by Carolyn Hart
Francis cleared his throat. “We’re a long way from determining who might have known what and how either of these crimes occurred. I suggest we remain focused on timing.”
“Anybody—with a key—could easily visit the foundation over the weekend. Nobody’s here unless we have an event.” Grace’s tone was musing.
Louise looked uncomfortable. “I wish we’d gone inside Marian’s office Saturday. Then we’d know if her office was entered Friday night.”
Peter Owens raised an eyebrow. His glasses ceased to move. “You were here Saturday? With someone?”
Louise’s thin face stiffened. “I don’t have a computer at home. I was doing some genealogy research. It wasn’t on foundation time. I’d already cleared it with Blythe.”
Blythe waved a hand. “Of course you can use your computer on your free time. Who else was here?”
Louise nodded toward Nela. “Nela came to be sure she knew her way for Monday. I showed her around the building. And Robbie and Erik were here, too.”
Robbie spoke quickly. “I can assure you that Erik and I had no occasion to enter Marian’s office.”
Nela saw a flurry of quick, covert glances. “I wanted to be sure I knew the way Monday.” She was aware of a distancing by the staff members, as if each drew back a little, considering, thinking, wondering.
Francis’s big chin poked forward. “Did you knock on the door? Or do you have Chloe’s keys?”
“I have her keys.” Nela lifted her chin, tried not to sound defensive. “I didn’t use them. Louise came to the door.”
Grace’s chair creaked as she leaned back, apparently completely at ease. “Nela, you look like somebody in the water with circling sharks. I fail to see why you’d stage a break-in at Marian’s apartment or trash her office. Unless Chloe asked you to do more than sub for her, I’d say you’re the original innocent bystander.”
Heavy braided gold necklace with diamonds…
The door opened. Detective Dugan strode inside and the spotlight turned. She was perhaps in her early forties. Short dark hair faintly streaked with gray framed a broad face. She wore a wine-colored cable-knit turtleneck, moderate-length black wool skirt, and black penny loafers. She might have been a Realtor or a secretary or a shop owner except for an underlying toughness evident in the dominance of her gaze and the set of a strong chin. She carried an aura of competence, suggesting she could handle anything from gang members to a sexist cop in the break room.
Nela’s tense shoulders relaxed. She gave a little sigh of relief. She was no longer the center of attention. Then she felt an intent gaze. She looked at the reporter.
His bright blue eyes watched her, not the police officer.
7
Nela was the last person to be summoned from the conference room to a small adjoining office.
Detective Dugan gestured toward a straight chair in front of the borrowed desk. “Thank you for your patience, Miss Farley.” She spoke in a cool voice, rather deep for a woman. Sergeant Fisher sat to one side. He held an electronic notepad.
Nela took her seat and smiled. Her smile fled when the officer’s face remained unresponsive.
Dugan glanced at a second electronic pad, read in silence. When she looked up, her gaze was sharp. “When the first responders arrived Friday night, you unlocked the front door. Investigating officers found no sign of a forced entry.” She tilted her head. “With Miss Webster’s permission, an officer visited the apartment a short while ago.”
Nela’s hands clenched. Had they found the purse? She felt a pulse flutter in her throat.
“I have a report here.” Dugan tapped the screen. “An officer made several attempts to engage the lock and open the door with a credit card. He didn’t succeed. However”—her tone was judicious—“an intruder equipped with a plastic strip or a lock pick would likely gain entry.”
“Friday night an officer told me that when the housekeeper found Marian Grant’s body, she hurried upstairs and entered the apartment with a card from a playing deck.” Nela felt triumphant.
There might have been a flicker of admiration in Dugan’s eyes. “It isn’t commonly known, but a laminated playing card is more supple than a credit card and more likely to succeed. Most people don’t carry an extra playing card with them. Are you suggesting the housekeeper was the intruder Friday night?”
Nela’s response was quick. “I have no idea who broke in.”
“No one ‘broke’ in.” Dugan spoke with finality. “If there was an intruder, the means of access hasn’t been determined.” She tilted her head to one side, like a cat watching a sparrow. “How do you think the intruder gained entry?”
“I don’t know any thieves. I don’t know what they carry or how they get in. I locked that door Friday night.” Nela looked into Dugan’s suspicious face. “Someone came in. I think they used a key.”
“A key.” Oddly, there was a note of satisfaction in Dugan’s voice. “You have a key, both to the apartment and to the foundation.”
Nela sensed a threat.
“You arrived Friday afternoon. You called nine-one-one at one thirty-five a.m. claiming the apartment of the late Marian Grant had been entered. Officers found much of the living room in disarray, suggesting an intense search. There was no sign of forced entry. Moreover, you had to unlock the front door to admit the officers. It is rare”—the detective’s tone was dry—“for a fleeing intruder who has presumably jiggled a lock with a credit card or some other tool to carefully close and lock a door. That takes time. Fleeing criminals find time in short supply. Today police were summoned to find evidence of a search at Miss Grant’s office.” Dugan shifted forward in her chair, her brown eyes cold. “Let’s say someone plans to search Miss Grant’s office. There may be information in that office that someone cannot afford to be found.”
Nela listened with increasing alarm. She didn’t know where Dugan was going, but the detective’s gaze was hard and searching.
The detective’s eyes never left Nela’s face. “The searcher might be aware that the foundation could not easily be broken into. In fact, the searcher must have known that no alarm was triggered by the use of a key after hours. Miss Spear reassured you about that when you came on Saturday.”
Nela had thought Louise Spear liked her. But maybe she’d innocently told the detective about their conversation on Saturday.
The detective continued, her tone brusque. “It appears the searcher used a key to enter the foundation. There are a limited number of persons who have keys to Haklo Foundation. What steps could be taken by a possessor of a key to suggest innocence?” The question was as smooth as a knife sliding into butter. “Any ideas, Miss Farley?” Dugan’s broad face looked heavy, formidable.
“I don’t know anything about Marian Grant or her work at the foundation.” But she knew Marian’s purse held a stolen necklace. The necklace had to be the reason for the search. Maybe if she told the detective…Nela pictured Dugan’s response—suspicion, disbelief, accusation.
Dugan spoke in a quick cadence. “Your sister, Chloe Farley, arrived in Craddock last September.”
Nela was puzzled. What did Chloe’s arrival have to do with a search of Marian Grant’s apartment and office?
“The week after your sister arrived, a foundation employee’s car was set on fire.” Dugan leaned forward. “Gasoline was poured inside, ignited. The employee quit. The next week Chloe Farley was hired by the foundation.”
Nela controlled a hot flash of anger. The interview with the detective had turned ugly. She had to think fast, try to reason with this woman. “Are you claiming that Chloe set fire to somebody’s car on the chance that the woman would quit and Chloe would get her job? That’s absurd. Chloe would never burn up someone’s car. And how could she know the girl would quit or, if she did, that Chloe could get the job?”
The detective continued in the same clipped voice. “Your sister came to Craddock with Leland Buchholz. His father is a financial adviser who has worked with foundation investments. People g
et jobs because they know people. Jed Buchholz spoke to Miss Webster the week before”—she paused for emphasis—“the car fire. Miss Webster told him if they had any openings, she’d be happy to hire your sister. Let’s review what has happened since Chloe Farley started to work at the foundation.” Her eyes dropped to the notepad. She brushed a finger on the screen. “Tuesday, November fifteen, Indian baskets being photographed for publication were found hacked to pieces. Monday night, December five, activated sprinklers in Mr. Powell’s office flooded his desk and damaged a sofa and chair. The flooring and rug had to be replaced. Friday, December sixteen, outdoor fountains were turned on, allowed to run for some period of time, then turned off, causing the pipes to freeze and break. Up to this point, everything appears to be vandalism for the sake of destruction. Then what happens? Something entirely different.” A flicker of irritation creased her face. “The police should have been immediately notified when Miss Webster’s necklace—valued at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—was stolen from her desk drawer. She discovered the theft Thursday morning, January five. However, now that we have been informed, it seems clear what happened.”
Nela’s voice was equally clipped. “What does any of this have to do with Chloe?”
“She’s the only new employee.” Dugan flung out the words like a knife thrower hitting a target.
Nela didn’t try now to keep the hard edge of anger from her voice. “That’s no reason to suspect her. Moreover, she isn’t the only new employee. The foundation has a new director.” She wasn’t sure when Dr. Blair came to work but she didn’t think he’d been there much longer than Chloe.
The detective was unimpressed. “This is Dr. Blair’s first post as a foundation director. Should he someday seek to move to a larger foundation, his resume will have to include a description of these incidents and his inability to protect the foundation. Miss Andrews is also a new employee this fall. However, no one thinks”—her tone was bland—“that Miss Andrews would in any way jeopardize Dr. Blair’s job. That leaves your sister.”
“You’re wrong. Besides, how could Chloe steal Miss Webster’s necklace?”
“Miss Webster informed me today that it was common knowledge around the foundation that she kept the necklace in her desk drawer. The necklace was a gift from her father and a sentimental favorite. She made a point to wear it during the Monday-morning staff meetings.” Dugan’s face folded in disgust. “A quarter million dollars in an unlocked drawer. She might as well have hung up a sign with an arrow: Get rich here.”
Nela couldn’t imagine carelessly leaving a necklace worth—to her—a fortune in an unlocked desk. “She kept the necklace in her desk? That’s crazy.”
“Yeah. You got that right. But here’s the point. That necklace rested safely in that drawer until your sister came to work here.”
“Detective”—Nela’s voice was icy—“you have no right to accuse Chloe. Where’s your proof?”
“I don’t have proof.” Dugan’s voice was dour. “I feel it in my gut. Your sister comes to town. She needs a job. Miss Webster says she can have the first opening. The next week, a fire scares off Louise Spear’s assistant. There’s a job available and your sister gets it. Nothing more happens until she’s been here long enough to find out about a necklace worth big bucks. Now, if the necklace disappeared right after she came, there might be some suspicion. So she muddies up the water with vandalism. When the necklace is stolen, everybody chalks it up to just another crazy thing by somebody who has it in for the foundation. I don’t buy that scenario. It stinks. Something’s out of kilter here. All the vandalism accomplished was fouling up Dr. Blair’s record and upsetting Miss Webster. The necklace is different. That’s money. Lots of money. I checked out your sister. She’s never had a regular job—”
Nela looked at Dugan. She would read the police office as steady, contained, purposeful. She had probably never had a flaky moment in her life. Would she understand that Chloe never lived for regular? Chloe frosted cupcakes, helped raise rabbits, parked cars at charity functions (Nela, I got to drive a Jag today!), was a magician’s assistant, tracked island foxes on Catalina Island as part of an effort to protect the endangered species, worked as a kitchen hand in a gourmet restaurant.
“—and she doesn’t have any money. We’re checking everything out. I saw the feature in the Clarion about her boyfriend winning a free trip for two to Tahiti. Maybe that’s phony. We’ll find out. Maybe she’s got a lot of money now.”
“Chloe has no money. Neither do I. Does that make us thieves?” Nela’s voice was tight with fury.
Dugan’s jaw set in a stubborn line. “She comes to town. All of this follows.”
“She wasn’t here Friday night. She wasn’t here this weekend.”
Dugan’s hard stare was accusing. “You’re here.”
It was like coming around an outcrop on a mountain trail to find a sheer drop.
Dugan’s stare didn’t waver. “I understand you talked to her Friday night.”
In high school, Nela had once gone to Tijuana with a bunch of kids. She’d not realized they were going to a bullfight. She’d hated watching the bull pricked by tiny barbs. She’d bolted from the stands, waited on a hot dusty street until the others joined her. Now she felt one sharp jab after another and, like the bull, there was no escape for her from the arena. The detective must have quizzed each of the staff members about Chloe and Nela. Louise had been kind and welcoming but it was she who must have told Dugan that Nela had a key and knew there was no burglar alarm. Even though the director of publications had seemed genuinely interested in Chloe, Peter Owens must have revealed that Chloe called Nela Friday evening. Dugan was taking innocent pieces of information and building a case against her and against Chloe.
“You know how I see it, Miss Farley? The necklace was stolen before Miss Grant’s accident. What if Miss Grant knew Chloe took the necklace? What if she had some kind of proof? What if she told Chloe she was keeping that information in a safe place away from the foundation? But Miss Grant’s unexpected death made things tricky.”
…board rolled on the second step…
The detective’s accusatory words jabbed at Nela as her thoughts raced. Nela heard them, understood them, but she grappled with a far more deadly understanding. Marian Grant either stole the necklace herself or she knew who took the necklace. It had to be the latter. That’s why Marian Grant died. She must have told the thief that she had the necklace, that she’d put it in a safe place. She had not summoned the police. Perhaps she wanted to avoid more disturbing headlines about the foundation. Perhaps she wanted to use the possession of the necklace to block future attacks against the foundation. Perhaps she saw the necklace as a means of making the thief accede to her demands, whatever they might be. Perhaps she set a deadline for the thief to quit or confess. What if the deadline was Monday morning?
…board rolled on the second step…
Dugan threw words like rocks. “Maybe Chloe thought the information was in the apartment and that’s why she volunteered to take care of the cat. Maybe she looked and looked with no success. Maybe she worried all the way to Tahiti and called you and said you had to look for her. Once again we get the pattern. You dial nine-one-one and claim a break-in and that sets it up for the office search to look like someone else must have done it.”
Nela wanted to shout that Dugan had everything wrong. She was looking for a vandal and a thief. She should be looking for a murderer.
Marian Grant had been murdered.
Nela opened her lips, closed them. What was she going to tell this hard-faced woman? That she’d looked into a cat’s eyes and seen his thoughts?…board rolled on the second step…She could not claim to have special information. She could imagine Dugan’s response to a claim that a cat had seen a skateboard. Yet now she felt certain that she knew the truth of that early-morning fall.
Nela wasn’t ready to deal with the reality that she knew what was in a cat’s mind, if reality it was. Not now. Ma
ybe never. However the vivid thought had come to her—a psychic intimation, a reporter’s intuition, a funny split instant of a memory of a teenage Bill and his skateboard tangling with her climb up steep steps to a dead woman’s apartment—she couldn’t share that knowledge.
Yet she had to face the truth that a skateboard on the steps, removed after Marian’s fall, inexorably meant that Marian Grant’s death was no accident. But if Nela suggested murder, Dugan would likely add murder to the list of Chloe’s supposed crimes.
Dugan was quick to attack. “You have something to say?”
“Yes, I do.” Nela spoke with determination and confidence. “Chloe is innocent. I am innocent. I don’t know what’s behind the things that have happened at the foundation. Chloe never even mentioned the vandalism except for the girl’s car. She seemed surprised that she quit.”
Dugan raised a skeptical brow. “Your sister never mentioned the vandalism to you?”
Nela wondered how to explain a free spirit to the fact-grounded detective. “She talked about Leland and what they were doing. Chloe never thinks about bad things. She’s always upbeat. You’re right that something bad is going on at the foundation, but it doesn’t have anything to do with Chloe or me. I agree”—her tone was grave—“there’s something very wrong here. I think the theft of the necklace was part of the other things, not because it was worth a lot of money.” And Marian Grant died because she knew the identity of the thief. But that she couldn’t say, not without admitting she could, at this very minute, lead police to the necklace, which would likely result in her prompt arrest.
Dugan looked sardonic. “Nice try. Turning on a sprinkler system isn’t in the same league as heisting jewelry worth a couple of hundred thou. Besides, if the necklace wasn’t stolen for money, why take it? I’ve been a cop for a long time and, like a good coon dog, I know the real scent when I smell it.”
Nela shook her head. “It isn’t just the necklace. There was too much destruction in Miss Grant’s office.”
