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 lastsearching 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.”
C onversation 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 redhair 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 press.”
“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
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 lastsearching 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.”
C onversation 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 redhair 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 press.”
“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
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