What the Cat Saw

by Carolyn Hart

  There were two keys on Chloe’s key ring. One fit the VW. Nela assumed the other afforded entrance to the building. The key to Marian Grant’s apartment had been separate, identifiable by a pink ribbon.

  However, the foundation locks might be rigged so that any entrance outside of work hours triggered an alarm. As Nela hesitated, the heavy oak door opened.

  A middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair peered out. Pale brown eyes, magnified by wire-rim glasses perched on a bony nose, looked at her accusingly. “This is private property. The foundation is closed to the public until Monday. I heard a car and if you continue to trespass I will call the police.”

  Nela had no wish to deal further with law enforcement personnel. She spoke quickly, embarrassed and uncomfortable. “I’m Chloe Farley’s sister, Nela. Chloe gave me directions and I came by to be sure I knew the way on Monday.”

  “Oh.” The brown eyes blinked rapidly. “I should have recognized you. Chloe has a picture on her bookcase. But so many things have happened and I’m here by myself. Oh dear. I hope you will forgive me. Please come in. I’m Louise Spear, the executive secretary. I’ll show you around.” She held the door wide. “That will make everything easier Monday. Do you have a key?”

  As she stepped inside, Nela held up the key ring. “Is the bronze one the key to the staff entrance?”

  Louise peered. “That’s it. Did you intend to try it to be sure?”

  Nela smiled. “No. I thought I could knock Monday morning if necessary. I was afraid to use the key after hours in case it triggered an alarm.”

  Louise shook her head. “Only broken windows sound an alarm. We can go in and out with a key at any time. The key works for all the outer doors.” She closed the door.

  Nela looked up a wide marbled hallway with office doors on one side and windowed alcoves overlooking the courtyard on the other. The marble flooring was a swirl of golden tones. Between the alcoves, paintings of Western scenes hung on the walls.

  Louise reached out, touched a panel of lights. Recessed lighting glowed to illuminate the paintings. She was proud. “Isn’t it beautiful? The paintings in this hall are from various places in Oklahoma. Our state has an amazingly varied terrain, everything from hills to prairies to mesas. There are beautiful paintings all through the foundation. I’m glad I can show you everything today when we don’t have to hurry. Mondays get busy. There’s a staff meeting at eleven. It’s very responsible of you”—her tone was admiring and mildly surprised—“to make the extra effort to locate the foundation today. I will confess I wasn’t sure what to expect from Chloe’s sister. Chloe is”—a pause—“casual about things.”

  Nela well understood. Chloe was not only casual, but slapdash and last minute.

  “Though,” Louise added hurriedly, “she’s a nice girl and somehow everything gets done.”

  Nela gave her a reassuring smile. There was no point in taking umbrage because truth was truth. “Chloe moves quickly.” That was true, too.

  Louise smiled in return. “Yes, she does. I’ll show you her office, but first”—she began to walk, gesturing to her right—“these small offices are for summer interns. We also have a new position this year.” A faint frown touched her face. “For an assistant curator. The new director thought it would be good to put one person in charge of overseeing artifact donations. Haklo is unusual among foundations because we not only provide grants, we create our own programs to celebrate Oklahoma history. Thanks to Haklo, many schools around the state now have displays that we have provided, everything from memorabilia about Will Rogers to women’s roles in early statehood to Indian relics.” The frosted glass of the office door read:

  ABBY ANDREWS

  ASSISTANT CURATOR

  Louise moved to the next door. “This is Chloe’s office.” She opened the door and flicked on the light.

  Nela felt her sister’s presence as they stepped inside. Chloe had put her personal stamp on a utilitarian room with a gray metal desk and a bank of filing cabinets. There on the bookcase was a picture of Nela and Chloe, arm in arm on a happy summer day at the Santa Monica pier. Four posters enlivened pale gray walls, an aerial view of Machu Picchu, a surfer catching a big one in Hawaii, a tousle-haired Amelia Earhart in a trench coat standing by a bright red Lockheed Vega, and the shining gold-domed ceiling of the Library of Congress.

  Louise followed her gaze to the posters. “Has your sister been to all those places?”

  “In her dreams.” When Chloe was little, Nela had often read Dr. Seuss to her. She sometimes wondered if a little girl’s spirit had responded to the lyrical call of places to go and things to see. If Chloe couldn’t go there—yet—in person, she’d travel in her imagination.

  “I suppose that’s why she went to Tahiti.” Louise’s voice was almost admiring. “I don’t think I’d ever have the courage, but she doesn’t worry, does she?”

  “Sometimes I wish she would,” Nela confided. “She always thinks everything will work out and so far”—her usual quick prayer, plea, hope flickered in her mind—“they have. But I’ll be glad when she and Leland get home.”

  Louise’s glance was sympathetic. “I know. I always worried so about my son. I always wanted him safe at home and that’s when he died, driving home from college in an ice storm. Maybe Tahiti is safer.” Her voice was thin. “Certainly nothing’s seemed secure here lately. Chloe keeps telling me not to worry. But I can’t help worrying.”

  Worry.

  Nela pictured Marian’s brown tabby looking up forlornly…. She was worried…She didn’t know what to do…

  “What’s been wrong?”

  It was as if Louise stepped back a pace though she didn’t move. Her face was suddenly bland. “Oh, this and that. Things crop up. The foundation is involved in so many activities and sometimes people get angry.”

  Nela was abruptly alert. Someone had been angry last night in Marian Grant’s apartment, angry enough to pick up a crystal statuette and fling it at a mirror. Nela wasn’t reassured by Louise’s smooth response. The intrusion in the dead woman’s apartment last night had been wrong, and there seemed to be something wrong here at the foundation, but Chloe’s boss obviously didn’t intend to explain. Was the search last night related to things cropping up, whatever that meant, at the foundation? The secretary’s threat to call the police because of Nela’s unexpected arrival had to be based on some definite concern.

  “Here is the connecting door to my office.” Louise gestured toward an open door. “Unless I’m in conference, I leave the door open between the offices and that makes access easier. Chloe handles my correspondence and takes care of filing. We’re having a meeting of the grants committee later this month and Chloe is about halfway through preparing one-page summaries of applications. Tomorrow, you can be sure the conference room is ready for the staff meeting, fresh legal pads and a pen at each place. There’s a small galley off the main conference room. About ten minutes after everyone arrives, you can heat sweet rolls and bring them in with coffee. The foundation has the most wonderful cook.”

  She was now businesslike with no hint of her earlier distress. As they approached the front of the building, the size of the offices grew. Louise walked fast and talked fast. Names whirled in Nela’s mind like buzzing gnats. “…These offices are provided as a courtesy to the members of the grants committee.” She rattled off several names. They reached the front hall.

  “The main hallway”—she made a sweeping gesture—“runs east and west. This is the west hall.” She pointed across the spacious marble hallway. “The corner office belongs to Blythe Webster. She’s the trustee of the foundation.”

  Louise flicked several switches, illuminating the magnificent main hallway. “There are only two front offices, one at each corner. Now for our beautiful rotunda.” She looked eager as she led the way. “I love the fountain behind the reception desk.”

  Water gurgled merrily, splashing down over blue and gold tiles.

  Louise stopped next to a horseshoe-sha
ped counter opposite the huge oak front door. She patted the shining wooden counter. “This is the reception desk. Rosalind McNeill takes care of the phones.”

  Nela was pleased to recognize another name. Chloe had mentioned Rosalind in her letter. Rosalind apparently had filled Chloe in on things that had happened at the foundation.

  Louise pointed at the high ceiling. “Rosalind has the best view in the building.”

  Nela looked up at a series of huge frescoes, magnificent, fresh, and vivid.

  Louise beamed. “The paintings reflect Haklo Foundation’s encouragement of crop rotation. The first panel is wheat, the next is canola, and the third is sesame.”

  Nela felt swept into a new world as she admired the vivid frescoes, the three distinctly different crops, grazing cattle, a champion bull, an old field with ranks of wooden derricks.

  “We’re very proud of the frescoes. They were painted by one of our very own scholarship students, Miguel Rodriguez. The sculptures on either side of the fountain”—she pointed to alcoves in the stuccoed walls—“are members of the Webster family. That’s Harris Webster’s grandmother, Mary Castle, who was a Chickasaw. The Webster family goes way back to Indian Territory days when Caleb Webster married Mary Castle. Mr. Webster—”

  There was reverence in her voice and Nela had no doubt she referred to the foundation’s benefactor, Harris Webster.

  “—honored his Chickasaw heritage when he named the foundation Haklo. That’s Chickasaw for to listen. That’s what we do. We listen to the requests from our community and respond. Our grants fund agricultural research, rancher certification programs, wildlife and fisheries management, biofuel studies with an emphasis on switchgrass, seminars of interest to farmers and ranchers, and, of course, we support the arts, including grants and scholarships to students, artists, musicians, a local nonprofit art gallery, and particular programs and faculty at Craddock College. And we have our wonderful outreach with the historical exhibits that we create ourselves.”

  Pink tinged her cheeks. Her eyes glowed with enthusiasm. She gestured at the east wing. “That way is the director’s office and conference rooms and the foundation library. The catering office and kitchen are at the far end. The other staff offices and an auditorium are upstairs. Aren’t the stairs beautiful?”

  Twin tiled stairways with wrought iron railings curved on either side of the fountain area.

  They left the rotunda and walked toward the end of the main cross hall. “In the morning, I’ll take you around early to meet—”

  A rattle of footsteps clicked behind them on one of the curving stairways.

  Louise stiffened. Her eyes flared in alarm.

  Nela realized the executive secretary was afraid. Louise had said she was alone in the building.

  A man spoke in a high tenor voice, the ample space of the rotunda magnifying the sound. “…don’t know what the bitch will do next.”

  Louise exhaled in relief but again bright pink touched her cheeks, this time from dismay.

  A softer, more precise male voice replied. “Let it go, Robbie.”

  “I won’t let it go. I won’t ever let it go.”

  Louise gripped Nela’s elbow, tugged, and began to speak, lifting her voice, as she hurried Nela back toward the reception desk. “I forgot to show you the sculpture of Mr. Webster.”

  Two men came around the curve of the stairwell. The older man’s silver hair was a mane, matched by an equally dramatic silver handlebar mustache. A black cape swirled as he moved, accentuating the white of a pullover sweater and matching black flannel trousers and black boots.

  Nela was reminded of a drama professor from summer school between her junior and senior years. When he quoted from a play, a character came alive, robust, individual, memorable. He had been fun and she’d enjoyed every moment of the class.

  His companion was younger, with perfectly coiffed thick blond hair and a smoothly handsome face now soured by a scowl. He was more conventionally dressed in a black turtleneck and blue jeans.

  Nela knew instantly that they were a couple. There was that sense of physical connection that imbued all unions, whether heterosexual or homosexual.

  Louise bustled forward to meet them at the foot of the stairs. She smiled at the older man. “Erik, it’s wonderful to see you.” She gestured toward Nela. “I want you to meet Nela Farley. She’s taking her sister’s place this week while Chloe is on her great adventure. Nela, this is Erik Judd and Robbie Powell.” There was the slightest hesitation and a flick of a glance at Erik, then Louise said hurriedly, “Robbie is our director of public relations.” She looked at the younger man. “Robbie, you scared me. I didn’t know anyone else was here. I didn’t hear your car come into the lot.”

  “We’re in Erik’s Porsche. He insisted on parking in the visitors’ lot.” Robbie’s tone was petulant.

  Louise looked dismayed. “Oh, Erik, you are always welcome here.”

  Erik smoothed back a silver curl. “Since we’re in my car, I thought it was more appropriate to park in the visitors’ lot. I use the visitors’ lot now when I do research here.” But his smile was friendly. “It’s good to see you, Louise, and to meet Nela.” His nod was gracious.

  Robbie managed a smile for Nela. “Thanks for filling in for Chloe. I hope you’ll enjoy your time with us.”

  The two men walked toward the front doorway, Robbie leading. As Robbie opened the heavy door, a gust of cold air swirled inside. Erik Judd’s cape billowed.

  Louise turned back to Nela and picked up their conversation as if there had been no interruption. “Rosalind will buzz you about midmorning Monday to deliver the mail. She’ll have everything sorted. Start with Miss Webster.”

  Clearly, Louise had no intention of discussing Erik and Robbie or explaining the odd emphasis on the visitors’ lot.

  “Now”—Louise sounded brighter—“let’s look at the east wing.”

  Nela’s grasp of who worked where was hazy. However, there was no doubt of the pecking order. Miss Webster had the big front office at the west end of the central hall. Whoever worked in the east front office must also be a major player.

  Nela gestured at the door. “Is that the director’s office?”

  Louise drew in a sharp breath. “That was the office of our chief operating officer. She passed away last week. A dreadful accident.”

  Nela felt a moment of surprise that Marian Grant had outranked the foundation director in status. “Miss Grant’s office?”

  Louise stared at her, eyes wide.

  Of course, Chloe hadn’t bothered to explain where Nela would stay so Louise was startled by Nela’s knowledge. “I spent the night at Miss Grant’s apartment. Since Chloe e-mailed with Miss Grant’s sister in Australia about arranging matters here, Chloe volunteered to stay in the apartment and take care of Miss Grant’s cat until a home is found for him. I’m there while Chloe’s gone.” Unless, she qualified in her mind, someone tries to break in again. Nela almost told Louise about the entry in the night, but the secretary was staring at the office door in such obvious distress Nela didn’t want to add to her unhappiness. Certainly if she grieved for her lost coworker, it would upset her more to think the dead woman’s home had been invaded. And it would be unkind to ask Louise to take care of the Coach bag. A woman’s purse is very personal and Louise would have seen the bag many times.

  “Her belongings”—Louise’s voice shook a little—“need to be gathered up. Perhaps you can take care of that for us. I’ll arrange for some cartons. I can’t bear to think about it. Her personal trinkets…” She stopped and pressed her lips together. Louise cleared her throat. “We need to find out if Marian’s sister wants to have everything stored or shipped to her or perhaps disposed of.” She paused, said dully, “Disposed of…It’s dreadful to talk of Marian’s belongings that way. She was such a competent person. She knew everything. I don’t know how the foundation will manage without her. Her death is a huge loss. And to think of Marian of all people falling from her stairs! Ma
rian skied and jogged and climbed mountains. She wasn’t the least bit clumsy.” Her voice quivered with emotion, almost a touch of anger, as if Marian Grant had let them down. “But there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  Steve Flynn slid into the last booth in a line of red leatherette booths at Hamburger Heaven. On a Sunday night, choice for dinner in Craddock was limited to the usual suspects: McDonald’s, Sonic, Braum’s, Applebee’s, Olive Garden. The hometown restaurants closed after Sunday brunch except for Hamburger Heaven.

  The crowd was sparse. Sunday was a family evening. Steve was getting used to eating out alone. He dipped a French fry in the side of ranch dressing that he always ordered with his cheeseburger. He felt a flicker of amusement. Living on the wild side, ranch dressing instead of Heinz. His hand froze midway to his mouth.

  A dark-haired woman in her early twenties slipped onto a wooden seat at a nearby table. She was a stranger. Not that he could claim to know everyone in Craddock, but he knew most of her age and class. He had never seen her before, of that he was certain. He would not forget her. She wasn’t conventionally pretty. Her face was too thin with deep-set eyes, narrow nose, high cheekbones, and a delicate but firm chin. There were smudges beneath her brilliantly dark eyes. She carried with her an air of melancholy.

  She sat at a table close to him, but he had no doubt that though she was physically present, her thoughts were far away.

  His image and hers were reflected in the long mirror behind the counter, two people sitting by themselves, a burly redheaded man in an old sweater, an aloof and memorable dark-haired woman in a thin, cotton blouse.

  He didn’t know if he’d ever felt more alone.

  4

  Nela used to love Monday mornings, especially a Monday when she was on her way to work. Since Bill died, the world had been gray. She did what she was supposed to do. Sometimes she was able to plunge into a task and forget grayness for a while. Maybe taking over Chloe’s job, doing something different, would brighten her world. Sunday had been a long, sad day. She’d wandered about Craddock, ended up at Chloe’s Hamburger Heaven. But sitting there, eating food that she knew was good but that had no savor, she’d accepted the truth. Old sayings didn’t lie. Wherever you go, there you are. It didn’t matter if she was in LA or a small wind-blown town half a continent away, there she was, carrying with her the pain and sadness. At least today she had a job waiting for her among people with tasks and accomplishments. She would concentrate on the people she met, think about the things they did, push sadness and pain deep inside. She turned into the Haklo grounds, following a short line of cars.