The detective put the folder on the table in the center of the room. “Thank you all for agreeing to speak with me.”
“I wasn’t aware we had a choice,” Sheila said.
“You don’t,” he replied. “Not if you want me to find the person who killed your friend.”
“So it was a murder, then.” Sheila turned away from the window.
Watson didn’t reply. The word had been put out there, and that was enough. The women shifted uncomfortably in their seats and murmured to their neighbors.
“I know nothing about that,” Lucinda said. “I keep telling you, over and over, I hadn’t seen Helena for years. I don’t know why I can’t go home. I have work tomorrow morning.”
“I’m sure your employers will understand,” Watson said.
“I for one am more than happy to help,” said a woman I didn’t know.
“Which might be because you’re not under suspicion,” Mary-Sue said. “And you’re free to leave.”
The woman smirked at her.
“At least you can sleep in your own bed, Mary-Sue,” Lucinda snapped. “I’m being kept here against my will.”
“There are worse places,” Ruth said. “Like a cell in the police station.”
Lucinda glared at her.
“I expect to be fully reimbursed by the Nags Head PD for the cost of changing my flight and any extra nights in the hotel,” Ruth said.
“That goes for me too,” Lucinda said.
Watson did not reply. “If you wouldn’t mind taking your seats, we can get this over with quickly.”
“And then some of us can be on our way,” a woman said.
“I’m going to hand around photocopies of a piece of paper. You’ll notice that the original of the page has been torn and reassembled. Y’all will recognize it for what it is. What I want to know is if this one in particular has any meaning to you. No matter how small.” He took photocopied pages out of the folder and passed them around.
“It’s an old-time withdrawal slip,” Sheila said. “Before computers, we used these to keep track of who had books out and when they were due to be returned.”
The women murmured their agreement.
“The Celestine Prophecy,” Margaret Hurley said. “I never read it, but it was a huge bestseller. Some people said it changed their lives. We couldn’t keep it on the shelf.”
“What about the people’s names?” Watson asked. “Do any of your recognize any of them?”
The women studied the slip.
I watched their faces. I realized Bertie was doing the same.
“This was in one of the books at the library on Friday night,” Sheila said. “Helena looked at it. I’m sure she did.”
“Yes, she did,” Ruth said.
“Jeff Applewhite,” Lucinda said in a low voice that was barely a whisper.
Mary-Sue narrowed her eyes and held the page closer to her face. She sucked in a breath. “Oh my gosh. Lucinda’s right. I didn’t see it at first.”
I leaned over Margaret’s shoulder. She stabbed her finger onto the name on the page. Jeff Applewhite had taken out the book, and it was due to be returned on May 25, 1995. Some of the women looked complexly blank, but a few exchanged glances and muttered to themselves. Clearly, the name had significance to some of them.
“Who’s Jeff Applewhite?” Watson asked.
“Were you working here in 1995, Detective?” Margaret asked.
“No. I was with the NYPD.”
“Do a record search at your station,” she said. “You’ll be sure to find it. I remember the case well.”
“As do I,” Mary-Sue said. “It was a nine-day wonder around the time I … left the library.”
I threw a questioning look to Bertie. She shrugged, indicating that she knew no more than me.
“What are you talking about?” Watson asked.
Several women began speaking at once, their voices rising in excitement.
“One at a time, please,” Watson said.
“Jeff Applewhite disappeared in spring of 1995,” Margaret said. “I don’t remember the exact date, but I remember the story very well indeed. He himself was no one of any particular importance, and people come and go all the time around here. The only reason any of us remember the circumstances is that he was last seen in the vicinity of an extremely expensive diamond necklace. Neither the necklace nor Mr. Applewhite were ever seen again.”
Chapter Eleven
At that, the women began to talk all over each other. Some nodded sagely and repeated the story. Some asked breathless questions.
“He disappeared from my library?” Bertie asked.
“Not from the library, no,” Margaret said, “but it looks like he might have checked out a book before he left.”
“Why would anyone who stole valuable jewels be interested in a fiction book?” someone asked.
“Are you sure the necklace was stolen?” Ruth said. “I heard the owner wouldn’t cooperate with the police.”
“Because she was embarrassed most likely,” Sheila said. “What was her name again?”
Sam Watson, I thought, looked stunned. But he recovered quickly and lifted one hand. Gradually the excited chatter died down. Watson ran his penetrating gray eyes over the watching faces. “Were any of you personally acquainted with this Jeff Applewhite?”
The women shook their heads.
“Were any of you personally involved in events surrounding the disappearance of this necklace?”
More head shaking.
“Not exactly the circles in which I mixed,” sniffed Mary-Sue.
“In that case,” he said, “I’d prefer to read up on the case myself rather than be influenced by fading memories and secondhand gossip. In the meantime, I’ll remind you we’re here about the death of Helena Sanchez. I have another picture to show you. Please tell me if you recognize this.”
He took the photograph of the letter opener out of the folder and passed it around. Almost everyone said they’d seen it on Friday night as part of our historical exhibit.
“Is that the murder weapon?” a woman asked with what I thought an unseemly delighted shudder.
“He’s not going to tell us that,” Ruth said. “But we’re free to speculate.”
“I thought you said she drowned,” another woman said. “Didn’t she?”
“She had to get into the water somehow,” Mary-Sue said. “She wasn’t
