“I could tell you stories about this place that would have your hair standing on end. Stories they don’t want me to be telling. If you know what I mean.” Louise Jane looked around her as though suspecting the hotel manager was standing behind a potted palm, ready to leap out and eject her from the premises if she said a word out of turn.
“Oh, do tell!” Shelia clapped her hands. “I always say the untold stories are the most fascinating, don’t you agree?”
A couple of women concurred, in tones ranging from eager to reluctant. Others turned to their neighbor and began private conversations.
“If you insist,” Louise Jane said. “This hotel is quite old, although it’s been renovated recently. Even the best renovations only serve to throw a thin veneer over the surface. To those who’ve been … shall we say, living here for a long time … all remains as it had been. The staircase by the car park, for example, is where …”
“I’ve no time for ghost stories,” the woman beside me said. “You’re Lucy, aren’t you? From the library. Bertie speaks very highly of you. I’m Margaret Hurley. Retired librarian.” She looked the part, I thought, with her pale lipstick, neatly cut gray hair, thick glasses hanging from a chain around her neck, pink silk blouse tied in a bow at her throat.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said.
“I enjoyed myself very much last night. I left before … before what happened.”
“Did you know Ms. Sanchez?
“I knew her vaguely from when she worked at the Lighthouse Library. I said no more than a few words to her at the party, but I can still be sorry for her death.” She turned to the woman on her other side. “You knew Helena better, didn’t you, Lucinda?”
“Briefly, but not well,” Lucinda Lorca said. She, on the other hand, didn’t look at all like the stereotypical image of a librarian with her long, sleek blond hair curling around her chin, diamond earrings and matching tennis bracket, high-collared shirt with the top three buttons undone, and tight white capris. The skin around her mouth and eyes was fractionally too tight, and I suspected she’d had some plastic surgery done. “I was a librarian in the Outer Banks, and I might have run into her at conferences and the like now and again, but we never worked together. We certainly weren’t friends. Until last night, I hadn’t seen Helena for a long time. Not long after my marriage to Ed Smith ended, I quit and moved to California.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“Nineteen ninety-three.” She laughed lightly. “So long ago. Best thing I ever did, move to California.” She patted her hair. “I’m in television now.”
“That must be exciting,” Margaret said.
“It is. I love every minute of my job. I’m not an actor, although I think I would have made a good one. I work strictly behind the scenes. I’m an assistant to one of Hollywood’s most successful showrunners.” She went on to mention the TV programs her boss was responsible for, including my mom’s favorite legal drama.
The waiter arrived with my glass of wine and a beer for Louise Jane. Several of the women ordered another drink.
“If you want to talk to someone who knew Helena much better than me,” Lucinda said, “you should try Mary-Sue. Mary-Sue!”
Mary-Sue had been studying the contents of her glass and not taking part in any of the conversations swirling around her. Her head jerked at the sound of her name. “Yes?”
“You knew Helena,” Lucinda said. “Didn’t you work together at the Lighthouse Library?”
Mary-Sue’s face tightened. “As you well know. We talked about that last night. I don’t need to be reminded again.”
“But I do, dear.” Lucinda smiled at her. I’d seen that expression before, when I’d been roped into watching TV with Mom: when the really nasty woman got her supposed enemy in a corner at a cocktail party. “I don’t think I ever heard the full story of why you gave up your career.”
Mary-Sue drained her glass. She said nothing.
“You’re in real estate, I believe,” Lucinda said. “That must be so interesting.”
“It’s a living,” Mary-Sue muttered.
Margaret glanced between Lucinda and Mary-Sue. “You must see some wonderful homes around here,” she said.
“Sometimes,” Mary-Sue said.
“I loved every minute of my library career,” Margaret said. “I can’t imagine having done anything else. I wasn’t ready to retire, but George—that’s my husband; he’s a few years older than me—when he retired, he wanted to travel. I have to admit, we’ve been to some marvelous places. Last year we were in Vietnam, and this year we’re planning a Mediterranean cruise, and—”
“She forced me out,” Mary-Sue snapped. “She fired me because I needed to take time off when Roger took sick. It was the absolute lowest time of my life. I had one child still in college, a husband without a job, and then him getting so sick and not nearly enough health insurance to take care of him. And Helena Sanchez fired me because she said I wasn’t able to do my job anymore. Not only that but she blackballed me all over eastern North Carolina. No other libraries would hire me. You think I want to spend my time showing shoddily made, overpriced beach houses to stuck-up rich people from New York City? What other options did I have after Helena Sanchez ripped my dreams as well as my livelihood away from me?”
All conversation at the big table died. Even Louise Jane was left with her mouth hanging open. Everyone stared at Mary-Sue. Tears filled her eyes. She rubbed at them and twisted in her chair. “Where is that waiter!” She snapped her fingers together, and he hurried across the room to our table.
“Can I get you ladies anything else?”
Mary-Sue tapped the rim of her glass. Louise Jane asked for another beer, and Sheila ordered a plate of bruschetta and more calamari.
“Aren’t we going out
