By Book or By Crook (A Lighthouse Library Mystery, Band 1) - Softcover

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Eva Gates is the author of the national bestselling Lighthouse Library mysteries. She began her writing career as a Sunday writer: a single mother of three high-spirited daughters, with a full-time job as a computer programmer. Now she has more than twenty novels under her belt in the mystery genre, published under the name Vicki Delany. She lives in Ontario.

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Praise for By Book or by Crook

OBSIDIAN

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Chapter 1

Only in the very back of my mind, in my most secret dreams, did I ever dare hope I’d have such a moment.

Too bad it was being ruined by the cacophony of false compliments and long-held grievances going on behind me.

The party was a private affair, a viewing of the new collection for staff and board members of the Bodie Island Lighthouse Library, as well as local dignitaries and community supporters, before the official opening tomorrow. We were celebrating the arrival of a complete set of Jane Austen first editions, on loan for three months.

Jane Austen. My literary idol. So close.

I tried to block out everyone and everything and concentrate. I rubbed my hands together. Perspiration was building inside the loose white gloves. That, of course, was the purpose of the gloves: to keep human sweat and other impurities off the precious objects.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes. And I touched the worn leather cover.

I imagined I could feel the very power of the words themselves coming up through my fingers.

“Incredible,” a voice beside me said.

My eyes flew open. I snatched my hand back, embarrassed to be caught in a moment so emotional, so personal.

“Go ahead, honey,” Bertie said, with a laugh. Her eyes danced with amusement. She understood. “Open it.”

“Am I allowed to? I wouldn’t want to damage anything.”

“These books are precious, to be sure. But they’ll be put back in their cabinet as soon as the party’s over. And they’ve been cherished, cared for, and thus aren’t as fragile as some would be at that age. Enjoy, Lucy. Enjoy. But don’t spend too long here. I have people I need you to meet.”

The head librarian touched my arm lightly, gave me another smile, and went back to her guests.

I turned the heavy cover, flipped pages with shaking hands, and was soon gazing in awestruck wonder at the frontispiece of the first volume of Sense and Sensibility, by “A Lady.” A Lady all the world now knew to be Miss Jane Austen. An illustrated first edition, printed in London in 1811. I closed my eyes again and breathed. The scent was of old paper and aging leather, carrying with it memories of the foggy streets of London, the sound of horse’s hooves rattling across cobblestones, the gentle rustle of skirts and petticoats, and the crackle of fire.

All I wanted to do was to gather the volume into my hands, spirit it away to a cozy corner with a good reading lamp, and curl up to spend the rest of the night simply enjoying it. Reading it, smelling it, touching it. To be lost in Austen’s delightful pastoral England. A world of balls and dances. Of men in handsome uniforms and women in beautiful gowns. Romance and laughter—as well as foolishness and heartbreak. Sense versus sensibility.

With a sigh, I remembered that I had duties. They might be informal ones, but they were still duties.

I closed the book, returned it to its place, slipped off the gloves, and laid them back on the table for the next person to use. I pasted on my fake smile, turned, and stepped forward, ready to plunge into the party.

I was almost knocked off my feet as an excessively thin man shoved me aside. His tiny black eyes blazed with lust as bright as the flashing light on the top of this historic lighthouse. The tip of his tongue was trapped between small browning teeth, and a spot of drool touched the corner of his plump lips. To my horror, he extended an ungloved hand toward the book.

“Excuse me,” I said in what I hoped was my best librarian tone. “Those books are extremely valuable. You must put on the gloves. Please don’t lean over them like that.”

His nose might have been made for peering down at uppity young librarians. “Excuse me,” he said with an accent I’d last heard when Prince William visited America. “I am well aware of the proper storage and handling of books. I am, in fact, quite disappointed in Bertie for agreeing to house the collection in this”—he waved his hand as if encompassing not only the crowded room but also the lighthouse we were standing in, the Outer Banks, the moist sea air, and the waves crashing against the sand dunes, maybe even North Carolina itself—“place.”

“This is a library,” I said. “The proper place for books. Besides, Miss Austen lived near the sea. Her entire country is bound by the sea. I’m sure her books are delighted to be breathing salty air once again.”

He sniffed. As well he might. I do have a tendency to get carried away sometimes.

“You,” he said, still peering down his long, patrician nose, enunciating each word carefully, “must be the new girl.”

His tone wasn’t friendly or at all welcoming. But if I was going to get on here, in my new job, my new life, I’d pretend he’d intended it to be. I shoved my hand forward. “Lucy Richardson. I’m the new assistant librarian. Pleased to meet you, Mr. . . .”

He barely touched my outstretched fingers. “Theodore. Everyone knows me as Theodore. At your service, madam. If there is anything you need to know, young woman, about the handling and collection of rare books, you may call on me to enlighten you.” He dug in the pocket of his tweed jacket, which emitted a strong aroma of pipe smoke, and pulled out a small square of paper. “My card. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned away from me. I waited until he was pulling on the gloves and left him to examine the books in peace. I put the card in my pocket without reading it.

“Don’t you mind Theodore, honey.” My aunt Ellen slipped her arm around me. “We call him Teddy. Drives him nuts. He’s just plain old Teddy Kowalski from North Carolina. He was born about ten miles from this very spot, over in Nags Head. Teddy was a smart little tyke; I’ll give him that. Always had his head in books when the other boys were tossing balls around. He went to Duke and got a degree in English literature, and came home pretending to be an English lord or some such nonsense.”

I laughed. “Did you know him when you were children?”

“Sakes no! He was a couple years ahead of Josie in school.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-five.”

“Really? I would have put him in his fifties.” I glanced at the display table. Theodore was bent over Pride and Prejudice. He’d propped a pair of reading glasses on his nose.

“He deliberately tries to give that impression. See those glasses? Plain glass. He thinks they make him look more professorial.”

“Fool,” I said.

Bertie appeared at my side. “Don’t take him for that, Lucy.” My new boss’s tone was serious. Almost warning. “Teddy has airs and pretentions, but he knows everything there is to know about eighteenth- and nineteenth-century English literature. He’s a serious collector, or at least he would be if he had the money. A word of warning: always check his bags when he leaves, and if he’s wearing a big coat, make him open it. He’ll protest, act affronted, but . . .”

“Are you three going to stand here chatting all night long? You need to introduce Lucy. Everyone’s simply dying to meet her.” It was Josie, my cousin. If I didn’t love Josie so much, I’d hate her. She was everything I am not. Strikingly beautiful, with long, glossy hair...