The dark, vacant eyes of Helena Sanchez stared up at us.
Chapter Four
Ronald began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation while Bertie called 911. Still standing in the warm gentle waters of the marsh, I cradled Ms. Sanchez’s head. I felt something warmer and thicker than water on my fingers and lifted my hand. Blood glistened in the light from the women’s phones and flashlights. Five sets of wide, frightened eyes peered over the railing down at me.
“They’re coming,” Bertie called, “but they’ll be a few minutes. Is she …?”
Ronald glanced at me and gave his head a quick shake. “Bertie,” I called, “why don’t you take the other women to the library. We’ll wait here for the medics.”
“Excellent idea,” Bertie said. “Come along, ladies. Let’s get out of these people’s way.”
“What’s happened?” Mary-Sue said. “Is she okay? Why isn’t she moving?”
“How did she get in the water?” Sheila asked. “Did she fall down the ladder?”
“I’ll stay here,” Louise Jane said. “And help.”
“I need you,” Bertie said in a voice that tolerated no argument. “Someone has to meet the ambulance and lead them here.”
“Bertie!” I yelled.
Her face popped over the railing. “Yes?”
“You might want to tell them to send … Sam Watson and his crew.” I deliberately avoided use of the word “police.”
“You think …?”
“I do.”
“Understood. Come along, everyone. Keep together. I don’t want anyone wandering off.” She spoke as if to a kindergarten class on an excursion to the zoo.
“Is she going to be okay?” Sheila asked.
No one answered.
Gradually the babble of voices died away, and the glow of their lights faded. My phone was still lying on the pier, where I’d dropped it before I jumped, the beam of light shining into the sky. Ronald’s curly gray hair was soaked, and his no-longer-cheerful bowtie askew. “Am I wasting my time, Lucy?” he said between breaths.
“I think so.”
“You think this is a police matter?”
“I do. There’s a cut on the back of the neck. Hard to tell in the water, but the bleeding seems to be slowing. I don’t think she tripped over a loose board and fell in. I suppose that might have happened and she hit her head on the way over, but that seems unlikely.”
“Yeah,” he said, “it does.”
“I wish I didn’t know things like that. But I do.” Something crawled across my foot, and I screamed. Then it was gone, and I began to breathe again. “Just a clump of weeds,” I said as much to myself as to a started Ronald.
Sirens sounded in the distance, getting closer. Powerful lights appeared on the boardwalk and voices called out. “We’re coming!” Louise Jane yelled.
And then people were in the water next to us and hands took the floating body of Helena Sanchez from us.
“I’m coming to no conclusions yet,” Detective Sam Watson said, “but I’m also not ruling anything out.”
“The wound in the back of the neck does look suspicious, though, don’t you think?” I said.
“Lucy, please allow me to be the judge of what looks suspicious and what doesn’t.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. But I wasn’t sorry in the least. Why shouldn’t I speculate? I’d been there. I’d seen Helena Sanchez’s long gray hair released from its bun and floating among the weeds. Sam Watson hadn’t arrived until the medics had lifted her out of the water, laid her on the pier, checked her over, and then covered her with a blanket.
After that, Ronald and I, along with Louise Jane, returned to the library to give the others the news. We’d passed Watson running down the boardwalk. He told us to make sure no one left the area before he could talk to them.
I was in the break room, making hot tea and coffee, when Watson came in. I’d run upstairs, torn off my wet clothes, and thrown on yoga pants and a loose T-shirt. Ronald didn’t have anything dry to change into, but Bertie had tucked the wrap she keeps in her office around his shoulders. She and the others were in the main room. Our guests were huddled into themselves, in shock. When we walked into the library, they jumped to their feet, their faces full of questions. I gave Bertie a quick shake of my head, and she told her friends Helena Sanchez had died. I added that the police wanted to speak to them before they left, and after changing out of my wet clothes, I went into the break room to put the kettle and coffeepot on. Watson found me arranging mugs and jugs of cream and sugar on a tray.
“Coffee, Detective?” I asked.
“No thanks. I spoke briefly to Bertie, and she told me the woman’s name, but she suggested I talk to you while she stayed with her friends. What was going on here tonight? Who are those women? I don’t recognize them. Was the dead woman part of their group?”
“They’re here for a reunion of Bertie’s college class. Tonight was the first night of a planned weekend.”
He waved his hand at the pile of used dishes, cutlery, and glassware on the countertops and stacked in the sink. “Judging by all this, you had more guests than just them. How many people were here tonight in total do you think?”
“Nineteen students from the class, plus Bertie, which makes twenty. Plus Helena Sanchez, the”—I swallowed—“dead woman. The three of us who work here and Louise Jane.”
“Always Louise Jane,” he said.
“Where else would I be?” Louise Jane marched into the break room. “I’ll be happy to give you the benefit of my observations, Detective. I was paying close attention all evening to the conversation and the body language of those present. What do you need to know? Ask me anything.” She faced him, feet apart, hands on hips, eyes intense.
“When did the others leave?” Watson asked.
“I’m
