Deadly Ever After by Eva Gates (distant reading .txt) 📗

a view tonight: the thousand-watt light at the top of the lighthouse tower could do little to break through the dense fog.

A wooden boardwalk winds through the marsh, leading to a small pier bordering a pond with an outlet to Roanoke Sound. It’s a popular spot for birders and hikers and anyone interested in the wildlife of a saltwater marsh.

No one goes there at night. Certainly not on a night as dark and misty as this one. A flash of light at about the midpoint of the boardwalk had caught my attention. The light was extinguished, and I blinked, thinking I must have imagined it. Then I saw it again. Vague and insubstantial in the drifting mist. On. Off. On again. And then off. I leaned toward the window, as though I could see better if I got an inch or two closer. High above me, the great first-order Fresnel lens flashed to life after its 22.5-second dormancy, lighting the way, as it would all through the night, to sailors at sea. Then it went out, darkness settled once again, and no more flashing lights appeared. I gave my head a shake; it must have been my imagination. I picked up the book and snuggled into bed with it. The perfect read for a spooky night.

Another thing I’ll miss when I move is this commute. The next morning, I walked down the one hundred steps to the library. As usual, I was the first to arrive. The second if you count Charles, who ran on ahead of me, eager to start another day.

I wasn’t quite so eager. I’d read long into the night, enjoying Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s story of the legendary hound, the race across the dangerous, gloomy moor, Sherlock Holmes’s usual keen observations, and Dr. Watson’s usual befuddlement. When I finally turned out the light and laid the book to one side, I hadn’t thought about Sir Henry Baskerville and Sherlock Holmes but of Rich Lewiston, what might have brought him so unexpectedly to the Outer Banks, and who might have wanted to ensure he never left.

Over my usual breakfast of muesli and yogurt, I surveyed the local news, but I learned nothing new. The police had issued a statement saying they were investigating a suspicious death, providing few details. I gave Mom a call, and she told me she was still at the Ocean Side, where she and Evangeline were enjoying a room-service breakfast. Ricky hadn’t called, and no one had answered Evangeline’s frantic knocking at the door of his room. Evangeline had finally gone to bed, but Mom heard her all through the night, tossing and turning and pacing and periodically getting up to check her phone. “Her anxiety’s transferring itself to Fluffy, who’s more wired than ever. I wouldn’t have thought that possible.”

“Are you going to go home today as planned?” I asked.

“I don’t know, dear. Let’s see what the morning brings. Your father’s been in touch with the office, and someone there will liaise with the police and take care of the arrangements.”

“Nice to have an office,” I said.

“It is, isn’t it? I’ll call you when I know more. Ellen is due here shortly, bringing fresh clothes for me.”

Charles froze at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the front door. Suspecting a mouse had crossed the threshold in the night, I left him and went into the staff break room to put the coffee on. When I came back out, the big cat was standing at the door, the fur along his back erect, his ears at attention, still staring.

“What are you up to? Is someone out there already?” Obviously a staff member would just come in, but perhaps we had an early patron. It was five minutes until nine, so I unlocked the door and threw it open.

A body fell in.

Chapter Eight

I screamed. Charles hissed and swatted at the man lying in the doorway in front of us.

Richard Eric Lewiston III groaned and rolled onto his back. There he lay, spread out on the black-and-white tiles blinking rapidly up at me through red-rimmed eyes. He grunted.

“What are you doing?” I said in a louder voice than perhaps I’d intended.

“Good,” he said. “You’re finally open.” Charles peered into his face. “Hello,” Ricky said. Charles meowed. Ricky struggled to get up. I leaned over and held out one arm. Ricky grabbed it, and I hauled him upright.

“What are you doing here?”

“Is that coffee I smell?”

“Yes.”

“I’d kill for a cup.”

Bad choice of words, considering the events of last night. I didn’t say so. Instead I said, “Sit down, and I’ll get you one.”

When I returned to the main room, an enormous mug of strong black unsweetened coffee in hand, Ricky had settled himself into the wingback chair next to the magazine rack. His head was thrown back and his eyes were closed. Charles perched on a high shelf, watching him.

Ricky looked, quite simply, dreadful, and he didn’t smell all that good either. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair this morning, and deep purple circles lay under his eyes. He wasn’t wearing his blazer, but he still had on the white shirt and jeans he’d been wearing last night. The shirt was white no longer but dotted with what looked like beer and grease stains as well as dirt off our front steps. The hems of his pants and his handmade Italian loafers were covered in sand and mud.

“Ricky,” I said. “Wake up.”

He started and his eyes flew open. I handed him the coffee, and he took a long, grateful drink. “Thanks, Lucy. I needed that.”

“It would appear that you do. What’s going on? Where have you been and why are you here?”

“ ’Morning!” Ronald called as he came in. “Oh, sorry.” He looked at Ricky and then at me. “Everything okay?”

“Yes. This is a … friend of my family. Ricky Lewiston, Ronald Burkowski.”

“Okay.” Ronald studied my face. I gave him a slight nod to say everything was good here.

Ricky struggled to stand up. I