“The police are searching the water under the pier. Looks like they’ve brought in divers.”
“They’re looking for the letter opener, I assume. Ronald will have his hands full trying to keep the children interested in his story when they could be watching police divers at work.”
“I assume there’s been no sign of the missing withdrawal slip?”
“No,” Bertie said.
“I think that’s more important than Detective Watson seems to realize. Why would someone steal an old library card?”
“Assuming it was stolen, and didn’t get thrown in the trash or someone used it to wipe their fingers and then put it into their bag.”
“Did you search the party trash?”
My boss grinned at me. “Charlene did that as soon as you left, under the careful supervision of Butch. It’s been taken away for further inspection.”
“If we’d had a pack of pre-teenage boys here last night, I’d agree it might be possible they threw it out or used it as a napkin. But librarians?”
“That’s pretty much unthinkable.” Bertie rummaged in the bottom drawer of her desk and got her purse. “I’m off. Call me if there are any developments, please, Lucy.”
I accompanied her to the main room and waved her out the door.
“I remember Helena Sanchez,” a patron was saying to Aunt Ellen. “Meanest woman on God’s green earth.” She dropped a stack of books on the desk, and I caught a glimpse of swords, leather jerkins, horses, and dragons. She came in every Saturday morning to return one bulging bag of books for another. I wondered where she found the time to read them all.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” a second woman said. “She was never what you’d call friendly, but she did her job efficiently and was always polite to me.” She carried one book, the Michelle Obama memoir, for which we still had a long wait list.
“Did you know her well?” I asked.
“Only from the library,” the second woman said. “We never socialized.”
“I don’t think she socialized with anyone,” her friend said. “She kept to herself. Which was just as well. No one liked her.”
“You’re being unfair, Joanie. I’ve been visiting the library longer than you have, so I knew her better. They say she had some health problems that caused her pain, so in her years here she wasn’t always in the best of moods.”
“I’m sorry she died,” Joanie said, “but I believe in being honest. Whatever Helena’s problem was, she didn’t make any attempt to be nice to anyone, and I didn’t see any need to be nice to her in return. Bye. See you next week.”
I watched them go, thinking that a lot of people hadn’t liked Helena Sanchez. I hadn’t liked her much in the short exposure to her I’d had. But did people dislike her enough to kill her? She’d been gone from Nags Head for ten years. Wasn’t that long enough for old resentments to die? Unless someone feared her presence here would stir up trouble long forgotten.
“Do you mind watching the desk for a few more minutes?” I asked Aunt Ellen. “I’ve a couple of phone calls to make.”
“I never mind,” she said with a laugh. “This desk is Nags Head Gossip Central.”
“That’s what Bertie calls it.” I went outside to make my calls. To give myself some privacy, I wandered away from the front steps of the library. I enjoyed the feel of the hot sun on my bare arms, although as always I worried about what the sea air was doing to my hair. At the end of a particularly humid day, my mop resembles a circus clown’s wig. Connor always says he loves my out-of-control curls. I was thinking about Connor a lot this morning, I realized.
Then again, lately I was thinking about Connor a lot all the time. I pushed that thought aside and made my first phone call.
“TK Rare Books. How may I be of assistance?” The voice was that of a distinguished Englishman in his fifties or sixties, tempered by years of cigars enjoyed in gentlemen’s clubs and good whiskey served in crystal tumblers, with just a splash of water, by hovering waiters.
“Hi, Theodore. It’s Lucy here.”
“Hey, Lucy. What’s up?” This voice belonged to the same man, but it was that of a Nags Head native in his thirties who’d never smoked a cigar or enjoyed a glass of good single malt in his life. Theodore Kowalski thought the accent, plus the Harris Tweed jackets and spectacles of plain glass, gave him gravitas in the world of rare books.
“I’m wondering if you know anything about The Celestine Prophecy. Apart from what everyone knows, that is.”
“I saw a copy of it in your historical display. Is that the one you’re asking about?”
“It is. It was published in 1993 by Warner Books, and ours appears to be a first edition, but a later printing. If that means anything.”
“Warner Books is now Grand Central Publishing. Hundreds of thousands of copies of The Celestine Prophecy were produced, and it’s still in print. Unless the copy you have is signed by the author or contains some sort of error that caused that particular print run to be pulled, I can’t imagine it’s of any value. Do you think it’s of some significance?”
“That’s the question. Did you hear about the death at the library last night?”
“I did. I was on Twitter this morning and saw news of it there. Most unfortunate. I didn’t see mention of the deceased’s name or anything about a missing book.”
“The book’s not missing. The police
