Bertie must have caught sight of my stricken face. “Lucy, there you are. I’m so dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Peterson, but something vitally important has come up and I need Lucy.”
“Won’t be a minute, Bertie,” Mrs. Peterson said. “Now, once you’ve got the lineup set, then we can—”
“Did I see Primrose outside chatting to the Burke boy? Such a nice young man, isn’t he?” Bertie said.
“Primrose? With Brian Burke! So sorry, Lucy. I have to run. We’ll talk later. Phoebe! Where’s Phoebe? Put down that book, we have to go.”
“But—” seven-year-old Phoebe said.
“No ‘buts,’” her mother said. “Now.”
We watched Mrs. Peterson charge out the door, trailed by a bewildered Phoebe.
“That was mean,” I said with a laugh. Primrose was thirteen. Mrs. Peterson had already lost control of her oldest daughter, Charity, and was determined not to let Primrose have any interest in boys.
“Mean, perhaps,” Bertie said. “But true. Primrose is indeed outside chatting to the Burke boy. Although it’s ten-year-old Kyle, not his older brother Brian.”
“Mrs. Peterson,” I said, “is in for a rough few years.”
“She is indeed. I had a call from Ruth earlier, wanting to meet for a drink later. She told me you’d been at the Ocean Side.”
“Just asking questions. The more questions I ask, the more questions I have.”
“We shouldn’t talk here,” Bertie said. She led the way down the hallway and into her office. She left the door open. “You’re not getting anywhere?”
“Nope. Every time I decide what happened to Helena must go back to the spring of 1995, to the theft of the Blackstone necklace and the disappearance of Jeff Applewhite, I then decide that’s nothing but a coincidence. I’ve found nothing at all to link Helena to Jeff and Rachel except Tina, who knew them both. But Tina never introduced her sister to them. She wouldn’t have because they didn’t exactly get on, as we know. Anyway, I’ve decided to forget about it. I’ve done all I can.”
“That’s all anyone can ask of you.”
I smiled at her. “Thanks for saying so. I know I get like a dog with a bone, but I also know when it’s time for me to move on. And right now, I’m moving on to the Elizabethan Gardens for the rest of the afternoon.”
“Enjoy,” she said. “I love it there, but I haven’t been for ages.”
“Knock knock,” said a deep voice from behind me. I turned to see Sam Watson standing at the door.
“Come in,” Bertie said.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” Watson said. Charles slipped into the room between his legs. Charles always liked to be kept up to date on police activities. He sprang onto the top of the filing cabinet and settled down to listen while he washed his whiskers.
“Not at all,” Bertie said, “Lucy was telling me about her plans for the rest of the day. What can I do for you, Sam?”
“Nothing really. I just popped in with an update.”
Elizabethan Gardens forgotten, I made no move to leave.
“I wanted to take another look at the boardwalk and the marsh. Sometimes, it helps to go back to the scene, clear my mind, try and imagine how things went down.”
“And did it?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I’ve been in contact with the Mount Dora police, and they have nothing important to tell me about Helena Sanchez. She had no police record, and her neighbors say she was a quiet woman who kept to herself. She volunteered at the local library twice a week. The officer who spoke to the library director got the impression Helena wasn’t popular there, but the director wouldn’t come out and say so. She said Helena worked best when she was left alone, so they often put her to work designing posters to advertise visiting authors or other special events.”
“That sounds like Helena,” I said. “She didn’t get on with a lot of people. Aunt Ellen quit the Friends of the Library group here because of Helena.”
“All of which might be true, but that’s not usually grounds for killing someone. As far as the Mount Dora police have been able to tell, there’s no reason anyone would have followed Helena here with the intention of killing her.”
“I’ve been hearing conflicting stories about her,” I said. “Ruth told me she was friendly enough on a professional level when they worked together in Manteo, but Mary-Sue hated her when she was at the Lighthouse Library. I’d put that down to the usual personal conflicts except that, as I said, Aunt Ellen couldn’t work with Helena either. Aunt Ellen likes most people, but she doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Not that Helena was a fool, but you know what I mean.”
“Not everyone is liked by everyone,” Bertie pointed out. “I can think of a few popular people I’d cross the street to avoid. Personalities clash.”
“True. But I’m thinking it’s more than that.”
“More in what way?” Watson asked.
“The Helena I met on Friday was, to put it mildly, out-and-out rude and nasty.”
“You think she changed at some point?” Bertie said.
“I do. Glenda Covington in particular knew Helena when she was in Manteo and then later when she was the director here. She told me Helena changed considerably over those years, although she didn’t know what might have happened. I think whatever happened to Helena happened in the spring of ’95.”
“The time of the Blackstone necklace and Applewhite’s disappearance,” Bertie said.
“They have to be connected.”
“No, they don’t,” Watson said. “Anything could have happened—if anything did—to Helena that spring.”
“But Jeff Applewhite’s signature was on that withdrawal card.”
“So were other signatures. The necklace and Applewhite disappeared twenty-five years ago. That’s a long time, Lucy. If—and I’m not saying I agree with you—that had something to do with Helena’s death, we might never get to the bottom of it.”
“I’ve never heard you be pessimistic about a case before, Sam,” Bertie said.
He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. The shadows beneath his eyes were deep and dark. “Maybe I’m just tired. I’ve been running in circles
