Innocent Beginnings

"We've got a problem . . . come down right now . . . check out what's going on . . .. cut through the crap . . . find out why the art league's losing money . . . "

The high-pitched voice and breathless rush of words could only belong to one person.  Beverly Tilton.  She hadn't bothered to identify herself, but Bev's image popped up right away: model-thin, thirty-ish and long, straight blonde hair.  Bev had an intensity about her that wore thin-or wore out-those close to her.  She was an artist and ran a bed-and-breakfast in Seaview, Oregon.  Bev painted boldly and lived impetuously, and didn't do anything in pastel.

"Stay at my Bed-and-Breakfast . . . it'll be on me . . . four days . . ."

The B & B was just a couple of blocks from the ocean and Bev's invitation was enticing.  It was summer time and the living was good but hectic.  I'd just finished testifying in the Hahn Ly murder case and completed a project for the Wilhelm Foundation.  A time out would be welcomed.  Visions of warm sand and white-foamed waves danced in my head until reality stopped the music. 

"Exactly what is it that you want me to do?"

"Snoop around." Bev laughed.  "What's the harm?" 

Bev's bottom line was that the Oregon Coast Art League was losing money, and she suspected that the art league's executive director George Harris was siphoning off donor funds.

"You need an auditor or the police, not a nonprofit management consultant," I said.  "Did the board ask you to call?" 
I knew the answer before Bev replied.

"Of course not.  It's my idea.  George Harris is the board president's pet.  He can't do any wrong where Margaret Medlow's concerned.  Margaret recruited him.  The rest of us on the board didn't have any say so.  Old Maggie acts as if she's the lady of the manor and we're her slowwitted servants."

"Bev, maybe I could be of help, at least I could check out the situation and give some advice.  But the board has to want me there, not just you."

"Bridget, Bridget," she said, as if I were being silly.  "You sound as if I'm trying to railroad something.  The Art League operates like it's back in the Fifties," she said, her voice rising.  "For God's sake, the executive director told me not to 'worry my pretty little head over details.'"

Bev was getting too agitated.  "Listen, I'd love to come down and stay at your B & B.  Finding a vacancy during the tourist season is like winning the lottery.  But without your board president's okay, it's a no-go.  Have Margaret call me, if we can work out the details I'd love to come."

"Oh, all right."  Bev paused.  "She'll call . . . she'd better, if I have anything to say about it.  And I do."
Warning bells rang, but the sound of lapping waves was louder. 

I looked down at Narvik lying at my feet, head cocked and intelligent brown eyes watching me closely.  She'd followed the whole conversation. 

I could see she was thinking, "The game's a foot, Watson."

~~~