Booked for Trouble by Eva Gates

o’clock, a dark van pulled up and a stretcher was unloaded. Bertie and I stood at the window and watched as Karen Kivas’s body wastaken away. A woman I didn’t know, identifiable by the badge pinned to the belt beside her holster, came in and told us they were finished. She handed Bertie her keys.
    â€œCan we open the library?” Bertie asked.
    â€œDetective Watson sees no reason why you can’t get back to business tomorrow. We’ve marked off the side of the building and don’t want anyone venturing there.” She gave me a steely-eyed stare.
    No worries there. I had no interest in going back to that spot.
    Bertie called Ronald and Charlene to tell them to come in tomorrow. She took the opportunity to get to her yoga studio early, and left me browsing publishers’ catalogs, checking out what was new for the winter.
    By six fifteen Charles was leading the way, tail held high, up to our lighthouse aerie. What a day, and it wasn’t over yet. My book nook beneath the window looked mighty inviting, but instead I attacked my closet. I’d planned on wearing my new yellow dress, bright and light and flowing. Something fun yet suitable for dinner with the family. But now it didn’t seem as though summer fun was going to be the tone of the evening.
    I pulled clothes off hangers, held them up against me, and then tossed them onto the bed. Josie would be wearing something perfect for the occasion, yet drop-dead sexy at the same time. I’d learned long ago not to even try to compete with Josie, and had been much happier for it. Just as well I was the librarian and she the baker. She could tell whether the dough needed more salt by a look, but whenever I cooked, I had to taste everything. I could only imagine what I’d weigh if I worked in a bakery.
    With that cheerful thought, I selected a plain black linen dress and a navy blue scarf.
    Mom, as could be expected, was flawlessly turned out in an oatmeal pantsuit with a bright pop of color provided by a red shirt and ruby earrings. She climbed into the Yaris and gave me a peck on the cheek. Then she pulled back and studied my dress. “Is that the best you could do for dinner out? We’re not going to a librarians’ convention, dear.”
    â€œYes, Mom.”
    At the restaurant the hostess showed us to a table on the deck where Josie, Aunt Ellen, and Uncle Amos were already seated. They got to their feet as Mom and I approached. Ellen gave her sister a hug and Mom briefly allowed herself to be enfolded before pulling away.
    The restaurant faced west, overlooking Roanoke Sound, boats bobbing on the dark water, the bright lights of Manteo, and the rhythmic flashing of the fourth-order Fresnel lens on the reproduction Roanoke Marshes Lighthouse. A light breeze ruffled the warm night air. The restaurant was full, inside and out, but the seating was spaced well enough apart that we could talk in privacy.
    The unpleasant matter of murder and theft squatted on the table like an unwelcome toad while we exchanged greetings, ordered drinks, and consulted the menu.
    â€œI popped into the kitchen when we arrived,” Josie said, “to check what Jake’s cooking. The flounder’s super fresh and he recommends it. He says he’ll send out an extra-large plate of hush puppies, soon as we’re ready, because he knows how much you love them, Lucy. He has a few bottles left of that Merlot you like, Dad. He’s been saving one for you.”
    â€œI’m afraid he’ll have to keep saving it,” Uncle Amos said. “This isn’t a night for drinking.”
    â€œWell, it is for me. As I’m not driving, I’ll have amartini to begin.” Mom handed the waiter her menu without even glancing at it. “Whatever you suggest for dinner will be fine.”
    â€œNow that we’re here,” Uncle Amos said once the waiter had gone in pursuit of drinks, “and out of the police station, do