by Carolyn Hart
Dugan turned to Blythe. “Is there anyone in addition to those present who were included in the survey of the cabin?”
Blythe’s face creased in thought. “I think that’s—oh, of course. Chloe Farley was with Louise.”
Nela’s glance locked with Dugan’s. She hoped the detective read her loud and clear: Look at these people. They’re scared. I’m not. Chloe’s innocent.
The detective’s face didn’t change. There might have been grudging respect in her dark brown eyes, but the brief silent exchange didn’t deflect her from Abby. “When did you notice the skateboard was gone?”
“Sunday afternoon. I’d found a box in the basement and I was going to pack it up to mail to Craig.”
Dugan gazed at each person in turn. “Does anyone have knowledge of the skateboard between Saturday and Sunday?”
No one answered.
11
Nela’s fingers automatically worked the computer keyboard as she prepared a summary of a grant application. Below her surface attention to the task, her thoughts darted as she tried to make sense of the tense meeting with Detective Dugan. Of course murder mattered more than theft, but why hadn’t Dugan even mentioned the return of the necklace, especially since she believed the necklace might be the reason for Marian Grant’s murder? Why was Dugan keeping that information quiet?
All through the rest of the morning and during lunch and the afternoon, she’d waited for word of the necklace’s return to reach her. She had waited for the sound of Dugan’s firm steps and the level stare that accused.
It was shortly after three when Louise Spear stood in the doorway between her office and Chloe’s. Louise’s face was drawn with strain. “Nela, please come here for a moment.”
Nela rose and walked into Louise’s office. When she stepped through the connecting door, she expected to see Dugan. Instead, she was alone with Louise.
“Close the door. Sit down.”
The door into the hallway was already shut. Louise’s office was paneled in gleaming oak. Bookcases filled one wall. A print of a dramatic painting by the Baranovs hung behind her desk, the magnificent colors vibrant and life affirming. Nela loved the glorious colors favored by the Russian artists. The print commanded attention. Nela wondered if, consciously or subconsciously, plain and modest Louise chose the compelling print to make herself less noticeable.
Louise stood to one side of her light oak desk. A shaft of pale winter sunlight emphasized deep lines etched at the corners of her eyes and lips. She looked fatigued and worried.
Nela sat in the plain wooden chair that faced the desk. Had Louise been deputized to fire Nela? Why hadn’t the police detective talked to her first? Had the redheaded reporter informed Dugan of her after-hours visit to Haklo?
Louise’s brown eyes scarcely seemed to acknowledge her presence. She was turned inward and her thoughts obviously weren’t pleasant. Finally, she gazed at Nela. “Tell me about Friday night.” She rubbed one thumb along the knuckles of her clenched right hand. “At Marian’s apartment.”
Nela described the sounds of a search and the light beneath the door and the arrival of the police.
Louise stared at Nela with wide worried eyes. “Did you see anyone when you opened the bedroom door?”
Nela knew abruptly that this was why Louise had called Nela into her office. Louise could have taken the necklace. But she could have taken the necklace many times in the last few years if she had wished. Why this fall? Did she need money? Did she resent Hollis Blair?
“Nela?” Louise appeared tense.
Nela felt suddenly that Louise was afraid of what Nela might say. “I didn’t open the bedroom door until the police knocked. The thief was gone by then.”
Louise’s shoulders slumped. “I was hoping you might have some idea who was there. Well, I suppose if you knew anything you would have told the police.”
“Yes. I would have told the police.” But perhaps she’d been wiser than she knew when she’d stayed safe in the bedroom waiting until the front door slammed behind the intruder, an intruder who looked everywhere for a hidden necklace and it wasn’t hidden at all. “Have the police found out anything more about the necklace?” Why had no one discussed the return of the necklace? Surely its mysterious arrival was another pointer to someone with a key. That hadn’t been Nela’s intent when she brought it, but maybe underlining the connection to Haklo had been a very good idea.
“Unfortunately they haven’t been able to trace it. The detective said they have queries out to pawnshops.” She lifted thin fingers to touch one temple. “That will be all for now, Nela.”
Nela managed to nod and get up and walk into Chloe’s office without revealing her shock. She settled behind Chloe’s desk and stared blankly at the computer screen. The necklace was still missing. But she’d left it on Blythe’s desk. Nela opened the bottom drawer, pulled out her purse. She reached for her cell, then glanced at the open door to Louise’s office. She couldn’t afford to be overheard when she spoke to Steve. She had to wait until she left the foundation. She dropped the cell in the purse, closed the drawer.
It was one of those days. A tractor trailer overturned on the exit ramp into Craddock. One of Craddock’s leading literary lights, a much-published Oklahoma historian, died unexpectedly. A black Lab saved his family by butting against a bedroom door to awaken sleeping parents in time to gather up their five children and escape a house fire caused by a frayed extension cord on a portable heater. Every winter when the frigid days came, the Clarion warned readers to be wary of the dangers of frayed cords and of carbon monoxide from faulty fireplaces and wood stoves and generators. Every winter there were blazes. This one had a happy ending. Some didn’t.
Steve Flynn was in and out of the office. Lunch was a Big Mac on the run. It was almost three thirty before he had time to call Katie Dugan. He punched his speakerphone.
“Hey, Steve.” Of course she had caller ID.
“Bring me up to date on Haklo.”
“I suppose you plan a story on the anonymous call to the Clarion?”
He leaned back in his swivel chair, propped his feet on the desk, balanced a laptop on his lap. “We print the news as we get it.” His tone was laconic.
“I can always dream, can’t I? But probably our inquiries have tipped the murderer. If there is a murderer. Which isn’t clear.”
“And?”
“On the record, we are pursuing inquiries into the anonymous call to the Clarion that claimed the death of Marian Grant was murder.”
Steve typed the quote, not that he wouldn’t remember. It was stock Katie-speak when she didn’t intend to elaborate. “And?”
Silence.
“Come on, Katie. Surely there’s movement somewhere in this story. A little bird told me there was a bad”—he drew out the vowel but Katie didn’t smile—“letter that went out to members of the grants committee.”
She gave a quick little spurt of irritation. He knew she was wondering where he’d picked up that piece of information. “No comment.”
“Do you have a lab report on damage to the apartment stairs?”
“No comment.”
She hadn’t said there was no report, which meant there was a report, but she was unwilling to reveal what had been learned. “Could a skateboard—if one is found—be tested for a match?”
“No comment.”
“What’s the status of the search for the necklace?” That should flush the fact of its return, although he was puzzled that Katie was playing coy about the jewelry’s unaccountable arrival on the desk of its owner. The anonymous tip about murder was the lead of the story he would write, but the necklace would get big play, especially since once again a key had surely been used to enter Haklo. The noose would draw tighter around Haklo employees.
“At this point in the investigation, no trace of the necklace has been found.”
Steve felt like he’d been sucker punched. The blow came from nowhere. His feet swung to the floor and he sat up straig
ht. He listened blankly to the rest of Katie’s response. “Inquiries have been made and will continue to be made at pawnshops and auction houses. Although Miss Webster has so far declined to request reimbursement from insurance, the insurance company with her permission has supplied photographs and a detailed description of the jewelry. If you ask pretty please, I’ll send over a jpeg.”
“Yeah.” It was like staring at a billboard in Czech. Nothing made sense.
“Hey, I thought you’d appreciate this puppy. Did a sexy broad just walk by your desk? I don’t need a swami to tell me you’ve lost interest in our conversation. Ciao.”
The connection ended.
He e-mailed the police department’s Public Information office, requesting the jpeg. All the while, thoughts ran and nipped at each other’s tails like hungry rats…. She could have gone back to Haklo…intelligent eyes, quick on her feet…glossy black hair…promised not to lie…necklace gone…Someone took it…She could be telling the truth about the skateboard…If she didn’t trust him, the smart thing was to remove the necklace…sure as hell must not have gotten a lot of sleep last night…Hurts, doesn’t it, buddy?…
He reached out to punch the speakerphone, slowly drew back his hand. What good would it do to call Katie Dugan? He had no proof. Yeah, he could pinpoint Nela in the doorway of Haklo after ten p.m. He had a picture of the necklace on Blythe Webster’s desk. But still, it came down to his word against hers. She could swear she left with him and never returned, make it clear that he could as easily have returned for the necklace as she. Katie would believe him. Belief wasn’t proof. He glanced at the clock. He had ten minutes to meet his deadline. The dog and the fire would run below the fold today. Murder trumped a feel-good story. Or was Nela’s claim of a skateboard as phony as her promise not to lie? Of course, she hadn’t lied yet. What would she say when he asked her about her return trip to Haklo? As for the skateboard, damned if there wasn’t knowledge of one floating around Haklo. Could Nela have known about the skateboard missing from the cabin? He didn’t know. As for now, he had a story to write. He typed fast, his face set in hard, angry lines. When done, he reread the piece.
An anonymous phone call to the Clarion Monday night claimed Haklo Foundation Chief Operating Officer Marian Grant was a murder victim. Grant died as a result of a fall down her apartment stairs early on the morning of Jan. 9.
The caller, who has not been identified, said Grant was thrown over the side of the stair rail when she stepped on a skateboard deliberately placed on the second step.
Police who investigated Grant’s fall did not find a skateboard on or near the stairs. Police Detective K. T. Dugan was informed of the call by Clarion staff. Detective Dugan refused to comment on the investigation into the call.
The anonymous caller said Grant was killed because she had discovered the identity of the thief responsible for the robbery of a $250,000 gold and diamond necklace from the desk of Haklo Trustee Blythe Webster.
Detective Dugan said police are continuing to contact pawnshops and auction houses in hopes of tracing the jewelry. Miss Webster has offered a $100,000 reward for the arrest and conviction of the thief.
The theft of the necklace is one in a series of unexplained incidents at the foundation.
Steve ended up with a summary of the vandalism, a description of Marian’s career at Haklo, and the foundation’s importance to Craddock.
He finished reading, zapped the article to Mim. He stared at the phone. He didn’t like being played for a fool. Besides, he’d picked up a hand to play when he hadn’t called the cops last night. Now he couldn’t pretend to himself that he didn’t know beans about a quarter-million-dollar piece of jewelry. His options were limited. Should he call Nela? Be waiting by the VW when she got off work?
To what purpose?
Ace Busey, his plaid wool shirt emanating waves of old cigarette smoke, settled one hip on the edge of Steve’s desk. “Somebody’s ticked you off big time. Must be a gal. Hasn’t Papa told you that dames are deadly?”
Steve looked up into Ace’s saggy, streetwise face. “Just concentrating.”
Ace raised a shaggy eyebrow. “You look like a prune on a hot day. Lighten up. No dame is worth it.”
Steve forced a humorless smile. “That’s a given.”
Ace slouched to his feet. “Got to catch a smoke.” As he walked away, he said over his shoulder, “Don’t say Papa didn’t warn you.”
Nela stepped into Louise’s office with grant application folders. “I’ve attached one-page summaries to each application.” Dry words for dreams and hopes and visions boiled down to a page. She wished that everything was different, that she could be excited about the foundation’s outreach, make a difference for kids at summer camps, for libraries with budgets cut to the bone, for research to help drought-stricken farmers.
Louise looked up. Her thoughts seemed to come from a far distance. “Oh, yes.” She gestured at her in-box. “I’ll take care of them tomorrow.”
Nela placed the folders in the lower receptacle. “Is there anything else I can do?”
Louise slowly shook her head. The movement seemed to take great effort.
Nela understood the burden of grief. “I’m sorry about Miss Grant. She must have been a wonderful person.”
“Friday afternoon when I went in her office, I could tell she was upset. I asked if something was wrong. There was an odd look in her eyes. She said”—Louise’s face crinkled in memory—“ ‘There’s nothing wrong that can’t be fixed. And I intend to fix it.’ Of course, Marian believed she could handle anything.” Louise massaged one temple. “Just a few days before she died, she told me she should have done something in St. Louis, that she’d known from the start it was a mistake to bring Hollis here. I knew what she meant. I was there, too. Hollis has too much charm. I know what happens when he walks into a room. Some women are more vulnerable than others.” She shook her head. “And that girl chasing after him.” Her eyes were huge with distress. “If someone put a skateboard on Marian’s stairs and Abby’s brother’s skateboard is missing, there has to be a connection. Oh, I don’t know what to think. I may be all wrong.”
Nela looked at her sharply. “Do you have an idea who may have taken the skateboard?”
Louise drew herself up. Her voice was stiff. “I don’t know anything about the skateboard.” There was a ring of truth in her voice. But her eyes were still dark with worry. “It’s just that I keep thinking about Marian. I can’t bear to think what may have happened.”
Nela knew, better than most, that outsiders couldn’t lessen heartbreak. Nothing Nela did would ease Louise’s sadness about Marian Grant or restore Haklo to happier days. But she knew, too, that kindness helps. “I’m sorry you’re upset.”
Louise’s face softened. “You’re a nice girl, Nela. Just like your sister. None of this has anything to do with you—”
Nela wished with all her heart that Louise was right.
“—and I’m sorry if I’ve troubled you. Don’t worry. I know I’m tired. Things are always worse when you’re tired.” She glanced at the clock. “You can go home now. Home…” For an instant, she pressed her lips together. “You’re a long way from home. I don’t think I could bear to go to Marian’s apartment. Especially after someone coming inside Friday night.” Once again lines of worry framed her eyes and lips. “Thank you for staying there. I know Jugs. He must miss Marian terribly. Go home early and pet Jugs for me. For Marian. Tell him he’s a good cat.” Louise turned away to look toward the windows.
By the time Nela reached the connecting doorway, Louise appeared lost in her thoughts, her thin face drawn and weary. In Chloe’s office, Nela glanced at her watch. Only a few minutes after four. She shrugged into her coat. In the hallway, she walked fast, fumbling in her purse for her cell phone. Steve had to know about the necklace. As soon as she was safely alone in the VW, she’d call him.
Steve glanced at caller ID. He let the phone ring three times before he picked up the hand unit. �
�Flynn.”
“Steve”—the connection was scratchy, obviously a call from a cell—“the necklace wasn’t found.”
“Yeah.” The word was clipped.
She talked fast. “Someone took the necklace from Blythe’s desk. What can we do?”
“Someone took it?” His tone was taunting.
There was silence. Finally, she spoke. “What do you mean?”
“Two people knew the necklace was there. You. Me. I didn’t take it. Do the math.”
“You think—” She broke off. “I see.” A pause. “That’s a funny thing.” Her tone was bleak. “It never occurred to me to think you went back and got the necklace.”
The connection ended.
“Nela…” He spoke to emptiness.
Nela knew what it was to be alone, to feel separated from the world. There had been a moment with Steve—more than one—when warmth seemed near again. That brief connection was broken. There was no point in wasting time thinking about a stocky man with red hair. He’d been a stranger. He was a stranger again with no reason to share what he knew about people he knew.
It was up to her now to find the devious mind behind the troubles at Haklo and she might have very little time to act. She needed the perspective of someone who knew the staff. Louise not only might wonder if Nela came back inside, but, picturing faces in her mind, Nela had no idea which staff member to contact. What would she say? But she had to do something. She opened the car door, taking care not to let the wind butt the edge against the glossy blue Thunderbird with the personalized license plate: ROBBIE. The car was as slick as the PR director. Definitely he wouldn’t be the right person to ask who might have a motive to cause trouble for Haklo. Although he kept his comments within bounds, his dislike of Hollis Blair was obvious. Vandalism might have appealed to Robbie as a way of attacking Hollis.