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opened my mouth to speak, but Connor gave my arm a warning squeeze. “The police will let us know what’s happening in due course. In the meantime, I suspect they’d prefer if we remain here. Josie, do you have any more of those delicious pecan tarts? Perhaps you’d better put on another pot of coffee. I’m sure the police would enjoy a hot cup on a cold, wet night. Mrs. Peterson, Josie could use a hand with the coffee.”
    We all practically jumped out of our skins as the CD player started up and the not-at-all-subtle voice of Jay-Z blared into the room.
    “Charlene!” Ronald yelled. “Turn that blasted thing off.”
    She turned a knob, and the sound diminished fractionally. “Turn it off, please, Charlene,” Connor said. “And I mean off—don’t just turn the sound down. Perhaps we can enjoy your musical selection when the police have left. Thank you.”
    Blessed silence. Even Charles the cat had been shocked into muteness. The effect was, unfortunately, only temporary, and he soon reminded us of his sad predicament. Charlene was our reference librarian. As hardworking as they came, smarter than your average whip, she’d spent five years in England working among the sainted bookshelves of the Bodleian Library at the University of Oxford. She’d returned home to the Outer Banks when her mother fell ill and needed care. As well as a love of medieval literature, somehow in England Charlene had found a love of twenty-first-century American rap music. She was, Bertie had told me, with a sad shake of her head, on a mission to introduce the staff and patrons of the Lighthouse Library to her passion.
    That the staff and patrons had been introduced and found the music not entirely to their taste was seen by Charlene as merely an obstacle in her road.
    But right now I had more important things to think about than Charlene’s appalling taste in music. I studied the faces of the people in the room. No one stood out as looking guilty or anything other than confused.
    Under Connor’s politely delivered orders andcalm Southern charm, people began to relax. “If the mayor isn’t upset, then nothing to worry about,” I heard someone say. People headed back to the buffet table (I wondered if Josie had an inexhaustible supply of cookies and squares) and the bar. Aunt Ellen began bringing out fresh coffee and mugs.
    She placed them on the table and then slid up to me. “The door to Bertie’s office is closed and an unfriendly policewoman is standing outside. What’s happening? Is Bertie ill?”
    I glanced at Connor. He was crouched by Mrs. Fitzgerald’s chair, talking to her softly. “I can’t say. But it . . . doesn’t look good.”
    “Jonathan!” Diane Uppiton let out a full-throated cry. “Where’s my Jonny?” She dashed for the stairs.
    Connor leapt to his feet and intercepted her. “Mr. Uppiton is . . . indisposed. . . . Why don’t you have a seat, Diane? I’ll get someone to join you momentarily.”
    This time his calming words had no effect. “He’s not here. Jonny!” she yelled. “Where’s Jonny? And where’s Bertie? She had something to do with this, I know it! She threatened my husband. I heard her. You all heard her!”
    The crowd gasped. Shouted questions flew across the room. People demanded to know what was going on. Diane Uppiton shoved Connor aside. She began to cry, and black makeup dripped down her cheeks. “I have to get to Jonny. Oh, my darling Jonny.”
    Sam Watson appeared, as if in a puff of smoke, atthe bottom of the iron staircase. Butch Greenblatt, a badge hastily pinned to his shirt, was beside him.
    “Let me through,” Diane declared.
    “Threats,” Watson said. “What’s this about threats?”
    “That . . . that woman, threated Jonathan. In this very room, no more than half an hour ago. We all heard her.”
    People began to mumble in agreement.
    “What woman?” Watson asked.
    “She means the head librarian, Albertina James,” Butch said. “I heard her