“I’m concentrating on the women who went on the walk on the boardwalk after the party on Friday. Present company excepted, of course. Unless you knew Helena Sanchez and haven’t told me?”
“I never met her before Friday evening,” I said firmly. I didn’t know the woman and I had no reason to kill her, but being involved in a police investigation, no matter how innocent one might be, is always stressful. Watson hadn’t included Bertie in his statement, and I wasn’t pleased about that. Surely he couldn’t be thinking Bertie might have been responsible for the death of Helena Sanchez?
“My officers spoke to the women who didn’t go on the walk, and every one of them can be accounted for. They shared cabs or lifts into town; a few went for a drink in the bar once they got back to the hotel; some are sharing rooms. It would have been difficult, although nothing is impossible, for one of them to return to the library unnoticed in time to kill Ms. Sanchez. The four women who went on the walk with you have been asked to remain in Nags Head for the time being.”
“How did they react to being told that?” I asked.
“Not always well,” he said dryly. “I sent an officer to the Ocean Side Hotel first thing this morning, to inform that group they are not to leave Nags Head until further notice. The autopsy results conclude that Helena Sanchez was killed by a sharp thin object driven into the back of her neck. An object much like a letter opener. She was dead by the time she hit the water.”
“Meaning she was murdered by someone who was in our library that evening,” I said.
“So it would appear,” he replied.
Chapter Ten
Sam Watson’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and checked the display. He held up one finger, telling us to wait a minute. “Watson. Whatcha got?” He listened for a moment and said, “On my way.” He put the phone away and spoke to Connor and me.
“As for what happens now, that call was to tell me Bertie and her friends have finished their lunch and are waiting for me. I’m taking a copy of this withdrawal slip to the hotel to show it to them. It means nothing to you. It must mean something to whoever stole it and then threw it away, hoping we wouldn’t search the trash.”
“I wonder why that person didn’t take it with them,” Connor said.
Watson shrugged. “Who knows why anyone does anything? Maybe they were uncomfortable having it on their person. I need to know what this piece of paper means. If it means anything. Despite what you keep telling me, Lucy, it’s possible someone wiped their fingers on it and tossed it in the garbage at the first opportunity.”
“You’re going to the hotel now,” I said. “How about I come with you? I was there, remember. Seeing them with the withdrawal slip might remind me of something.”
“Bertie was there also,” Watson reminded me.
“Yes, but she was enjoying catching up with old friends. I was working. There’s a difference.”
Watson glanced at Connor. Connor held out his hands. “She’s got a point, Sam.”
“You’re not exactly dressed for participating in a police inquiry,” Watson said.
I tugged my beach wrap tighter around me, grateful that it was large and loose and all-covering. “It’s an Outer Banks resort hotel in July. I’ll be dressed like half the people in the place. Besides, I’m not pretending to be a police officer.” I didn’t add this time.
“Okay,” Watson said. “You might as well come. I see no need at this point to question the women privately or individually about the withdrawal slip. Discussing what happened among themselves might help jog memories.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Connor,” Watson said, “you up to joining us?”
“I think not. I wasn’t there that night; I don’t know any of the people involved. Lucy’ll be with you, not prowling around in the dark by herself. Besides, I have reading to do for tomorrow night.”
I waved to Butch as we walked through the police station, and he gave me a big grin and a thumbs-up. “How’s CeeCee liking this month’s book?” I asked Watson, referring to his wife, who was part of my classic novel book club.
“She likes it a lot. She wants me to read it after she’s done. There’s nothing, she says, like a stolen jewel with a mysterious deadly past to make a story intriguing.”
We parted at the bottom of the steps. Connor gave me a light kiss and headed for the BMW. I got into Watson’s car with him, and we drove the short distance to the Ocean Side.
We found fourteen of the women, plus Bertie, waiting for us in a meeting room under the stern eye of Officer Holly Rankin. Three of the reunion attendees, we were told, had left late Saturday night, after dinner, and two early this morning. Watson confirmed he had their contact information and said he’d give them a call later.
Most of the women had taken seats around the table; a couple stood against the wall; Lucinda paced back and forth; Sheila stared out the window. The hotel had provided a pot of coffee and pitchers of juice and ice water, but no one had served themselves.
Bertie raised one eyebrow when she caught sight of me following Watson into the room, but she didn’t say anything. Again, I felt ridiculously underdressed. Watson was in ironed gray slacks and a blue buttoned shirt under a brown leather jacket, and Rankin wore her dark, heavy uniform. The women attending the reunion were nicely dressed for lunch with friends and then traveling in brightly colored dresses or white capris with patterned T-shirts. They all wore proper shoes, and most had earrings in ears and necklaces around necks.
I slapped my way across the room in my flip-flops to stand behind Bertie. I jerked at
