by Carolyn Hart
A woman’s brisk voice interrupted. “As you’ve explained the circumstances, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to represent her. Of the names I suggested, Perry Womack is one of the best. And he’s welcome”—the tone was wry—“in polite society. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another call waiting.”
The remaining staff offices were on the second floor. Grace Webster occupied the corner front office to the west, directly above her sister’s office. The difference in decor was interesting. Blond Danish modern furniture, jagged slaps of oil on unframed canvases, swirls of orange, black, crimson. A sculpture of partially crushed Coke cans, coils of rusted barbed wire, and withered sunflower stalks stood stark and—to Nela—ugly in the center of the room. A casually dressed Grace lounged on an oversize puffy pink sofa, eyes half closed as she held her cell to one ear. “…missed you too. Two weeks is too long. Way too long…”
The large second-floor east office, the same size as Marian Grant’s on the first floor, had a shabby, lived-in, fusty, musty air with stacks of books, framed photographs tucked on curio stands. The desk held more pictures, but no computer monitor. There was an aura of yesterday, pictures of a young, vigorous Webster Harris and an eager Cole Hamilton with a bush of curly brown hair. There was no evidence of work in progress. He looked up from a worn book with a frayed cover, then his eyes dropped back to the page.
Robbie Powell’s office was light and airy with calico plaid drapes that matched the sofa, splashes of color in photographs of outdoor scenes, and a sleek modern desk with three computers. He reclined in a blue leather swivel chair. His smooth voice was as schmoozy as a maître d’ escorting high rollers to their usual table. “…hope you and Lorraine will mark the donor dinner on your calendars if you’re not in Nice or Sydney. We’ll definitely have lamb fries in honor of the Lazy Q. You know—”
The interruption over the speakerphone was brusque. “What’s this I hear about somebody pushing Marian down some damned stairs?”
Robbie’s face tightened, but his tone remained soft as butter. “Now, Buck, you know gossip runs wild sometimes. That’s absolutely false. Now the dinner—”
“The dinner be damned. There’s no getting around the fact that a bunch of strange things have been happening out at Haklo, and I don’t give money if it’s going to be wasted cleaning up after vandals. Or, for God’s sake, killers.”
Francis Garth barely glanced up from the keyboard as Nela deposited the incoming mail. His massive hands dwarfed the keys. His heavy face was somber beneath the thatch of thick brown hair. He looked like a man thinking hard and darkly. His office was bare bones, uncarpeted floor, obviously worn wooden desk, wooden filing cabinets. The only decoration was a representation of the Seal of the Osage Nation depicting a blue arrowhead against a brilliant circle of yellow. A peace pipe crossed an eagle feather in the center of the arrowhead.
Pride of place in Peter Owens’s office was a low broad wooden coffee table covered with brochures, flyers, and pamphlets. Deeply absorbed with a sketch pad and a stack of photographs, he scarcely noticed the arrival of the mail. Working, he had an air of contentment, a man enjoying thinking and planning.
As Nela hurried down the stairs to the rotunda, carrying the empty tray, she hoped that she would be smart and lucky. At some time between the disappearance of the necklace and Marian Grant’s fall, Marian had gained knowledge of the whereabouts of the necklace and the identity of the thief. When had she found the necklace? Surely there had been some act, some word by Marian that revealed how or when she came into possession of the stolen necklace.
Thanks to Blythe Webster, Nela could now ask questions as she wished. Nela accepted the fact that no matter how carefully she phrased her questions, she might alert a murderer. One of the persons with a key to Haklo hid ruthlessness and danger beneath a facade of civility. Nela understood the risk, but she had a chance to make a difference and she was going to take it.
She hurried across the rotunda to the reception desk. There was no better place to start than with Rosalind McNeill, who saw staff members come and go as they moved about the foundation.
At the slap of the tray on the counter, Rosalind whirled around on her desk chair. Her eyes lighted and she popped to her feet. “I saw you go in the T’s office and Hollis come out. He looked like a man who just got sprung from death row. Is Abby in the clear? I figure since she and Hollis came back, the cops must have learned something to clear her. What’s going on?”
“The investigation is continuing, but the detective is looking at everyone at Haklo, not just Abby.” Nela thought it might cheer Abby if that word trickled back to her. “I talked to Blythe Webster and offered to help since I have a background in investigative reporting. She agreed that it would be a good thing for me to gather information from staff members.” Speaking with Rosalind was the next best thing to putting up a public placard. How better to establish herself as the new eyes and ears of Haklo?
Rosalind’s eyes widened. “That’s cool. Gee, I wish I could perch on your shoulder.” Her gaze was admiring.
“Miss Webster authorized me to speak to everyone on her behalf. Rosalind, I want you to think back to Marian Grant’s last week here. Start with Thursday…” The day the theft of the necklace was discovered.
16
Mokie Morrison brushed back his one strand of black hair, slanted his eyes toward Dugan’s closed door. “I’ve seen feral hogs in a better mood.”
Steve grinned. “When was the last time you were in the woods?”
“Boy Scouts. I went on a campout. Once and done. We met up with two copperheads, a cave with bats, and a feral hog. I haven’t been outside the city limits since. But today”—and he was almost not kidding—“I’d pick the snakes, bats, and hog over Katie.”
“Yeah. Well, I got a deadline.” He gave Mokie a mock salute. His smile slid away as he knocked lightly on Katie’s door, turned the knob.
She looked up from the papers spread on the desktop. “Yeah?” Her broad face was as inviting as a slab of granite.
“Clarion,” he said gently, making his visit official. He stepped inside, closed the door, pulled folded paper from his pocket, turned it lengthwise. He already had a soft-leaded pencil in his other hand. Without an invitation, he dropped into the wooden chair. “I talked to Robbie Powell out at Haklo. He said Blythe Webster received an anonymous letter saying the stolen necklace was hidden in a staff member’s office. Robbie said to check with you about the necklace and the second search.”
Katie briefly compressed her lips, obviously not pleased by Steve’s questions. “The necklace was found.” Full stop.
“Where?”
The reply was grudging. “In a filing cabinet. Miss Webster identified the necklace, which is now in police custody.”
Steve’s glance was chiding. “Where was the filing cabinet located?”
“The discovery was prompted by an anonymous letter. At present, there is no proof that the occupant of the office knew of the presence of the stolen property. Therefore, the identity of the office occupant is not necessarily relevant.”
“What prompted a search elsewhere on the grounds?”
“Information received in the anonymous letter.”
“Where did the search take place?”
“No comment.”
“Was anything found that appears to be linked to Marian Grant’s fall?”
Her eyes narrowed. She knew he knew about the skateboard. “No comment.”
“Is there a person of interest?”
Katie shook her head. “Not at this time.”
Steve felt like high-fiving Katie. She hadn’t succumbed to the lure of evidence against Abby that had been so nicely and neatly wrapped up and delivered to her. “How did the anonymous letter arrive?”
“That has not been determined.”
“Did the letter come through the mail?”
“No.”
“Did the contents or envelope contain fingerprints?”
“The
only fingerprints belonged to Miss Webster, who opened the envelope and read the letter. She immediately notified police.”
“Was the letter handwritten?”
“No.”
“Was the message printed?” Should there be another search of files in Haklo computers?
“No.”
Steve figured that out in a flash. Words, maybe even pictures, pasted on a blank sheet. That took time. Last night or this morning, someone from Haklo had worn gloves, patiently clipped needed words from newspapers or magazines.
“Did you send somebody through the wastebaskets out at Haklo?”
“You’re quick.” That’s all she said.
“Katie”—Steve’s voice was quiet—“you want to figure out what happened out there and whether somebody killed Marian Grant. I do, too. I want to clear up the mess. I don’t want Nela Farley hurt.”
Katie’s eyes narrowed. “But you just met the woman. What’s with the white knight to the rescue?”
Steve looked at Katie. They’d known each other for a long time. They had a careful relationship because he was a reporter and she was a cop. But they were—deep down, where it counted—friends. “You know how it works, Katie. You look at someone. Your eyes meet and there’s more there than you can ever explain or describe. You and Mark. Me and Nela. Maybe everything will be good for us. Maybe not. But for now, it’s me and Nela. I think she’s honest. I want to help her. The best way to help is to figure out what the hell happened at Haklo. Can you and I talk it out for a minute?” He put down the sheet with notes on her desk, placed the pencil beside the paper. “Off the record.”
Marian had an air. Everybody always kept on their toes around her. She was her usual self that week except”—a little frown creased Rosalind’s round face—“she was really mad about the necklace. The necklace disappearing upset her even more than the vandalism. That was Thursday. Friday morning she looked distracted, as if she was thinking hard. But she looked really upset again Friday afternoon.”
“Friday afternoon?” Nela prompted.
Rosalind gestured toward the French windows to the courtyard. “It’s been cold since you came to town, but that week—Marian’s last week—we had a couple of beautiful days. It was in the sixties that Friday. Marian loved the courtyard. Sometimes she’d take a cup of coffee and go out and sit in the sun with a book of poetry. She said poetry helped her think better. Oh, golly.” Rosalind’s eyes widened. “She was reading Spoon River Anthology. She didn’t know she was going to have her own epitaph the next week.” Rosalind’s voice was a little shaky. She paused for an instant, then continued, talking fast, “I was on the phone with a teacher calling about a school tour group. I looked up as Marian came inside. She looked odd. I worried maybe she didn’t feel well. Of course, it may just have been being out in the courtyard and seeing the fountain still messed up. Like I said, the vandalism really made her mad. But she had a weird look when she came in. She walked past me and turned to her right. She was heading for the west wing. I didn’t see her again.”
Hollis Blair’s face crinkled in thought. He looked bemused, interested, finally eager. “Blythe’s got a good idea. And she’s smart to send you around to ask. You know, she’s a nice person but even people who have known her for years find her a little daunting. She’s been swell to me. And like she said to me, just because the necklace was in Abby’s office, it doesn’t mean Abby had anything to do with any of it. I know that Blythe had to call the police when she got that letter.”
He gave Nela an appealing smile and his eyes were warm and appreciative. His lopsided grin had aw-shucks charm. He was a big, handsome, rawboned guy. Consciously or unconsciously, he made any woman aware that she was a woman. Nela suspected he had been charming women since the day he went to kindergarten and he had probably discovered that intense looks and an air of total focus paid huge dividends.
“At least Blythe hasn’t blamed me for everything that’s happened.” His relief was obvious, then he looked discouraged. “Everything started so well here at Haklo, then things began to fall apart. But let me think about that last Friday.” His brows drew down. He shook his head. “I talked to Marian that morning. She was quite pleasant. I didn’t see her that afternoon. But I can tell you one thing.” He was forceful. “The idea that Abby would hurt anyone is crazy. Absolutely crazy. As for that damned necklace, somebody put it in her desk.”
“Why?”
Hollis stared at her. “How would I know? To get rid of it? Abby spends a lot of time up in the artifact room. Her office is often empty. Just like those letters. It was easy to use her computer.”
“You don’t think someone chose Abby’s desk for a particular reason?”
“I don’t know why anyone would be ugly to Abby.” But there was an uneasy look in his eyes.
Louise Spear’s eyes widened in surprise. “Blythe said you could ask questions?”
Nela stood a few feet from Louise’s desk. “When I explained my background, she agreed that I might be able to find out something useful about Marian’s last week. The police now know that Marian had possession of the necklace when she died. The police believe she threatened the thief and that’s why she was killed.” As she spoke, she sensed the same change in perception that she’d felt in Blythe’s office. To Louise, Nela was no longer simply a pleasant replacement for a flighty young assistant. It was a reminder of how easily people made assumptions about worth based on a level of employment. Nela hoped that she’d never simply relegate people to the guy who parks the car or the girl who does nails or the frail inhabitant of a nursing home. It didn’t matter what people did or where they came from or their accent. Either everyone was important or no one was important. Steve would agree. The quick thought surprised her, pleased her.
“That’s the week the necklace disappeared.” Louise looked sick. “And then Marian died. That awful necklace.”
“Do you have any idea when she might have discovered the thief?”
Louise slowly shook her head. “She was upset when the necklace was stolen. But Friday morning, she seemed more her usual self. She was busy making plans for the donor dinner. That was very special to her. She was looking ahead…” Louise shivered. Her face drooped with sadness.
Nela knew every word was painful for Louise. She hated to make her remember, but Marian was dead and beyond help, Abby was alive and needed help, and she and Chloe were still on the cold-eyed detective’s list. “Did you see her Friday afternoon?”
Louise sighed. “The last time I saw Marian was Friday morning. She was cheerful, making lists, thinking of a speaker. She loved planning the dinner. Tables are set up in the rotunda. She always had the portrait of Webster that hangs in her office placed on an easel between the twin stairways. She never said so, but I think to her it was as if he were there. She always opened the evening with a recording from one of his last speeches. It’s a very big event. It won’t be the same without Marian.”
Louise’s description of Marian’s last week tallied with Rosalind’s. Nela felt convinced that she was on the right track. Marian had been upset by the theft of the necklace, but the next day she was her usual, competent, businesslike self until that afternoon. Nela knew without question that Marian had been in possession of the stolen necklace when she died. Had she found the necklace Friday afternoon?
Louise fingered the ruffled collar of her pink blouse. “What did Blythe say about Abby?”
“We didn’t talk about her. I think Blythe agreed that it was important to try and discover how Marian knew who took the necklace.”
“The necklace…I’ve tried and tried to understand.” Louise’s expression was drawn and weary. “Sometimes things aren’t what they seem and it’s easy”—her voice dragged—“to think you know something. But we can’t get around the fact that the necklace was found in Abby’s office. Abby either hid it there or someone put it there to get her in trouble.” She looked away from Nela, her face tight. “She shouldn’t have been there. But I saw her…�
� She sat up straighter, looked at Nela with a suddenly focused gaze. “It’s good that Blythe asked you to help. That makes me feel much better. Maybe things will get sorted out after all.”
Nela looked at her sharply. “Who did you see? Who shouldn’t have been where?”
Louise looked uncomfortable. “That doesn’t matter. It’s easy to be wrong about things, isn’t it? Besides, having you talk to everyone makes everything better. I’m not as worried now.” She reached for the phone. “I must make some calls about the dinner.”
Nela had been dismissed. She stood in the hall for a moment, heard Louise’s voice. “Father Edmonds, I was wondering if you would do the invocation…”
As Nela walked away, she puzzled over Louise’s disjointed comments. They’d been talking about Abby. Had Louise seen Abby somewhere that surprised her? Why was Louise relieved that Nela was asking questions? That fact had lifted Louise’s spirits, which seemed odd and inexplicable.
Abby’s office was empty. Nela took the back stairs to the second-floor west wing. As she’d expected, she found Abby in the long room with trestle tables where donations and artifacts were sorted and examined and exhibits prepared to be sent to schools around the state.
At the sound of Nela’s steps, Abby looked up from a back table that held an assortment of Indian war clubs. Abby held a club with an elongated stone head. Some of the clubs were topped with ball-shaped polished stones, others with sharp metal blades, one with sharp-tipped buffalo horns. Propped against the wall behind Abby was a long board upon which she was mounting the clubs along with short printed annotations denoting the origin and tribe.
Abby watched, eyes wide, body stiff, as Nela crossed the room. As soon as Nela mentioned that Friday afternoon, Abby relaxed.
“I was working up here that day.” She sounded relieved. “I don’t think I ever saw Marian on Friday. Why does that matter?”
“She was upset Friday afternoon. I think she discovered the identity of the thief. She came to the west wing.”
