“You think that was a reference to Jeff Applewhite? Seems a heck of a stretch.”
“It is a heck of a stretch. But right now a stretch is all I have. The timing’s right. Helena bragged to her sister about running away with some guy she called Prince Charming. The Blackstone necklace is stolen and Jeff Applewhite disappears. Helena doesn’t go with him, so we can assume he’d been spinning her a story. Then, all these years later, she sees his name on an old library card and is freaked out.”
“I can buy that, if what you’re saying is true. But why would someone kill her because of what happened so long ago?”
“Someone who was at the party must know something about Jeff that Helena did not. Not until Friday night.”
Chapter Seventeen
I left Josie’s and drove to the Nags Head police station in a flurry of excitement. I needed to talk to Sam Watson and tell him what I’d learned. I’d established a direct connection, although only speculative, between Jeff Applewhite and Helena Sanchez.
Watson wasn’t in.
I walked back down the steps, unsure of what to do next.
If I should do anything next. I like to think I’ve helped the police with their cases before, but they never actually welcomed my help. More than once I’d been ordered to stay out of it.
“Hey, Lucy. What’s up?” Butch Greenblatt was coming up the stairs, and he gave me a big grin.
I grinned back. “Hi. I wanted to talk to Sam, but he’s not in. I don’t suppose you know where he’s gone and when he’ll be back?”
“Nope. Sorry. Can I help?”
“I learned something about Helena Sanchez I think he’ll be interested in.”
“Call him and leave a message.”
“I’ll do that. Better to talk in person, but I guess we can do that later. No rush. Butch?”
“What?”
I hesitated. “Nothing. If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him, will you?”
“Sure. Catch you later, Lucy.” He went into the police station, and I headed for my car.
I’d been about to ask Butch if he thought it would be okay if I asked some questions about what had happened all those years ago. I decided not to. Butch would be compelled to tell me not to interfere. I’d then go ahead and do what I wanted to do anyway, but I’d feel bad about it.
Sunday evening, after dinner at Aunt Ellen and Uncle Amos’s, Rachel Blackstone had given me her number so I could contact her if I learned anything about the case. I got into my car and switched the engine on to get the air-conditioning going. Then I gave Rachel a call.
“Hello?” she said.
“Rachel, hi. It’s Lucy Richardson. I’ve been doing some unofficial digging into the matter we talked about the other night, and I was wondering if I can come around and talk to you.”
“I’m at home now. I’m working in the garden, but I’d enjoy taking a break. I’ve been out here since six, and it’s starting to get hot.” She gave me an address on a small street running parallel to the beach. “Come around the back. The gate’s unlocked.”
By Outer Banks beachfront standards, Rachel’s house was fairly small, although multistoried and dotted with balconies, but it was beautiful, painted a soft blue with fresh white trim.
Two trucks from a landscaping company were parked in front of the house. Rachel’s idea of working in the garden, I thought, wasn’t mine.
I walked around the house and opened the side gate as instructed. I called out to Rachel, and she turned to greet me with a huge smile. I’d been wrong: Rachel had very much been working in the garden. She was dressed in dirt-encrusted khaki pants, heavy hiking shoes, and a once-white T-shirt. A big floppy-brimmed straw hat was on her head, and a streak of brown earth ran across her nose. She peeled off well-used gloves as she walked toward me and called over her shoulder, “I won’t be long, Johnny.”
Rachel’s house was small, but the property was large. It’s difficult to have a fabulous garden in grounds that are pretty much nothing but sand, but Rachel Blackstone managed. The gate through which I’d entered opened onto a flagstone path. Rather than an attempt at a lawn, pebbles and small stones surrounded the pathway which meandered gently through the property, eventually ending at a seagrasses-lined trail leading through the dunes to the beach beyond. Urns and pots of all sizes, overflowing with lush tropical plants and pale green succulents, bordered the flagstone path and were scattered around the yard. The central feature was a small pond with a gently splashing fountain and a stone statue of a graceful woman in the center. A single wooden chair sat next to the pond, making, I thought, the perfect place for morning contemplation with a cup of coffee and the newspaper, or for relaxing in the evening with a glass of wine and a good book. The white fence surrounding the turquoise pool was edged with small palms and ferns and pots of flowers.
One man was raking the pebbles while another trimmed foliage. The man Rachel had spoken to, Johnny, was on his knees digging a hole, surrounded by several small bushes still in their garden-store containers.
“Excuse the mess.” Rachel took off her hat and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes.
I held out my arms to encompass the splendor around me. “I don’t see any mess. This looks fabulous. Beyond fabulous. What a marvelous oasis you’ve created here.”
She beamed, clearly pleased at the praise. “I’m glad you think so. I love working in my garden, but I take a rather lackadaisical approach to it. After resisting for years, I’m opening it to the public on Saturday as part of the garden tour fundraiser for the Grandmothers Helping Grandmothers Anti-AIDS Campaign. I intended to do the work myself to get everything in tip-top shape, but I finally had to admit that’s far beyond
