by Carolyn Hart
Nela closed the conference room door behind her. It was a relief to be outside that emotionally charged atmosphere. Maybe she would find an answer that would help Abby. The assistant curator was upset for good reason. To be accused of sending out a sleazy message on the director’s letterhead was bad enough, but obviously she and Hollis were more than employer and employee. All the dictums of good sense warned against an office romance, but dictums didn’t matter to love. A casual friend had warned her against dating Bill, pointing out, for God’s sake, he’s in the army, and what kind of life is that? Good advice, but her heart didn’t care. Bill hadn’t planned to stay in the army. He was going to go back to school…
Nela jerked her thoughts back to Abby. Abby’s wavering denials did nothing to prove her innocence. Nela walked faster. Abby couldn’t prove her innocence and Nela couldn’t prove she’d had good intentions when she found that necklace in Marian’s purse.
In the main hall, Rosalind looked up from the reception desk. “Hey, is the meeting over? I’ve got a backlog of calls.”
It wasn’t Nela’s place to say the meeting might go on forever and all hell was breaking loose. She forced a smile. “Still going. They sent me for something from Miss Grant’s office.”
She felt hopeful when she reached the office door. Maybe she would find the notebook and possibly offer at least a sliver of succor to Abby. If Marian had indeed recorded computer passwords, someone might have obtained Abby’s password. The sooner Nela returned, the sooner the meeting would end. By then it would be nearing lunchtime. She’d go back to the apartment and do something about that damned necklace.
She opened the door to chaos. One word blazed in her mind. Fury.
6
Why didn’t you ask?” Blythe Webster flung out a hand. “I should have been consulted.” Her face was tight with anger.
Rosalind McNeill looked upset and uncertain. “I’m sorry, Miss Webster. Nela stopped in the doorway and I knew something dreadful had happened. I hurried over there. When I saw the mess, I raced to my desk and called nine-one-one. Then I ran to tell you and now you’re all here.” She gestured toward the staff members, who milled about near Marian’s office.
The sound of approaching sirens rose and fell.
Blythe pressed her lips together, finally said brusquely, “I understand, Rosalind. Of course you did the right thing.” The words clearly came with an effort at civility. “It’s just that we’ve had so much dreadful publicity. Now there will be more.” She turned away, moved toward the front door.
Rosalind looked after her with a worried face.
“You did the right thing.” Nela doubted her reassurance brought much comfort to Rosalind. “It’s against the law to conceal a crime.”
Nela stepped a little nearer to the open office door.
Hollis Blair stared into the trashed office with a tired, puzzled expression. Abby looked relieved. Perhaps she thought the violent destruction—drawers’ contents flung on the floor, filing cabinets emptied, computer terminal smashed, art work broken or slashed, chairs overturned—benefitted her. Certainly the file on her computer was no longer the center of attention.
Nela caught snatches of conversation.
Cole Hamilton paced back and forth. “…grounds need to be patrolled…”
Francis Garth massaged his heavy chin. “…obviously dealing with an unbalanced mind…”
Grace Webster jangled silver bracelets on one arm. “…I heard last week that Erik still hadn’t found a job…”
Peter Owens looked worried. “…suggest care in publicly discussing any grievances…”
Robbie Powell was businesslike. “…essential to prepare a press release…”
Outside, the sirens shrilled, then cut off.
Hollis Blair braced his shoulders, moved to join Blythe.
The heavy main door opened. A fast-moving, dark-haired woman in street clothes was followed by two uniformed officers, a thin wiry blonde and a large man with a balding head.
Nela was glad it wasn’t the same pair of officers who had been at Marian Grant’s apartment. Even the most incurious of police might wonder that she had called for help Friday night and today she had found a vandalized office. Logic denied a link, but swift judgments often had little connection to logic. Happily, she’d never seen either the dark-haired woman or the uniformed officers before.
Blythe was gracious. “Thank you for responding to our call.” She looked past the detective and the uniformed officers. Her face stiffened at the approach of a burly redheaded man in a worn pullover sweater and shabby gray corduroy slacks. The sweater looked very old, several threads pulled loose near one shoulder. The shirt beneath the sweater had a frayed collar. Blythe’s tone was sharp. “The foundation is private—”
Robbie Powell moved past her to clap the redhead on the shoulder. “Hey, Steve. We don’t have a statement yet. Apparently we’ve had some serious vandalism but let’s see what the police can discover. Guess you picked up the call on the Clarion scanner?”
Wiry red hair flamed above a broad, pleasant, snub-nosed face spattered with freckles. His gaze stopped when he saw Nela.
Nela felt her lips begin to curve upward, then controlled her face. It was as if she’d looked into the blue eyes of an old friend, but her reaction to the redheaded man was nothing more than a funny link, half glad, half sad, to her past. It was as if Gram were beside her, describing happy summer nights watching first-run movies outside on a moonlit pier in Long Beach with the sound of the ocean as a backdrop. Gram’s favorite movie star had been Van Johnson, a chunky, appealing redhead.
Nela put the pieces together. The Clarion. Statement. Police scanner. He was a reporter. A print reporter obviously, because he carried a laptop and no cameraman trailed him. Maybe her instinctive positive attitude toward him was as much a recognition of a mindset like hers as a legacy of long-ago movies.
She wondered if the stocky reporter, who had given her one last searching glance before following a clutch of police officers, would ever have heard of the boy-next-door movie star so famous in the 1940s and ’50s? Nela had managed to find DVRs of all of Van Johnson’s films for Gram and they’d been a great pleasure to her those last few months.
“Nela, are you coming?”
She looked up, startled.
Louise gestured toward the hallway. “Detective Dugan will report on the progress of the investigation in half an hour. Then she will interview each of us individually. Blythe has arranged for lunch to be served in the conference room while we wait.”
Conversation was disjointed. No one spoke to Nela. The staff seemed oblivious to her presence and that suited her fine. She tried to maintain a grave but disinterested expression even though she was focused on a matter that each of them would find supremely interesting, the diamond-and-gold necklace in Marian Grant’s purse. It was too late to explain that she’d found the necklace. Perhaps after work she’d pretend she’d been curious, wondered if the purse held a clue, and immediately call the police upon her “discovery” of the necklace. That seemed like a sensible course. But the weight of her knowledge wouldn’t be lifted until she could finally hand the purse over to someone in charge.
The conference room door opened and the redheaded reporter stepped inside. He nodded at the large policeman who stood near the buffalo mural, then walked casually toward the far end of the table. If he was attempting to be inconspicuous, he didn’t succeed. He was too burly, too vigorous, too intense to miss. His flaming red hair could have used a trim, curling over the rim of the collar that poked above his worn sweater.
“Excuse me.” Clearly Blythe addressed him. “This is a private meeting, not open to the press.”
“I’m covering the police investigation into a possible theft, possible breaking and entering, possible vandalism at the foundation.” He nodded toward the policeman. “It’s standard procedure for officers at the scene to sequester possible witnesses. The public portion of police investigations are open to the pre
ss.”
“Hey, Steve, take a seat.” Robbie Powell shot a quick warning look at Blythe. “The foundation always welcomes public scrutiny. From a quick survey, it appears the foundation has been subjected again to pointless vandalism. This probably won’t be of much interest to you.”
Blythe pressed her lips together. She said nothing further but her irritation was obvious.
The reporter’s blue eyes checked out everyone around the table, lingering for a moment when they reached her.
Again she fought an urge to smile.
His gaze moved on. “Thanks, Robbie. You may be right.” He strolled around the end of the table, dropped into the chair next to Nela. She noticed that he unobtrusively carried a laptop. When he was seated, he slid the laptop onto his knees, flipped up the lid. He did all of this without dropping his eyes to his lap. His fingers touched the keyboard as he made notes.
Without warning, he looked at her. Their gazes met.
Nela gazed at his familiar, unfamiliar face, broad forehead, snub nose, pugnacious chin. Once again, she fought a deep sense of recognition. She was the first to look away.
The foundation chef, a mountainous woman with blue-white hair and three chins that cascaded to an ample bosom, seemed unfazed by the request for an unexpected meal. Within twenty minutes, she had wheeled a cart into the conference room. Nela and Louise bustled to help and soon an attractive buffet was set on a side table. Louise looked pleased at the array of food: chilled shrimp with cocktail sauce, mixed green salad, crisply crusted ham and cheese quiches, steamed asparagus with a mustard and butter sauce, chocolate cake, coffee, iced tea.
The large police officer remained standing by the door, declining an offer of food. With a balding head but youthful face, Sergeant Fisher might have been an old thirty or a young fifty.
The staff members returned to the seats they’d taken that morning. The meal was eaten quickly and in almost complete silence.
Francis Garth pushed back his plate and glanced at the grandfather clock. “Sergeant”—he turned to the end of the table—“will we be seen in a particular order? I need to leave for Stillwater by one o’clock. I have a meeting with a researcher on switchgrass production.”
Sergeant Fisher’s voice was as unrevealing as his face. “I will inform Detective Dugan.”
Cole Hamilton’s face once again furrowed in worry. He shot a sideways glance toward the policeman. “I’m sure all of us wish the police the very best, but why talk to us? What do we know that would be helpful? Someone broke in.”
“Did someone break in?” Grace’s tone was silky. “I suppose the police are checking all the ground-floor windows and doors. Of course, if any had been smashed, the alarm would sound.” She flicked a glance toward the large square windows. “It would take a crowbar and maybe a sledgehammer to break in through these windows.”
Nela’s glance flicked to the swiftly moving fingers on the laptop.
Grace smoothed back a lock of strawberry blond hair. “It’s the same in all the conference rooms and offices. Dad built this place like a fortress. The only windows that might be vulnerable are the French windows in the main rotunda. Funny thing, though. Nobody”—she looked from face to face—“noticed anything out of the ordinary when they came to work this morning. It’s a little hard to believe Rosalind crunched through broken glass when she opened the French window blinds this morning and neglected to mention it.”
Peter Owens poked his horn rims higher on his nose. “Your point?”
“If nobody broke in, how did the office trasher get inside?” Grace looked at each face in turn.
No one spoke.
Nela glanced around the room. Blythe looked grim, Hollis thoughtful. The reporter’s freckled face was bland. His eyes never dropped beneath the rim of the table. The unobtrusive note-taking continued.
Grace’s smile was sardonic. “My, what a silent class. It looks like teacher will have to explain. A key, my dears.”
Beside Nela, those broad freckled hands moved silently over the electronic keypad.
Blythe’s tone was cold. “It’s better to let the authorities reach their own conclusions.”
Hollis Blair rubbed knuckles on his bony chin. “We have to provide them with anything pertinent.”
Blythe slowly turned toward Nela. There was a welter of conflicting expressions on her usually contained face: uncertainty, inquiry, and possibly suspicion.
Sergeant Fisher’s curious gaze moved from Blythe to settle on Nela.
Nela’s chest felt tight. She knew what was coming. These police officers hadn’t connected Nela to Friday night’s 911, but Blythe Webster had heard the sirens and hurried to see. Obviously Blythe was making a connection.
Nela lifted her head, spoke quickly. “Friday night someone broke into Miss Grant’s apartment. The sounds of a search woke me up. I was staying there to take care of Miss Grant’s cat.” She heard the exclamations from around the table. Only Blythe was unaffected. Beside her, the reporter’s face remained bland and interested and knowledgeable. He would have seen the police report about Friday night’s break-in. Nela had herself looked at a lot of police reports. It had never occurred to her that one day her own name would be included in one.
Hollis Blair’s frown was intense. “Why wasn’t I told about this?”
Blythe made a dismissive gesture. “It didn’t occur to me to mention it, Hollis. Friday night the investigating officers believed someone saw the obituary and thought the apartment would be empty. Marian’s desk was searched.”
“Searched for what?” Grace’s tone was flat.
Nela shrugged. “I suppose for valuables of some kind. But I wonder if there is a connection to the search of her office.” She tried to block from her mind the heavy gold necklace in the black Coach bag.
“That makes sense.” Blythe suddenly sounded cheered. “Perhaps the thief went from the apartment to the foundation. This must be attempted robbery.”
“I hate to throw darts at your trial balloon”—Grace was sardonic—“but there’s still a pesky little question: How did a thief get into Marian’s apartment and how did a thief get inside the foundation and what the hell was he trying to steal? Or she.”
“That’s for the police to determine.” Blythe was impervious to her sister’s attack. “Nela probably forgot to lock the apartment door. One officer said old door locks are easy to jiggle open and maybe someone opened it with a credit card.”
Grace folded her arms. “Not even an American Express Platinum could budge a foundation door.”
Francis Garth looked thoughtful. “As Grace points out, gaining access to the foundation would be challenging for someone without a key. Does anyone have any ideas?”
Louise shifted uneasily in her chair. Her hand trembled and she hastily placed her fork on her plate. “I don’t see how any of us can have any information that would help the police.”
Francis added a packet of sugar to his iced tea. “It may be helpful to determine when the vandalism occurred. Marian’s funeral was Thursday. Friday morning I went into her office. I was looking for a file on the Rumer Co-op. I found the file. At ten forty-five Friday morning, her office was fine. Who has been in her office since that time?” He looked inquiringly around the table.
Abby Andrews, violet eyes huge, looked terrified but spoke steadily. “Friday afternoon I returned some papers that I’d borrowed the week before. It was probably about two thirty. The office hadn’t been disturbed.”
Louise twined the red and gray scarf at her throat around one finger. “I was in her office a few minutes before five Friday. I checked to see if she’d finished the direct bank deposits before”—she swallowed—“before she died.” Quick tears misted her eyes. “They were all done. Marian always took care of things on schedule.”
Francis reached for the legal pad Nela had placed on the table that morning. The big head once again rose like a buffalo surveying the plain. “Anyone else?”
Silence.
He ma
de quick notes. “How about this morning?”
Silence.
Francis tapped his pen on the legal pad. “Her office was entered after five p.m. Friday and before approximately eleven twenty this morning when Nela”—he nodded toward her—“was sent to look for password information.” His face corrugated in thought. “Marian died a week ago today. Why did the searches occur this past weekend?”
Blythe was impatient. “You’d have to ask the thief.”
Nela wasn’t sure it was her place to speak out, but maybe this mattered. “Chloe exchanged e-mails with Miss Grant’s sister. Her sister asked Chloe to stay in Miss Grant’s apartment to take care of Jugs. Chloe was there until she left town Friday. I don’t think anyone knew I was going to be there Friday night.”
Cole Hamilton’s round face was puzzled. “How would a thief know that your sister was there during the week or that she left on Friday?”
Grace clapped her long slender hands together. An emerald gleamed in the ornate setting of a ring on her right hand. “Cole”—her tone was a mixture of amusement and affection but her eyes moved around the room, steely and intent—“do you realize what you just said?”
He turned to Grace. “I fail to see anything odd. It seems to me that some thief reading the newspaper couldn’t possibly know…” His words trailed away.
“Bull’s-eye. But there’s no bull about it.” Grace’s eyes were hard. “Only someone associated with the foundation would know that Chloe had been staying in Marian’s apartment or that Chloe left Friday.”
Nela quickly looked around the room.
Blythe’s brows drew down in a sharp frown. Hollis Blair appeared startled. Eyes wide, Abby Andrews pressed fingers against parted lips. Robbie Powell’s handsome face smoothed into blankness. Louise Spear shook her head, lips pressed together in negation. Peter Owens looked quizzical, his horn-rimmed glasses gently swinging from one hand. Cole sat with his mouth open, a picture of befuddlement. Francis Garth’s heavy face closed into an unreadable mask.
