Reading Up a Storm (22 page)

When I got to her house, Stephanie explained that she wasn't much of a cook. Luckily, her mom shouted instructions from the living room, so she'd managed to throw together the ingredients for a curried chicken casserole with rice, which she served with a tossed salad of kale and arugula. The meal was delicious and I told her so. By unspoken agreement, we kept away from the topic of Will Williamson and his untimely demise. Dessert was a selection of tarts from Josie's Cozy Bakery, served with a tub of vanilla ice cream. I said the time-honored words of “not for me—thanks” before allowing myself to be persuaded to have “just one.”

“I don't know if it's my place to say anything,” I said, scraping the last drops of ice cream off my plate, “but I think it's something Steph should consider.” I looked at Pat.

“Go ahead,” she said.

“Will's son by his first wife is named Michael. He lives in Raleigh, but he's in town now, making the arrangements. I've met him and I think he and Steph might like to meet.”

Stephanie leaned forward, her face lit by excitement. “My brother.”

“Half brother,” Pat said.

“What's he like?” Stephanie said.

“Ordinary guy,” I said. “Seems nice enough. He's a bank manager. Divorced, no kids. He's staying with Marlene at the house Will rented, although they'll probably be evicted soon. If you'd like to meet him, I can arrange it.”

I glanced at Pat. Her face was still. She said nothing.

“Mom?” Stephanie said. “Would you mind?”

Pat shook her head. “You do what you want to do, dear.”

“I would like to meet him. Imagine, my brother. Does he look like me?”

The resemblance was strong. I decided to play that down. I studied my friend's face as if I had to give it some thought. “The eyes are similar. You probably want to meet in a neutral place the first time. Why don't I call him tomorrow, suggest he come to the library in the afternoon? You can go for a walk on the boardwalk or find a quiet alcove. Then, if you want to, you can go for coffee or something. Can you get away?”

“Mom, would you mind? Just an hour or so. If we want to talk more, we can arrange another time.”

“That would be fine, dear. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm very tired.”

I pushed my chair back. “I'll let you know what he says. I need to be going too. Thanks, Steph. Dinner was great.”

“I'll make a cook out of her yet,” Pat said with a soft smile. I didn't blame Pat for being wary of her daughter meeting Will's son. It was bound to disrupt the close
relationship between the two women. But Stephanie deserved to know her family, and Pat was smart enough to recognize that.

I said my good-byes and walked out into the soft night air. I drove toward home deep in thought about Stephanie and Pat and Michael and Marlene. Even if the police never charged Stephanie with the killing of Will, if they didn't arrest someone else, the cloud of suspicion would hang over her for the rest of her life. She was already getting grief from her employers about it. I wanted to help, but I didn't know what else I could do. I'd tried, but all of my poking around had come to naught. Maybe it was a random thing after all. Maybe an old enemy from Alaska had followed Will here, and had slunk off back to wherever he'd come from. Maybe we never would know what had happened that night and William Williamson would join the cold case files deep in the police station archives.

I turned at Whalebone Junction and all but one car dropped away. No traffic was coming toward me. I drove carefully, keeping an eye out for deer. A burst of light flooded into my car, bouncing off my rearview mirror directly into my eyes. The vehicle behind was coming up fast and had turned its high beams on. I slowed slightly, intending to let him pass. To my surprise, he slowed also, but he didn't turn his lights down. He was way too close, almost sitting on my bumper. I glanced in my mirror but could see nothing but white light.
What an idiot,
I thought,
and probably drunk at that.
I was planning to report it to the police as soon as I got home when a shock ran through the car and up my spine. He'd hit me! The car dropped back, and I took a deep breath,
trying to keep myself calm.
Almost home, Lucy. Almost home.
The car accelerated again, and hit me again, harder this time. I swallowed panic and fought to keep my little Yaris on the road. I was approaching the turnoff to the lighthouse and all I wanted to do was run home, but I didn't dare make the turn. I could not lead my pursuer down that dark and lonely dead-end road, although nothing much better lay ahead of me. I was heading into the wilderness with a maniac close behind me. My phone was in my purse, and I'd tossed the purse into the passenger side footwell. I was gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were turning white. Another jolt traveled through me as my car was rammed from behind again.

What was he, if it was a he, playing at? He had to be trying to force me off the road. I didn't dare contemplate why. The ground on either side of the highway was completely flat, so flat that in high winds waves washed over the road. There are no cliffs. If I went off the road, all that would happen would be that I'd sink a few inches into sand or muddy marsh grasses and get stuck. The car pulled back slightly as we came into a straight stretch. Instead of bracing myself for another blow, I steadied the Yaris as best I could and dove for my purse. I grabbed the bag and then the steering wheel. My car was fairly new and the alignment was perfect. I was still safely on the road. I opened my purse and fumbled around, trying to find the phone. Papers, notebook, pens, wallet, lipstick, sunglasses, compact, hairbrush, the book I'd grabbed after being stuck in the police station without anything to read. I could have wept. All the detritus of my life lay at my fingertips but not my phone. Up ahead,
the dark night broke as a set of lights came into view. It was impossible to tell how far away the approaching car was. A mile maybe? This, I decided, was my chance. I'd make a U-turn, try to follow the other car, and alert them to my distress. Then to my overwhelming relief I found it. My fingers closed on the hard case of the iPhone. I pulled it out and swiped the lock screen. My hand shook so badly, I missed the
EMERGENCY
call button.

The car behind me pulled back. For a moment, I dared hope he was giving up, leaving me alone, but then it accelerated, and I knew he was aiming to hit me for real this time. I put my foot on the gas. I was going too fast to make a safe U-turn, but what choice did I have?

My headlights caught a dark shape at the side of the road to my right, emerging from a scruffy patch of stunted trees. It turned, and bright eyes reflected light back at me. It leaped into the air, directly in front of me. I screamed, and instinctively wrenched the steering wheel to the right. I felt my tires sink into soft sand. The car following me shot past. It squealed to a stop and began to turn.

The brakes of the truck coming toward me groaned as the driver slammed them hard, trying to avoid the leaping deer. The animal disappeared into the night, and the truck tumbled off the highway, coming to rest almost exactly opposite where I was. All the doors flew open and to my infinite relief four men jumped out. The vehicle that had been after me flew down the center of the road and its rear lights faded away.

I clambered out of my car on shaking legs.

“Are you okay? Is anyone hurt?” The men surrounded me. Four men. Young, strong, men. They were dressed
in overalls, orange vests, and heavy boots. A work crew heading home at the end of the day.

“I'm fine,” I said. “Just a bit shook up. Are you all okay?”

“I didn't hit it,” one of the men said. “Gave me a heck of a shock though. Blasted deer.”

“Oh, please, Ray. You'll use any excuse to come to the aid of a pretty young lady.”

The men laughed. I laughed too. I laughed so hard, I couldn't stop. The men watched me through eyes full of concern. I gulped and fought to swallow tears.

“You don't look like you're stuck too hard,” Ray said. “We should be able to push you out. Are you able to drive?”

“I . . . Yes, I'm fine, but I am a little unsteady. That was a close call.”
In more ways than one.
“Would you mind following me home? It's not far. I live at the lighthouse.”

“You live at the lighthouse? You must be Lucy. My mom visits your library all the time. Ruby O'Reilly?”

“Sure, I know her.”

Another vehicle approached, coming from the north. I held my breath, but when it entered into our circle of lights I could see that it was an SUV, not a sedan.

“You need any help there?” a woman called.

“We're fine. Thanks,” Ray said. I waved in agreement.

She carried on her way with a cheerful toot of her horn.

I climbed back into my car. The engine was still running. I threw it into gear and touched the gas lightly. The right front wheel spun in the sand, trying and failing to get a grip. The men gathered around, bent their backs to my little Yaris, and with one mighty shove, I was free.

I could have wept with relief. I waited while they piled back into the truck and then I led my small honor guard to the lighthouse. The men remained in the truck, and Ray focused his headlights on the path, lighting my way to the front door. I thanked them again, invited them to pay the library a visit sometime, and let myself in. Once I had the door shut and the locks turned, the truck drove away.

Only then did my legs collapse, and I sank to the floor. Charles crawled into my lap and buried his head into my chest while I cried.

I don't know how much time passed before I staggered to my feet and almost crawled up the stairs. I let myself into my apartment and immediately phoned Butch. I related what had happened, although I didn't really know
what
had happened. A car had chased me down the highway, hitting my Yaris several times, apparently trying to force me off the highway. I skidded off the road, another vehicle arrived, and my pursuer drove away. That was all. Butch was working and said he'd file a report for me. He also said he was coming to the lighthouse right now to have a look at my car. There would be damage to my bumper that they might be able to match to the car that had hit me.

“Thanks, Butch,” I said.

“You don't need to come downstairs,” he said. “I can tell by your voice you're shook up. Make yourself a hot sweet drink and go to bed.”

And that is exactly what I did.

*   *   *

I went to bed, but I didn't sleep. I kept seeing the lights of that sedan getting closer and closer, feeling the jolt as it hit me, again and again, and saw that animal leaping into the road. The men's truck had suffered no damage so they hadn't hit the deer, and for that I was very thankful.

After an hour of tossing and turning I switched on my light, got up, and went to the kitchen.
The List
was on the counter where I'd left it.

At first, I'd assumed some lunatic saw a woman alone in a small car and decided to have some fun. But the more I thought about it, I began to realize he might have been after me specifically. When I'd left the lighthouse for dinner with Stephanie and Pat, a beige sedan had followed me into town. I'd paid it no attention, so hadn't noticed if it stayed behind me all the way to Pat's house.

Was it possible he'd waited outside for me to leave, and then followed me to the highway?

The only reason I could think of why someone would target me personally had to be to stop me from asking questions about the death of Will Williamson.

I'd decided earlier that I was wasting my time and achieving nothing. Perhaps I was getting a lot closer to the truth about what happened than I realized.

I studied
The List
, running over the events of the past few days. This morning, I'd openly asked Ralph Harper about his whereabouts the night of Will's death. I'd moved him up on the list, but now I struck a solid black line through his name. Maybe I'm naive, but I
didn't believe anyone with eyes that soft and gentle would try to harm me. It was still possible that Ralph might have killed Will because of some notion of an insult to the power of the sea, but if tonight's incident was related to the death of Will, and I was convinced it had to be, then Ralph was off the list.

Who else then?

I'd gone to Doug Whiteside's campaign office, and Doug and Billy had seen me there. The receptionist would have told them I was inquiring about the marina. Bill's wife, Jill, might have told him about the strange phone call from the library. I hadn't given her my name, but it would have taken no genius to figure out that it was me calling.

I'd asked Marlene about the phone call Will supposedly got the night he died.

I'd phoned Theodore, asking if he knew Will had turned out to be broke. But no—as with Ralph, I would not believe Teddy would do anything to harm me.

I'd followed Louise Jane through the marsh. Could she have known I was there all along, and was she only pretending to be on the phone talking about spells and paranormal events? No, not Louise Jane. I scratched her name out with a firm, solid line. If she'd known I was spying on her she would have dragged me out of the undergrowth and put me in my place with a withering remark. I studied the list again.
What was I missing?

I was woken by the ringing of the phone. I blinked and tried to stretch. My neck was as stiff as Louise Jane's smile when she pretended to be friendly to me, and I found myself twisted into a very awkward
position. I was sitting at the kitchen table. I'd fallen asleep with my head resting on
The List
. I fumbled for the phone and groaned out a “Hello?”

“Lucy. Butch told me what happened to you last night. Are you okay?”

“Detective Watson, is that you?” I recognized his voice, but I certainly didn't recognize the concern in it. “I'm fine, although a bit stiff and my neck hurts. Gosh, what time is it?”

“Ten after eight. We found the car that hit you.”

“Great! Are you sure? Who was it?”

“It was located in a dark corner of a shopping center lot. The damage to the front bumper matches yours, thus we have no doubt it's the right car. The vehicle had been stolen sometime yesterday. The owner is an elderly lady who didn't even know it was missing until an officer knocked on her door.”

Clearly it had been too much to hope for that my pursuer had calmly gone home and parked his car in his own driveway, front bumper facing the street. “I was hoping the car would lead you to him.”

“Lucy, I have to tell you that this is the first I've heard of anyone chasing lone women down the highway at night, or otherwise causing that sort of trouble. I have to conclude that it might have something to do with the Williamson case.”

“I've been thinking that too. It seems to me that . . .”

“Lucy, stay away. I know you've been poking around and asking questions, and I know you're trying to help your friend. In other circumstances, I might find that admirable. But in a matter of a murder investigation, I do
not. You've made someone mad at you, and you're not equipped to handle it. Stop acting on your own, Lucy.”

“Okay,” I said in a very low voice.

“What was that? I didn't hear you.”

“I'm done being the Lone Ranger,” I said.

“Glad to hear it. I promise when I have something to reveal I'll tell you about it. How's that?”

“That's good. Bye.”

He hung up.

I ached. My upper back, shoulders, and neck were nothing but a ball of tight muscles and pain. I would have been sore this morning anyway, after the way I'd clenched the steering wheel and the jolts my spine had taken, but falling asleep with my head on the table hadn't helped much. I got to my feet, moving very slowly. I stood under a hot, steaming shower for a long time.

I couldn't face food this morning (although Charles had no such qualms) and huddled over a cup of coffee, looking out the window and watching the sun rise in the sky.

“Lucy, what on earth happened to your car?” Ronald said the moment he came through the front door. I was walking down the stairs, moving carefully so as not to send any shock waves into my neck.

“I was rear-ended,” I said. “I haven't even looked at it yet. Is it bad?”

“Pretty bad, yeah,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.”

“You obviously are not.” Bertie had arrived with Ronald. “You're walking like an eighty-year-old woman.”

“A touch of whiplash, I think.”

“My office, now,” Bertie ordered. “Ronald, you can open up. But first make Lucy a cup of my special tea, will you please?”

Bertie ordered me to sit in the visitor's chair in her office and take off the sweater I'd put on over my blouse. She came up behind me and laid her warm palms on my shoulders. “Tell me if it hurts.”

It didn't hurt. It so much didn't hurt that I felt myself falling asleep as her strong, capable fingers kneaded my neck and shoulders.

I heard the door open and Ronald slip in. He handed Bertie a cup and she gave it to me. I cradled it in my hands, enjoying the warmth, if not the scent. “Drink it all,” she ordered.

It was a lukewarm watery green liquid that tasted as dreadful as it smelled. I did as ordered.

“Did the police charge the person who hit your car?” she asked.

“Ummmm. No, it was a hit-and-run. Stolen car. Ummmm.”

“I don't think you've damaged anything,” she said. “You just need to keep that area warm and relaxed and you'll be as good as new in no time.”

“Ummmmm.”

“Oh, to be young,” she said, “and so resilient.” She slipped my sweater over my shoulders and tucked the throw she kept behind her desk around me. “You rest for a while, honey. Come out when you're ready.”

When I woke, the clock over Bertie's desk said it was almost noon. I'd slept the morning away, while Bertie stayed out of her own office and my coworkers did my work for me.

I tossed off the throw and moved my shoulders. I felt almost normal. What on earth was in that tea?

Bertie was sitting behind the circulation desk when I came out. She smiled. “Feeling better?”

“Much. Thank you. I'm sorry I slept for so long.”

“You needed it.” She got to her feet. “Stephanie called for you about half an hour ago. I said you were indisposed.”

Shoot. I was supposed to call Mike Williamson and arrange a meeting with Steph. I'd totally forgotten about it. Bertie went to her office and I took her place at the desk. A couple of patrons were chatting by the magazine rack, and I heard the murmur of voices from the cookbook shelves. No one needed my attention at the moment, so I made the call.

“Hi, Marlene. Lucy here.”

“Lucy! How nice to hear from you. Are you coming over for a swim? I found another case of wine in the garage.”

“I'm working today.” Must be nice, I thought, to simply assume a person could drop everything and rush over for a swim and a glass of wine in the middle of the day.

“Come after work then,” she said.

I didn't bother to reply. I wasn't calling to set up a social engagement. “I need to speak to Mike, but I don't have his number. Is he there?”

“No. He went to the bank. Some details of Will's estate. Not that there is any estate. The owner of this house called this morning and left a message. There's some problem with the rent, she said. I didn't call her back, but it won't be long before I'm out on the street. Hey! I've just had the best idea ever! Do you have a roommate?”

I ignored the question. “What's Mike's number?”

“I don't know. I haven't needed to call him since he's been here. When I phoned to tell him that Will had died, I called his house in Raleigh.”

“Will you ask him to contact me soon as he gets in?”

“Why?”

“Please, Marlene.”

“Oh, all right. As long as you promise to think about the roommate thing.”

“I promise.” I wasn't lying. I had thought about it. I thought that even if I had the room, which I don't, about the last person I'd want to live with was Marlene. When the final bottle of Prosecco ran out, I could guess who'd be expected to buy more.

I phoned Stephanie and told her I hadn't been able to talk to Mike, but I'd let her know when I did, and then lowered my head and concentrated on doing my job.

Shortly before four, a steady stream of cars and vans began pulling into the parking lot, disgorging preteens for their book club. Almost everyone who'd come into the library this afternoon had stopped at the desk to ask me what had happened to my car and inquire if I'd been hurt. I hadn't gone outside to check out the Yaris. I was afraid of what I'd find. I hadn't noticed anything loose or any strange noises when I'd driven home last night after the near-crash, but I hadn't exactly been paying attention to the condition of my vehicle.

The preteens had run upstairs and their parents were either standing around gossiping or looking for books for themselves, when Mike Williamson strolled in. He spotted me behind the desk and gave me a wink and a big grin. “Marlene told me you wanted to talk to me,
so I figured this would be a good chance to see where you work. Busy place.”

I thought Charles had gone upstairs with the kids, since he loves nothing more than story time, but he leaped onto the desk. The hair along his back stood on end. He arched his spine and hissed at Mike.

Mike drew back and lifted his hands. The grin had disappeared. “Geeze, a cat. I can't stand cats.” He made a shooing gesture toward Charles. Charles showed him his sharp teeth.

“Sorry,” I said. “I don't know what's gotten into him. He's usually very friendly.”

“Let me take him, Lucy,” one of the parents said. “My daughter's allergic to cats, so I can't have one. I have to get my fix with this guy every chance I get.” She scooped Charles up and carried him off, cooing soothingly. The look on his face indicated that he did not want to be soothed.

“I do want to talk to you,” I said to Mike, “but it isn't something we can discuss in public.”

The grin returned, and he leaned across the desk. He lowered his voice. “Let's go someplace private then. You can skip off early. No place more private than the beach. Unless you want to show me where you live?”

I sucked in a breath. My skin crawled and the hair at the back of my neck was standing as high as Charles's had. And not just from Mike's slightly slimy insinuations, or from the cat's reaction to him. The minute Mike walked through the door, I realized that I
had
seen Will Williamson's son before. Every time Mike and I had met, he'd been wearing long pants. Today, perhaps with the idea of luring me to the beach, he was
in a short-sleeved T-shirt and board shorts that came to his midthighs. His thin legs, accented by knobby knees, looked like two saplings with burls in the middle. They were also excessively hairy.

Mike Williamson had been on Coquina Beach the afternoon before the big storm hit. He'd been alone, studying the shoreline with binoculars. He'd stared at me as I walked past, making me so uncomfortable I left the beach early. A few hours later, Will and Marlene's boat had been led onto the shore by false lights.

He'd been here all along, before his father was killed.

I'd briefly considered that Mike might have been responsible for his father's death, not wanting to share his inheritance with Stephanie. But I'd dismissed that because Mike wouldn't have known he had a long-lost sister. Besides, I thought Mike had been in Raleigh at the time of Will's death. Marlene had phoned him at home the next morning to break the news. But Raleigh was only a three-hour drive from Nags Head—easy to make it back under the cover of night after having killed a man.