We began tapping on our phones.
In 1995, the internet was in its infancy. There wasn’t a lot of detail available about the case, but Bertie and I were able to find some information, mainly because the necklace that apparently had been stolen was of considerable significance and people who care about rare gems had followed the case closely at the time and speculated ever since.
The night of April 30, 1995, Rachel Blackstone threw a party at her family’s beach house in Nags Head. The party had gotten out of control, and neighbors called the police. It was not, apparently, the first time that happened. Rachel was known to be what was euphemistically described as a “wealthy, fun-loving young woman.”
“Doesn’t sound like the Rachel I know,” Bertie said.
“No, it doesn’t. It might not be the same person.”
“It has to be her. Same name, right age, home in Nags Head. Rachel’s a woman of considerable means. Family money.”
We read on. The police had left after asking a few partygoers to move their cars, and the party continued. Much to the annoyance of the neighbors.
“This is interesting,” I said. “Rachel didn’t report the theft. Her mother did, and then not until several days had passed.”
“Perhaps Rachel didn’t realize it was missing. Police searched for a man by the name of Jeffrey Applewhite, who’d attended the party. He’s described as having recently moved to Nags Head. And there the story seems to end. Applewhite was never found, and the necklace is still missing. To the dismay of gemologists everywhere.”
“Do you really think this has something to do with the death of Helena?”
“I can’t see how, Lucy. I didn’t know Helena at all well, but she stayed in Nags Head for a long time after this happened. She didn’t abscond with a lover and a diamond necklace and live off the proceeds of its sale.”
“I’m wondering about her sister,” I said. “Her twin sister. Maybe Tina Ledbetter had something to do with it. Although I’ve been to her house. Not exactly the mansion of a master criminal.”
Bertie put her phone away. “You must be freezing in that outfit. I’ll take you home. Why are you dressed like that anyway?”
“Connor and I were at the beach when Watson called saying he needed me to come down to the station and look at the withdrawal slip.” Grains of sand were trapped in the seat of my bathing suit, and my body felt sticky from the drying salt. I didn’t dare think about what my hair must look like.
Bertie frowned. “Really. Sam Watson needs to stop working all the time and expecting us to be at his beck and call.”
“I don’t mind. It’s important.”
“Personal time is also important,” my boss said.
We left the meeting room and walked into the hotel lobby. Some of the reunion guests were checking out, and others stood at the front doors next to their suitcases, waiting for taxis. It took a long time for us to leave. Bertie stopped to talk to everyone, and they all exchanged hugs and promises to keep in touch.
“Did you enjoy the weekend?” I asked when we’d finally been able to make our escape and get into Bertie’s car.
“Very much. Aside from what happened with Helena, of course. I can’t believe how much I laughed last night at dinner as we repeated the old stories. I was very close to some of those women at an important time in my life. Some of them I couldn’t stand back then, and one or two I found I still can’t stand.”
“I don’t believe that,” I said. “You like everyone, Bertie.”
She turned to me with a smile. “I pretend to like everyone, Lucy. There’s a difference. Although, I’ve found over the years that if you try to get along, almost everyone turns out to be good at heart.”
“Mary-Sue wasn’t happy at Lucinda’s coming to stay with her.”
“No. Mary-Sue’s very bitter. She doesn’t hide it at all well. I don’t think she even tries.”
We drove through Whalebone Junction, and Bertie sped up as the traffic thinned as we sped out of town. I looked out the window at the narrow line of houses lining the seafront on my left. The houses soon faded away, and we drove past miles of sand dunes and scruffy beach grass. The Bodie Island Lighthouse appeared in the distance to our right, its black and white bands serving as a landmark to ships at sea, the paint as individual as the pattern of the light at night.
Something about a lighthouse—any lighthouse—always brings a lump to my throat. On one of my first dates with Connor, he recited the words written on the walls of the Currituck light: To illuminate the dark space. He’d told me how people built lighthouses to protect people they might never meet. A flash of light in the preelectric world would guide ships on their way and keep them safe from the perils of the sea.
I think, now that I look back on it, it might have been that night, at that dinner, that I fell in love with Connor McNeil.
“I suspect Lucinda,” Bertie said, pulling me out of my pleasant thoughts and back to the unpleasant matter at hand, “has some deep insecurities, which make her inclined to brag and show off. Not a good situation in the company of an angry woman like Mary-Sue.”
“Do you think Rachel would mind talking about what happened all those years ago?” I asked as Bertie turned into the long lane and passed between the lines of tall red pines.
“I don’t know. I’d never heard that story before today, so it’s obviously not a point of conversation for her. Doesn’t mean it’s a sore point. Maybe she thinks it’s old news and no one cares.”
“Could we pay her a visit? I can get changed quickly.”
“I’m having dinner with Eddie tonight. He’ll have left Elizabeth City already, so I can hardly call and
