Reading Up a Storm by Eva Gates Page B

they pretended to have been intending to come to the library anyway.
    I was on the circulation desk at noon, when Theodore came down the back stairs from the rare-book room. He’d rushed in about a half hour before, saying he desperately needed to consult an old atlas.
    â€œFind what you needed?” I said.
    â€œJolly good,” he replied. He was wearing a tweed jacket, much too warm for the day.
    â€œOpen your coat, please,” I said.
    â€œReally, Lucy, I resent your implications.”
    When I first began working here, Bertie had warned me about Theodore. He loved books, the older and rarer the better, but he didn’t always worry about how they came into his possession. Taking books from the library without checking them out, and then hunting them down, was almost a game Theodore and Jonathan Uppiton had played.
    Bertie, on the other hand, refused to play.
    â€œCoat,” I repeated.
    He did as I asked. I could see no mysterious lumps or excessively full pockets. “Thanks,” I said.
    He let out a martyred sigh, and then he leaned over the desk and lowered his voice. “What do you know about the untimely and tragic death of Will Williamson?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œI heard you discovered the body.”
    â€œNo. Butch did,” I said, telling the perfect truth.
    â€œI hear the recently departed was at book club the other night. I was sorry I had to miss it. Did he have any interesting insights to offer?”
    â€œAbout
Kidnapped
, you mean? Not a thing. He only came because his girlfriend wanted to.”
    â€œHis girlfriend? That is interesting. A friend of literature, is she?”
    â€œI guess,” I said, wondering what Theodore was getting at.
    â€œYou don’t suppose his demise had anything to do with the book club meeting, do you, Lucy?”
    â€œOf course not,” I said. “How could it? None of us had met Will before last night.”
    â€œYou will keep me in the loop, won’t you, my dear?”
    â€œThere is no loop in which to be kept.”
    He touched the side of his nose and gave me what he thought of as a conspiratorial wink.
    I winked back.
Let him have his fun.
    On his way out, Theodore held the door for Detective Watson, who was coming in. “I need to talk to you, Lucy,” Watson said. Theodore’s ears twitched and instead of leaving he snatched up the nearest piece of reading material. I doubted he was all that interested in the most recent issue of
Martha Stewart Living
, which was waiting to be returned to the magazine shelf.
    â€œI can’t talk right now,” I said. “Charlene’s gone to lunch. When she gets back she can look after the desk for me.”
    Watson gave me a long look. Then he turned around and let out an authoritative shout. “Folks, the library’s closing. Now.”
    Heads popped around shelves, and patrons put down books. Theodore looked up from the magazine.
    â€œIf you would be on your way, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you,” Watson said.
    â€œHey!” I protested. “You said we didn’t have to close today.”
    He loomed over me, close enough that I leaned back in my chair. He dropped his voice. “I also said that I wanted to talk to you, Lucy. As you cannot leave your work, your work will have to leave you. I don’t want half of Nags Head listening in.” He looked pointedly at Theodore.
    â€œOkay, okay,” I said. “I’ll call Bertie to look after the desk.”
    â€œExcellent idea,” Watson said. He put on his crowd-control voice again. “Never mind, folks. Go back to your business.”
    The patrons shrugged and exchanged curious glances. “What’s goin’ on out there, Sam?” a man said.
    â€œPolice business,” Watson replied.
    I picked up the phone and told Bertie what was happening. She said she’d be right out.
    â€œYou can tell me, Sammy my boy,” the man said. He gave