Broken Trust (5 page)

Fay wandered over to the decorative shelf and plucked
a
picture off. “I didn’t know she was a hiker.” She set it back down. “I’ve been here about five years.
W
ondering how long I’ll last.”

Nora studied a bulletin board mounted behind the computer. It was strewn with multicolored sticky notes. “Why is that?”

Fay retreated to the
doorjamb
and leaned against it, crossing her arms. Her voice croaked. “You’ll see. Used to be all the projects were important. But now
a
days we’ve got one star
,
and that’s all Mark can see.”

Nora leaned her backside on the work counter. She wanted to dive into the mounds of paper. “If the board doesn’t like the job Mark’s doing as
E
xecutive
D
irector, they can replace him.”

Fay’s laugh sounded like a rusty door hinge. “Right. Mark isn’t ED because he’s so brilliant. His daddy is on the board. Mark’s not going anywhere.”

That answered the question of why someone so
…
icky
…
could have such an impressive job.

“So if any of us want to actually do any good, we’re gonna have to make an exit.”

An uncomfortable silence dropped into the office.

Fay gave that creaky laugh again. “Sorry. I’ve never learned the art of subtlety. I’ll let you settle in. Maybe we can do a hike next week or something.” She walked away with a groan of the floor.

A hike sounded way better than dipping down in
to
the dregs of bad attitude. A hike sounded pretty good, actually.

Her phone jumped again. Might as well answer it, Abigail wouldn’t stop until she did. “Mother.”

“So how’s it going? Did they seem to mind you wearing jeans? What about this Mark Monstain?”

Nora kept her voice down. “I’ll call this evening and tell you all the details.”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Oh no. That tone. It meant trouble for Nora.
“Not now, Mother.”

“Nora.” Mark appeared as if from magic. “I’d like you to meet our star here at the Trust.”

Busted talking to her mother on the first day. “I have to go,” she said into the phone.

“What I was saying is that you don’t need to call me later.”

Nora smiled at Mark and the attractive, petite woman standing next to him. An expensive black business suit draped perfectly over her compact frame, complete with four-inch pumps. Her dark hair curled around an ageless face. She looked like money all dressed up.

“Goodbye.” Nora tried to balance the pleasant face for her new boss and the firm voice for Abigail.

“Okay. But I wanted to tell you I’m on my way to Boulder. I should be there soon. Surprise!”

An anvil dropped, squishing Nora like Wile E. Coyote in a desert canyon.

five

Nora set the phone
on her desk, resisting the urge to stuff it in the soil of her potted plant.

Mark’s wet lips turned down in a frown at Nora, then he gave the same arm flourish he’d used to present her office. He was either profoundly proud of everything at the Trust or liked the gesture. “This is Sylvia LaFever. She’s working on the landscape modeling project I told you about.”

Nora shook Sylvia’s hand. “Mark mentioned climate change and
beetle kill?”

While not exactly beautiful, Sylvia’s magnetism pulled energy toward her. Dark eyes snapped and her smile commanded attention. “Don’t worry about understanding my program yet. It’s your first day. How unfortunate to be thrust into a financial maelstrom on the eve of the board meeting.”

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
:
c
ooperation. “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 stov
e; 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 glow
ed
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.