. He was about to be asked to take retirement. More like told to take retirement, whether he wanted to or not. And he did not. Did you know that?”
“I know how to run an investigation, Lucy.”
“Without your interference,” Officer Rankin added.
“Only trying to be of help,” I said.
“Because you have been of help in the past,” Watson said, “I answered your question.”
I dared to ask one more. “Have you spoken to Gordon Frankland about Monday night? He was at the restaurant when we were—you know that, right? He had words with Ricky about his dad. He was suing Richardson Lewiston for—”
Watson raised his hand. “I’ve spoken to Mr. Frankland, and what we discussed is confidential.”
“If you’re afraid he’s going to sue you, I won’t tell.” I smiled.
Watson might have been about to crack a smile in return. Or he might not. It’s hard to tell sometimes.
“Have a nice day, Lucy.” Watson turned and walked away. Rankin wiggled her eyebrows at me in a gesture I couldn’t interpret, then followed him. I watched them leave.
Watson held the door for a man hurrying into the hotel. The man caught sight of me and headed my way. “Lucy, good morning. How nice to see you.”
I struggled for his name. This was Evangeline’s friend, the one she’d been having lunch with yesterday.
“Leon Lions,” he said.
“Sorry. Yes. Good morning.”
“I’m looking for Evangeline. She called and suggested we have breakfast this morning.”
“She called you? She’s been rather busy, I would have thought. When was that?”
“Oh, a few minutes ago.” He glanced around the room. “Fortunately, I happened to be passing, so I could come right away. There she is now!”
He abandoned me and just about sprinted across the lobby, barely avoiding colliding with an elderly lady tapping her way carefully across the room, trailed by a cohort of family laden with beach bags, colorful balls, flotation devices, spades and shovels, and a bag clanging with cans of soft drinks.
Evangeline stepped out of the elevator with Stephen Livingstone. She broke into a smile—a real smile—when she saw Leon and hurried toward him. He wrapped her in an enthusiastic hug and kissed her on both cheeks. She pulled away eventually, laughing and blushing.
Interesting.
I joined them and asked, “Everything okay? Did the police have any updates for you?”
She sighed. “Nothing new. The same tedious questions. Why was Rich in Nags Head? Who might have wanted to kill him? What was the state of our marriage?” She turned to Stephen. “You should have stopped them asking that question. The state of our marriage has nothing to do with anything.”
“I thought it was a fair question, Mrs. Lewiston.”
“I didn’t. Never mind badgering me about where I was at the time Rich died.”
“They weren’t badgering, Mrs. Lewiston. Just asking. I thought—”
“I don’t know that I care what you thought. My husband was a senior partner in one of Boston’s most respectable law firms, not to mention scion of one of Boston’s oldest fa
milies. Why Millar sent me a wet-behind-the-ears, scarcely-out-of-law-school apprentice, I—” She walked away, heels tapping, still talking. Leon caught up to her, and they went into the restaurant together.
Stephen stared after her, his mouth flapping.
“Don’t take it personally,” I said. “She talks to everyone that way. My dad would have chosen you to come because he knows you can do the job. And that you can keep her out of trouble. That’s not always easy.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I can handle her. I’ve had … encounters with Mrs. Lewiston before.”
We walked into the restaurant together. Ricky was on his feet, shaking hands with Leon Lions, who was grinning from ear to ear. If he were a woman, I would have said he glowed with pleasure. He finally dropped Ricky’s hand and allowed Evangeline to introduce him to my mom. He barely glanced at her, and that was unusual. Men in that age group usually fuss over Mom. She’s slim and beautiful, she’s obviously rich, she’s gracious, and she has that soooo delighted to meet you air about her that men like. Come to think of it, men a lot younger than Leon Lions fuss over Mom.
He turned back to Evangeline. “Shall I find us a table?”
“First, I need to talk to my so-called lawyer,” Evangeline replied.
Stephen’s mouth tightened.
Mom stood up. “In that case, Lucy and I will be on our way.”
Evangeline took my vacated chair and shoved the dirty plate to one side. “I can’t spend any more time in this hotel. Suzanne, let’s have lunch in town and do some shopping. I saw an outlet mall the other day. That’ll be fun. Lucy and Ricky can join us for lunch. Shopping isn’t exactly Ricky’s thing, now, is it, dear?” She reached behind her and patted her son’s hand. “You and Lucy can find something fun to do. I’ve heard the Wright Brothers Memorial is very interesting.”
“You truly are persistent, I’ll give you that,” Mom said. “Lucy won’t have time. She’s …” Mom foundered to think of something for me to do. “She has people to interview about what happened to Rich.”
“I do?” I said. “Oh, right. Yes, I do. People to interview. Not interview as in formally take statements, just ask questions. Sorta.” I stopped talking. No one was paying any attention to me.
“You do remember what happened to Rich, don’t you, Evangeline?” Mom said. “The reason we’re all still here?”
“Of course I remember,” Evangeline said. “Don’t be ridiculous, Suzanne. If I was inclined to forget, the police are popping up constantly to remind me.”
“I’d like to see the Wright Brothers,” Ricky said. “If you’re busy, Lucy, I can go by myself.”
“I’ve had a great idea,” Leon said. “Ricky and I can have lunch with the ladies and then go to the memorial while they do their shopping. I haven’t been in years.”
“Why would Lucy have people to interview?” Stephen asked.
“My daughter,” Mom said, with what to my considerable surprise sounded like a note of pride, “has helped the police solve cases before. She’s full of interesting talents, as I’m finding out on this visit.”
“Excellent.” Evangeline clapped her hands together. “We’re all set. Leon, you can recommend a nice place where we can meet for lunch. Oh, Lucy darling, is Fluffy managing all right? She has such a delicate stomach, you know, and I’m worried it will get worse with all this stress. She must be missing me so very dreadfully.”
“She’s okay,” I said. “She and my cat are making friends.”
“Your cat? Do you mean that horrid library creature? Most unfortunate. Fluffy doesn’t care for cats. Neither do I. Nasty animals. Try and keep them apart, will you. Oh, one other thing before you go. She has an exceptionally weak bladder.”
“She has what?”
“She needs to be taken out regularly.” Evangeline smiled at me. “I hope that’s not too much of a problem, Lucy dear.”
“Not at all.” I gritted my teeth.
Ricky disguised his laugh by stuffing an abandoned slice of toast into his mouth.
Chapter Fourteen
I drove back to the lighthouse to take Fluffy for the promised walk. I’d seen no signs of a weak bladder last night. I didn’t know if that was true or if Evangeline was trying to mess with my head. Which would be exactly like her.
Traffic was heavy going out of town as people headed for the beaches of the National Seashore or the towns of Rodanthe and Buxton. I tapped the steering wheel impatiently and thought about all the people swirling around this case. Leon Lions was a strange one. Around Evangeline he acted like the school nerd in the presence of the head cheerleader. He basked in her presence as if he were a sun worshiper at the beach.
Had they once had a relationship? If not, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to.
Was it possible Evangeline’s visit to Nags Head had not been entirely to stop my engagement to Connor? Had she had another reason for coming? Such as to see an old lover?
Maybe even a current lover?
Probably not. If Leon was her lover, past or present, she had more common sense than to bring him out in public in the days immediately following the mysterious death of her husband.
I came to an impatient halt, watching a long line of rear lights glowing red ahead of me. I briefly considered telling Sam Watson about Leon but decided not to. What could I say—that Evangeline had run into an old friend and they’d had lunch together?
Which brought me to thinking about her and James Dalrymple. Again, what on earth could I say to Watson? That Evangeline had appeared to recognize a man, but he didn’t react to her, and then she denied knowing him?
Hardly grounds for an arrest. If my report did lead to an arrest, it would be of me for wasting police time.
At last the traffic broke through whatever the holdup was, and I sped out of town on Highway 12.
A substantial number of cars were parked outside the library when I arrived, and more followed me down the long driveway between the tall red pines. Schools were on break, and Ronald had a full schedule of children’s activities planned. I noticed that many of the kids, as well as their parents, were wearing high boots.
“What’s on the program for today?” I asked Janelle Washington as we walked up the path to the library together. Her twins, Charlotte and Emily, had run on ahead, hair ribbons flying, rubber boots slapping the ground, squealing with excitement.
“Ronald’s invited an expert in marsh wildlife to lead an expedition. The girls are so excited; they’ve been looking forward to it all week.”
I eyed her long-sleeved shirt, the heavy khaki pants tucked into pink-and-purple rubber boots. “You’re going too?”
“Oh yes. The marsh isn’t usually a place you’d find a girl from Manhattan wandering around in, but Ronald needs parent volunteers to keep an eye on the kids. I can only hope we don’t come across anything that doesn’t have legs.” She shuddered. “Or Ronald will have more to worry about than the kids.”
Inside the library, we were greeted by a cacophony of voices of excited children and equally excited parents. I waved to my aunt Ellen, who as a member of the Friends of the Library was staffing the circulation desk, and headed for the stairs before anyone could stop me.
“Lucy! Lucy!”
I stopped. I swore only to myself, plastered on a smile, and turned. “Mrs. Peterson, good morning. What can I do for you?”
Mrs. Peterson, library supporter, literacy advocate, mother of five daughters, and all-around nuisance, was also helping with today’s expedition. Although she might have mistaken the Bodie Island marsh for some unexplored jungle, dressed as she was in a multipocketed jacket, pith helmet, khaki pants, and hiking boots that showed no sign of ever having been worn. An orange whistle hung from a thick rope around her neck. “I’m so glad I caught you. Ellen said it’s your day off.” She dismissed that trifle with a wave of her hand. “But I know you never mind chatting to me.”
I continued to smile. I minded very much. When I moved, I would not miss being waylaid b
y eager patrons as I was attempting to enjoy my personal time.
“About book club. Charity’s enrolled in several summer sports camps, and she insists she hasn’t had time to read The Hound of the Baskervilles. Although, I have to point out, in the interest of honestly, she did get through that massive science fiction thing she took out last week. She says she’s seen the episode of the Sherlock series called ‘The Hounds of Baskerville.’ Is that sufficient preparation for the meeting, do you think?”
I stifled a sigh. Mrs. Peterson meant well, and she only wanted the best for her daughters, but she was convinced that the best meant what she wanted the girls to be interested in, not what they were interested in. Charity was a bright girl, and she was more than welcome in our book club, but if a fifteen-year-old would rather read modern science fiction than the choice of her mother’s book club, that was fine with me. “The meeting’s tomorrow night, Mrs. Peterson. It’s too late for Charity to read the original, in any event. I hope part of the discussion gets into modern adaptations of the original novel, and Charity’s contribution will be welcome.”
“If you say so, Lucy.”
“What did you think of it?”
“Me? I uh … I thought it was … maybe a bit longer than it needed to be.”
“It’s not long compared to other novels of the era.”
“If you say so. I don’t see Ronald yet, but it must be time to go.” She bustled away. Mrs. Peterson rarely read the club’s selection. She came to our book club because she thought her daughters should be reading classic literature. I worried she’d turn them off reading for life.
And wouldn’t that be a tragedy.
I climbed the stairs. Eager little wildlife adventurers rushed past me as not-so-eager parents yelled after them not to run on the stairs.
“Have fun!” I called to Ronald as he came out of the children’s library.
The door to Charlene’s third-floor office was cracked open, and I decided to stick my head in and say hi. She was bent over her computer, typing away. Her ever-present earbuds clung to her ears as she worked to the music she loved so much. I tapped lightly, and she didn’t react. I knocked harder.