What the Cat Saw (30 page)

Nela scarcely breathed as she listened.

“It was about a week after the car fire. She knew I was a good friend of a curator at Sam Noble.” He glanced at Nela, almost smiled. “That’s the natural history museum at the University of Oklahoma. You’ll have to drive up and take a look at it one day. Anyway, Marian
came in my office and closed the door. She stood in front of my desk and”—he squinted in remembrance—“as clearly as I can remember, she said, ‘Peter, I need a favor.’ I said sure. She said, ‘See if you can get Anne Nesbitt a job offer from Sam Noble. Do it. Don’t ask me why. Don’t ever tell anyone.’ She turned and walked out.” His smile was half wry, half sad. “When Marian said salute”—he slipped on the horn rims, lifted his right hand to his forehead—“I saluted.”

K
atie Dugan looked at Steve Flynn quizzically. “If the circumstances were different, I’d say Nela Farley’s a nice woman. She has a nice face. Of course, nice faces don’t mean much when it comes to protecting family.”

Steve grinned, almost felt carefree. “Katie, that dog won’t hunt. I talked to Nela’s sister. I’ve interviewed everybody from narcissistic, guilt-ridden, emaciated movie stars to nuns who tend to lepers. I won’t say I can’t be fooled, but Chloe Farley is about as likely to be involved in a jewel heist as a kid running a Kool-Aid stand. Ditzy, happy, doesn’t give a damn about appearances or money or status. If you knock out protecting her sister, Nela doesn’t have a ghost of a motive. Right?”

A small smile touched Dugan’s broad face. “Yeah. And she’s got a cloud of soft black curls and a sensitive face. Man, she’s pulled your string. Quite a change from that elegant blonde you married.”

“Yeah.” Steve had a funny squeeze in his chest. He couldn’t even picture Gail’s face. All he saw was a finely sculpted face that reflected intelligence and character and a shadow of sadness. He met her two days ago and he’d known her forever.

Katie reached for the thermos next to her in-box, rustled in a drawer for foam cups. When they each held a cup of strong black
coffee, she raised hers in a semitoast. “Okay. Just for the sake of supposing, let’s say your girl’s home free along with ditzy sis. Where do you go from there?”

“Haklo. What the hell’s wrong out there, Katie? I think there’s been a lot of misdirection.” He spoke slowly, thoughtfully. He had the ability to recall printed material as if he were looking at it, and this morning he’d outlined the start of trouble at the foundation. “Let’s look at what happened in order: the girl’s car set on fire, Indian baskets destroyed, office sprinklers activated, frozen pipes from water running in the courtyard fountain, stolen necklace—”

Katie interrupted. “Everything besides the necklace is window dressing.”

Steve spoke carefully. “Just for now, let’s keep it in the line of events, not make it the centerpiece.”

Katie shrugged. “I get your point. I don’t think I agree, but finish your list.”

“The necklace is stolen. Then Marian Grant dies in a fall apparently caused by a skateboard, Nela Farley disrupts a search of Marian’s apartment, Nela finds the necklace in Marian’s purse, Marian’s office is trashed, obscene letters on a Haklo letterhead are traced to Abby Andrews’s computer, Nela leaves the necklace on Blythe Webster’s desk, the necklace is missing Tuesday morning, an anonymous call”—he refused to worry now about Nela’s source and his complicity—“links Grant’s fall to a skateboard, Abby Andrews is missing a skateboard, another anonymous letter leads to the necklace hidden in Abby’s office, skateboard used on Marian’s stairs found in Abby’s cabin.” He paused to give Katie time to object but she remained silent, which he took as a tacit admission that the skateboard found in the second search at Haklo had matched the scrape on the rail of Marian’s steps.

Katie sipped her coffee. “Hate to say been there, done that. I know all of this.”

“What’s the constant?”

She raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Trouble at Haklo.” At her impatient look, he barreled ahead. “All along, Katie, you’ve pitched on the necklace as the only thing that matters and, yeah, a quarter million dollars barks pretty loud. But think about the scenario. A lot of things happened before the necklace disappeared. You pitched on the idea that Chloe Farley set the girl’s car on fire to scare her away and, after she got the job and had been there long enough to know about Blythe’s carelessness with the necklace, Chloe decided to steal it and committed vandalism to make it appear that the necklace wasn’t the objective. But if we wash out Chloe—”

Katie moved restively. “I’ve been a cop in this town for a long time. Haklo never had any problems ’til these new people came to town. Maybe Chloe Farley’s not the perp. Maybe Abby Andrews planned everything. Sure, she’s supposed to be sappy about the new director, but maybe she’s sappier about a quarter million dollars. Plus every time we look, we find a link to her. But maybe she’s not a dumb blonde. Maybe she figured she might be suspected so she set it up to look like she might be behind everything but there’s always an out, somebody else could have used her computer, somebody took her skateboard, somebody sent an anonymous letter tagging her with the necklace. A double game.”

“And she’s lucky enough to go in Blythe’s office and find the necklace lying on top of the desk?”

Katie wasn’t fazed. “Somebody found it. Somebody moved it. Top of the list, Nela Farley and Blythe Webster. Probably Louise Spear. I’ll bet she’s in and out of the trustee’s office a dozen times
a day. As for Abby Andrews, if she’s behind everything that’s happened at Haklo, she’d be nervous about anybody showing up there after hours, like your girlfriend coming in the back way Monday night. Abby lives in a Haklo cabin. Maybe she saw headlights. Maybe she came out to take a look. Maybe she saw you waiting by the staff entrance and stayed to watch. She would have overheard every word. When you and Nela went inside, she followed. If she stayed out of the way, you two would never have seen her. But if she wasn’t there, didn’t take the necklace, it could have been anybody the next morning. People pop in and out of offices all the time. Somebody came to ask a question, do a tap dance, announce the end of the world. Hell, I don’t know. But it all comes back to the fact that nothing like this ever happened until these new people came to town.”

A quicksilver thought threaded through Steve’s mind, was there for an instant, then gone…Not until the new people came to town…

N
ela wished she’d taken time to pluck Chloe’s coat from the rack in her office, but once outside in the courtyard, she shivered and kept going, looking from side to side. In spring, the courtyard would be magnificent. Flower beds bordered the walks. Benches surrounded a fountain. Even in winter it might have had an austere charm except for the back hoe and stacked copper pipe near the damaged fountain.

Nela reached the center of the courtyard, made a slow survey. Windows in the west and east halls overlooked the yard. Marian Grant could have chosen a place anywhere here for her moment of peace and poetry. However, when she came back into the rotunda, she had turned, her face set, and moved decisively toward the west wing.

Nela walked past the west wing windows, noting Louise’s office,
then Chloe’s. Francis Garth saw Marian leaving Abby’s office. She continued another ten steps. Bare yellow fronds of a weeping willow wavered in the wind that swirled around Nela, scudded withered leaves across the paved walk. Nela reached out to touch the back of a wrought iron bench, yanked back her fingers from the cold metal. The bench was turned at a bit of an angle. Someone sitting there had a clear view into the west hallway and, through the open door, into the interior of a small office. Abby’s office. The desk faced the doorway.

Nela shivered again, both from cold and from a touch of horror. She knew as surely as if she’d sat beside Marian Grant that she’d lifted her eyes from her book and watched as someone stepped inside Abby’s office.

Nela took a half-dozen quick steps, peered inside the window. Her gaze fastened on Abby’s desk.

She looked and knew what had happened. Someone known to Marian had walked into Abby’s office. Perhaps Marian had been surprised enough by the identity of the visitor to continue to watch. It seemed obvious that the visitor pulled the necklace from a pocket and placed it either in the desk or a filing cabinet. Wherever the necklace was put, Nela didn’t doubt that a shaken Marian understood what was happening. She knew the theft was intended to implicate Abby and she knew the identity of the thief. She now had it in her power to protect her beloved Haklo.

K
atie Dugan raised an eyebrow at caller ID. She lifted the receiver. “Dugan…Yeah?…Hold on.” She covered the mouthpiece. “Blythe Webster’s on speakerphone with Nela Farley. Apparently your girlfriend’s been busy. Blythe wants me to hear
what she found out. Since Nela will give you the lowdown anyway, I’m going to turn on my speakerphone. But you aren’t here.” With that, she punched. “Okay, Miss Farley, what have you got?”

Steve heard more than the sound of Nela’s voice. It was as if she were in Katie’s impersonal, businesslike office, looking at him with those bright, dark eyes that held depths of feeling that he wanted to understand and share. As she recounted her passage through Haklo, he gave a mental fist pump. Good going, good reporting. He made quick, cogent notes:

He and Katie listened intently as Nela continued, “I went into the courtyard. It was a pretty day that Friday and Marian went outside with her book of poetry. Not like today.”

Steve knew the bricked area must have been cold and deserted this afternoon. There was a memory of that cold in Nela’s voice.

“A bench on the west side has a good view of Abby’s office. I think Marian saw someone walk into the office and hide the necklace. And then”—Nela’s voice was thin—“I think Marian came inside and went to the office and got the necklace.”

Blythe’s words were fast and clipped. “Marian should have called the police.” A short silence. “But she didn’t. Instead, she obviously decided to handle everything herself. She should have come to me.” Anger rippled in Blythe’s voice. “I”—a decided emphasis—“am the trustee. I should have been informed. Oh.” There was a sudden catch in her voice. “It’s terrible. If she’d come to me, I would have insisted we contact the police. If we had, she would be alive now. Why didn’t she realize that Haklo didn’t matter that much, that Haklo wasn’t worth her life? But she was Marian and so damnably sure of herself.” There was an undertone of old rancor. “I suppose she accused the thief but promised she’d keep quiet if the thief left Haklo. I can see why Marian thought that was the best solution. Everyone would forget in time about the vandalism if it stopped. Instead…” Blythe trailed off.

Steve knew all of them pictured a dark figure edging up Marian’s stairs and placing a skateboard on the second step, returning unseen in the early-morning darkness to watch a woman fall to her death, then pick up a skateboard with gloved hands and slip silently away.

“Anyway”—Blythe sounded weary—“perhaps this information will be helpful to you. Do you have any questions?”

Katie’s face quirked in a sardonic smile. “That all seems clear, Miss Webster. Thank you for your call. And thank you, Miss Farley, for your report. I’ll be in touch.” As she clicked off the speakerphone, she raised an eyebrow at Steve. “Notice anything?”

“Yeah. Kind of interesting about the necklace. First, it’s put in Abby’s office. Second, Marian retrieves it. Third, the necklace is in Marian’s purse. Fourth, the necklace is on Blythe’s desk. Fifth, the necklace is found in Abby’s office.”

Katie flicked him an approving glance. “You got it. Starts with Abby, ends with Abby. What are the odds, Steve?”

S
teve sat at his desk and tried to ignore the undercurrent of worry that had tugged at him ever since he’d heard Nela’s report over Katie’s speakerphone. Yes, she’d done good work. But there could be no doubt that she was now on the murderer’s watch list. He forced himself to concentrate and maintain the coldly analytical, unemotional attitude that made him a good reporter. Figuring out what to accept and what to discard came down to more than the five
w
s and an
h
. There had to be innate skepticism that questioned motives and discounted conventional wisdom.

In the case of Haklo, there were facts. New staff members had been added, including the director. Six incidents of vandalism and a theft occurred between mid-September and this week, beginning with a car fire. Marian Grant died in a fall. There were suppositions. The vandalism was committed to detract attention from the theft of a quarter-million-dollar necklace. Marian Grant threatened the thief. Marian Grant was murdered.

Steve accepted the facts, but there were two pieces of information, one that came to him, the other picked up by Nela in her talks
today with staff, that entirely recast his ideas about what happened at Haklo and why.

He glanced at the clock. Just after seven. He reached for his cell, shook his head. He’d told her he was coming. As he slammed out of the office, a couple of folders and a legal pad under one arm, the worry he’d fought to contain made his throat feel tight. He had lots to say to Nela. He hoped she would listen.