Death by Beach Read by Eva Gates

Author:Eva Gates [Gates, Eva]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

Chapter Eleven

By the time Watson and I left the bakery, I was running late for work. I took the time to rush home and pick up Charles and, not incidentally, slap some makeup on my face and retie my hair.

I wrestled with my conscience as I drove toward the lighthouse. I should have told Watson about Connor’s dad being on the scene all those years ago, but I told myself he’d hear about it soon enough. The reappearance and death of Jimmy Harper, combined with Jo’s outburst last night, would have the whole town talking about it again.

Louise Jane certainly was. I arrived seconds before opening time and found her telling Ronald and Denise the story. “Before you tell me not to gossip about our patrons,” she said to me, “I consider this to be important historical information. The Froomer House—”

“Now the McNeil-Richardson House—”

“Is an important part of Nags Head history, as are all the unpainted aristocracy. If you want to live in a historically significant building, Lucy, you have to respect that history.”

“I do respect that history, but the Harper family drama isn’t something we should be talking about.”

Louise Jane snuffled in disapproval. Denise said, “That brings up a good point. When does history begin? At what point does a historian—or an academic librarian—legitimately have an interest in what people did in the past?”

“When they’re dead,” Ronald said.

“Plenty of people still alive who were around in World War II,” she said. “That’s a valid area of study. The social history of World War II—rationing, women working in munitions factories, the internment of Japanese Americans—is heavily studied.”

“The Harper family story’s personal,” I said.

“I know what you’re getting at, Lucy, and I agree with you. But it could also be argued that the family is a representation of the changing social standards of the times. The ghost of the disapproving ancestor, supposedly venting his wrath on a female descendent attempting to express her late-twentieth-century independence.”

“There’s a thought,” Louise Jane said. “You and Connor aren’t married, Lucy. Has Ezekiel Froomer begun haunting you, or does the fact that you’re engaged make it okay with him?”

I turned on her. “Louise Jane, don’t you dare—” I read the amusement in her eyes and closed my mouth.

“When she offered me this job,” Louise Jane said, “Bertie made it clear that I’m not to do any paranormal investigating at work or in the library, and I intend to follow those instructions to the letter. Doesn’t mean I can’t come around to your house in my own time and see if I can make contact with Ezekiel.”

“No,” I said, “you cannot.”

The door opened and a woman came in, laden with book bags. “Morning, all,” she called.

“Mrs. Covington, good morning,” I said.

“I owe, I owe,” Ronald sang, “so it’s off to work I go.” He headed for the stairs and the children’s library.

“I hope we can continue this conversation another time,” Denise said. “Not about anyone in particular, but about what history means and when an individual’s life story becomes history.

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