Reading Up a Storm (5 page)

“That would tie in well with
Kidnapped
,” Butch said. “Another tale of men at sea, battling the elements.”

“I vote for that,” Connor said. “I haven't read
Moby-Dick
since my school days, and I'd like to look at it with an adult perspective.”

“Why are we always reading about men?” Josie said, getting to her feet to collect empty pastry boxes and crumpled napkins.

“You mean like when we read
Pride and Prejudice
and
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
?” Butch said. “That sort of manly stuff?”

“Oh, all right,” she said. “I'll grant you one point.” She punched him lightly in the arm and he gave her a fond smile. Josie was unofficially engaged to Butch's older brother, Jake, and they were close friends.

“I'll walk you to your car, Eunice,” Louise Jane said to Mrs. Fitzgerald. “We haven't had time to talk much about my suggestion for the haunted Outer Banks exhibit, and Halloween's fast approaching.”

“An excellent idea,” Mrs. Fitzgerald replied. “Lucy, I don't know why Bertie's dragging her feet on this one. The board has approved Louise Jane's project.”

Louise Jane smirked. Bertie had concerns, but the board had leaped on the idea with great enthusiasm. Louise Jane could be very convincing. Not that the idea didn't have merit. Ghost stories can be a lot of fun and also educational if we use them to talk about how people lived in the past. But this was a library, and we didn't want any of our patrons coming away thinking that the building itself was haunted.

Which, according to Louise Jane, it was.

They left, Louise Jane's strong voice rising up, telling Mrs. Fitzgerald about her ideas for costuming the staff.

“Hope you enjoyed yourself tonight, Will,” Connor said.

“Thanks for inviting us,” he said, noncommittally. I'd caught him checking his watch several times. He'd slipped out at one point to “see if I have any important calls.” Will Williamson seemed like a man who preferred to be the one doing all the talking.

“It was great!” Marlene gushed. “You were so sweet to ask us.” She gave Connor a spontaneous hug. I thought she kept herself in his embrace for a fraction longer than was necessary. Will seemed to think so also, as he pulled roughly on her arm. “Let's go. I know I said we'd go out for a drink after, Connor, to talk about your campaign, but I'm wiped. Another time maybe.”

Marlene wiggled her fingers at me, as Will pulled her away.

“Campaign?” I said once they'd left.

“I've been hoping for a nice donation, as well as Will's endorsement,” Connor said. “He suggested we have dinner. I said I was busy tonight, and how about tomorrow? And then, unfortunately, I mentioned the book club. Marlene practically jumped up and down at that, and she insisted they had to come. She's rather a force of nature, isn't she?”

“I liked her,” I said.

“I'm going too,” Josie said. “I said I'd go out for a drink with y'all, but I'm beat. It was a heck of a day. Two employees called in sick, and if they aren't back tomorrow it's going to be another heck of a day.”

“Me too,” Grace said. “Another time.”

Grace and Josie clattered down the stairs, leaving Connor, Butch, Stephanie, and me in an awkward situation. I knew that Stephanie needed the break, and Bertie wasn't expecting her home for another couple of hours. “Shall we go to Jake's?” I said, referring to Butch's brother's restaurant. “We don't have to eat. We can sit at the bar.”

“I can always eat,” Butch said. He wasn't kidding. He could put away a prodigious amount of groceries.

We laughed and the tension left the room. They helped me stack chairs and carry glasses and trash downstairs.

To my surprise Will and Marlene were still in the library. She was standing at the magazine rack, flipping through what was on offer. Will was tapping his watch. He rolled his eyes at Butch and Connor.

“We're closed now,” I said to Marlene. “But you can borrow a magazine or two if you want. I'll make a note, and you can come in tomorrow and take out a library card.”

She shrugged. “No, thanks. I've read all these. All the interesting ones anyway. Thanks again for inviting us, Connor. It was great.”

“If you're quite finished,” Will huffed.

Marlene laughed and took his arm. “You're such a bear sometimes.”

They left, and Butch, Connor, and Steph followed. I came last and locked the door behind us.

Marlene threw back her head. We were a long way from town, the sky was clear with no moon, so the stars were a dense blanket of twinkling jewels. “Will you look at those stars, honey? Aren't they wonderful?”

“Nothing at all like the night sky I saw out on the rigs,” Will said.

The light high above us flashed. A figure stepped out of the shadows at the side of the building. Marlene squealed. Stephanie and I sucked in our breath. Connor touched my arm, and Butch took a step toward the man. “Can I help you, buddy?” he said.

“Evenin', Greenblatt. Dr. McNeil.” The new arrival sounded as though he was speaking around a mouthful
of gravel. “Didn't mean to frighten you folks.” He was an older man, well into his sixties probably and not going there easily. A mane of thick gray hair curled around his neck; he sported an unkempt gray beard and excessively bushy eyebrows. His oatmeal-colored fisherman's knit sweater had a generous number of holes and strands of unraveling yarn, and when he lifted his hand to rub his beard, I could see traces of dirt in the cracks and crevices.

“Late to be out for a walk, isn't it, Ralph? What brings you here?” Butch asked.

Ralph didn't reply. He stroked his beard and stared at Will Williamson.

“You again! Are you following me?” Will snapped.

“Might be. Saw your fancy car headin' out of town. Figured you and me still have unfinished business to conduct.”

“You've been waiting here all night?” Will's bark of laughter was strained. “You really are an idiot.”

The man didn't react to the insult. “Didn't want to interrupt these nice people's meeting.”

“Hey, I remember you,” Marlene said. “Nice to see you again. Thanks for your help the other night.”

“He didn't help,” Will snapped. He tightened his grip on Marlene's arm. “His fumbling incompetence made a dangerous situation worse. As usual. Let's go, honey.”

“What are you talking about?” Butch asked.

Ralph wasn't a big man, but he was solid. He stood in the path, directly in front of Will, his feet wide apart and his hands planted on his hips.

I had not the slightest idea what was going on here.

“I hear you've laid a complaint,” Ralph said.

“You hear right,” Will said. “Now get out of my way before I have to take out a restraining order on you.”

Ralph turned his head and spat. Then, unhurried, he stepped off the path. Will almost dragged Marlene to their car. They leaped in and sped way, going way too fast.

None of us said a word until the Navigator had disappeared between the trees.

“Want to tell us what that was about, Ralph?” Connor said.

Ralph rubbed at his beard. “His boat ran aground the other night off Coquina Beach.”

“So we heard,” Connor said.

“He's threatening to sue me and the coast guard crew that pulled him and his fancy lady out of the water.”

“What?!” Butch said.

“Yup. Says he was doin' okay until we got in the way.”

“That's ridiculous,” Connor said.

“Don't be following him, Ralph,” Butch said. “Whatever else happens, that cannot end well.”

“Some folks,” Ralph said, “need to stay on dry land, where they belong. They think they can master the sea with their big boats and fancy equipment. No one can do that. Night, folks. Ladies.” He seemed to almost glide on the night air as he drifted away, back to a rusty old pickup truck.

I let out a long breath. “Who was that?”

“Ralph Harper. Fisherman, coast guard volunteer. There aren't many people around here who know this coast the way Ralph does. His family goes as far back
as the first European settlers on the Outer Banks, and every one of the men fished.”

“He's quite a legend,” Butch said. “He talks about the sea as though it's a living thing. A vengeful creature too, sometimes.”

Stephanie spoke for the first time. “Will Williamson doesn't seem like a very nice man. Let's go and get that
drink.”

It seemed silly to take four cars, but the others had come by themselves, and I didn't want to make anyone drive the ten miles back to the lighthouse later in order to drop me off. I pulled into the rear of our little convoy, and we headed into the night. Two deer watched us pass from the row of pine trees lining the long driveway to the lighthouse. It was a Wednesday evening in late September. Only a scattering of cars were in the parking lot at Jake's. Inside, a few customers lingered over their meal in the dining room, but the bar area was empty. The four of us sat ourselves at a big round table by the windows, looking over the dark expanse of Roanoke Sound to Roanoke Island. Lights twinkled on the far shore and the fourth-order Fresnel lens of the lighthouse flashed its rhythm. Outside, lamps were lit along the wood railings, and the soft murmur of conversation came from tables on the deck.

“Hey, Butch, Connor. Whatchya havin'?” the bartender called to us.

I ordered a small glass of white wine, and Butch and Connor asked for beers. Stephanie ordered a double scotch on the rocks. I saw Butch—the cop—raise his eyebrows at that, but he said nothing.

Connor had taken the chair that put his back to the windows. “Don't look now,” I said, “but isn't that Doug Whiteside having dinner on the deck?”

Butch had the seat in the corner, back to the wall as always. He glanced outside. “Yup.”

“Who's that with him?” I asked.

“Jack Ambridge. He's on the police board. The other guy is Whiteside's campaign manager. I can't remember his name.”

Connor grunted.

“Who's Doug Whiteside?” Stephanie asked.

“A mayoral candidate,” Butch said.

Stephanie looked at Connor. “Didn't someone tell me that you're the mayor?”

“That's right,” I said.

“And an excellent one too,” Butch added.

“The election's coming up,” Connor said. “Anyone is, of course, welcome to run; that's how democracy works.”

“Ambridge,” Butch said, “is always after the chief to find what he calls
efficiencies
in the police budget.”

“Efficiencies,” I snorted. “What some people call cutting essential services.”

Stephanie lifted her hands. “I'm staying out of this. I don't know enough to comment. Although I'm sure,” she added quickly, “you're an excellent mayor, Connor.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“I can tell you one thing,” I said. “Anyone would make
a better mayor than Doug Whiteside. He's an opportunist, pure and simple. His sister was murdered a while ago, and he had the audacity to use her death as a springboard to launch his campaign. I wouldn't trust him farther than I'd . . . I'd . . .” I sputtered to a halt, unable to find a suitable idiom. “Don't talk to him, Steph, or he'll give you an ugly fridge magnet.”

“I'll make no comment on Doug, his campaign, or his suitability for mayor,” Connor said. “But I'll tell you privately that I don't trust Bill Hill. That guy has ambition written all over him. Everyone in politics has ambition. Nothing wrong with that. Unless it's taken to extremes. I wouldn't be surprised if Bill is already dreaming of a presidential campaign.”

“You think he wants to be president?” Butch asked. “That's a stretch.”

“Not for him. He's a political staffer. They can be every bit as ambitious as any candidate.”

Our discussion of the unsuitability of Doug Whiteside for mayor and the possible ambitions of his campaign manager was interrupted by the welcome arrival of the waiter, bringing our drinks as well as a bowl of peanuts and the bar menu. We clinked glasses.

“The book club was great fun,” Stephanie said. “Thanks for inviting me, Lucy.”

“Thank Bertie,” I said.

“Why?” Connor asked.

“My mom's recovering from a car accident,” Stephanie said, taking a long drink. “Bertie offered to sit with her tonight so I could get out.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Connor said.

Butch said, “Is your mom going to be okay?”

“Yes, but it's going to be a long haul. She broke both legs, among other injuries.”

“That's gotta be tough. I'm going to have a platter of wings. Anyone else?”

We all declined.

“Tough on Mom for sure,” Stephanie said, once the waiter had taken the menus and left. “Life isn't fair sometimes.”

“Stephanie lives in Raleigh,” I said. “She's taken a leave of absence from her job to help her mom.”

“What do you do?” Butch asked.

“I'm a defense attorney.”

Perhaps only I noticed Butch stiffen. “Is that right?” he said slowly.

“I'm just an associate, but I'm with Berton, Baxter. They're an important firm and I was lucky to get in there.”

“I've heard of them,” Butch said.

Stephanie caught the tone in his voice. “You have some kind of problem?”

“Problem? Why should I have a problem with your boss getting that cop killer off by intimidating the only eyewitness?”

“Hardly intimidating. The witness was a flake. He didn't know what he saw. His story changed depending on who was asking.”

I knew of the case. It had been big news over the summer. “Let's not . . .”

“His story changed when Chuck Baxter paid him to change it,” Butch said.

“That's not true. I know Chuck. He's a good lawyer and a moral man.”

Butch slapped his beer bottle down with enough force that the table shook and my wineglass jumped. I grabbed it. “A moral man? There are three little kids growing up without a mother, and for the rest of their lives they'll know the man who shot their mama in cold blood is walking the streets. Baxter should have been strung up along with that client of his.” Butch got to his feet and threw money on the table.

“Convicting an innocent man wouldn't have helped those children.” Stephanie's face was flushed. “Nor would it have done anything for the cause of justice.” She gestured to the bartender to pour her another drink.

“I hope you're not driving tonight,” Butch said.

“What are you? Some kind of cop?”

“Yes.”

“Figures,” she said. “You going to tell your buddies to follow me?”

“If you give me reason to.”

“Why don't I drive Stephanie home?” I said.

“See that you do.” Butch stormed out, barely avoiding knocking down the waiter coming out of the kitchen with a plate piled high with extra-hot chicken wings. “Everything okay here?” he asked us once the door had slammed shut behind Butch.

“Perfectly fine,” Stephanie said. Her color was high and her eyes shone. I guess there's little a defense lawyer likes more than a good argument.

“Do you still want these?” the waiter asked.

“Might as well,” Connor said. The platter was placed in the center of the table.

The waiter gave Stephanie her drink, and she took a hefty swallow.

“I should be used to arguments like that by now,” she said. “I've heard it all before. For the record, we would have represented that man whether he was guilty or not, but it's true that the witness changed his story more than once. Without being paid off or intimidated. Anyway, tell me about Butch. Detective or uniform?”

“Uniform,” Connor said. “His brother's Jake.”

I spread my arms out. “Of this place.”

“I suppose I'm
persona non grata
now.”

“I doubt it,” Connor said. “You caught Butch by surprise. He's not the sort to carry a grudge. We all know cops and defense lawyers can be on different sides sometimes.”

“That's good to hear.” Stephanie finished her drink. “This tastes so good. It's nice to be out with friends for a change rather than sitting at home with Mom. I love my mother beyond words, but . . .”

“I understand,” I said. I patted her hand, and she gave me a grateful smile.

The waiter asked if we needed anything else and Stephanie ordered another drink.

Connor lifted one eyebrow at me. I gave him a nod. I'd take care of Stephanie.

“So,” she said, “tell me more about Butch. Is he married?”

We didn't stay for much longer. I was getting uncomfortable as Stephanie continued drinking steadily, while Connor and I stuck to one drink each. The extra-hot wings sat in the middle of the table like an unwanted visitor.

Connor insisted on taking care of the bill, and then we walked out into the night. Stephanie tripped on her
four-inch heels coming down the stairs and was saved from falling flat on her face only when Connor grabbed her arm with a “steady there.”

“I hope you meant it when you said you'd drive me home, Lucy,” she said.

“I did.”

She hiccuped.

Connor helped Stephanie into the passenger seat of my Yaris, and then he came around to my door to say good night.

“It was certainly an . . . interesting evening,” I said, aware of just how close he was standing.

“Never a dull moment.”

We said nothing for a few seconds. “Good night,” Connor said at last. “You take care of yourself, Lucy.”

“I will.”

He leaned in and kissed me on the lips. It was a light kiss, more of a peck, but my heart began to hammer and blood flooded into my face. When he pulled away his eyes were dark and intense. “Do you want me to come with you? Help get Stephanie home?”

“I'm good. She'll be embarrassed enough tomorrow as it is.”

He stepped back, and I got into my car, started it up, and pulled out of the space. When I reached the road, I took a quick peek in the rearview mirror. Connor was standing alone in the center of the empty lot. A bright light shone down on him, and he lifted his hand. I pulled into the traffic.

“Is it nice,” Stephanie asked, “coming from a big family?”

“No,” I said. “I have three older brothers. All they ever did when we were kids was boss me around, and now that we're adults, their wives offer me the benefit of their words of wisdom.”

“I wish I had brothers.”

“Perhaps I spoke too soon. Sometimes it wasn't so bad. You can be sure no one bullied me in high school, and I had no shortage of girls who wanted to be my friend. Not because they particularly liked me, but because they hoped I'd invite them around to our house and they'd bump into whichever of my brothers was the object of their current crush. It did get tedious.”

“You have a mom and a dad. Aunts and uncles. That must be nice.”

“It is,” I said. My parents were never what you'd call affectionate or even attentive, but I always knew they loved me, and I loved them very much. My mother's sister, Ellen, and her husband, Amos, had been second parents to me whenever I visited the Outer Banks, and sometimes I thought I belonged more with my cousins than with my own brothers. “You have a relationship with your mother that's very special, Steph. I envy that. We can't all have everything.”

She sighed. “I know that. I just wish . . .” Her voice trailed off.

It was only ten minutes to Stephanie's mom's house. Bertie's car was parked on the street in front and the downstairs lights were on. Pat's battered old Neon was in the driveway. Despite Pat's serious injuries, her car had suffered only some body damage in the crash, and Stephanie had had the necessary repairs done.

“We're here,” I said, switching the engine off.

“Home already? Why don't you come in for a drink, Lucy?”

“I hope you don't mind my saying so, but you've had enough,” I said.

“I know I have. I also know that I'm going to be sorry in the morning, but right now I don't care. Believe it or not, I don't drink much. I guess things are getting to me.”

“That's okay. I'll walk you in.”

Bertie was standing at the open door as we came up the sand-covered path. The house was a couple of blocks from the beach, and having a lawn or garden was a lost cause for all but the most committed gardeners. The house was old and small and weather-beaten, but freshly painted and well maintained.

“Did you have a nice evening?” Bertie asked.

“Yup,” Stephanie hiccuped.

“We've had a delightful visit,” Bertie said. “It was so nice to have the time to really catch up.”

The front door opened directly onto the living room. Photographs of Stephanie at all stages of her life, from screaming baby to newly minted lawyer, covered the tabletops. Pat was seated in a reclining chair, dressed in blue-and-yellow-striped pajamas. Her legs were propped up, covered in a blue blanket. She had the same pale skin and curly red hair as her daughter, although the fire color had faded and the hair was now more gray than auburn. Lines of fresh pain were etched into her face, but she gave us a bright smile. “Lucy, how nice of you to bring Stephanie home.”

“It was my pleasure,” I said, leaning down to give her a kiss.

“I'll be off now,” Bertie said. “I'm sure you're ready for bed too, Pat.”

“I am tired,” Pat said. “But I'm not getting up to run a marathon tomorrow. Although my physiotherapist seems to think that should be my goal. I wasn't even going to try that when both legs worked perfectly.”

“Who's my father?” Stephanie said abruptly.

I turned. Stephanie was standing with her back against the door. Her arms were crossed over her chest, a dark cloud filled her gray eyes, and her lips were a tight line. So this was what all the questions in the car about family had been leading up to. Poor Steph. I knew everything there was to know about my parents' families and my lineage. I knew where I came from. Steph didn't even know her father's name.

“I don't want . . . ,” Pat said.

“It's time, Mom. Long past time. Do you understand that when . . . if . . . you go, I'll have no one. No one in the whole world I can call my own.”

“I am not dying,” Pat said. “I'll be fit as a fiddle soon enough. Maybe running marathons.”