What the Cat Saw (9 page)

L
ouise looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the conference room. The minute hand stood at twelve minutes past ten. The golden oak of the clock matched the golden oak paneling. In the glow of recessed lights, the granite conference tabletop added more serene colors, streaks of yellow and tangerine against a wheat background.

A sense of unease pervaded a room where no expense had been spared to create a welcoming environment. In the mural on one wall, monarchs hovered over reddish orange blooms on waist-high grasses that wavered in a wind beneath a cloudless blue sky. On the other wall, a buffalo faced forward, dark eyes beneath a mat of wiry black curls in a huge head framed by curved horns, massive shoulders, short legs, and shaggy brown hair.

Nela sat to one side of the conference table in a straight chair. Six black leather swivel chairs were occupied, leaving a half dozen
or so empty at the far end of the table. The delivery of the mail had given her the chance to meet both Grace Webster, Blythe’s sister, and Peter Owens, the director of publications. It had been interesting when she issued Blythe’s summons to each staff member to be in the conference room at ten o’clock instead of eleven. She would have expected surprise. There had been wariness, but no surprise.

In what kind of workplace was a peremptory summons treated as if it were business as usual?

She looked with interest around the room. Cole Hamilton fiddled with a pen, making marks on the legal pad. Francis Garth sat with his arms folded. He reminded her of the buffalo in the far mural. All he lacked were horns and short legs.

Her gaze paused on Abby Andrews. Nela thought that Chloe’s description of the new assistant curator didn’t do her justice. Abby was a classically lovely blonde with perfect bone structure. Her brows could have used a bit of darkening, but her deep violet eyes were striking. At the moment, she sat in frozen stillness as if she might shatter if she moved.

Why was she so tense?

Nela had no doubt that Blythe’s younger sister Grace was trouble waiting to happen. Grace tapped her pen on the tabletop.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Her rounded face was not unpleasant, but she was clearly combative.

The quarter hour chimed.

Robbie Powell brushed back a lock of brightly blond hair.

Nela made a quick link. Tab Hunter in
Damn Yankees
but with longer hair. She knew Chloe would agree.

“I’m expecting a call from a Dallas newspaper. I may be able to place a feature story on that research into antibiotic overuse in stock.
I had to change the time. And now we’re sitting here, waiting.” Robbie kept his tone light. “I assumed something important had occurred, but neither the trustee nor the director have shown up after the imperial summons.” Robbie straightened a heavy gold cuff link in his blue oxford cloth shirt. His blue blazer was a perfect fit. He had the patina of a man at home in meetings, always sure to know everyone’s name, quick with a smile and compliment.

Nela was good at reading moods, and beneath Robbie’s surface charm, she sensed anger.

Louise was placating. “They’ll be here soon. There’s been an upsetting development.”

The faces around the table were abruptly alert. There was unmistakable tension.

Francis cleared his throat. “What development?”

Louise didn’t meet his gaze. “It will be better for Blythe to explain.”

Peter Owens shifted in his seat. “Ah, well, we’re on company time.” His comment was smooth, but he, too, looked uncomfortable. A lean man with black horn rims perched in wiry dark hair, he had wide-set brown eyes, a thin nose, and sharp chin. His good quality but well-worn tweed jacket with leather elbow patches made him look professorial. “How about some of Mama Kay’s sweet rolls? A little sugar will lift your spirits, Robbie.”

Louise looked at Nela. “Please serve the sweet rolls and coffee now. Except for Blythe and Hollis.”

Nela warmed the sweet rolls and carried the serving plate to Louise. Nela poured coffee into Haklo Foundation mugs, gold letters on a dark green background, and served them.

Peter nodded his thanks, then lifted his mug. “Ladies and gentlemen, a toast to our newest addition. Welcome to Haklo Foundation,
Nela. We enjoy your sister. She’s definitely a breath of freshness in this fusty atmosphere. Have you heard a report from Tahiti?”

Nela responded to his genuine interest. “Just a call Friday night to say they arrived safely and everything was fantastic.”

“Fantastic in all caps?” But his voice was kind.

Nela smiled. “Absolutely.”

He nodded toward her chair. “Pour yourself some coffee, too. I highly recommend Mama Kay’s raspberry Danish. The foundation is beyond good fortune to have her as our chef.”

Nela glanced at Louise, who nodded.

Nela settled at her place with a plate. The sweet roll was indeed excellent, the flaky crust light, the raspberry filling tart and perfect.

Peter spoke in a mumble past a mouthful of pastry. “Speaking of travelers, I suggest we vote on a staff conference in Arizona. Surely there is something useful we could survey there. Or possibly Costa Rica. Francis, you’re very good at sniffing out development prospects for Oklahoma beef. How about Costa Rica?”

Francis turned his heavy head. He looked sharply at Peter’s smiling face, then said quietly, “In the past we’ve done good work gaining markets for Oklahoma beef. But the new budget doesn’t support that kind of outreach.”

Peter shrugged. “Your office has had a very good run.” His face was still pleasant, but there might have been a slightly malicious curl to his crooked lips.

As he drank from his mug, Nela wondered if she had imagined that transformation.

Francis folded his arms. “Things change.” His deep voice was ruminative. “I played golf with Larry Swift the other day. You know him, Swift Publications. He’s pretty excited to be invited to submit a bid to handle the design of a pictorial history of Carter County.”

Peter’s face tightened. “I’ve been talking to Blythe. I think she understands that in-house design is cheaper and, of course, better quality.”

“Does she?” Robbie’s tone was ingenuous. “She asked me about Swift Publications the other day. I had to say they do swell work.”

“Nela, please take the carafe around, see if anyone wants more coffee. My, I hope the weather doesn’t turn bad…” Louise chattered about the awfully cold weather, and had they heard there was a possibility of an ice storm?

Nela poured coffee and wondered at the background to the ostensibly pleasant but barbed exchanges.

The door swung open. Blythe Webster hurried inside. Her fine features looked etched in stone. Hollis Blair followed, his lips pressed together in a thin, hard line. He was Jimmy Stewart after he lost his job at the little shop around the corner.

Chairs creaked. There was a general shifting of position.

“My, my, my. What’s happened?” Cole Hamilton’s rather high voice quavered. Francis Garth’s heavy bushy eyebrows drew down in a frown. Abby Andrews’s lips trembled and she seemed even more fragile. Grace Webster’s blue eyes narrowed as she studied her sister’s face. Robbie Powell looked apprehensive. Peter Owens leaned back in his chair, gaze speculative, arms folded.

Nela half expected Louise to dismiss her from the meeting. This no longer seemed an occasion for her to serve pastries and coffee. But the secretary never glanced her way. In the stress of whatever prompted the earlier meeting, Louise wasn’t thinking about Nela and her function. It wasn’t Nela’s job to remind her.

Blythe Webster stopped behind the end chair. “Sit down, Hollis.”

Nela thought her tone was brusque.

Hollis Blair dropped into the empty seat to her right. He hunched his shoulders like a man preparing to fight.

Blythe remained standing, resting a green folder on the chair back. She made no apology for their late arrival and gave no greeting. “This morning I received calls from Alice Garcia, Kay Drummond, and Jane Carstairs. In today’s mail, each informed me she had received a letter on Dr. Blair’s letterhead which contained obscene material.” She looked toward the director. “I immediately spoke with Hollis. He assures me he had no knowledge of the letter.” The words were spoken evenly, suggesting neither acceptance nor denial of the director’s involvement.

Hollis Blair’s head jerked up. “Obviously I didn’t send the letters. I know nothing about them. Someone obtained my letterhead and used it without permission.”

Robbie Powell flapped his well-manicured hands. “We have to get those letters back. This could be a nightmare. Can’t you see the headline in the
Oklahoman
?
Prurient Letter Linked to Haklo Director.
”

“It isn’t his fault.” Abby blurted out the words angrily, a flush staining her pale cheeks.

Hollis looked toward her, his blue eyes suddenly soft. “It’s all right, Abby. We’ll find out who’s responsible.”

Peter Owens spoke quietly. “If there’s no proof Dr. Blair sent the letters, the foundation can disclaim any responsibility. Since there have been other random acts of vandalism—”

It was like a picture that had been askew righting itself. Now Nela understood the reason why Louise spoke nostalgically about happy times at Haklo. Moreover, none of the staff had seemed surprised at a peremptory summons.

“Doesn’t sound too damn random.” Francis’s voice was gruff. “Obscene letters sent to members of the grants committee suggests
the recipients were chosen quite specifically. Of course”—he looked at Blythe—“you may soon be receiving other calls.”

Blythe shook her head. “I don’t think so. The calls came ping-ping-ping as soon as the morning business deliveries were made. I checked with Bart Hasting’s secretary. He has a letter from the foundation from Dr. Blair. I asked her not to open it. Bart and his family are skiing at Vail. If anyone else in town had received a letter, I’d know by now. So, the damage can be contained. Since no one on the committee wishes harm to the foundation, they will keep this confidential.” She glanced at the wall clock.

Cole Hamilton looked distressed. “This is a serious matter. A suggestion of immorality could taint the foundation forever.”

“I’m afraid women with a juicy bit of gossip never keep it to themselves.” Robbie shook his head in regret.

Nela wondered if there was a hint of malicious amusement in his light voice.

“Really?” Grace was dismissive. “I’m sure you never gossip, do you, sweetie?”

Robbie stared at her. For an instant, the handsome youngish man looked old and beaten. “I was misquoted, my words taken out of context.”

“Grace, that matter is closed. Robbie apologized.” Blythe’s tone was sharp.

Grace laughed aloud. “Oh, my charitable sister. No matter if an employee is overheard describing her as Head Bitch at the foundation. But maybe truth is a defense.”

For a long instant, the sisters stared at each other.

Cole Hamilton fluttered his hands. “Girls, girls. I know your father would move swiftly to correct the current dreadful situation here.” His eyelids blinking rapidly, he spoke in a rush. “It is shocking
how calamities have engulfed the foundation since Dr. Blair took over last fall.”

Peter Owens cleared his throat. “Let me see, we had some roadkill out in front of the foundation last week. I guess that’s Hollis’s fault as well.”

Cole’s face creased in stubborn lines. “You can’t pretend there aren’t problems.”

Blythe made an impatient gesture. “No one is pretending there aren’t problems. Hollis has instituted inquiries into each incident.”

Robbie raised a thick blond brow. “What has he found out? Who set that girl’s car on fire? Who destroyed the Indian baskets? Who set off the indoor sprinklers and drenched my office? Who turned on the outdoor fountain and the pipes froze and it’s going to cost thousands to fix it? Who took the skateboard from Abby’s porch? Next thing you know, the vandal will strap a bomb to it and roll it up the main hall one night. Who stole your necklace? I find it puzzling”—his green eyes flicked toward Hollis—“that our director didn’t call the police, and that necklace must be worth thousands of dollars with those heavy gold links and those diamonds. And now these letters…”

Nela remembered too clearly the heavy weight of the necklace, the glitter of the stones. Somehow she managed not to change expression. She had the same sense of unreality that an earthquake brought, jolted by one shock and then another. A missing skateboard. A stolen necklace. She pushed aside thoughts of a skateboard. That was her invention, extrapolating what a cat meant by a rolling board. But the gold necklace heavy with diamonds that rested at the bottom of Marian Grant’s purse was real, not an invention. Up to this moment, she had been engaged as an observer. Now, with abrupt suddenness, she was as intensely involved as any of the Haklo staff.

“I”—Blythe’s tone was imperious—“instructed Hollis to arrange for a private investigation about the necklace. I do not want the disappearance of the necklace to become a police matter. Inevitably, if there is a police report, there would be a story in the
Clarion
. We’ve had enough stories. I’m still getting questions about that car fire and the fountain. However”—she glanced at her watch—“if all of these incidents are connected, the person who wishes harm to the foundation may have been too clever. Within a few minutes, I expect to know whether one of our computers generated the message. Obviously the writer would have deleted the file but IT assures me that any deleted file can be found. At this moment, our IT staff is checking every computer. Penny Crawford will bring the results to me. As we wait, we will proceed with our regular meeting. Hollis.”

Dr. Blair gave an abrupt nod. “I will be sending out a memo to staff today in regard to our annual…”

The words rolled over Nela without meaning. How many heavy gold-link necklaces studded with diamonds could be floating around Craddock? But if the jewelry had been stolen, why was it in Marian Grant’s purse? From everything she’d heard about Marian Grant, the idea that she’d commit a theft was preposterous. But the necklace was in the purse.

Maybe that’s what the intruder was looking for Friday night. Yet the person who entered had ignored Marian Grant’s purse, instead slammed through her desk.