“Most of the guests left between nine thirty and quarter to ten. I remember the time because Charlene had to get home to her mom by ten, and she walked out of the library with us, on our way to the boardwalk.”
“Why did you go there?” he asked.
“I suggested it,” Louise Jane said. “The women are interested in the history of this area. They are librarians after all.”
“That’s not right,” I said. “It was Ruth’s idea. She seems to be a nature lover, and she mentioned going for a walk as soon as she arrived.”
“I meant,” Louise Jane said quickly, “that they begged me for stories, so I agreed a walk would give us the proper atmosphere.”
“Which one’s Ruth?” Watson asked.
“The short one with frizzy red hair.” I poured coffee into a carafe and added hot water to the teapot. A handful of canapés and desserts were left, so I took them out of the fridge and arranged them on a platter.
“The dead woman—this Helena Sanchez—she went with you?”
“Yes,” I said.
Louise Jane helped herself to a pecan square.
“Did you stay together?”
I scrunched up my face. “I’m afraid not. We spread out almost immediately. Some walked faster than others. Some lingered. Lucinda—that’s the tall one—”
“The one who’s had plastic surgery done,” Louise Jane interrupted. “You might want to watch out for her, Sam. Apparently she’s in search of her next husband.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” he said dryly. “Other than that, what about her?”
“She didn’t come all the way to the end of the boardwalk with the rest of us. She turned back. Her shoes weren’t suitable.”
“Did you see her go back? Into the library?”
“No,” I said.
Louise Jane shook her head.
“Other than this Lucinda … last name?”
“Lorca. Lucinda Lorca.”
“Other than her, did you lose track of any of them for a period of time?”
“All of them,” I admitted. “I lost track of every one of them. I can’t say for sure where anyone was between leaving the library and arriving at the pier.”
“Does that include Bertie and Ronald, and each other?”
“’Fraid so,” I said.
“I was talking to Sheila,” Louise Jane said. “She’s particularly interested in the paranormal history of—”
“Were you with her all the time?” he asked.
“Uh … no … I guess not.” Louise Jane popped the last bit of the square into her mouth. “Sorry.”
“I don’t think we can help you, Detective,” I said. “I’d never met any of those women, including Ms. Sanchez, before seven o’clock tonight.” I thought about Mary-Sue’s obvious antagonism toward the dead woman but said nothing. There was a history there, but it was up to Mary-Sue to tell the detective.
“Me neither,” Louise Jane said.
“Even Bertie hasn’t seen most of them for years.”
“I’ll talk to them now.” Watson left the kitchen. I picked up the tray, loaded with mugs, teapot, coffee carafe, containers of cream and sugar, and napkins.
Louise Jane grabbed a crab cake and followed Watson. I sighed, put down the tray, balanced the plate of food on the edge, and staggered out under the load.
Mary-Sue rose to her feet to help me when I came into the main room. She took the coffee jug and teapot, and I put the tray on the circulation desk. “Please,” I said, “help yourselves.”
Ruth and Lucinda gave me weak smiles. Sheila kept her head down, twisted her hands in her lap, and said nothing. Mary-Sue stared out the window, although all she’d be able to see was darkness. Bertie and Ronald stood together in the alcove, Ronald dripping dirty water on the floor. Charles had resumed his place in the wingback chair.
Officer Holly Rankin stood against the door, watching and listening, saying nothing. My friend Butch Greenblatt had been the first officer to arrive, and he was down at the water, overseeing the forensic examination of the pier and adjacent area.
I studied each of the women, their feet in particular, trying not to be too obvious about it. Whoever had killed Helena—and it still had to be determined if someone had and, if so, whether it was one of the women gathered here—had reached the pier before the rest of us. That scream, abruptly broken off, I’d heard as Louise Jane spun her tale must have been Helena. It had come from the direction of the pier.
Most of the women’s shoes were damp, and some had long grasses or a bit of mud stuck to the soles, but none of them looked as though they’d been in the water.
Meaning the killer, if it was one of these women, hadn’t climbed over the railing of the boardwalk and run off. She’d either slipped around us on the boardwalk, unnoticed in the dark, or remained where she was and fell in with the rest of the group as we reached the pier.
She must have nerves of steel.
Watson allowed Bertie and her friends to serve themselves refreshments, and then he cleared his throat and said, “If I can please have your names, where you live, and what brings you here tonight.”
Bertie’s guests glanced at each other.
“I might as well go first,” Sheila said. “I’m Sheila Jameson, and I live in Virginia Beach, where I’m a librarian at the public library. I’m here for the college reunion and staying at the Ocean Side Hotel.”
“Mary-Sue Delamont. I’m a real estate agent in Nags Head. I’m part of the reunion. Because I live locally, I’m not staying at a hotel, but at my own house.” She gave the police the address, and Holly Rankin wrote it down.
“My name is Lucinda Lorca. I live in Los Angeles, California. Like Mary-Sue, I don’t work as a librarian anymore, but I wanted to catch up with my old friends. I’m also staying at the Ocean Side Hotel. Most of the out-of-towners are.”
“Ruth McCray. Baltimore. I’m a librarian at Johns Hopkins University. Like the others, I’m staying at the Ocean Side.”
“Thank you,” Watson said. “Can you tell—”
“Louise Jane McKaughnan. Nags Head. I—”
“Thank you, Louise
