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She was always where she said she would be, when she said she would be there. Today she was waiting for me on the steps of the hotel. She climbed into the passenger seat and gave me a kiss on the cheek. She carried her Michael Kors purse as well as an enormous canvas beach bag. “What’s in the bag?” I asked.
    â€œA scarf in case it’s cool later.”
    â€œMighty big bag for a scarf.”
    â€œWe are going to a library. I thought I might check out a book or two. I’ve almost finished the book I brought.”
    I turned the car around, and we headed out of town.
    I glanced at the car’s clock as I pulled into the libraryparking lot. Five to seven. Most of the members of the book club had arrived and were milling about outside, waiting for me. I tried to look nonchalant as I put the roof up on the car. Theodore Kowalski and Butch Greenblatt came over to admire it. “New car?” Butch asked, almost drooling.
    â€œNot for you, Butch,” Theodore said, in the fake English accent he thought made him appear scholarly. “You would not fit.”
    I laughed at the image. Butch was a solid, muscular six foot five. A good-looking man in his early thirties with dark hair cut short, chiseled cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes of a deep brown speckled with flakes of gold.
    â€œYou’d always have to put the top down,” I said.
    He looked genuinely sorry. “I’d still like to take it for a spin, Lucy.”
    â€œIf you’re good in class tonight,” I laughed, “I might ask Mom to let you drive around the loop.” Meaning the loop that was the end of the lighthouse road. “This is my mother, Suzanne Richardson. She’s here for a visit and is going to join us tonight.”
    Butch put out his hand and Theodore nodded.
    Mom shook, and gave the men warm smiles. “I’m glad you like my car, gentlemen.” She threw me a questioning look that I pretended not to see. Men don’t usually join book clubs. And not a classic novel club such as ours. But Theodore had a degree in English lit and was a passionate (although impoverished) book collector, and Butch . . . well, I think Butch came because he liked me. I liked him, too.
    Josie and Aunt Ellen waited for us with the group by the door. Mom and her sister exchanged enthusiastic greetings, and Mom gave Josie a big hug, which mycousin was unable to return because of the tempting-looking bakery box cradled in her arms. I unlocked the library door and we crowded in. I switched on lights and led the way past the circulation desk, through the main hall, and up the twisting, spiral iron stairs. The children’s library was on the second floor, and the third level was where we housed research volumes as well as kept a small (very small) meeting room. It was my job to set out the chairs in the third-floor room and lay out glasses and napkins, and I’d done so before going to get Mom.
    I glanced around the room as the members of the book club filed in, followed by Charles the cat. Drat, I’d lost Theodore. I’d been warned the day I started working here that Theodore had what Bertie called “wandering hands,” meaning books would sometimes find themselves in his coat pockets, or make their way to the shelves in his home. We kept a small but impressive collection of rare books and old maps in a private room accessible by only the back staircase. The room was kept locked when not in use, but . . .
    â€œTheodore,” I bellowed. “Get up here.”
    His head appeared at a bend in the stairs, followed by his long, thin body. “I am coming, Lucy. This is a library. No need to shout.” I didn’t see any bulges in his pockets that hadn’t been there a few minutes ago.
    Mom and Aunt Ellen had taken seats, and (satisfied that Theodore hadn’t nicked any of our collection) I helped Josie lay the contents of her box out on the table. Josie