by Carolyn Hart
He knocked.
Katie looked up as he stepped inside. “Yo, Steve.” She glanced at a plain watch face on a small black leather band.
“Just a few questions.” He turned a straight chair in front of her desk, straddled the seat. “I was out in the hall at Haklo when you talked to the staff. I timed the interviews.”
She raised a strong black brow. “That’s anal. Even for you.”
“Sometimes I pick up a vibe in funny ways. That’s what happened today.” His gaze was steady. “Some interviews lasted a few minutes, several ran about ten. You spent thirty-one minutes talking to Miss Farley.”
Not a muscle moved in Katie’s stolid face.
“Come on, Katie.” His tone was easy. “I picked up some stuff at Haklo. Nela Farley’s been in town since Friday afternoon. She’s subbing for her sister, Chloe, Louise Spear’s assistant. Why the inquisition?”
Katie massaged her chin with folded knuckles, an unconscious mannerism when she was thinking hard.
Steve kept his face bland.
Katie chose her words as carefully as a PGA player studying the slope of a green. “I thought it was proper to discuss her nine-one-one call from Miss Grant’s apartment Friday night.”
Not, Steve thought quickly, to talk about a break-in or even a purported break-in, but the placement of a 911 call. He kept his voice casual. “Yeah, the report said she awoke to find an intruder in the living room.”
“She said”—slight emphasis—“she heard someone in the living room. She appeared to be upset.” Kati’s tone was even. “She unlocked the front door when the investigating officers arrived. That’s the only entrance to the apartment. No windows were broken. Officers found no sign of a forced entry.”
He frowned. “How did an intruder get inside?”
Katie was firm. “Investigating officers found no evidence of an illegal entry at Miss Grant’s apartment.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying Miss Farley lied?”
“I am saying no evidence was found to suggest a forced entry.” She glanced again at her watch. “If that’s all—”
He was running out of time. Work was fine but other people’s problems never beat out sex, and Katie was impatient to leave. He spoke quickly. “The apartment appeared to have been searched. Miss Grant’s office was searched. Do you believe both incidents are part of the pattern of vandalism, including the missing necklace?”
“Yes.” Clipped. Definite. One word. Nada mas.
“How can Miss Farley be involved since she arrived in Craddock Friday?”
“The investigation is following several leads.” Katie came to a full stop, pushed back her chair.
Steve was exasperated. “That’s no answer. You talked to Miss Farley for thirty-one minutes. Is she a person of interest?”
Katie came to her feet. “At this point in the investigation, there is not a single suspect. No premature announcement will be made.” She pulled out a lower drawer, retrieved a black shoulder bag, stood.
He rose and turned the chair to once again face the gray metal desk.
Katie was already out the door.
In the hall, he watched her stride toward the exit. Katie had been careful, circumspect, cautious, but when he connected the dots, he understood why ice had turned to fire. Nela Flynn was in big trouble.
Jugs followed Nela into the kitchen, chirped impatiently as she closed the blinds. She put the McDonald’s sack on the counter. He jumped up and sniffed. “Not good for you, buddy. I’ll get yours in a minute.”
With the blinds closed, no one could see her. The front door was blocked by the safety wedge. She dropped to one knee by Jugs’s cabinet, pushed aside the stacked cans of cat food, felt weak with relief. The black leather bag was there. She started to reach, quickly drew back her hand. If ordinary criminals were careful about prints, she wasn’t going to be mutt enough to leave hers on Marian Grant’s purse.
Once again attired in the orange rubber gloves, she edged out the purse, pulled the zipper, held the sides wide, moved the red leather gloves, saw the glitter of gold and diamonds. So far, so good. She took comfort that the police hadn’t entered the apartment, found the stolen jewelry. But safety was illusory. She had to get rid of the necklace. ASAP.
Jugs stood on his back paws, patted at the shelf. “I know, buddy. It’s suppertime and you think I’m nuts.” She returned the purse to the cabinet, knowing any casual search would find it. But for now, that was the best she could do. She dished up Jugs’s food, placed the bowls on the newspaper, provided fresh water.
Jugs crouched and ate, fast.
She found a paper plate for herself, opened and poured a Coke. By the time she settled at the kitchen table, Jugs was finished.
The lean cat padded to the table, jumped, once again settled politely just far enough to indicate he wasn’t encroaching upon her meal. He gazed at her with luminous green eyes. “…miss Her…”
Nela stared into those beautiful eyes. For now, she would accept that whenever she looked at Jugs, she moved into his mind. She took some comfort from that rapport, whether real or imagined. “I’m sorry.” And she was. Sorry for Jugs, grieving for lost love. Sorry for everyone lost and lonely and hurt in an uncaring world. Sorry for what might have been with Bill. Sorry for herself and Chloe, enmeshed in a mess not of their making. Sorry and, more than that, determined to do what she had to do to keep them both safe. It was, she realized, the first time since Bill died that she’d felt fully alive.
She looked into Jugs’s gleaming eyes.
“…You’re mad…”
She pulled her gaze away from his, unwrapped a double cheeseburger, began to eat. She felt a flicker of surprise. Yeah. Jugs had it right. She was mad as hell. So many paths were blocked. It was too late to report finding the necklace. She could claim it occurred to her to wonder if anything had been taken from the bag so she opened it…She shook her head. Nice try, but it wouldn’t fly. The detective would never believe she’d found the necklace in the purse. Detective Dugan would see that claim as a lie and be convinced Chloe had stolen the necklace and left it in the apartment for Nela to keep safe. The necklace had to go.
Throw it away?
It would be her luck to toss the jewelry in a trash bin and be seen.
How about taking a drive, tossing the necklace into the woods? Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars flung into underbrush? Probably a birdwatcher would ring the police before she drove a hundred yards. If she parked and walked into the woods, maybe dug a hole, she’d leave footprints.
What did you do with something that didn’t belong to you?
She ate, dipping the fries in pepper-dotted ketchup, drank the Coke, and made plans.
At Hamburger Heaven, Steve stirred onions and grated cheese into chili and beans. He spread margarine on a square of jalapeño-studded cornbread. He once again sat in his usual booth. Beyond the tables, every space was taken at the counter. A roar of conversation competed with Reba McEntire’s newest country music hit. Steve shut out the lyrics about love gone wrong, picked through the nuances of his exchanges with Katie.
When he’d asked if Nela Farley was a person of interest, Katie could have made several replies. She was never shy about barking, “No comment.” However, he could then have written a story saying that Detective K. T. Dugan declined to reveal whether Nela Farley was a person of interest. Any reader might reasonably assume, as he did, that Dugan’s reply definitely indicated Farley was indeed a person of interest.
That wasn’t the only red flag. Instead of discussing a break-in at Marian Grant’s apartment, Katie talked about the 911 call and the fact that there was no proof anyone had broken in. If no one broke in, either Nela Farley had searched the room, then placed a fake 911 call—she had permitted someone to enter and leave, then ditto—or someone with a key to Marian Grant’s apartment was the intruder.
If there wasn’t an intruder…
Steve knew he wanted to believe Nela’s story. But Katie was a g
ood cop and she’d lined up Nela Farley in her sights. Why did he want to defend the girl with the intelligent, sensitive face? He knew better than most that beauty didn’t count for much and a woman could look at you with love in her eyes one minute and it’s-time-for-you-to-go the next. Women lied.
Why would a girl who’d never been to Craddock want to plow through the desk in a dead woman’s apartment?
He always thought quickly and the answer was waiting in his mind. Nela Farley had a connection to Craddock. Her sister, Chloe, worked at Haklo. In fact, Nela was in town to sub for her sister while Chloe and her boyfriend were on a two-week freebie to Tahiti. Freddi had written a fun feature for the Life section about Leland Buchholz’s contest win and his and Chloe’s plans for the Tahiti holiday. Alex took some great shots, capturing the couple’s happy-go-lucky attitude.
Nela could be acting on behalf of her sister. However, her sister had been in the apartment for several days and surely had time for a thorough search. Even if Chloe asked Nela to search again, Nela had no need to create an intruder. She was staying in the place as a caretaker for a cat. She could search anything at any time she wished and no one would be the wiser.
Steve ate his chili without noticing the taste.
So he didn’t get Katie’s emphasis on the 911 call…
And then he did.
If it was absolutely essential to remove something from Marian Grant’s office, a paper, a file, maybe a link to the theft of a two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar necklace, a previous search of the Grant apartment by an unknown intruder pointed away from Nela Farley.
But not if the police thought the 911 call was phony.
Steve pushed back the bowl. He lifted his Dr Pepper and drank.
Katie believed the apartment break-in was fake. She linked both searches to the vandalism and the theft of the necklace.
Steve gave a soundless whistle. Now he understood why Katie refused to name a person of interest. Clearly, following Katie’s reasoning, the vandalism and theft had been committed by Chloe Farley and now Nela Farley was desperately trying to protect her sister.
He finished the Dr Pepper, but without his usual pleasure in the tingly burn of the pop. Katie Dugan always spoke carefully. Her final comment had been bland until he parsed the words: At this point in the investigation, there is not a single suspect. No premature announcement will be made.
He knew every word was true. There was no single suspect. There were two suspects, Chloe Farley and Nela Farley. There would be no premature announcement because Chloe Farley was in Tahiti, a nice place to hang out to avoid prosecution in the U.S.
Steve recalled the feature story written by Freddi. Leland was part of a prominent Craddock family. Though Freddi wrote with humor and enthusiasm, Leland and his girlfriend came across as flakes. Nice flakes, but flakes. Had a quarter-million-dollar necklace been too big a temptation?
Steve realized he’d crushed the empty Dr Pepper can. Ease up, man. You don’t know her. But she looked like a woman of courage touched by sadness. Her image haunted his mind.
She could be innocent…
Or guilty.
9
Nela, wearing the orange rubber dishwashing gloves, carefully positioned Marian Grant’s purse on the bookcase by the door. A casual observer would never suspect the purse had been moved since Marian placed it there. Nela opened the purse and fished out the necklace. The diamonds glistened in the living room light. Nela dropped the necklace into a clear quart-size plastic bag and placed the bag also on the bookcase. The plastic bag, carefully eased by gloved fingers from the middle of its box, was fingerprint free. She felt a spurt of satisfaction as she returned the gloves to the kitchen. She was turning into an old pro at avoiding fingerprints. That was easy. Now came the challenge. She would be safe and so would Chloe if she could follow—sort of—in the footsteps of Raffles, one of Gram’s favorite fictional characters. Nela doubted if Detective Dugan had ever heard of Raffles. Gram had loved the short stories as well as the movies, especially the 1939 film with David Niven as the gentleman thief. Tonight, Nela pinned her hopes on doing a reverse Raffles.
She ran through her plan in her mind. She’d leave about ten. She glanced at her watch. Almost two hours to go. She was impatient. There was so much she needed to do. She’d already tried to use Marian’s home computer but there was no handy password in the desk drawer. Nela didn’t have a laptop. If she did, she could seek information about the staff at Haklo. Still, she could use this time profitably.
She settled on the sofa with a notebook. Jugs settled beside her. She turned to a fresh page. She always traveled with a notebook. She might not be able to dig for facts and figures, but she could sum up her impressions of the people she’d met. She didn’t doubt that the vandal/thief and possible murderer was among that group. Only someone with intimate knowledge of Chloe’s schedule would have been aware of her departure Friday for Tahiti, leaving Marian Grant’s apartment unoccupied for the first time since her death.
Nela wrote fast.
Blythe Webster—Imperious. Possibly spoiled. Accustomed to having her way. A woman with her emotions under tight control. Attractive in a contained, upper-class way, large intelligent eyes, a rather prim mouth. Seems on good terms with everyone at Haklo.
Louise Spear—Eager to please, thoughtful, a perfect assistant. Her eyes held uncertainty and worry, a woman who wanted someone else to lead. Distress about vandalism appears genuine. No discernible animus toward anyone.
Robbie Powell—Obviously resents the new director. Emotional. Angry enough at his partner’s firing to vandalize Haklo?
Erik Judd—His flamboyant appearance said it all. He lived in bright colors. No pastels for him. How much did losing his post at Haklo matter? Probably quite a lot. He had swept out the door, cloak flaring, but there was a sense of a faded matinee idol. Did parking in the visitors’ lot reveal festering anger? Vandalism on a grand scale might amuse him.
Cole Hamilton—She’d had only a glimpse of him in his office but he hadn’t looked as though he was engaged in any work. His round face was not so much genial as lost and bewildered. He had an aura of defeat. What was his function at Haklo?
Francis Garth—Big, powerful, possibly overbearing. Not a man to cross. The thought was quick, instinctive. Though he’d remained calm about the agenda item, clearly the Tallgrass Prairie mattered more to him than a matter of business. Did he have other disagreements with the trustee and director?
Hollis Blair—Boatloads of aw-shucks, Jimmy Stewart charm but he had run into a situation where charm didn’t matter. Was someone jealous of his apparent affair with Abby Andrews? Or was his assumption of the directorship offensive to more than just Robbie Powell and Erik Judd?
Abby Andrews—She would have looked at home in crinolines holding a parasol to protect her alabaster complexion from too much sun. Was she a clinging vine or a scheming woman who engineered problems for Hollis so that she could be there to offer support?
Grace Webster—To say there was an undercurrent between the sisters was to put it mildly. Grace was by turns combative, difficult, chiding, hostile. Grace struck Nela as reckless, daring, and impulsive. Several times she had been darkly amused. Maybe she thought vandalism was a joke, too.
Peter Owens—He’d seemed like a tweedy intellectual, but she didn’t think she’d imagined his pleasure in tweaking Francis Garth. There—
Jugs lifted his head. He listened, came sinuously up on his paws, flowed to the floor. He moved toward the front door.
She spoke gently. “Ready for a big night?” Words didn’t matter to a cat. Tone did.
Jugs stopped a few feet from the door, stood very still.
The staccato knock came with no warning.
Nela jumped up and bolted to the bookcase. She used the edge of her sweater to pick up the plastic bag. Heart thudding, she opened Marian’s purse, using another edge of the sweater, and dropped the bag inside.
The quick, sharp knock sounded again.
“Steve Flynn. Craddock Clarion.” His voice was loud, clear, and businesslike.
Nela’s tight stance relaxed. Steve Flynn, the redheaded reporter who could have been a double for Van Johnson. She’d almost smiled at him when their gazes first met. But he wasn’t the boy next door.
Why had he come?
“Miss Farley, may I speak with you for a moment? About the break-in Friday night.”
Nela’s thoughts raced. The detective didn’t believe there was a break-in. Would it be suspicious if she refused to talk to the reporter? She didn’t need anyone else suspecting her of a crime. She glanced at the Coach bag, hesitated, then turned the knob.
The wind stirred his short red hair. The glare of the porch light emphasized the freckles on his fair skin. Steady blue eyes met hers. “I’ve been looking over the police report on the attempted burglary here. Can I visit with you for a minute?”
Cold air swirled inside. He stood hunched with his hands in his pockets, his only protection an old pullover sweater.
She held open the door.
As she closed it, his eyes noted the door wedge. He raised them to look at her.
Nela saw a flicker of interest. He didn’t miss much.
She led the way into the living room, once again saw him scan the surroundings, taking in the scrape on the back of the desk chair, the discoloration that marked where a mirror had once hung.