by Carolyn Hart
There were plenty of file photos taken over the years, individually and together, of Robbie Powell and Erik Judd: Robbie making a presentation at a Rotary luncheon, Erik shaking hands with a visiting congressman, Robbie handing out prizes at a livestock show, Erik in earnest conversation with Harris Webster. Robbie’s young blond good looks had aged into well-preserved smoothness, hair always perfectly cut, face tanned, expensive clothes well fitted. Erik’s dramatic personality might amuse some, but he always got the job done and he was known for kindness and thoughtfulness. He was also a scholar and in his free time wrote highly acclaimed essays on early Oklahoma history. Under his direction, Haklo had maintained a reputation as a conservative, well-run foundation, nothing flashy but year after year of steady growth.
Steve was thoughtful. Robbie and Erik were highly respected for their abilities. On a personal level, they were committed to each other. Until this past summer, they had very likely never imagined a cataclysmic change in their lives. Steve had seen too many men who had lost jobs in the last few years to dismiss the effect of that loss. He’d heard that Erik had withdrawn from many activities, presumably to concentrate on writing a history of Haklo. Was he depressed or was he genuinely enjoying time to be a scholar? How angry was Robbie at the injury to Erik? Erik was polished, civilized, erudite, and now diminished. Robbie was quick to react to slights and never missed an opportunity for a dig at the new director. Did the acts of vandalism cause more injury to Hollis or to Blythe?
Steve picked up the next dossier.
Peter Owens, director of publications, 38. BA, MA in media relations, University of Maryland. Wife, Denise. Owens and wife met in college, married shortly after graduation. He worked at publications in various cities, moving to accompany his wife, Denise, from one teaching post to another. She was named an assistant professor of English at Craddock College six years ago. He worked for a local horse publication and met Marian Grant when he wrote a series of articles about breeding seminars hosted by Haklo. He became director of Haklo publications three years ago. Owens and his wife have twin nine-year-old daughters who are stellar swimmers.
Steve had met both Owens and his wife. Peter was casual, understated. Denise was intense, vocal, and self-assured. There were two photos, the official photo online at the Haklo website and a picture at the college last spring with his wife and a visiting poet. The official photo was bland and unrevealing. At the university event, he stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, smiling pleasantly. He was perhaps six-two, shaggy dark hair, horn-rimmed glasses, relaxed demeanor. He stood a pace behind his petite, dark-haired wife, who was engaged in intense conversation with a heavyset, white-haired woman.
Abby Andrews was the last entry, but definitely not least, thanks to a file in her computer and a missing skateboard. However, this dossier contained very little information.
Abby Andrews, assistant curator, 23. BA in anthropology, University of Kansas. 3.7 grade point average. Active in her sorority and several campus activities, including yearbook staff and student council. Met Hollis Blair when he spoke to the anthropology club. Blair hired Abby to be his assistant in Kansas City one month later. He arrived in Craddock August 1. Abby came to Haklo August 15.
In Abby’s Haklo staff photo, she stared gravely into the camera, her lovely features composed. She wore a string of pearls with a pale blue cashmere sweater. The Clarion always carried photos of new Haklo staff. Abby appeared very young with a smooth, unlined face.
Steve tapped impatient fingers on his desk. There was nothing odd or peculiar in her background. A nice recent college grad. Yet, an obscene letter was found in her computer and a skateboard went missing from the front porch of her cabin.
Steve’s face crinkled. Why was she living in a Haklo cabin?
He speed-dialed Louise. “Just rounding up a few points. Tell me about the Haklo cabins. Their history and function.”
Louise’s tone was bland. “Harris thought it would be appropriate for visiting scholars and scientists to be able to stay on the foundation grounds. Eventually, it was decided the cabins would be ideal for summer interns.” Full stop.
“And?” Steve prodded.
“The cabins have always been useful for guests.”
“Abby Andrews isn’t a guest.”
“I think Hollis offered her a cabin since she is paying off student loans.”
“Right. Thanks, Louise.” He wasn’t sure that the knowledge mattered, but it was one more out-of-the-ordinary fact about Abby Andrews. Except it wasn’t out of the ordinary once her relationship with Hollis Blair was evident.
He felt great uncertainty about the importance of Abby Andrews. Surely the idea that she engineered the vandalism, which hurt Hollis, didn’t make sense. But on another level, it made all kinds of sense in Katie Dugan’s initial premise that the point of the vandalism was to make the theft of the necklace possible. Student debt was a crippling factor for a lot of college graduates, and a quarter-million-dollar necklace could pay off loans and then some.
As for the missing skateboard, it became important because of his whispered message. He’d based that message on Nela’s insistence that there had been a skateboard on Marian’s steps. How and when had Nela learned—or guessed—that Marian Grant stepped down on a skateboard and fell to her death? Nela said she could not tell him how she knew. He felt a ripple of uneasiness.
“Hey, buddy.” He spoke aloud. “Don’t get spooked.” But his Irish grandmother would have looked at him and said softly, “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ ”
Maybe so, but he wanted to know the basis for Nela’s claim. He didn’t think Nela was protecting Chloe. Chloe might have known that Abby’s skateboard was missing. However, it seemed unlikely that Chloe would link a missing skateboard to Marian’s fall. Why would she? Was it possible that Chloe was suspicious about Marian’s fall and for some reason saw Abby as a threat to Marian? It seemed very unlikely. But, as he had also learned long ago, if you want to know, ask.
He picked up his phone.
The office door opened. Her face impassive, Detective Dugan looked at Blythe. “Miss Webster, we can use your assistance.”
The trustee’s eyes widened. She gave a tiny sigh. Her demeanor was that of a woman whose fears have been confirmed. She pressed her lips together and moved purposefully into the office.
As Blythe stepped inside Abby’s office, Dugan firmly closed the door after them.
Grace turned toward Abby. “What have you got in there?”
“I don’t have anything—”
The door opened. Dugan walked out. “Miss Andrews, come this way.”
Tears brimmed in Abby’s violet eyes. She clung to Hollis’s arm. “Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I have a few questions.”
Hollis Blair stepped forward. He was combative. “Abby doesn’t have to answer your questions.”
Dugan nodded. Her voice was mild. “In the search of Miss Andrews’s office, a diamond-and-gold necklace was discovered in a filing cabinet. Miss Webster has identified the necklace as the one taken from her desk. If Miss Andrews prefers, we can take her into custody for questioning in regard to grand theft.” She turned to Blythe. “Now my officers need to search the cabin where Miss Andrews resides. Do we have your permission to do so?”
“Yes.” Blythe’s voice was thin. She didn’t look toward Abby. She turned to Louise. “Get a key. Take them there.” Her words were clipped, brooked no disagreement. She didn’t wait for an answer, but swung away, headed for her office.
Louise Spear stared after Blythe. Louise’s face was pale and apprehensive. She was obviously upset. But she had her orders and she had taken orders for many years.
Dugan nodded at Sergeant Fisher and the plump woman officer. “You know what to look for. Call me if anything is found.”
The police officers followed Louise into her office.
Abby took a step toward Dugan. “
I didn’t steal that awful necklace. Someone put it in the cabinet.” She looked at Hollis in appeal. “I didn’t take it.”
Hollis Blair was grim. “Of course you didn’t take it. I’ll get a lawyer for you.”
“I shouldn’t need a lawyer.” Abby’s thin face, twisted in despair, was no longer pretty, but desperate and frightened. “It’s all a lie.”
Dugan was brisk. “We will take your statement at the station. If you wish to have counsel present, that is your prerogative. We’ll go out the front entrance. This way.” She gestured toward the main hallway.
Abby shot a panicked look at Hollis.
He gave her a reassuring nod.
Dugan and Abby walked together toward the main hall, Hollis a step behind. Dugan was purposeful, striding fast. Abby’s shoulders hunched as she hurried to keep pace.
Grace looked puzzled. Her expression was distant, as if her thoughts were far away and not pleasant. She moved swiftly toward the main hall. Peter Owens glanced toward Louise’s office. “I guess the show’s over for now.” He moved toward the rear stairs.
Cole Hamilton spoke in a soft aside to Robbie. “All these new people were a mistake. I told Marian it didn’t look right for a man to bring a pretty girl in as soon as he gets a new job. It wasn’t like there wasn’t a pretty young thing in the office. Why, Anne Nesbitt was pretty enough to please anyone. He noticed her. What man wouldn’t? But a nice girl. Now I wonder if Abby set her car on fire so there wouldn’t be another young girl around.”
He intended his comment for Robbie, but Nela was near enough to overhear.
Robbie’s eyes gleamed in his old-young, pleased face. “A lust for diamonds. They say some women can’t resist them. But vandalism to serve as a smoke screen was clever. I wouldn’t have thought Abby was that clever.”
Francis Garth’s heavy voice was stolid. “She’s nice. Pleasant. Pretty if you like them young and callow. But not clever. She doesn’t have the nerve to be a vandal—or a murderer.”
Francis’s words thrummed in Nela’s mind as she returned to Chloe’s office, sank into the chair behind the desk. She agreed with Francis. And that put the question squarely to her. What was she going to do now?
From down the hall, Grace’s strident voice carried clearly. “What’s the deal? You gave the cops carte blanche to search. First Abby’s office, now the cabin. How’d you know—” A faraway door slam cut off Grace’s voice in midsentence. Nela wondered how forthcoming Blythe would be with her sister.
Nela knew the answer to Grace’s question. Someone had placed a letter on Blythe’s desk. Obviously, the message suggested a search of Abby’s office for the missing necklace.
But Nela knew more than Blythe or any of the others. Nela had put the necklace on Blythe’s desk Monday night. Some time after Nela’s foray into the building Monday night, the necklace was removed. Today an anonymous letter on Blythe’s desk indicated the necklace could be found in Abby’s office.
The sound of voices and footsteps faded in the hallway. Finally, there was silence. Abby Andrews was in a police cruiser, on her way to the police station.
Nela retrieved her purse. She slipped the strap over one shoulder. She walked down the hall to the staff exit, car keys in one hand, cell phone in the other.
15
The connection was surprisingly clear. “…don’t know if you remember me, Chloe. This is Steve Flynn for the Clarion.”
Chloe’s husky voice burbled with delight. “How sweet! I love the Clarion. You know that feature you do every Sunday, the Craddock Connection? That’s the nicest thing, stories about everyday people like firemen and teachers and bricklayers. I loved the one about the lady at the nursing home who was turning a hundred and nobody knew she’d been a nurse on Corregidor during WWII. It just makes you think,” Chloe Farley said solemnly. A pause and she rushed ahead, “I’m from LA and you can live in an apartment house and never know anybody. Nela always told me everybody has a story. Instead, most newspapers just write about politics. Of course, Craddock has a few drawbacks. I get tired of roosters crowing. I never heard a rooster ’til I came to Craddock but there’s one in the field next to Leland’s trailer. I’ll bet you want to do a story about Leland and me and our trip. Oh, you can’t believe the water here in Tahiti. It’s like looking through blue glass and the shells—”
Steve tried to divert the flood. “When you get back, we’ll do a big story. Right now I want to ask about Marian Grant’s fall down her apartment steps.”
“Marian’s fall?” There was no hint of uneasiness or wariness in Chloe’s froggy tone. “That came as such a surprise. Why, she was so graceful—”
Nela turned the heater up full blast, but the VW was icy cold. Yet there was a deeper chill in her thoughts as she called the Clarion, gave Steve’s extension number. Once she spoke, there was no turning back. She wasn’t surprised when the message came on: I am either away from my desk or engaged in another call…
She waited until the ping. “Steve, it’s Nela.” She was brisk. “Blythe got an anonymous letter this morning, saying the necklace was hidden in Abby’s office. Blythe called the police and they found the necklace in a filing cabinet. Dugan’s taken Abby to the police station. I’m on my way there now. I’ll tell Dugan how I found the necklace in Marian’s purse and that I brought the necklace to Haklo Monday night and left it on Blythe’s desk. I won’t mention you.” She clicked off the phone, put the VW in gear.
Steve ignored the call-waiting beep.
“…hard to imagine Marian falling. She had an air, you know. Why, it would be easier to imagine Tallulah Bankhead in a pinafore.” A throaty gurgle. “My gram thought Tallulah Bankhead was hilarious. Gram loved to quote her and Bette Davis. People would be surprised if they knew how women told it how they saw it even then.” It was as if she spoke of a time far distant. “Of course, Marian never talked like that. Marian was serious.” Chloe drawled the word. “But that’s all right.” Her husky voice was generous. “Marian was somebody. You knew that the minute you met her. I even had that feeling staying in her apartment. And Jugs is a sweetheart, which shows she had a soft side. If you need a quote, I’d call Louise Spear or Cole Hamilton. They’d known her forever. Anyway, got to go, the catamaran’s ready…”
Steve replaced the phone. If there was any guile involved in Chloe Farley’s discursiveness, he’d find a pinafore to wear. So how and where did Nela come up with a skateboard on Marian’s steps? He didn’t want to ask her again. Her refusal to explain had been definite. Why?
He tussled with the question as he punched listen to retrieve the message from the call he’d missed.
You can sit there.” The policeman—or maybe he was a detective because he didn’t wear a uniform—slouched to a seat on the other side of a utilitarian metal desk. There were nine or ten similar desks across the room, some with occupants, most empty.
Nela remained standing. “I’m sorry.” She was polite but firm. “I have to talk to Detective Dugan.”
“She’s busy. I’ll take down the information. I’m Detective Morrison.” He gave her a swift, admiring glance, then his narrow face smoothed into polite expectation. “Whatever it is, I can handle it.”
A door rattled open behind her. Quick steps thudded on the wooden floor.
Morrison looked past her. “Yo, Steve. Haven’t seen you move this fast since they handed out free gumdrops at the county extension office.”
“Mokie.” But Steve’s voice was abstracted and he was looking at Nela.
She half turned to see the now familiar freckled face and bright blue eyes.
He stopped beside her. “I came as soon as I got your message.”
She was glad and sad. Glad to know he would be with her. Sad to know she was going to cause him trouble. “You don’t have to stay. You don’t have anything to do with any of it.” The words were quick.
He gave her a swift, lopsided grin. “I signed on Monday night. I did what I did—and I’m damn glad I did. But you’re right. K
atie has to know.”
Mokie Morrison was looking from one to the other, his brown eyes curious and intent. “Sounds like an episode in a soap. Not that I watch soaps.” The disclaimer was hasty. “My ex loved As the World Turns, still in mourning for it.”
“I can’t get in to see her.” Nela’s voice was anxious.
Steve turned to Mokie. “Tell Katie we’ve got stuff she needs to know now.”
The office was small. Thin winter sunlight slanted through open blinds. Katie Dugan’s sturdy frame was replicated by the shadow that fell across the legal pad and folders open on her desk. The office was impersonal, no mementos on the desktop, a map of Craddock on one wall, a map of Oklahoma and a bulletin board with wanted circulars, notes, and department directives on the other. Two metal filing cases. The detective’s face was impassive as she listened and took notes.
There was tight silence when they finished.
Nela was intensely aware of Steve’s nearness. They sat side by side, separated by only a few inches, on worn wooden chairs that faced Dugan’s desk.
Dugan’s cool gaze settled on Steve. “Why should I believe you”—a flicker toward Nela—“or her?”
Steve was affable. “How does it help either one of us to lie?” He retrieved his cell phone, touched, pushed it across Dugan’s desk. “Note the date and time. Ditto the next pic. Maybe enhanced details will prove one was taken at the Haklo staff entrance, the other in Blythe Webster’s office. Nela was your main suspect until the necklace was found in Abby’s office. If Nela had kept quiet, she and her sister would be off your radar. Right?”