by Carolyn Hart
She’d liked Erik Judd. She had sensed beneath his drama that particular empathy that often belongs to creative people.
Nela stared at the Thunderbird, slowly shut the VW door. She used her iPhone, found an address and directions.
It was a five-minute drive to a quiet neighborhood with older homes, some of them brick duplexes, others 1950s vintage ranch-style houses. A green Porsche sat in the drive of the third house on the left, a one-story rambling brick house with bay windows. The house appeared well kept, no fading paint or cracks in the drive. The window glass glistened.
Nela walked swiftly to the front porch, lifted a shiny brass knocker.
The door opened almost at once. Erik Judd stared out at her, his face anxious. “Has something happened to Robbie?”
Obviously he knew who she was, that she had taken Chloe’s place, and her unexpected arrival, certainly something beyond the norm, raised fear that something was wrong.
“He’s fine.” Nela understood the shock of unexpected arrivals. She still dreamed about the moment that Bill’s brother walked in. “The police believe Marian Grant was murdered.”
Erik’s eyebrows folded into a frown. “Robbie called me. But”—his gaze was suspicious—“what does that have to do with you? Why are you here?”
“Everyone at the foundation is a suspect.” She looked at him steadily. Sometimes truth wins the day. If he shut the door in her face, so be it. But he might not. She might have only a little time left to do her best for Chloe. He would do what he could to protect Robbie. “That’s why I came. You and I both have someone we love who may be at risk from the police. The police are suspicious of Chloe because she’s new to Haklo this fall. But Robbie may have publicly taken too much satisfaction from Hollis Blair’s difficulties because of the vandalism.”
Erik raised a silver eyebrow. “From a bare acquaintance on Saturday, you seem to have learned a great deal about me and Robbie. But I fail to see why you are standing on our front porch.”
“I’m an investigative reporter.” She might not have a job right now, but that made no difference. She knew how to ask and probe and seek for a story. Now she would use her skills to save herself and Chloe.
Erik’s pale blue eyes studied her. “Why do you want to talk to me?”
“You know everyone at Haklo.” She saw a flicker of understanding in his watchful gaze. “I want you to tell me who could have committed the vandalism at Haklo and who would kill to avoid exposure as a vandal and a thief.”
He smoothed one curling swoop of his mustache. “Aren’t you a bit fearful of a private meeting with the ‘disgruntled former director’?” His tone put the description in quote marks.
“Oh”—her tone was careless—“Steve Flynn knows where I am.”
He was suddenly amused. “Quick thinking, my dear. But I don’t believe that. However”—he held the door wide, made a sweeping bow—“enter my parlor if you desire.”
She hesitated for only a moment, then stepped inside.
He led the way into a comfortable, manly den with leather furniture, a wide-screen TV, and Indian blankets hung on the paneled walls.
She skirted an easel with a half-finished watercolor of purple and gold wildflowers in a meadow, chose a cane chair.
Erik sat opposite in a red leather chair that was a dramatic setting for his curling white hair, black silk shirt, and white wide-cuffed wool trousers and black half boots. He listened, nodding occasionally as she marshaled her facts.
When she was done, he nodded approval. “Quite concise and complete. I’m aware of all the incidents. I should make it clear that I am not a recluse brooding over ill treatment. It was”—he paused, seeking the right word—“a shock when Blythe dismissed me, especially for a callow youth with no experience, except perhaps”—his mouth twisted in a wry smile—“in the useful art of charming ladies. I always assumed outstanding leadership was sufficient. I was wrong. However”—and now he sounded quite comfortable—“I have enjoyed thoroughly a return to the life of a writer. In fact, if you’d looked in the Haklo library a half hour ago, you would have found me there. I often spend the afternoon at Haklo with my research on the foundation. Robbie has remained angry even though I’ve assured him I am content. Now”—he leaned forward—“I want to be clear. Neither Robbie nor I have ever done anything that would be detrimental to Haklo. I devoted the best years of my life to making Haklo one of the finest charitable foundations in the country. I am sickened by the events that have occurred this fall. As for Robbie, I’m afraid he has enjoyed watching Hollis squirm, but Robbie knows that I would utterly oppose any kind of attack on Haklo. Haklo is bigger than Hollis or Blythe or me or Robbie.”
“Someone there, someone with a key, must be behind the vandalism and the theft.” Nela held his gaze. “If you care about Haklo, help me figure out who is guilty.”
Erik frowned. One hand touched the crystal eagle that hung from a leather necklace. “From what you’ve told me, it does seem likely that the vandal is a staff member.” His eyes narrowed. “Not Louise. Not Rosalind. I can’t speak to the new director or his girlfriend or your sister.” A stop. “Harris Webster used to worry about his daughters. Blythe has always been obsessive. Once she was obsessed with a young man who worked for Harris. Now she’s obsessed with Haklo but the vandalism punishes Haklo. Grace is impulsive, a wild thing. She’s furious that her father made Blythe the sole trustee. Francis is ruthless. Whatever is important to him is all that matters. Cole used to be a major force at Haklo, Webster’s good friend. Now he’s yesterday. I think it’s broken his heart. Peter is fighting Blythe’s ideas of outsourcing. He has a wife who likes money. But that tweedy, casual appearance is misleading. He’s climbed Kilimanjaro.”
As she drove away, Nela carried with her two impressions. Erik trusted Robbie, truly believed Robbie would never do anything to jeopardize the foundation that Erik loved. No doubt he would describe her visit and emphasize how he had made it clear that both he and Robbie had nothing to do with the attacks on Haklo. But if Robbie had been tempted to cause just enough trouble to harm the new director, exposure meant more than criminal action, it meant breaking the heart of the man he loved. Would Robbie be willing to kill to keep the vandalism from Erik?
12
Have to eat, right?” Nela tried to sound upbeat. She spooned chicken-flavored food into a freshly washed cat bowl.
Jugs looked up. “…crying inside…”
Nela put down the bowl. She’d pet Jugs after he ate, tell him Louise said he was a good cat. The words wouldn’t matter. The tone would give him comfort. She knew she should eat as well, but her throat was tight and she wasn’t hungry. She turned away, walked into the living room, dropped into the easy chair. How long would it take for the police to arrive? By this time, Steve Flynn would have contacted Dugan, showed her the photos in his iPhone.
Nela knew she had few options. Whatever she did, she wasn’t going to lie. She would decline to comment and that would probably put her in jail. She glanced at her watch. Dugan was taking her own sweet time in coming. Would it do Nela any good to share Erik Judd’s views? Or would Dugan have closed her mind to everyone but Chloe and Nela?
The hospital bed still looked odd in his parents’ spacious bedroom. His dad was dozing. The home health aide looked at him eagerly. When Steve came for a visit in the evenings, she could slip out for a while, a walk in good weather, now a few minutes in her room, catching up on a favorite TV show. His dad loathed TV, said if he ever got bored enough to watch TV, he’d hold a funeral service for his brain.
Steve stood beside the bed. Sometimes it seemed they took a little step forward, then two steps back.
His father’s eyelids fluttered open. His eyes were as blue as Steve’s. His hair, too, had once been red, but was now white. His broad face sagged a little on one side, a visible reminder of the stroke that felled him.
“Hey, Dad.” Steve spoke in a normal tone. His dad despised sickroom whispers. Though his speech was stil
l somewhat garbled, he’d made it clear to a succession of helpers. “…Still hear…Up speak…”
Those bright blue eyes were as perceptive as always, reflecting a quick and facile mind trapped in an uncooperative body. “…’Rubble…”
Yeah, there was trouble. Big-time trouble. Chances were he’d been a sap over a woman. One more time. But this time, he wanted to call her. He wanted to believe her. He admired the way her chin jutted when she faced opposition. He wanted to plumb the intelligence behind her gaze. He wanted to know about her. Did she like to go camping? Had she ever trout fished? He knew some things. She had guts. She loved words. Her face in repose suggested she knew sadness. A guy named Bill had loved her. But who else could have taken the damn necklace? Steve gave a shrug, tried to appear casual. “Hard day. Lots of stuff happening.”
Maybe those blue eyes saw more because they’d had a glimpse of eternity. Maybe Daniel Flynn knew better than to waste time with niceties. His gaze was sharp, demanding. “…You…”
Steve pressed his lips together, knew his face was a road map of misery.
His dad lifted his head. “…heart…listen…promise…”
Listen to your heart. Maybe it wasn’t a smart motto. Maybe he didn’t give a damn about being smart. Steve reached out, touched a still muscular shoulder. “I will, Dad. As soon as I think some things through.”
Jugs lay at the end of the table in his lion pose, watching as she ate.
It wasn’t much of a dinner. A bowl of tomato soup and some dry crackers from a box long past its fresh date. Chloe hadn’t been in the apartment long enough to leave a half-empty box of crackers. Nela was eating saltines that had been purchased by Marian Grant. Odd. But Marian wouldn’t begrudge crackers to someone taking care of Jugs. Nela looked into watching green eyes and felt certain of that. She wasn’t certain of anything else. “Jugs, I don’t know what to do.”
“…She was worried…”
“So am I, buddy.” Oh hell yes, she was worried. She ate and listened for a knock at the door, for the questions she dared not answer. She cleaned up the kitchen in only a moment. In the living room, she dropped into the comfortable overstuffed chair and looked across the silent room at the sofa. Last night he’d sat there and given her a chance. When he’d walked into the main hall of Haklo late Monday morning, wiry red hair, broad open face, bright blue eyes, stocky and muscular, she’d instinctively started to smile. It wasn’t until he looked at her late last night and gravely listened to her halting explanations that she’d realized he was a man with a hard edge, a man who had been hurt and was afraid to trust.
He’d trusted her. For a little while. She fought away sudden sharp sadness. What difference did it make? She scarcely knew him. Abruptly, she came to her feet, hurried into the living room. She picked up Bill’s picture. She looked at his laughing face, young and strong, alive and loving her. Carrying the picture, she sank onto the sofa. The red, white, and blue ribbon she’d wound through the latticed wood of the frame brought no comfort.
Jugs jumped up beside her, pressed against her thigh.
She massaged behind big ears. “It’s up to me, Jugs.” She looked again at Bill’s photograph and the familiar emptiness echoed inside. Bill wasn’t here. Bill wasn’t anywhere.
Jugs lifted his head, turned to stare at the front door. His ears flicked forward.
A sharp knock rattled the door.
Nela slowly came to her feet. She’d known this moment was coming. She walked to the door, turned on the porch light, twisted the knob. As cold air eddied around her, she stared, her lips parted.
Once again the wind stirred his short red hair. Once again he wore no coat. Tonight he carried a folder.
She looked past him.
“Just me. Maybe you’ll tell me to take a hike. I thought it over. I didn’t ask you. That wasn’t fair.” Now his blue eyes held hers. “Did you go back last night?”
“No.”
The look between them was more than a question and answer.
His face softened. “Sorry. Sometimes now”—the words came slowly—“I expect bad outcomes. I shouldn’t have jumped to a stupid conclusion.”
“It wasn’t stupid. You don’t know me. I found the necklace in Marian’s purse, but I can never prove that it was there. I tried to see it safely back to Blythe. I feel like I’ve done everything I can do. But thank you for coming. It was very kind.” She started to close the door.
He held up the folder. “Can I come in? I’ve got some stuff that may help.”
Nela hesitated. “You’ve already done more for me than you should.” He hadn’t called the police when he found her coming out of Haklo. She was sure they’d broken some laws leaving the necklace on Blythe’s desk, but he didn’t deserve to be in trouble because of her. “I’m afraid it’s dangerous to hang around with me.”
“That’s a chance I’ll take.”
Nela wanted to let him inside. She wanted him to leave. She didn’t know what she wanted, but she was acutely aware of his nearness. He was alive and strong and vital. Bill—
“I don’t know.” She knew she must sound like a fool. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to have anything else to do with what’s happened at Haklo. I’m going to be here for Chloe until she returns. But she and I have nothing to do with the problems there. Let’s leave it at that.” She closed the door.
Now she had lied to him. She’d promised him she wouldn’t lie and now she had. She couldn’t walk away from the turmoil at the foundation. She was going to find out more, much more, seek the truth. For her and for Chloe.
But she didn’t have to involve Steve Flynn.
She leaned against the cold wooden panel and listened to the sound of diminishing steps.
Slanting beams from passing headlights created a silhouette of leafless limbs on the bedroom ceiling, jumbled dark splotches that made no sense, formed no coherent pattern. Steve always sought a pattern. This time he was out of luck. His thoughts shifted from her rebuff to his damn fool determination to help someone who didn’t want help, swung from certainty to uncertainty. Was she honest? Did he care? People did what they thought they had to do. She’d help her sister at all costs. Was that why she sent him away? Or was she running from him because she, too, felt the attraction between them when they stood close together? She carried sadness with her. He thought he knew why. Someday he would ask her about the dark-haired guy standing on a beach and the red, white, and blue ribbon that wreathed the brown wooden frame. Someday. Not now.
His mouth twisted in a wry grin. Big talk on his part. Her good night had been a pretty definite good-bye. One thing was for sure. He’d wanted for months to be free of memories of Gail. Maybe he should have remembered to be careful what he wished for. Was the god of hilarity laughing aloud? Gail was fading. Her name no longer conjured images that excited desire or bitterness. Instead, he saw Nela’s intelligent, vulnerable face with lips that he wanted to kiss.
The grin slipped away. She was in trouble. She—and her sister—would be safe only if he discovered the truth behind the vandalism and the theft of the necklace. He’d made a start last evening on figuring out who could have taken the necklace from Blythe Webster’s desk. Tomorrow he’d narrow the field. He might not have a white horse to ride to Nela’s rescue, but he knew Craddock maybe even better than Katie Dugan.
Though Nela was weary to the bone, sleep was elusive. She kept hearing the sound of Steve’s footsteps fading into silence. She pushed away thoughts of Steve. She heard Bill’s voice…If I don’t come back…Bill had wanted to tell her that if he died, she must live. She had placed her fingers on his lips, warm living lips, to stop the words she didn’t want to hear. She had read the message in Bill’s eyes just as tonight she’d looked into blue eyes and seen another message: I want to know you. Give me a chance.
She turned restlessly, tried to get comfortable. She knew what Bill had wanted for her. But not yet. Not while emptiness filled her heart.
She’d sent Steve away. She wan
ted him to be safe. As a reporter, he was jeopardizing his job to keep information about a crime from the police. She had involved him in a crime when he learned that she’d returned the necklace to Haklo. Detective K. T. Dugan could charge him with obstruction of justice and possibly conspiracy in regard to transportation of stolen property. Right now there was no reason Dugan should ever learn that Steve had been at Haklo last night. Nela would never tell anyone.
She began to sink into the oblivion of exhausted sleep. Faintly, Nela heard a click-click-click on the bedroom door. Her eyelids fluttered open as she turned her head on the pillow. Jugs…wanted in…good cat…lonely…Groggily she rolled on an elbow, sat up. Click-click-click. She came to her feet, crossed the cold hardwood floor. She’d learned a lesson Friday night. The door would always be locked while she slept. She turned the knob, held the panel open. A dark shape flowed past. When she settled again on the bed, Jugs snuggled beside her, soft and warm. A faint purr signaled his happiness.
13
Steve took another bite of a glazed doughnut, washed away the sweetness with strong coffee. Not much of a breakfast, but enough. He wrote fast, his printing big and legible on a legal pad. He could have made notes on his laptop. For quick jottings, he still liked real paper. He had been in kindergarten when the Clarion installed computers. He remembered thick yellow copy and the clack of Remingtons and an ever-present smoky haze. Now the newsroom was silent, the walls had long ago been repainted to remove years of nicotine scum, and the copy spike on Mim Barlow’s desk was a memento. He was finishing his third cup of coffee when Mim’s brisk steps sounded in the newsroom.
She stopped beside his desk. “Something big?” She sounded hopeful.
“Background.”
Her glance was sharp. “Let me know if I should hold space.”
“Not today.”
“Right. Do a follow-up on the missing necklace.”
“Already sent it over.”
“If everyone was as efficient…” She turned toward her desk.