Charles had begun his day by settling down for a nap in the wingback chair.
Charlene fiddled with her iPhone and settled her earbuds around her neck, where they’d remain for most of the day unless she actually had to talk to someone. She did a great deal of her job online as she helped high school and college students and historical authors from all over the world research events from Outer Banks history. “In case you didn’t get fully cleaned up after the party, I thought you might need a hand.” She glanced around the room. “But everything looks good.”
“Some of Bertie’s guests helped out. They didn’t have anything else to do while waiting to be questioned by Sam Watson.”
“What do you think happened, Lucy?”
“Me? I have no idea and I’m not going to speculate. This has nothing to do with the Lighthouse Library community, so it’s no business of mine.”
“You could say Helena Sanchez, as a former library director, was a member of our community.”
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m staying well out of it.”
“To change the subject, I’d say our little exhibit was a big hit with the visitors.”
“The women loved it,” I said. “It’s amazing to think how fast everything has changed in our world.”
“And how well we’ve adapted. Some people think libraries are a thing of the past, but nothing could be further from the truth. We’re needed now more than ever to help people sift through the mountains of information, and misinformation, constantly falling on their heads.”
“And help those who don’t have access to any of that information on their own or the ability to get it.”
As we chatted, we wandered to the display. We hadn’t asked people not to touch—these weren’t rare or valuable artifacts, just things that appealed to Charlene and me. Some of the books on the table had been picked up and put back in the wrong place.
Charles roused himself from his nap and came to join us. He stood on top of The Celestine Prophecy. Charlene put him on the floor. “Silly cat. He’s been playing with this stuff.”
“I wouldn’t have thought he could do much damage to a bunch of old books.”
“Where’s the letter opener?”
“The letter opener?”
Charlene bent over and peered under the table. “I don’t see it.”
Something closed over my heart. I stopped breathing. “The letter opener.”
“It’s not here. It’s pretty heavy, but Charles might have been batting it around.”
I tried to calm my breathing as I helped Charlene search. “We have to find it,” I said. We crawled across the floor, and checked under chairs, bookshelves, the magazine rack, the circulation desk, the returns cart. Charles thought this was great fun and roused himself to help us. “Ruth swept the floor before we rolled the bookshelves into place. If she’d found something as big as that letter opener, she’d have picked it up.” I opened the desk drawers and frantically shuffled through the usual office rubbish stuffed into everyone’s drawer. Colorful post-it pads, pens, a stapler, paper clips, elastic bands. A tattered paperback copy of The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins, this month’s book club selection. The book was one of my favorites, and although I’ve read it many times, I’d put it aside to leaf through and refresh my memory before the meeting of the club.
“It’s not here,” I said at last.
Charlene pushed herself off the floor. “Do you think someone took it? It’s not at all valuable, even sentimentally. Hundreds of those things must still be around.”
“Valuable? No. There’s something I didn’t tell you about Helena’s death. First, I have to call Sam Watson.”
Bertie, Charlene, and I watched the detective. He stood in the alcove, studying the display of library artifacts. Butch Greenblatt was next to him.
“You’re sure it was here, Lucy?” Watson asked.
“Positive.”
“As am I,” Charlene said.
“When did you last see it?”
“I can’t say for certain,” I said. “We checked the display one last time around six forty-five, just before Bertie and her friends arrived. I didn’t notice it in particular, but if it hadn’t been there, I probably would have realized that.” I sighed. “Although, I have to admit, I didn’t even know it was missing until this morning when Charlene pointed it out.”
“I saw it,” Bertie said, “at some point during the course of the evening. But I can’t remember exactly when.”
“Charlene?” Watson asked.
“I’m thinking. It was there—I’m sure of it—when Helena Sanchez arrived. I showed her the exhibit, and she genuinely seemed interested. She told me a few stories about how they’d done things back in the old days.”
“I hate having most of my career referred to as ‘the old days,’” Bertie said.
“Try being in law enforcement,” Watson said as Butch chuckled. The detective turned to face us. “If you do find it, let me know right away. The autopsy’s scheduled for noon, so I’ll know more about the cause of death then.”
“You could try asking someone at town hall to find you one of those,” I suggested. “To compare with the missing one. Some might still be around.”
“I’ll do that,” he said.
“You don’t have to go far,” Butch said. “Ed Jones has one in his pencil holder. I’ve seen it myself, and not long ago.”
I mentally slapped myself. “I can’t believe I forgot!”
“What did you forget?” Bertie asked me.
“When Charlene was showing Helena the display, she was interested. But something happened that seemed to genuinely bother her, and she walked away abruptly. Do you remember, Charlene?”
“Now that you mention it, I do. I thought one of the women must have said something to upset her.”
“That wasn’t it. She picked up that book.” I pointed to The Celestine Prophecy, lying on top of a stack of books.
As one we leaned over and
