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The paltry information and sparse newspaper coverage about Jenny Stills’s death had raised more questions for Rachel than it answered. There was a marked difference between the way the newspaper had covered Jenny’s death compared to those of the two boys. Maybe it was because of how Jenny had died in an accidental drowning, rather than a fiery multi-casualty car crash. Or because Jenny and her family, Rachel had surmised from Hannah’s letters, ranked low in the town’s social hierarchy and the boys killed in the car accident were from influential families.
It wasn’t only the lack of public interest in Jenny’s death that bothered Rachel. She couldn’t stop wondering what had troubled Jenny’s mother enough to muster whatever remained of her strength in her dying days to demand her daughter’s death be investigated as a possible homicide. What made Hope Stills think that Jenny might have been murdered when the authorities were certain that she had died in a tragic drowning?
Rachel had enough time for a quick stop at the nearby police station to see if she could find some answers. It was a flat-roofed seventies-style building two blocks from the library. Rachel handed her reporter’s accreditation card to the duty officer and explained that she wanted to speak to a veteran policeman who might have investigated a drowning case from several decades before. Failing that, she wanted to access copies of the police and autopsy reports.
“Do you have a case number? Or a name of the victim?” the police officer asked.
“Jenny Stills,” she answered.
He typed the name into the system.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That name doesn’t appear in our files.”
16
Rachel
Detective Nick Cooper was on his hands and knees prepping the deck of his two-master schooner with an electric sanding machine when Rachel climbed onto his boat. Realizing there was no chance he’d ever notice she was standing there over the deafening roar of the machine, Rachel pulled the sander plug out of the socket and cut the power.
The high-pitched screech ended abruptly, leaving the tranquil sound of water lapping against the boat in its wake. Detective Cooper removed his noise blockers and protective eye mask as he stood up to find out why his sander had abruptly stopped working.
He saw Rachel and wiped his sweaty palms on his khaki work pants before reaching out to shake her hand. His light hair and stubble contrasted with his deep tan and black T-shirt.
“Was it hard to find my boat?” he asked, putting the sander aside.
“I followed the cloud of dust just like you told me,” Rachel said. “Looks like you have a big paint job ahead of you.”
“It’s the price I pay for having a timber sailing boat. More maintenance, but there’s nothing like sailing this baby when the wind is up,” he said, taking two sodas covered in condensation out of a cooler box. He tossed one to Rachel before opening his own with a hiss.
“What is it you want to talk about?” he asked, moving aside a two-gallon can of paint so there was space for Rachel to sit on a bench.
“Everything you know about the Scott Blair case,” Rachel replied.
Detective Cooper sat on the edge of the boat and took a long sip of his drink. “Nice try,” he said once he’d swallowed. “You know I can’t talk about the case before it gets to trial. Anyway, the case wasn’t handled by me. It was handled by our sex crimes unit. All I did was make initial inquiries in the hours after Kelly Moore went missing. Like I told your producer, I’m willing to talk about that if it helps. As long as I’m not quoted.”
“Go ahead,” said Rachel. “Tell me whatever you’re able to tell me.”
“I’d planned to sail out to Ocracoke that Sunday morning when I got a call from the duty officer down at the station. A teenage girl had been reported missing. Her dad called it in. They asked me to make some inquiries.”
“Her dad being Dan Moore,” said Rachel. “The son of the former police chief, Russ Moore?”
“I see you’ve brushed up on your local history.”
“As best as I could,” said Rachel, thinking that there was a fair chunk of local history she hadn’t been able to piece together yet. Such as how Jenny Stills had died. “I am betting the investigation was fast-tracked out of respect for Russ Moore.”
“No comment,” Detective Cooper said, taking another sip of his soda.
“What steps did you take once they asked you to find out what happened to Kelly?”
“In these cases, you really want to speak to the last person to have seen the missing person. In this instance, it was a kid called Harris Wilson. My first stop was his house.”
Harris’s dad, Bill Wilson, was in the driveway polishing his car when Detective Cooper arrived. The detective was dressed in canvas shorts and a T-shirt. He’d been on his way to his boat when he’d received the call about Kelly Moore and didn’t have time to go home and get changed.
“Harris around?” he called out to Bill as he walked down the driveway.
“Who’s asking?” asked Bill.
Detective Cooper flashed his police badge. “I’m looking for a girl who went missing last night. Harris’s friends say he might have seen her before she disappeared.”
