Chapter Eight
“The Moonstone is generally considered to be the first detective novel.”
“I thought that was Edgar Allen Poe?”
“Poe wrote short stories, not novels, and he didn’t write about professional detectives. The Moonstone was genuinely groundbreaking. It contains almost all the tropes we know today as common in a mystery novel. The family with secrets, the incompetent local police, the big-city detective, the limited circle of suspects.” I handed a copy of the book to Aunt Ellen. “You don’t have much time to read it. Book club meets on Monday.”
“I guess we know what I’ll be doing all day tomorrow, then,” my aunt said.
I smiled at her. Aunt Ellen and I were close. She and my mom had grown up together on the Outer Banks, in the same house, in the same family, but their life paths had diverged widely. Mom met my dad when she was in high school and he was a law student on vacation, and she never looked back. My father’s family is not only one of the most socially prominent in Boston, with roots reaching back to prerevolutionary days, but my grandfather founded one of the city’s most illustrious corporate law firms. Dad joined Richardson Lewiston the day he finished law school, and Mom threw herself wholeheartedly into the life of a Boston society matron, whereas Aunt Ellen persuaded her Louisianan fiancé to move to Nags Head to set up his own law practice. When we were young, my brothers and I spent much of our summers in the Outer Banks, never with Dad and often not even with Mom, who preferred the social whirl of the big city. My brothers stopped coming as soon as they were old enough, but I cherished my carefree summers in the big comfortable home of Aunt Ellen and Uncle Amos and my three cousins. A year ago, I quit my job at Harvard, fled my life in Boston and my mother’s expectations, and came to my favorite place on earth and the loving arms of Aunt Ellen. Fortune had been kind enough to smile on me, and at that time the Lighthouse Library was searching for an assistant director. So here I am. And so very happy to be so.
The summer I was fourteen, I met Connor McNeil. He’d been fifteen, and we’d had the sweetest, most innocent of holiday romances. Summer had ended, and I’d gone back to life and school in Boston. I hadn’t seen Connor again until I began work at the library, and we found that the feelings we’d had for each other so long ago still existed.
“If you’re okay to take over here, Lucy,” Aunt Ellen said, pulling me out of my memories, “I’ll be off. I need to get a start on my reading.” She studied the thick volume I’d placed in her hands. “I hope this book isn’t too dry. Some of the classics can be.”
“It’s wordy, yes, and not what I’d call fast paced, but it’s a good read. The Moonstone of the title is a fabulous yet infamous jewel all sorts of mysterious people are hunting. You’ll enjoy it.”
“See you on Monday, then.” She gave me a peck on the cheek and left the library. I settled behind the circulation desk.
With the children’s program going on upstairs, the main library was full of parents waiting for their kids, chatting between the shelves, or searching for books for themselves.
“Terrible about Helena Sanchez,” Glenda Covington said to me. “Although it’s fitting in some way, I think, that she died near here, where she’d spent so much time. She truly loved the Lighthouse Library.”
“Did she?” I asked. That wasn’t the impression I had of her. I thought she’d come last night out of some sense of obligation, not a desire to have a stroll down memory lane. And according to her sister, she was only in town to make sure she got her hands on her inheritance.
“Oh yes. I know some people didn’t get on with her, but I always had a soft spot for Helena. We all have disappointments in our lives, don’t we? Some of us handle it better than others.” Glenda waved goodbye.
The children’s story time ended and excited kids clattered down the twisting iron stairs. Parents gathered them up, helped them check out their books, said goodbye to their friends, and left. I heard several children ask if they could go to the pier to see the police boat. Only a scattering of patrons remained, but we’d be full again in another hour, when it was time for the preteens book club.
Louise Jane came in as we were going through the end-of-day routine. She was dressed in multi-pocketed nylon pants, a beige jacket, and sturdy hiking boots. A pair of powerful binoculars hung around her neck.
“What have you been up to?” Charlene asked. “You look like you’re heading off on an expedition in search of the source of the Nile.”
“Someone has to keep an eye on things out there while y’all are so busy in here,” Louise Jane replied. “Sitting on the top of a metal car in the hot sun all day isn’t fun you know. Never mind the filthy exhaust some cars spit out.” She coughed. “They oughta be taken off the road.”
“What’s happening out there?” I asked. We’d been so busy for the rest of the day, I hadn’t had time to take a peek out the window.
“They’ve gone after having dredged up a bunch of junk from the bottom of the marsh. I couldn’t tell if anything important was among it. They also carried off the contents of the trash containers that line the boardwalk. Searching through that muck is a job I would not want. Have you heard anything more from Sam Watson, Lucy?”
“Me? Why would you expect him to contact me?”
“You’ve been of help to him on past cases. You and I have been of help, I should say.”
“Oh, right,” Charlene said. “Like the time
