The Spook in the Stacks_A Lighthouse Library Mystery Read online

  The Spook in the Stacks

  A LIGHTHOUSE LIBRARY MYSTERY

  Eva Gates

  To “SAVE OUR COZIES.” You know who you are and you did it!

  Acknowledgments

  I am very grateful to the fabulous cozy community, in particular the Facebook page Save our Cozies, for their love of cozy mysteries and their determination to see favorite series continue.

  And Matt Martz and Sarah Poppe at Crooked Lane Books, who gave readers what they wanted, and Kim Lionetti at Bookends, who facilitated it.

  Thanks also to all my friends in the Canadian writing community, including Barbara Fradkin, Mary Jane Maffini, Robin Harlick, and Linda Wilken for continuing support and friendship.

  Chapter One

  My colleagues burst through the library doors, weighted down by gravestones, skeletons, and a giant black spider.

  I’ve never been a big lover of Halloween, mainly because, frankly, I don’t consider being scared at all fun.

  Clearly, in that I am in the minority.

  Ronald dropped a gravestone on the floor. It bounced as it hit the white and black marble tiles. “RIP” was scrawled across the front.

  “That’s grisly,” I said.

  “Where’s your sense of fun?” Ronald said.

  “I don’t have one,” I replied.

  “Why does that not come as a surprise to me?” said Louise Jane McKaughnan.

  If there’s a Halloween version of the Grinch, I’m it. Against the wishes of Bertie James, our library director, Louise Jane had managed to convince the board of the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library that a special Halloween exhibit was a good idea. My role today was to ensure that if we had to decorate the lighthouse, it would fall somewhere in the bounds of good taste, if such a thing can be applied to Halloween. Bertie put her foot firmly down at fake blood and gore, missing body parts, scary music, and zombie-costumed volunteers leaping out from under the spiral iron staircase, yelling, “Boo!”

  All of which Louise Jane had suggested.

  Even normally sensible Ronald Burkowski, the children’s librarian, and Charlene Clayton, our research librarian, had leapt eagerly into the spirit of the thing. The grave markers and spiders’ webs were for the second-floor children’s room, and Charlene had said she’d print out some legends of ghostly happenings in the waters off the Outer Banks in the days of sail.

  Louise Jane, not a library employee, but an excessively overeager volunteer, had wanted the exhibit to be all about the supposedly haunted happenings at the Bodie Island Lighthouse, in which our library was situated. The last thing Bertie wanted was word to get around that the building might be haunted. She warned Louise Jane to keep her ghostly tales generic. Louise Jane had reluctantly agreed, recognizing that she had no choice. Now, she smiled at me and shifted the large cardboard box in her arms. I didn’t trust Louise Jane, and never less than when she smiled. Tall, scrawny, and flat chested, with a thin face, piercing eyes, and sharp chin, she always put me in mind of a circling shark. Or, today, a grinning skeleton.

  “And this,” she said, “is the pièce de résistance.” She put the box on the table in the center of the room. With an air of great expectation and some ceremony, she unfolded the flaps and opened the box. She reached in with both hands, paused to ensure we were all watching, and slowly pulled out a model sailing ship. She glanced at us, her smirk indicating that she was anticipating praise as well as astonishment.

  For once, she got it. “Wow!” Ronald said. “Look at that detail.”

  “Beautiful,” Bertie said.

  “Where on earth,” I asked, “did you find it?”

  “A little something my grandmother’s had in the back of her closet for ages,” Louise Jane said. “Among her … special things.” Ronald moved the empty box, and taking great care, Louise Jane gently placed the ship on the table. It was, I had to admit, an extraordinarily beautiful piece. About three feet long, the hull was constructed of individual wooden planks, above which were fitted the decks, the quarterdeck, and bridge, and above that every post and spar and section of sail was in place. The figurehead, a buxom, longhaired woman, was so lifelike, she might be about to burst out of the bow of the ship. Tiny sailors scurried about the deck or climbed the rigging. A man stood at the wheel while the captain watched. A black cat sat at the captain’s feet.

  Charles, one of the library’s most valued employees, hissed and moved as though to swat the tiny cat.

  Louise Jane shrieked. “Keep him away.”

  I scooped Charles up. I tapped his nose. “That is not a toy. Do you understand?”

  He blinked. I decided to take that as agreement, and I put him down. Charles, named in honor of Mr. Charles Dickens, was a beautiful (and didn’t he know it) Himalayan. He strolled away with a flick of his fluffy tail.

  I turned my attention back to the model. “It’s … unusual.”

  The ship was a perfect miniature, no attention to detail missing. It appeared to have been in a fierce battle. Gaping holes, as if blasted away by miniature cannonballs, dotted the hull, and the sails hung in tattered, ripped sheets. I peered closer. The miniature sailors, dressed in loose white pants and striped shirts, were skeletons. I shuddered, and Louise Jane preened. “Rebecca MacPherson.”

  “Who’s she?” I asked.

  “A ship.” Louise Jane settled into lecture mode. “She was sailing these waters, not far from this very spot, as it happens, back in 1754, when—”

  “Opening time,” I said. “I’ll get the door.”

  Which is how, on Thursday, October 25th, the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library came to be open ten minutes before the regular time of nine o’clock.

  The day was cold and wet, bringing thoughts of winter soon to come, and the library was busy. The decorations, the Rebecca MacPherson in particular, were a huge hit with our patrons. The excited squeals of children as they caught sight of papier-mâché tombstones, spider webs made of string, and plastic insects drifted down from the second-floor children’s library. Next week, Ronald would be hosting Halloween parties, and the children had been told they could come in costume if they wished. Ronald had come to Nags Head from New York City many years ago to take up a new career as a children’s librarian. He was great at it, and he truly looked the part, with a wild mop of white hair curling around his collar, thick glasses, and a mischievous grin. Never mind the kids—knowing Ronald and his background in theater, I was looking forward to seeing what sort of outfit he’d appear in.

  I hadn’t been in favor of turning our respectable library into Halloween Central, but even I had to admit that it was proving popular with our patrons, and Ronald and Charlene were getting a big kick out of it. I was even finding my own thoughts turning to what I might wear. I am far too mature to dress in a silly costume, but I still have the elaborate Victorian hat I’d worn over the summer as part of our special Jane Austen exhibit. I should be able to find some extravagant earrings from a secondhand jewelry store to accompany the hat. Not only was the staff going to dress up on Halloween for the amusement of our patrons, but tomorrow night we had a special meeting of the library’s classic novel book club, and Louise Jane (of course) suggested everyone dress as a character from the classics.

  It was going to be a busy week. On Saturday afternoon, Louise Jane would be giving a public lecture on the ghostly history of the Outer Banks, as well as two talks on Wednesday as part of our Halloween festivities.

  The Thursday morning preschool story-time group started to arrive. Little children, most of them dripping with rainwater, ran up the spiral stairs, calling to Ronald that they were here. Smiling parents followed them
in and either browsed the stacks or took seats around the magazine rack for their weekly gossip. Several of the mothers, and one young father, exclaimed over the Rebecca MacPherson.

  The front door opened, and three people—an elderly man and a much younger man and woman—blew in on a gust of wind and a bucketful of rain.

  Today, I was working at the circulation desk. My name is Lucy Richardson, and I’m the assistant librarian here. I’ve only been at the Lighthouse Library a few months, but I fell in love with it on my first day. I’d worked in the Harvard Libraries for several years and enjoyed it there, but when my engagement broke up (meaning, when it never happened), I fled my hometown of Boston for the Outer Banks and the comforting arms of my favorite aunt. Aunt Ellen isn’t one for indulging petulant nieces, and she introduced me to her friend Bertie James, who happened to be searching for a new assistant librarian at the time.

  I looked up and gave the new arrivals a smile. “Good morning. Welcome.”

  They furled umbrellas and shook water off their shoulders.

  “Thank you,” the older man said. He was in his early eighties, I guessed, tall and slim, with deep brown eyes, full lips, strong cheekbones, and a mane of gray hair. The young woman was probably a late-in-life-daughter or his granddaughter; the resemblance was strong. “Sorry to drop in unannounced,” he said in a voice that indicated he wasn’t sorry in the least, “but I’m hoping to have a chat with Albertina James, the library director, if she’s available.”

  Charles leapt onto the circulation desk. The young woman squealed. “Oh, he’s beautiful. May I pet him?”

  “He’d like nothing more,” I said.

  Charles stretched and preened.

  She reached out and gave him a tentative pat on his back. He rubbed against her arm, and she smiled. The younger man smiled at her. He was quite handsome, with clear gray eyes, black hair curling slightly at his collar, high cheekbones, a trace of dark stubble, a chiseled jaw.

  I picked up the phone. “I’ll check with Ms. James. Can I say who’s calling?”

  “I’m Jay Ruddle,” the elderly man said. He looked as though he expected me to recognize the name. I didn’t. “This is my granddaughter, Julia, and my assistant, Greg Summers.”

  “Hi.” Julia spoke from under a waterfall of bangs, and Greg said, “Pleased to meet you.”

  The phone was picked up at the other end, and I said, “Bertie, there’s a gentleman here to see you. Mr. Jay Ruddle?”

  Bertie gasped.

  “Are you okay?” I said.

  “I’ll be right out.”

  I opened my mouth to tell our visitors Bertie would be here in a moment, but I needn’t have bothered. She must have broken an Olympic record in her dash down the hall. She burst into the main room, eyes wide with excitement.

  “Mr. Ruddle.” She thrust her hand forward, and he took it in his. “Welcome to the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library. This is such a pleasure. How can I help you?”

  “I might be able to help you, Ms. James.” His voice was deep and slow and full of memories of the Outer Banks. “May I introduce my granddaughter, Julia, and my personal assistant, Greg Summers?”

  “So pleased to meet you, Ms. Ruddle, Mr. Summers.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen our calm, laid-back, yoga-instructor director quite so excited. She was almost dancing on her toes. Even Charles looked excited. Charles never gets excited, except when a mouse manages to find its way between the stacks. He meowed loudly, and Julia laughed.

  Bertie led the way to her office, calling over her shoulder for me to make tea or coffee.

  “No refreshments, thank you,” Jay said. “We had a late breakfast.”

  Greg followed them, but Julia continued to fuss over Charles. “This is a Himalayan, isn’t it? I adore cats, but Grandfather doesn’t care for them, so I was never allowed to have a pet when I was growing up. Maybe it’s time now.”

  Charles rubbed against her arm, and she smiled. She had her grandfather’s strong features, but on her they were softened enough to be feminine. She wore no makeup, her hair hung limp to her shoulders, and she was dressed in slightly baggy black trousers and a well-worn sweater. Her eyes were not her grandfather’s brown, but a beautiful soft blue.

  Footsteps clattered on the staircase. Children, clutching their book selections, burst into the room, and parents stood up to greet them. Ronald followed his little charges and stood at the door, saying goodbye.

  “Good story time?” I asked.

  “They’re so excited about Halloween, it was hard to get them to pay attention.” He smiled at Julia. “Hi.”

  She dipped her head and murmured a response. “That’s a beautiful model ship over there. May I have a look?”

  “Of course,” I said. We’d strung a couple of strands of colored string around it and attached a small sign saying “Do not touch.” Julia wandered over and stood with her hands behind her back, studying the ship. Charles settled on the returns cart and set about washing his whiskers.

  “I need to talk to Bertie for a couple of minutes,” Ronald said. “Is she free?”

  “Not right now. She has a visitor. Someone named Jay Ruddle.”

  Ronald’s eyes opened wide.

  “What?” I asked. Julia had her back to us. I pointed to her and mouthed, “Granddaughter.”

  Ronald leaned toward me. Instinctively I leaned in also. He spoke in almost a whisper. “Does Charlene know?”

  “Know what?”

  He jerked his head toward the back hall.

  “About our visitors? I don’t think so.”

  Ronald crossed the floor in a few steps. He held his hand out to Julia. “Ms. Ruddle. I’m Ronald Burkowski, children’s librarian. Do you like our ship?”

  She accepted his handshake. “It’s marvelous. The detail is incredible. The Rebecca MacPherson, right? Went down off this coast in the late eighteenth century under the command of Captain Thaddeus Clark. All hands lost, as I recall.”

  “You know a lot about it,” Ronald said.

  “North Carolina nautical history is one of my grandfather’s passions in life. Hard for me not to pick a few things up. Do you suppose this is a reimagining of the Rebecca MacPherson as some sort of Flying Dutchman? I don’t know that I’ve ever heard it’s rumored to have become a ghost ship.”

  “Someone’s fancy, I suspect,” Ronald said.

  “It might have been inspired by the Flying Dutchman,” I said. I happened to currently be reading (or plowing through) Washington Irving’s Bracebridge Hall, which mentioned the legend of the lost eighteenth-century ship and its dead crew, doomed to sail the seas forever, portending disaster to all who saw it.

  The door opened, and Theodore Kowalski, impoverished rare-book collector, self-appointed literary scholar, and staunch library supporter, burst in, shaking rain off his black umbrella.

  “Lucy,” he said, in a crisp English accent, “do you have a copy of…” His voice trailed off. Julia and Ronald had turned to see who’d come in.

  Theodore stared, open-mouthed. I doubt he was staring at Ronald, who he knew perfectly well. Julia gave him one of her shy smiles and dipped her head. Theodore tripped over his own feet in his rush to get across the room. The Rebecca MacPherson was saved only by the quick intervention of Ronald, who put his arm out to catch the flailing man.

  Theodore’s cheeks flamed red. He laughed in embarrassment. “What have we here? A model ship. Looks very—oh, are those skeletons?”

  “We were saying,” Julia said, “that the ghost element might be fake, but the model itself is historically accurate, down to the last spar and the details of the sailors’ uniforms. What remains of them, anyway.”

  Speaking of fakes, Theodore, who we often called Teddy, wore his usual regalia of Harris Tweed jacket and paisley cravat. A pipe was visible in his breast pocket, and the scent of tobacco trailed behind him. I knew he didn’t smoke, and I also knew he was Nags Head born and raised, despite the clothes and the English accent he put on in a failed attempt t
o sound serious.

  Theodore smiled at Julia through a mouthful of small, stained teeth. She smiled back. Her teeth were in perfect condition and almost blindingly white. Ronald glanced at me and raised one eyebrow. I tried not to laugh.

  “Theodore Kowalski meet Julia Ruddle,” Ronald said.

  “Delighted,” Teddy said.

  At that moment, Bertie and her guests came into the main room.

  “Ready to go, honeybunch?” Jay asked.

  “I was admiring this ship,” Julia said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Sure is.”

  “At the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library,” Bertie said, “we take the preservation of the history of the Outer Banks very seriously. We’re mainly a public library, but our research department is top notch.”

  “Is that supposed to be the Rebecca MacPherson?” Jay peered closer.

  “I think it is,” Greg said. “It’s got the right number of cannons, and that’s her figurehead.” He put his hand on Julia’s arm, and she made no attempt to move away. Theodore noticed, and his back stiffened.

  “It’s a Halloween exhibit,” Bertie said. “Something fanciful to amuse the patrons.”

  “Seems to me that if you wanted a fanciful ship, you shouldn’t have interfered with a piece of Outer Banks history,” Greg said.

  “I—I…,” Bertie said.

  “Don’t be so serious all the time, Greg,” Julia said. “It’s just for fun.”

  “Quite right. Fun,” Theodore said.

  “There’s fun and then there’s misrepresentation. Don’t you agree, Jay?” Greg said.

  “I can’t say I’m comfortable with it.”

  “We … we…,” Bertie said.

  “But,” Jay continued, “most people won’t recognize Rebecca at first glance. I assume you’re planning to use the model ship to educate your regulars on the history of the Age of Sail, Ms. James?”

  “Absolutely. It will be a valuable learning tool for the time it’s here. We don’t own it. It belongs to one of our … uh … patrons.”

  Bertie James, of all people, had come over all tongue-tied.