By Book or by Crook (20 page)

B
utch came around shortly before opening Thursday morning. Bringing, we were delighted to see,
Mansfield Park
. He handed it to me with a grin and a flourish, and I held it close, just for a moment. Someone, I suspected Butch, had gone to the trouble of dusting off the fingerprint powder and whatever else the forensics lab had used on it. “Detective Watson said you can have this back. He put a rush order on the fingerprint techs.”

“What did they find?” Bertie asked.

“Nothing we can use.”

I took the book to the cabinet. Bertie unlocked it with much ceremony, and I placed
Mansfield Park
among its fellows. It was then locked in. I thought the set looked very empty with two missing. But at least it was only two.

Charlene had reported that nothing of interest had happened in the night.

At two minutes before nine, Bertie cleared her throat and held up one hand to capture our attention. “As I told you earlier, the library will be closing early today for Jonathan’s funeral, which will be followed by a reception in the church hall.”

“He was a cantankerous old goat,” Charlene said,
“but he did love this library. Almost as much as he loved himself as chair of the board.”

Ronald and Louise Jane nodded in agreement.

“I still want to come,” I said.

“We can’t leave the library empty,” Ronald said.

“I thought of that,” Bertie said. “Ellen’s sending Aaron to stand guard.”

Ellen and Amos’s youngest child, my cousin Aaron, was a junior in college. He played tackle on the football team, and it was said that NFL scouts were looking at him.
Mansfield Park
,
Emma
,
Northanger Abbey
,
Persuasion
, and Miss Austen’s personal notebook would be perfectly safe with Aaron on guard.

Jonathan’s Uppiton’s funeral was a well-attended affair. His parents had been Outer Banks people; he’d lived his whole life here, active in many community institutions. Not to mention that his murder had been prominently reported in the media, and there was nothing like the hope of press attention to bring out crowds of mourners. I sat in the second-to-last row with Bertie, Ronald, and Charlene. When Uncle Amos, Aunt Ellen, and Josie arrived, they squeezed in beside us. Aunt Ellen gave me a smile and pressed my hand. Josie had come straight from the bakery and still had a whiff of yeast and cinnamon about her. Andrew had come with Louise Jane. They’d taken seats close to the front, as (Louise Jane had informed me) befitted longstanding Outer Banks families. Other than Diane and Curtis, who were probably waiting to make a grand entrance, the entire board was in attendance. Mrs. Fitzgerald was draped in what Miss Austen would have known as
widow’s weeds, complete with black hat and heavy veil.
She must,
I thought,
be sweltering under all that dark, heavy cloth in this far-too-full room.
Mrs. Peterson arrived, accompanied by three of her five girls. Charity, the basketball-playing eldest, looked as though she’d rather be just about anyplace else.

Two of the younger Peterson girls, I knew, were at science camp. A very expensive science camp the family couldn’t afford. Mrs. Peterson spotted Ronald, seated between Bertie and Charlene, and made a “talk to you later” gesture. If I’d been closer, I might have been able to hear what he muttered under his breath.

Connor McNeil came in the midst of a group of dark-suited men and women. They took seats together near the front. Butch was also in the room. As was Detective Watson. They didn’t slide into a pew but stood at the back, one on either side of the wide aisle, watching everyone as they entered.

I’ve read enough mystery novels to know that the police attend the funeral of a murder victim, hoping the killer will show up to gloat and give something away. The presence of the police reminded me of why—and how—Jonathon Uppiton had died, and I felt a shiver run down my back. Aunt Ellen put her arm around me.

Had someone in this room, in this beautiful, modern church, full of light and color, murdered Mr. Uppiton? Almost certainly. No one believed a total stranger had snuck into the Lighthouse Library to make their way upstairs while the party went on below. And then tiptoed out again once the deed was done. I wouldn’t have recognized anyone who
didn’t belong unless they had a sign printed on their forehead, but Bertie and Mrs. Fitzgerald had the guest list memorized between the two of them. The police were probably here as much to see who
didn’t
come, consumed by guilt, as who did.

I glanced at my watch. Three fifty-five; almost time to begin. Voices blended in a low murmur, and then, one by one, all conversation stopped as the organist took her seat and began to play. When nothing else seemed to be happening, the buzz of conversation resumed. Right on the dot of four, it died again. Everyone turned and craned their necks, and so did I.

Diane Uppiton stood at the doorway. It was a warm, sunny day, and she was framed in the yellow light streaming through the doors. She stood alone, waiting until every eye was on her.

And then she began to walk slowly up the aisle.

She was, I had to admit, perfectly turned out in a dark gray suit that was somber yet not overly dramatic (as per Mrs. Fitzgerald). Her makeup was subdued, her jewelry restrained, her plain black pumps had one-inch heels. She clutched a white handkerchief tightly in her right hand and took her place in the front pew.

A moment later Curtis Gardner slipped into the pew directly in front of us.

The music stopped. The minister, robed in a full white gown, mounted the steps and took her place behind the lectern. “Friends,” she began.

I watched the back of Curtis’s head. At first I thought it was bent respectively in prayer. Then I realized his thumbs were moving as he sent a text.
Diane sat alone, with no one to comfort her. Bertie had told me the Uppitons had no children, Jonathan’s parents were long dead, and Diane had little contact with her family in Buffalo. Diane wiped at her eyes and twisted the handkerchief between her fingers. Her shoulders shivered as she wept. She did seem to be genuinely grieving. I reminded myself that that meant nothing. They’d been married for a long time; she had to have
some
sentiment for Jonathan. Even if as soon as the service was over she’d go back to counting his money and destroying his legacy.

Could Diane have killed Jonathan? Sure, she could. She had been furious that night at him, at me, at everyone. Furious and humiliated. Had she found him upstairs, gloating over the notebook, and struck out with what she had at hand—a beer bottle? I tried to remember if Diane had been drinking beer at the party. Unlikely. Even if she preferred beer to wine, I didn’t think she was the sort to quaff beer in public, and certainly not straight from the bottle. Not very ladylike. She’d been having wine at her home the other night when Bertie and I dropped in.

Curtis, on the other hand, looked like a man who enjoyed his beer. He’d been drinking bourbon at Diane’s, but bourbon wasn’t available at the reception. Only wine and beer.

Was the killer a beer drinker? Had the police considered that?

He—or she—had to have brought the bottle upstairs with him or her.

Unless someone else had been up there earlier, finished off a beer, and left the bottle behind. I
shoved that thought aside. No point in adding unnecessary complications to my theory.

Mrs. Peterson certainly didn’t seem like a beer drinker. Although I was now convinced that she’d stolen the Austen books, I was unsure about her being the killer. If she had murdered Jonathan, she’d had the chance to get his keys before everyone poured into the room. Had that been her objective?

Think, Lucy. Think!

I glanced about the crowded church. A few people wept and wiped their eyes, some followed the eulogy with rapt attention, one or two prayed silently. Some shifted in their seats or surreptitiously checked their phones.

But no one looked guilty.

It was no use. When my mother gave a party, she had been known to count every drop consumed, all the better to gossip about who had done what the next day. (I sometimes wondered why my father’s inattention to her hadn’t driven her to drink. The answer: then she wouldn’t be able to check out, and comment on, everyone else.) As for me, the last thing I’d been doing the night of the reception was taking note of the partygoers’ alcohol consumption. It was entirely possible Jonathan himself had carried the bottle upstairs. Maybe he’d dropped it when his assailant came in and the killer, a teetotaler or wine drinker, had taken advantage of the broken glass to do the deed.

I hadn’t known Jonathan Uppiton in life, but I was getting to know him in death. And I couldn’t imagine him casually taking a beer upstairs into the rare-books room to take a swig from while he gloated
over the Austen notebook. After the service, I’d try to grab Theodore, ask him if he’d noticed a beer bottle anywhere in the vicinity when Jonathan had confronted him.

Aunt Ellen tugged at my arm, and I realized everyone was getting to their feet with hymn books in hand. I hurried to join them.

After the service we all trooped into the church hall for the reception. The catering was by Josie’s Cozy Bakery, and my cousin had slipped out of the service early, heading for the kitchen to supervise the finishing touches. Uncle Amos spotted an old fishing buddy, and Aunt Ellen left me, saying she wanted to chat with a friend. Bertie located Mrs. Fitzgerald and dragged her into a corner, no doubt to talk about the makeup of the library board. Ronald and Charlene wandered off to mingle with the crowd.

Leaving me standing by the buffet table, balancing a glass of tea and a plate of crustless sandwiches. I’d worn black slacks and a matching jacket over a white blouse to the funeral, and for some foolish reason had slipped on those high-heeled shoes I hated but couldn’t seem to talk myself out of wearing. I guess I thought the funeral would be all sitting down. I needed to talk to Theodore, but at the moment, he was deep in conversation with a white-haired, heavily bearded guy I didn’t recognize. I nibbled on an egg salad sandwich. Connor broke away from the circle of what I guessed to be town and county officials.

“Who’s guarding the store?” he asked me.

“What?”

“The library. The books. I thought you were going to have someone watching them all the time.”

“Aunt Ellen sent Aaron over.”

Connor nodded in approval. “Lucy, I was wondering if . . .”

“Mr. Mayor. I have you at last, you naughty boy.” An elderly lady approached. She was about four foot five and weighed ninety pounds tops, but the grip she placed on Connor’s arm was not to be trifled with. “I’ve called town hall again and again about my garbage collection, but no one will help me. Seven o’clock is simply too early for me to have my bins out. That man on the phone was out-and-out rude. I want him fired.”

Connor threw me a grimace over the lady’s helmet of steel-gray hair. “Mrs. Johnstone, let me get you some tea and sandwiches and you can tell me all about it.”

“I’ll have two salmon and one ham and cheese. And a couple of Josie’s pecan tarts. Better get them before they’re all snatched up. These people are like vultures. I’ll come with you, Mr. Mayor. Now that I have you to myself, I won’t risk some neighborhood busybody dragging you away with her minor complaints.”

I kept my eye on Mrs. Peterson. Her daughters had spotted friends and abandoned her. She was chatting to a woman I didn’t recognize. The moment the other woman excused herself, I pounced.

“Mrs. Peterson. It was nice of you to come. You brought only three of your lovely daughters. I suppose the others have summer activities to keep them busy.”

She snatched my bait in her jaws. I bet fishermen wish all fish were this easy to hook. “Dallas and Phoebe are at summer camp. A very exclusive, private science camp for the brightest of young girls. Professors from UNC and Duke will be coming to spend some time with the students. I have to tell you, Lucy, that it was very hard to get the girls in. It’s a highly competitive program and spaces are sought by some of the best families from as far away as New York City. Some girls”—she sniffed—“never do get in. But their parents keep trying.”

“Wow,” I said. “Good for them.”

She beamed.

“I have a niece about the same age. I bet she’d love to go next year. It must be expensive, though.”

“Very expensive. Because it is so exclusive, of course. But nothing’s too much for my girls.”

“You and your husband are wonderful parents. I see he isn’t here. I’ll phone him later and tell him about my niece.”

Panic crossed her face. “Don’t do that!”

“Why ever not?” I said innocently. “My sister will be concerned about the cost. Perhaps he can tell me if there are scholarships she can apply for.”

Her eyes darted around the room. “My husband and I don’t always agree on the importance of structured programming to the girls’ future.”

“That’s too bad. I guess in that case he balked at the cost, eh?”

“You could say that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

I couldn’t think of a single way to be subtle about it. So I asked outright. “How did you manage to pay for it, if he didn’t want to?”

“I . . . came into some funds.”

“You mean like rare books?” I demanded. Butch and Detective Watson were still here. I was prepared to grab Mrs. Peterson the moment she confessed and yell for police assistance.

Tears gathered in her eyes. I prepared to pounce. “Please don’t tell him,” she said. “Although I dare say he’ll find out soon enough. I . . . I sold his golf clubs. But it was worth it. Nancy Hamm’s daughter got in. Why couldn’t mine go?”

That took the wind out of my sails. She wiped at her eyes. “Oh, there’s Ronald. I have to tell him about the science camp. He’ll be so thrilled.”

She hurried away.

I went back to the buffet for another round of sandwiches. I didn’t know what to think. Was Mrs. Peterson lying to me?

Unlikely. Oh, well, back to square one.

As I finished my second round of sandwiches, the white-bearded man and Theodore shook hands and parted. I dropped my glass and plate onto a table and rushed over.