The suspects were gathering, if all went according to Louise Jane’s plan, at nine thirty, and we’d head into the marsh at quarter to ten. My special guest should be here at nine fifteen.
I changed into the clothes I’d been wearing that night: black slacks and a black shirt. For Bertie’s party it had been suitable attire for being a waitress. Tonight it was perfect for creeping about the marsh on a moonless night.
I went back to the table, intending to go over all my notes again, and found loose sheets of paper scattered around the kitchen. “Okay,” I said, “you got your revenge for a late dinner. Now we’re even.”
Charles raised one eyebrow as if to say, “I’ll decide when we’re even.”
I crawled under the table, reached beneath the fridge, and gathered up the pages. While Charles napped on the bed—being petted and adored all day is a tiring job—I reread my notes and checked a few more details on the internet, but I was too nervous to keep my mind focused on the task, and I kept checking the time.
At nine o’clock, I went downstairs. I had to do some nimble footwork to get out the door without a suddenly attentive Charles. I did not want to have to worry about keeping an eye on a big Himalayan while laying a trap for a murderer.
I ran lightly down the spiral iron stairs. All was dark and quiet. A light burned in the alcove and another in the hallway. The computers were switched off, the books lined up neatly on their shelves. I love being in a library at night, surrounded by millions upon millions of words of literature, history, and science. I believe books love to be read. I believe books need to be read, and I like to believe that when the library’s closed, they’re waiting eagerly for tomorrow, when once again people stream through our doors, wanting to take the books home with them. When my imagination runs away with me, I imagine the characters climbing out from between their pages after everyone has gone, and getting to know each other. I hope Lizzy Bennet would like what Seth Grahame-Smith did in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies; or that Sergeant Cuff of The Moonstone would enjoy the exploits of his modern counterparts, James and Kincaid, in Deborah Crombie’s series; or that Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t mind too much being re-created as a modern young woman in Vicki Delany’s Sherlock Holmes Bookshop series.
Tonight, I was far too nervous to imagine dreaming books or literary characters exchanging news and gossip. I went outside and paced up and down the path. I checked my watch so often the minute hand scarcely seemed to be moving.
The warm night was a close replication of Friday’s weather. Heavy cloud cover hid the moon and stars, and the wind was still. The occasional bat flew overhead, and insects were on the hunt.
At long last, lights lit up the row of red pines, and a car approached. My heart sped up. It settled back down when I recognized Ronald’s car. I ran to greet him.
“What on earth is going on?” he said the moment he had one foot on the pavement. “Bertie told me we’re going to try to reenact Friday night. Are you sure that’s wise, Lucy?”
“I’m not sure in the least, but it’s worth a shot. Just be on alert, please, and watch what’s going on.”
“I can do that. Here comes Bertie. She told me to wear the same clothes I had on that night.” Like me, Ronald was all in black, but, unlike mine, his outfit was accented by the yellow polka-dot bow tie.
Our boss’s car pulled up. “Mary-Sue’s bringing Lucinda,” Bertie told us, “and Louise Jane and her cousin will pick up Sheila and Ruth. Did you … uh … make the other arrangement?”
“What other arrangement?” Ronald asked.
“Better you don’t know,” I said. “Yes, I did, and I hope she hurries up.” I checked my watch. “She’s late. I said quarter after nine. It’s twenty-five past now. If the timing’s wrong, everything will be ruined.”
“I’m not asking what will be ruined,” Ronald said before clamping his lips firmly together.
“I did as you asked, Lucy,” Bertie said.
“Good.” I spotted the lights of another car turning into the lane. “I hope this is her now. It must be. I told her to park on the far side of the lot. You two wait here for the women. I’ll get everything in place.” I ran across the lawn to greet the newest arrival.
Tina Ledbetter killed the engine, switched off her headlights, and got out of her car. She waved when she saw me jogging her way. She was dressed in brown pants and a calf-length brown cloak and had twisted her gray hair into a tight knot at the back of her head. Tonight, the resemblance to Helena was truly striking.
I stared at the cloak. “Is that …”
“You said to wear a dark coat. So I did.” She gave a bark of laughter. “You should see your face. If you’re thinking this belonged to Helena, it didn’t. The police haven’t returned her things to me yet. Not that I want them. I’ve had this for a long time.”
The cloak was almost identical to the one Helena had been wearing when she died. I’d heard that sometimes identical twins act much alike and often have the same habits and tastes, even when they’re adults and live far apart.
I swallowed and said, “Thank you for coming.”
“Glad to be of help. What do you want me to do?”
“Come with me, but hurry. The others will be arriving any minute. I have a light for you.” I pressed a small flashlight, one I’d taken off my keychain, into her hand. “Please don’t use it until the last minute if you
