Deadly Ever After by Eva Gates (smart books to read TXT) 📕

grabbed the mug out of his hands as Ronald leapt forward and took his arm.

“I’m going to take him upstairs and throw him under the shower,” I said.

“Are you sure, Lucy?” Ronald asked.

“Not really.” I peered into Ricky’s bloodshot eyes. He blinked at me and breathed out noxious fumes. “Ricky, have you spoken to the Nags Head Police today?”

“Why would I want to do that? I only had a couple drinks.”

“More than a couple,” Ronald muttered.

I reconsidered taking Ricky up to my apartment. Not that I was worried he’d attack me or anything, but I didn’t think he could manage the stairs, and I wasn’t about to get myself involved in trying to undress him. “We’ll go into the break room. I’ll hold his head under the tap in the sink. But first, I need to call Detective Watson.”

“Why?” Ronald asked. “I heard about a suspicious death in town on the news, and I was thanking our lucky stars it didn’t have anything to do with us this time. Does it?”

“Sorta,” I admitted.

“I’ll find out what sorta means later. First I’ll take care of your friend here. You call Watson. Come on, buddy. We’ll have you as fit as a fiddle in no time.”

Ricky made no protest as Ronald led him away. I decided to step outside to make the call so I could have a look and see if Ricky’d left anyone else on our step. I’ve had reason to phone the good detective so often I have his personal number in my contacts list.

Last night’s fog had cleared. The sun was rising in a cloudless sky, the heat of the day was already settling in, and a light salty breeze caressed my cheeks and ruffled my curls as a flock of Canada geese flew overhead, calling to stragglers to keep up. The barking of a dog came from the marsh, and I could see heads bobbing over the long grasses near the pond. Ronald’s car was the only one in front of the library, although two cars were parked near the boardwalk, and I remembered that my dad had taken my car last night.

A square of thick white plastic lay on the steps, and I bent down to pick it up. A room key from the Ocean Side Hotel. It must have fallen out of Ricky’s pocket.

What, I wondered, had he been up to last night after leaving the restaurant?

Was it possible that he—Ricky, whom I’d known since we were kids—had killed his father and run into the night to try to forget what he’d done? I told myself there was no point in speculating. It would be up to Detective Watson to figure out what had happened.

I placed the call, and he answered almost immediately. “Good morning, Lucy. Have you located Ricky Lewiston?”

“Uh, yes, actually. How did you know that’s why I’m calling?”

“A guess. I didn’t think this was a social call. Although CeeCee tells me your club’s reading The Hound of the Baskervilles, one of my favorites. If I get this case cleared up, I might come to the meeting. Where are you now?”

“I’m at the library. Ricky was asleep on the step when I opened up.”

“Did he have anything to say about last night?”

“I didn’t ask. He seems to be hungover. Very, very hungover.”

“I’m on my way. Would you say this is a normal pattern of behavior for him? Is he a serious drinker?”

“No, not really. He enjoys a night out, but I’ve never known him to drink to excess. He was drinking a lot last night at the restaurant even before—I mean, even before he left.”

“Ten minutes. Don’t let him leave.” Watson hung up. I stared at my phone. Don’t let him leave? What was I supposed to do if Ricky wanted to be on his way? Suggest he settle down with a good book? Tie him to a bookshelf? Tell Charles to stand guard over him?

All of that turned out not to be necessary. When I went back inside, I found Ricky and Ronald in the break room. Ricky was sitting at the table, clinging to his mug of coffee as though it were a life preserver, his hair and shirt soaking wet. Ronald’s sleeves were drenched up to the elbows, his Star Wars tie askew, and he was mopping the floor while Charles scowled at our visitor in disapproval.

“Thanks, Ronald,” I said.

He handed me the mop. “It’s Charlene’s day off. I can watch the desk for a while, but toddlers’ story time is at eleven.”

“I’ll be done by then.”

“Sorry,” Ricky said once Ronald had left, straightening his tie and muttering under his breath in disapproval. “Do you have any aspirin or anything? My head’s killing me.”

I got the little bottle off a high shelf and shook out two pills. I handed them to him with a glass of water, and he accepted them gratefully.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite Ricky. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know, Lucy. I went on quite the bender last night, and … I guess I decided I needed to see you one more time before I leave.”

“Before you leave? You mean you’re going home?”

He nodded, winced as the motion reminded him that he had a headache, and sipped his coffee.

“To Boston?”

“That’s where home is. For me, anyway. Obviously no longer for you.”

“Today?”

“Yes, today. With Mom. Is there a problem with that?” He lifted his head and looked at me. His eyes were still bloodshot and his head hurt, but some degree of comprehension had returned.

“Ricky, are you aware the police want to talk to you?”

“What about? Okay, I went on a heck of a bender, and I don’t exactly remember everything that happened last night, but I would remember if I’d been in an accident or something. I think.” He lifted his unmarked hands and studied them.

“Have you spoken to your mother this morning?”

“I guess I should, eh? She can be overprotective sometimes, but she knows not to worry about it when