they had become accustomed. Something about bad investments and Richard Eric Lewiston Jr.’s gambling problem. Ricky, I suspected, was being pressured into marrying me in order to get an injection of funds into the family.
Unknown to Evangeline, I didn’t have any money other than from my wages. Not one red cent was left to my brothers or me in my grandfather’s will. My grandmother left me her favorite silver tea service—the sort of thing you see gathering dust and tarnishing at every antiques fair in the East. My parents are only in their fifties, active and healthy, so it will be along time indeed before I can expect to come into any money.
Regardless of everything, that I didn’t love Ricky, how boring I found him, how boring I knew our life together would be, I might have drifted into accepting his proposal if he’d said something like, “Wanna make our parents happy and get married?” But the whole champagne–silver box–down-on-his-knees thing reminded me that if I married Ricky, for the rest of my days I’d be trapped in a life of social expectations. He and I just weren’t on the same page anymore.
Apart from two suitcases of summer clothes, my favorite beach sandals, and a few dishes and beloved knickknacks, I dumped all my possessions in my parents’ house (phoning first to check with Maria that Mom was out) and drove my teal Yaris to the Outer Banks, intending to cry on the shoulder of my favorite aunt. But Aunt Ellen isn’t one for weeping, and instead she arranged for her best friend to meet me over sweet tea and sandwiches.
Among my other possessions, I’d filled the backseat of the Yaris with two huge boxes. One of Signet Classics and another of mystery novels.
Now I took a book off the top of the bedside pile.
The Moonstone
by Wilkie Collins. One of my absolute favorites.
I laid out Charles’s litter box on the bathroom floor and prepared myself for bed. I clambered up onto the daybed and snuggled deep into the pillows and duvet. One of my projects at the library was to set up a book club. Bertie had said I could have a free hand with the type of books we were going to read.I’d originally decided on a mystery club, but now, with so much interest in the Austen exhibit, I was thinking classics might be fun. For the first book, we could combine the two.
The Moonstone
, written in 1863, is often called the first detective novel and laid out many of the tropes that have become standard for that genre. The author, Wilkie Collins, was a friend of Charles Dickens.
My own Charles curled himself in a ball at my side and purred.
I opened the cover of the book. I ran my finger across the paper. I let out a deep, contented sigh and began to read. “I address these lines—written in India—to my relatives in England.”
I put down the book.
Someone murdered Jonathan Uppiton. In this very building.
I was here alone, a woman in the dark, a long way from any houses or streets, but I didn’t fear for myself. Not only was the lighthouse full of police, but Mr. Uppiton’s murder seemed a personal thing. Someone had been after him, and probably not a crazed killer (as is often found between the pages), but someone who knew Mr. Uppiton personally.
The police suspected Bertie of the killing. I knew she was innocent. Any woman who’d provided me with this perfect refuge couldn’t be a killer.
How much effort would the police put into seeking the real killer, now that they had their prime suspect? Would they pin it on Bertie and then head off to the doughnut shop to congratulate themselves on a job well done?
What evidence did they have against her?
One: she was found in the room with the body.
Meaningless
. Someone had to come across the body sometime, and Bertie, more than anyone else at the reception, had reason to go upstairs.
Two: she had the murder weapon in her hands.
Irrelevant
. Any librarian worth her horn-rimmed glasses would instinctively pick up a bottle leaking liquid. I would
Unknown to Evangeline, I didn’t have any money other than from my wages. Not one red cent was left to my brothers or me in my grandfather’s will. My grandmother left me her favorite silver tea service—the sort of thing you see gathering dust and tarnishing at every antiques fair in the East. My parents are only in their fifties, active and healthy, so it will be along time indeed before I can expect to come into any money.
Regardless of everything, that I didn’t love Ricky, how boring I found him, how boring I knew our life together would be, I might have drifted into accepting his proposal if he’d said something like, “Wanna make our parents happy and get married?” But the whole champagne–silver box–down-on-his-knees thing reminded me that if I married Ricky, for the rest of my days I’d be trapped in a life of social expectations. He and I just weren’t on the same page anymore.
Apart from two suitcases of summer clothes, my favorite beach sandals, and a few dishes and beloved knickknacks, I dumped all my possessions in my parents’ house (phoning first to check with Maria that Mom was out) and drove my teal Yaris to the Outer Banks, intending to cry on the shoulder of my favorite aunt. But Aunt Ellen isn’t one for weeping, and instead she arranged for her best friend to meet me over sweet tea and sandwiches.
Among my other possessions, I’d filled the backseat of the Yaris with two huge boxes. One of Signet Classics and another of mystery novels.
Now I took a book off the top of the bedside pile.
The Moonstone
by Wilkie Collins. One of my absolute favorites.
I laid out Charles’s litter box on the bathroom floor and prepared myself for bed. I clambered up onto the daybed and snuggled deep into the pillows and duvet. One of my projects at the library was to set up a book club. Bertie had said I could have a free hand with the type of books we were going to read.I’d originally decided on a mystery club, but now, with so much interest in the Austen exhibit, I was thinking classics might be fun. For the first book, we could combine the two.
The Moonstone
, written in 1863, is often called the first detective novel and laid out many of the tropes that have become standard for that genre. The author, Wilkie Collins, was a friend of Charles Dickens.
My own Charles curled himself in a ball at my side and purred.
I opened the cover of the book. I ran my finger across the paper. I let out a deep, contented sigh and began to read. “I address these lines—written in India—to my relatives in England.”
I put down the book.
Someone murdered Jonathan Uppiton. In this very building.
I was here alone, a woman in the dark, a long way from any houses or streets, but I didn’t fear for myself. Not only was the lighthouse full of police, but Mr. Uppiton’s murder seemed a personal thing. Someone had been after him, and probably not a crazed killer (as is often found between the pages), but someone who knew Mr. Uppiton personally.
The police suspected Bertie of the killing. I knew she was innocent. Any woman who’d provided me with this perfect refuge couldn’t be a killer.
How much effort would the police put into seeking the real killer, now that they had their prime suspect? Would they pin it on Bertie and then head off to the doughnut shop to congratulate themselves on a job well done?
What evidence did they have against her?
One: she was found in the room with the body.
Meaningless
. Someone had to come across the body sometime, and Bertie, more than anyone else at the reception, had reason to go upstairs.
Two: she had the murder weapon in her hands.
Irrelevant
. Any librarian worth her horn-rimmed glasses would instinctively pick up a bottle leaking liquid. I would
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