“I’m only providing the benefit of my experience at this sort of thing,” Louise Jane said.
Ronald and I exchanged looks. Charlene and Louise Jane never did get on. Charlene is an academic and historical librarian. The history of shipping along the eastern coast of North America is her specialty, and she’s so qualified she’d worked for a time at the Bodleian Library at Oxford University in England. Louise Jane, on the other hand, is an enthusiastic amateur. She probably knows as much, if not more, history of the Outer Banks than Charlene, but her knowledge came not from history books, but from family stories and local legends, which are not always completely reliable. If Louise Jane didn’t know something, she simply made it up.
A habit not inclined to endear her to the literal-minded Charlene.
It didn’t help that Louise Jane had a strong interest in what she calls the paranormal history of the Outer Banks in general and our library in particular. Charlene thought that nothing but rubbish.
“Noted,” Charlene said.
“Car pulling up outside,” Ronald said. “It’s quarter to seven, so probably Bertie.”
“Stations everyone,” Charlene said. “Let’s do her proud.”
Louise Jane dropped into a deep curtsy, and we all—even Charlene—laughed.
Charles laid claim to his favorite chair, the comfortable wingback next to the magazine rack.
Three women arrived with Bertie. They were all of an age, all smiling broadly, but the similarities ended there. These three were Bertie’s closest friends from her college years, and they’d met for a drink before coming here to join the rest of their class for the party. She introduced us.
Mary-Sue Delamont was short and slight, almost a perfect caricature of a librarian with her beak nose, thick eyeglasses under bushy eyebrows, slate gray hair tied into a stiff bun, and sensible shoes. She wore a brown pantsuit that looked as though it had been plucked directly from one of the photos Bertie had given us of them at college.
Lucinda Lorca towered over her friends, and was as thin as a runway model. She looked about twenty years younger than Bertie, the result, I thought, of some discreet surgery. She wore a yellow dress with a deeply plunging neckline and tight bodice, a thin belt, and flaring skirt; plenty of good jewelry; and sandals with dangerously high heels.
Ruth McCray was short and round, with pudgy red cheeks, a huge smile, and a mass of frizzy red hair heavily streaked with gray. She wore jeans and a red T-shirt under a blue denim jacket and had hiking boots on her feet.
After we’d been introduced, Ruth threw up her arms and declared, “I cannot believe I’ve never been to this library before, even when I was working in Manteo. I’m green with envy, Bertie. I saw a boardwalk heading for the marsh as we drove up. Maybe a walk down to the water later?”
“That can be arranged,” I said. “It’s lovely down there after dark.”
“Ooh, a cat!” Mary-Sue exclaimed. “What a darling. What’s his name?”
“Charles,” I said. “After Mr. Dickens.”
“Is he a Himalayan?”
“Yes.”
Without another word she charged across the room and scooped Charles up. Charles never minded being scooped. As long as he wasn’t eating.
“Can I get you ladies a drink?” Ronald asked. “I have wine, beer, iced tea, and peach juice.”
They asked for wine, and Bertie said she’d have juice because she was driving. The guests followed Ronald to the makeshift bar on what was normally our circulation desk.
Cars and taxis began pulling up a few minutes later, and librarians of all shapes and sizes poured into our library. They squealed and hugged and exclaimed how they hadn’t changed a bit, and phones were whipped out to show family photographs. Ronald was kept busy behind the bar, and Charlene showed the guests our historical display. The women laughed uproariously over the pictures of themselves and their school, and reminisced while looking at the photos of rows of card cabinets, and the books containing stamped withdrawal notices.
“They say when the wind blows from the south, he wanders the upper floors looking for playmates.” Louise Jane was talking to one woman in a low voice. The woman’s eyes were wide, and she leaned close to hear better. “Ronald,” Louise Jane continued, “knows to keep a close eye on the children, and the gate to the upper levels is always locked when we’re open, or who knows what might happen?”
“Louise Jane,” I said, “do you have a minute?”
She peered down her nose at me. “I’m kinda busy here, Lucy. Sheila’s interested in the … other life forms that live in the lighthouse.”
Sheila nodded enthusiastically. “Ghost hunting’s a passion of mine.”
Oh dear. The last thing I wanted was Louise Jane leading a tour group through the upper levels in search of Frances, called the Lady, who, Louise Jane insists, was a young bride locked inside the building by her cruel, much older lighthouse-keeper husband.
To be specific, the Lady—according to Louise Jane—had been locked in my room. From which she escaped by throwing herself from the fourth-floor window. That I had not once in the year I’ve lived here seen the slightest trace of the Lady, or the little son of another lighthouse keeper who supposedly fell to his death when playing on the upper levels, where he’d been forbidden to go, didn’t matter to Louise Jane.
“I believe,” I said, “you were hired to help us tonight.”
“If by hired, you mean paid for my time, I wasn’t. And I am helping. I’m entertaining the guests.”
“And very well too,” Sheila said.
“But if you insist.” Louise Jane emitted a martyred sigh.
“Ruth’s telling everyone we’re going for a walk to the marsh later,” Sheila said. “Do you have stories about happenings in the marsh?”
“What an excellent idea,” Louise Jane said, “I can tell you some stories on the walk. If you’ll excuse me, duty calls.”
She followed me into the break room, where the platters of food were waiting. “Is it time to serve?”
“Bertie wanted to wait for Ms. Sanchez, but she hasn’t shown up yet, and it’s almost
