What the Cat Saw (32 page)

Chloe’s phone rang.

Nela looked at caller ID: Craddock Police Department. Nela lifted the receiver. “Nela Farley.”

“Miss Farley, Detective Dugan. Do you have time to talk?”

“Yes.” She felt a twist of amusement. Nice of Dugan to ask. If she had questions, she could insist they be answered.

“I have a question I can’t ask Steve Flynn. Wrong gender.” Katie Dugan was brisk. “I know a bit more about you now. You’re a reporter, used to sizing people up. I want you to consider three men: Francis Garth, Cole Hamilton, Peter Owens. You’re an outsider at Haklo. Your impressions will be fresh.”

Nela realized that she was being treated as an equal although she should always remember that Katie Dugan was a woman who could play many roles. “How can I help?”

“Francis Garth. Cole Hamilton. Peter Owens. Think sex.”

Nela got it at once. There is office decorum and there is the rest of life, from an encounter on a beach to a glance across a crowded room. Men are men and women are women and there are glances and smiles and eye contact that say more than words ever could. Not that the lines often didn’t blur. Hollis Blair could no more be around a woman without sending out a primal signal than he could forego using his diffident charm in any setting.

Katie nudged. “You’re sitting in a bar and Francis Garth’s on the next stool.”

Removing the men from Haklo, placing them in a dusky, crowded bar with music and movement and the splash of whisky over ice cubes, she saw them without the veneer of work. “Francis Garth.”
Nela’s tone reflected her shift in perception. “Magnetic. Powerful. Definitely a man who notices women.” She felt a flicker of surprise as she continued. “Cole Hamilton may have the aura of a kindly older man, but he’s very aware of women.” As Steve had observed, Cole Hamilton was old, but he wasn’t dead. “Peter Owens has that tweedy, professorial aura, but he’s very masculine. Any one of them could be sexually on the prowl.”

M
im looked up from the page layout on her monitor, gray eyes inquiring. She was to Steve unchanged and unchanging, a rock in his life, her short-cut white hair making her thin, intelligent face look young and vibrant. She had the air of a sprinter ready for the gun, poised, ready to go. She never wasted words, suffered fools impatiently, incompetence never.

Steve propped against the edge of her desk. “You know everybody in town.” He grinned. “If I were a cub, you’d snap, ‘Don’t tell me something I already know.’ ”

She raised an eyebrow, waited.

“I want the backstairs gossip on Francis Garth, Cole Hamilton, Peter Owens. Bed playmates. If any.” There was no playfulness in his voice. The request was serious.

Mim was always self-possessed. The only indication of surprise was a brief flicker in her eyes. Then, she gave an abrupt nod. She didn’t take the time to say
not for publication
, to warn that she couldn’t vouch for gossip, that of course she picked up scurrilous comments about Craddock movers and shakers that she never shared. She wasn’t going to tell Steve something he already knew. “Francis reportedly has been sleeping with the mayor’s wife, but lost out this
summer to Mack Harris.” Mack Harris was a tall, rangy rodeo champion who’d bought a ranch near Craddock. “Cole Hamilton spends a lot of time at the Cowboy Club and he likes ’em young.” The Cowboy Club was a gentlemen’s retreat with gambling, music, and dancing women dressed as briefly as Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. “Denise Owens and the twins spent the summer at her parents’ lake home in Minnesota. My granddaughter’s on the same swim team as the Owens girls and there was a lot of surprise that they stayed away all summer. Press of ‘work’ kept Peter in Craddock.”

W
ith one ear cocked for the sound of Louise’s brisk steps in the hall, Nela tidied and straightened the office, finally began to rearrange the contents of the center drawer in Chloe’s desk. As she worked, she ignored the ringing of Louise’s telephone. Trinkets and odds and ends brought her sister near, as if Chloe were smiling at her with laughing eyes: two ticket stubs from the Oklahoma City Civic Center production of
Peter Pan
, keepsake menus from a half-dozen Oklahoma City and Norman restaurants (on the menu from Legend’s in Norman, Chloe had written in huge letters with a half-dozen exclamation points:
Better Than the Best!!!!!!
), a map of Turner Falls, a dog-eared copy of
Far Side
cartoons, jacks and a rubber ball in a plastic bag, a Rubik’s cube, a deck of cards. The motley collection was typical of her quirky sister.

Finally, Nela picked up a much creased and folded sheet of ruled paper. She sensed something that was not meant for other eyes, not even those of a loving sister. She gently laid the folded strip in the back center of the drawer, returned each item. She had just closed the drawer when the staccato tap of heels sounded, coming fast,
coming near. They stopped just short of Chloe’s office. “Louise?” Blythe Webster’s tone was sharp, just this side of angry. “Louise…” There was an exasperated sigh.

Nela knew that Blythe had realized Louise’s office was empty. A flurry of steps and Blythe stood in Chloe’s doorway. Blythe was trim in a soft gray cashmere sweater and black slacks. Impatience was evident in every line of her tense body. Her face was tight with irritation. “Where’s Louise? I keep calling and I get her answering machine.”

“I haven’t seen her this morning.” Nela glanced at the clock. Almost ten. She’d been at work for two hours. “She wasn’t in her office when I arrived.”

“Not here?” Blythe’s voice was odd. “She’s always here. She would have told me if she were going out.”

“Her coat’s in her office.” Nela meant to be reassuring but realized that her voice held a question.

“Well.” Blythe seemed at a loss, uncertain what to do. Then she looked relieved. She pulled a cell phone from a pocket, touched a number.

In only an instant, there was a faint musical ring, a ghostly faraway repetition of the first few bars of “Oklahoma.”

Nela pushed up from her desk. Blythe was right behind her. The musical ring continued twice again, louder now as they reached Louise’s desk. Nela pulled out the bottom-right drawer. The last ring was ending. A black leather shoulder bag nestled in the drawer.

“Well, she’s here if her purse is here.” Blythe sounded relieved. “She’s somewhere in the building. Find her for me.” She swung on her heel and surged out of the office.

Nela was glad to have a task. The directive hadn’t been delivered with grace or charm, but if you ran the ship, you could navigate any
damn way you pleased. Anyway, she had her orders, she’d carry them out.

S
teve wasn’t a lazy reporter. He had one more call to make. In fact, it took five calls to track down Anne Nesbitt. The connection crackled.

“…almost time for the next presentation. I’m at an elementary school in Bartlesville. It’s such fun. I have a slide show of our dinosaur exhibits. Kids love it.” She sounded sunny and happy. “How can I help you?”

“This is Steve Flynn,
The Craddock Clarion
. The police haven’t given up on the arson of your car.”

A pause. “Oh”—a small sigh—“I appreciate the police continuing to try but I think it had to be some kind of nut. Not anybody I knew. Like”—she paused—“how do they put it when the criminal is a stranger? A casual crime. That’s what happened.”

Steve picked his words. “There have been other problems since you left Haklo. It’s important, in fact it may be a matter of life and death, to know if the destruction of your car is linked to later vandalism. I want to ask a serious question. Was a male staffer at Haklo hitting on you? If so, did you rebuff him?”

She didn’t rush to answer. “Men are”—now it was she who spoke with care—“often very nice to me. Some men always see women in a certain way. Hollis Blair was very friendly, but he was never over the line. Hollis”—there was good humor in her tone—“is a guy who automatically sends out signals to women. The other men were interested, but I made it clear that I’m in a committed relationship. I’ve been fortunate in both school and jobs that I’ve dealt with nice men who recognize boundaries. No one bothered me at Haklo.”

Steve ended the call with a feeling of bewilderment. He’d been so certain…

R
osalind waggled a hand in greeting. She was speaking brightly into the phone. “…some unexpected repairs have to be made and the foundation won’t be available for tours this Saturday. If you would like to reschedule, please call.” She gave the number. “We’re very sorry for the cancellation. Again, this is Rosalind McNeill at Haklo Foundation.” She hung up and heaved a sigh. “The T is definitely out of sorts. But I kind of get her point. She cancelled the Saturday tours. She said there’s not a good feeling here.” Rosalind’s round face suddenly looked half scared, half uneasy. “She’s got that right. Anyway”—she managed a smile almost as bright as her usual—“I have the mail tray ready.” She nodded at the blue plastic tray on the counter.

Nela started to explain she was looking for Louise, then realized she would be visiting each office with the mail and she could combine the tasks. She would, however, change her route and end up at Blythe’s office. Hopefully, she would be able to report Louise’s whereabouts when she delivered Blythe’s mail. And, in fact, her answer might be right here at hand. Rosalind knew who came and who went.

“Is Louise in Hollis’s office?” Louise handled correspondence and projects for both the director and the trustee.

“The director isn’t here this morning. He called in and said he would be in around noon.” Rosalind’s face took on a conspiratorial glow. “Abby called in, too. She said she had an appointment and would come in around noon.” Rosalind raised both eyebrows.

Nela had not paid particular attention, but remembered that
Abby’s office had been dark. Nela had assumed Abby was upstairs in the artifact room. She didn’t care about the twin absences of Hollis and Abby. “I guess Louise is upstairs.” She gestured toward the broad steps of the curving twin stairways to the second floor. “What time did she go up?”

Rosalind was too good-natured to be offended by Nela’s lack of interest in the activities of the director and assistant curator. Her smile was cheerful. “I’ve been here since eight. I haven’t seen Louise this morning. She must have taken the back stairs.”

N
ela received the same answer everywhere she delivered mail. No one had seen Louise. Nela deposited mail in the in-box on Grace Webster’s desk. There was no jacket on her coat tree, no evidence she had been to Haklo this morning. Nela very much doubted that Grace had bothered to inform Rosalind of her presence or absence.

There was no one left to ask.

As she stepped out of Grace’s office, the plastic tray held only the mail for Louise and for the trustee. Nela headed for the back stairs that led down to the first floor of the west wing. She would leave Louise’s mail, and if Louise had since returned to her office, all would be well.

Light spilled into the hallway from the open door to the artifact room. Abby had called in, said she wasn’t coming until late morning. There was no reason for the light to be on if Abby wasn’t working. Possibly Louise was there.

Nela walked faster. She reached the doorway and stopped. She glanced across the room. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at death.

Louise’s body lay facedown in a crumpled heap near the back table where Abby cataloged and mounted Indian war clubs. Yesterday Louise’s pink blouse had been soft and pretty with the gray wool suit. Harsh light from overhead fluorescent panels threw splotched dark stains on the back of Louise’s gray suit into stark relief.

18

M
uttered voices and heavy footsteps sounded from the far end of the hallway near the staff entrance and the back stairway to the second floor. Nela assumed more police were arriving as well as the medical examiner and a forensic unit and all the various people involved in a homicide investigation. This time there was no question as to the cause of death. Homicide by person or persons unknown. Louise Spear had walked into the artifact room sometime late yesterday afternoon and someone, someone she knew, someone with a key to Haklo, struck her down, crushing the back of her head.