Broken Trust Read online

  Board meeting! Mark hadn’t mentioned an impending trial by fire. He squirmed and snorted.

  A cloud of subtle scent wafted around Sylvia like million-dollar molecules of heaven. Abigail would appreciate that. Sylvia clasped Nora’s hand. “Was that your mother on the phone?”

  If Nora could get through this day without throwing up, she’d be happy. “She’s excited about my position here and wants all the details.”

  Sylvia gave a sympathetic nod of her head, her black curls bouncing just enough to seem alive but not so much as to muss her do. “Family is important but, as I know, they can be trying.”

  “Tell me about the beetle kill work,” Nora said. Maybe she should offer them a chair instead of having them stand in the middle of her office.

  Mark inserted himself into the conversation. “Sylvia’s work is groundbreaking. She’s using some of the science she developed”— his flabby lips formed these words with care to emphasize their import—“at the HAARP facility in Alaska.”

  Nora raised her eyebrows hoping she appeared impressed.

  Mark seemed satisfied with her reaction. “Sylvia was a Senior Project Manager there. The modeling she’s doing for the Trust uses ionosphere measurements to gauge UA and UV waves and their correlation to the temperatures. She takes all this and overlays it with models of beetle kill. We have our field techs out gathering data on that.” As usual, he followed up with a snicker. “When this is published, people will be begging to donate to us.”

  Optimistic, considering about ten people read scientific papers. “Sounds interesting,” Nora said.

  “Interesting? Sylvia is a scientific rock star and we’ve got her here.” Although he wasn’t actually slobbering, Mark teetered on the verge. “And she’s got a killer sense of style.” His obvious hero-worship felt creepy.

  “Now, Mark.” Sylvia bowed her head graciously. “It’s all due to Daniel Cubrero’s fund raising. His family foundation donates generously.”

  The name didn’t sound familiar to Nora but she didn’t hobnob with the super-wealthy types that tended to sit on nonprofit boards of directors.

  Sylvia’s dark eyes rested on Mark with indulgence before she addressed Nora. “It’s exciting research. HAARP started as a government program. High-frequency Active Auroral Ionospheric Research Program.”

  Nora spied a stack of file folders under the desk. She’d love to dig into the work. “I don’t know much about it.”

  No one seemed inclined to sit or at the least, leave her office.

  Again, Sylvia showed a patient smile. “The technology is just as complicated as it sounds. Not many people can grasp the concept. Much of it is based on the early discoveries of Nikola Tesla and unfortunately, the bulk of his research was lost when he died in the forties. The program began as a study of the ionosphere to enhance surveillance and communication, mostly for military use. But where it interests the Trust and others concerned about our planet, is how the technology might be used to study the effects of climate change. The Colorado mountain pine beetle kill is one dramatic area to gather research.”

  “Fascinating,” Nora’s mind raced beyond Sylvia’s words to the haystack of papers on the work surface. The documents and files seemed to split like protozoa, creating new stacks for sorting, identifying, and filing.

  “That’s an interesting plant.” Sylvia stepped around Mark to the pot. She ran a red fingernail along one wide leaf. “What is it?”

  Nora had a sudden urge to slap Sylvia’s hand away. “It’s corn.”

  Sylvia eyed her with skepticism.

  “Hopi corn,” Nora said. “It’s different than what we’re used to.” And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

  “And the pot designs? Are those Hopi, too?”

  Nora had etched the designs into the clay. “Oh, they’re just designs. Not significant.”

  “I don’t know anything about the Hopi tribe.” Boredom tinged Sylvia’s words.

  Such an ancient culture, so rich and intricate. And for some reason, Nora didn’t want to share it with Sylvia. “They’re a tiny tribe in northern Arizona in the middle of the Navajo reservation. They revere peace and natural harmony.”

  Sylvia stared at the corn for a moment then focused on Nora. “I know you’re busy on your first day and I won’t take up any more of your time. Why don’t we have lunch next week?”

  “That would be great.”

  “If you’ll cut my check, I’ll be on my way.”

  Wait. Check?

  Nora didn’t know what financial software Loving Earth Trust used. Where did they keep the checks? Did they have one general bank account or did each program have its own restricted account? What bank or banks? So much she didn’t know, check writing was a definite no-go. “Um.” She turned a desperate face to Mark, hoping he’d explain.

  He met her with an expectant uplift of eyebrows.

  This didn’t bode well for a great working relationship. Nora braced herself. “I’m sorry, Sylvia. I need to get acquainted with several things before I spend any money. I’m not even a signatory yet.”

  Sylvia’s full lips turned down in a slight frown. “I understand, of course. But the funding is there. I wrote a sizable check from my personal funds and Darla was supposed to have paid me last week. I hate to disparage her, especially since she’s gone, but she was really falling apart lately.”

  Nora retreated behind professional formality. “As fiscal agent of the Trust, I’m responsible for the finances. I don’t feel comfortable writing checks until I have a chance to see what’s going on.”

  Mark frowned. “I can sign the check. Our dysfunction shouldn’t be Sylvia’s problem.”

  Flames engulfed Nora as she debated what to do. Her face burned. Should she play nice and make friends or be responsible, buck her boss, and probably lose her job on the first day?

  Sylvia never lost her expression of expectation. This was a woman used to getting her way.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  In the kitchen, which sat at the bottom of the servant’s stairs at the end of the maze from Nora’s office, someone’s cell phone jingled, followed by the murmur of a woman’s voice.

  Did a new stack of papers just materialize on the desk?

  She shouldn’t write a check. She really shouldn’t.

  Sweat slimed her underarms.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Sylvia’s foot started to tap. Those had to be incredibly expensive shoes.

  Something crashed in the kitchen. A howl like the death throes of a rabbit rent the air, soaring from the kitchen, down the hall, and into Nora’s office, strangling her.

  The sound of death.

  six

  Sylvia froze. Her mind vibrated with suppressed panic. The scream snaked up the stairs into the base of Sylvia’s spine, slithering through her heart. Survival instincts honed in her dangerous childhood told her to run.

  Nora leapt past Sylvia and Mark, sprinting through the hall and flying down the narrow servants’ stairs. Was she an athlete? She acted like some kind of superhero out to save the day.

  Sylvia knew better than to involve herself with others’ crisis. She spent three seconds regaining her control.

  Mark gave her an exasperated expression. “It’s Petal. I suppose we should go see what it is this time.”

  Sylvia brushed past him. “I’m very busy, Mark. You can handle this.”

  He whined. “She works for you. I think it’s best if you help her.”

  She instantly calculated and quickly found her best option: cooperation. “Of course.”

  Her beatific smile would do Mother Teresa proud. Great power and gifts had the annoying flipside of great responsibility. Someone always needed her wise counsel or her attention in some way.

  Honestly, Sylvia’s time would be better spent using her formidable mind
solving the problem at which she alone could succeed. But a leader needed to help the little people from time to time. It kept Sylvia humble and human.

  When they reached the kitchen, Nora was kneeling on the floor next to a puddle of gauze and bird’s nest of hair. She patted Petal’s back and cooed soothing words.

  As if this nothing of an accountant could possibly give comfort.

  Mark crossed his arms and sounded annoyed. “Petal, please pull yourself together. We can’t help if you don’t tell us what’s wrong.”

  Sylvia stepped up. Coddling Petal would only encourage her drama. “Enough of this, Petal. Either tell us what upset you or stop the histrionics and let’s see if we can get some work done today.”

  Nora appeared shocked. She probably thought they should perform a group hug and talk about their feelings. This bleeding-heart attitude, so common among the nonprofit do-gooders, demonstrated why Nora slaved as a simple accountant while Sylvia hob-knobbed with the world’s elite.

  Sylvia placed her hands on her hips and distanced herself from Petal’s current meltdown. She hated this kitchen. It stretched twenty feet end to end and was little more than an extra-wide hallway. The sink and old-time cupboards of thick, white-painted wood ran the length of one wall. A window with a cheap aluminum frame opened above the sink. The countertop was pre-Formica, the floor spread with some kind of linoleum. It peeled away at the corners, reminding Sylvia too much of the house where she grew up.

  There was no stove; a toaster oven and microwave filled the bill. Sylvia wished they’d get rid of those, too, since it seemed no one here could fix a snack without burning it. A refrigerator constantly full of moldering leftovers and forgotten lunches bookended the counter. A wooden booth sat in a nook between the front lobby and the kitchen. Sylvia had never seen anyone use it.

  The door to the back yard opened along the other wall. The whole room acted as a corridor to connect Sylvia’s suite with the rest of the ramshackle building. From the window above the sink she could see the parking lot and road. The window in the back door showed an open space of scruffy lawn ending at a border of pines and shrubs. It could be nice with landscaping and a gazebo, maybe a built-in fireplace and grill. But the staff at the Trust lacked vision.

  Petal continued her sobbing. Nora kept treating her like a dog injured in traffic.

  Mark’s face glowed red with anger. “Okay, enough of this,” he said. “Stop wailing and tell us what’s going on.”

  Face wet with tears and nose snotty and red, Petal slowly sat up from where she burrowed into Nora’s lap. She hiccupped and drew in a shaky breath. She opened her mouth, presumably to explain the calamity, but let out another sob and dropped into Nora’s lap again.

  Nora patted her back, searching Mark’s, then Sylvia’s face for help. To be fair, Nora didn’t know Petal’s normal instability. But on her first day, she shouldn’t interfere when she had no clue.

  “Darla, Darla, Darla,” Petal gasped between sobs.

  Sylvia’s stomach twisted. From Petal’s first scream she’d felt a terrible foreboding.

  Mark squatted in front of Petal, impatience written on his face. “What about Darla?”

  Petal sat up again. This time she forced words. “She’s dead.” Petal blathered away, all her feelings and pain splattering everyone in hearing range.

  What did this mean for Sylvia?

  It didn’t change anything. Whether Darla walked off in her Birkenstocks or whether she died, it didn’t make much difference to Sylvia.

  She needed to focus on Nora. Sure, she had a moment of hesitation about writing Sylvia a check. But with Mark’s urging—and Mark would do anything for Sylvia—Nora would be toeing the line in short order. It had to happen immediately, though. The art dealer annoyingly demanded a down payment before she’d ship the Chihuly.

  Petal’s voice gained some strength, enough for Sylvia to understand. “Darla was just found in the trees by the road. They said she was shot close to the Trust and tried to make it to the highway for help.”

  The vision of the colorful glass vanished.

  “She’d been there since Sunday night.”

  Sylvia stopped breathing. She felt deaf with the flash flood of blood roaring in her ears. No. That couldn’t be. Even her brain, that wonderful and extraordinary tool, ground to a near halt.

  That night. The night Sylvia found the chandelier. The night Darla threatened her.

  “She was shot in the back. Who would want to shoot Darla?” Petal wailed again.

  Sylvia’s chest crushed with the weight of realization. Shot outside the Trust on Sunday night. And she remembered:

  One shot fired out the door into the darkness last Sunday night.

  seven

  Nora stood at her office window, heart pounding, breath catching in her chest. She gently rubbed a smooth corn leaf between her thumb and forefinger. There was something definitely wonky about this place. Murder. Murder!

  She squatted down and scratched Abbey behind the ears, letting his warmth calm her. Petal’s pain had seeped through Nora’s clothes and into her skin. Worse yet were Mark and Sylvia’s reactions to the news that someone they worked with had been shot. They hadn’t seemed at all concerned and actually more annoyed that Petal disrupted the quiet morning.

  “What sort of place is this?”

  Abbey didn’t answer her. He lay with his eyes half closed, wallowing in the attention.

  The piles of paper and chaos of the office swamped her. “We ought to book it out of here.”

  Abbey rested his head on his paws.

  “I’m not up for more murder, old boy.”

  He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh of contentment.

  “On the other hand, since you’re the only one I talk to these days, maybe I ought to hang around just for human contact.”

  He wasn’t going to give her any advice; that much was plain.

  A light knock on her doorjamb startled her.

  Fay stood in the doorway, her eyes wide in her round face. Her voice crackled softly. “So what happened? I heard Petal say Darla was killed.”

  Nora leaned back on her work surface. “I don’t know.”

  Another head appeared over Fay’s shoulder. The hairy guy working on air quality. Thomas. Score one for Nora remembering his name. “Did you get any details?”

  Fay turned to him with her creaky voice. “I’ll bet it was Mark.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Naw. He hired her. I think he liked her because he could control her.”

  Fay shook her head. “I can’t believe she’s dead. And that she was shot.”

  Thomas nodded. “Yeah. Right here.” He scrutinized Nora’s office and shuddered as if Darla had been shot in the room.

  “Maybe it was Sylvia. She hated Darla. She hates everyone.” Fay nodded at Thomas for confirmation.

  “Freaky.” Without any warning, they both wandered away.

  Freaky, indeed.

  Nora surveyed the paper orgy strewn across the work space. A journey of a thousand miles begins with … filing. She shuffled the pages into unruly stacks.

  Interspersed among the spreadsheets, invoices, and financial statements, Nora came across pages from a yellow legal pad. Like a child’s scribbling on a blackboard as punishment, each page was filled with one line over and over. One page repeated, “I am smart” on all twenty-eight lines. Another said, “I will succeed.” “I am beautiful.” “I can do it.” “I am rich.” Nora’s throat constricted with sympathy when she found the last one: “They DO like me.” Over and over.

  Nora picked up the picture of Darla and studied it. If Darla were thin or fat, cheerful or dour, the outerwear concealed it all. One thing Nora knew for sure: Darla was not happy.

  Nora replaced the photo and trudged along with the paperwork.

  Well past lunch time, Mark stuck
his head in her office. “Wow. You’ve made some headway.” Snort. “Darla wasn’t very organized.”

  He spoke casually, as if Darla, someone he’d worked with every day, hadn’t just been found dead on a mountain. What a jerk.

  Nora had slogged through much of the accounting fall-out on the desk. The documents consisted mostly of payroll spreadsheets and copies of paychecks, invoices—both paid and pending, financial reports, and Post-it notes.

  She’d found the reason for all the scribbled pages. Several self-help books occupied the closet shelf, and a dog-eared self-esteem manual declared success through written affirmations. Darla was struggling to change.

  Nora picked up a pile of handwritten accounting worksheets. “I think Darla tracked grants and restricted donations by hand and allocated them monthly, then backed the totals out of the general fund.”

  He blanked.

  “You can do it this way but it’s a lot of work, and there is a lag. So if checks were written early in the month, the actual fund allocation won’t show up for a few weeks in the project budget.” He obviously had no idea what she was talking about. Which gave her leeway to set up her own, more efficient system. “How’s Petal?”

  He waved his hand. “She’s overly dramatic. I’m sorry you had to see one of her episodes on your first day.”

  Her friend and coworker was murdered. Nora knew what it felt like when someone close to you is murdered. You can’t get overly dramatic about that.

  Mark’s face reddened. He must have read Nora’s expression. “It’s terrible, of course. Unexpected and upsetting.”

  He stayed at the office door gazing at Nora. Not awkward at all.

  To fill the void, Nora chatted. “I’ll check to make sure all these invoices are entered and get them filed. I’ll see about bank balances and check A/P.”

  Abruptly, he said. “Write Sylvia’s check but everything else can wait until next week.” Snort.

  “Shouldn’t she submit a reimbursement request and receipts?”

  Mark waved that away. “She’s a star scientist, not an accounting clerk. She shouldn’t waste her time with this trivia.”