What the Cat Saw

by Carolyn Hart

  “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 th
en 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.

  Whatever the reason for the search, Nela knew she had to do something about the purse that now rested behind a stack of cat food in Marian Grant’s kitchen cabinet. Nela’s situation was untenable. If she admitted she’d searched Miss Grant’s purse and not mentioned to anyone what she’d found, it would be difficult to explain the fact that she’d hidden the purse. If she kept quiet, it would be devastating if anyone found the hidden purse.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in.” Blythe spoke firmly.

  The door opened and a dark-haired young woman stepped inside. She kept her gaze fastened on Blythe’s face. “Miss Webster, I found the file.”

  Blythe’s fingers curled around the double strand of pearls at her throat. “Which computer, Penny?”

  The young IT tech looked uncomfortable. “The computer is in the office assigned to Abby Andrews.”

  Abby gave a choked cry. Her face flushed, then turned pale. She came to her feet, held out a trembling hand. “I never wrote anything like that. Never. I wouldn’t hurt the foundation.” She ignored Blythe, turned instead toward Hollis Blair, her gaze beseeching.

  Hollis stood, too. His bony face flushed. “Of course you didn’t. Someone else used your computer, Abby.”

  Blythe studied Abby. Her gaze was interested, neither supportive nor accusing. “Sit down, Abby, Hollis.” She waited until both of them took their seats. Blythe’s cameo-perfect face was composed.

  Nela wondered if it was inherent in Blythe’s nature to exercise control. She also wondered if the trustee knew that she was diminishing both Hollis and Abby with her cool instruction. Sit down, children.

  Blythe continued in a measured voice. “Remain calm. There’s no proof Abby created the file. There’s no proof Abby didn’t. Let’s explore the possibilities.” She nodded at the IT staffer. “When was the file created?”

  “Thursday at eleven oh eight p.m.” Penny Crawford carefully did not glance toward Abby.

  “I was in my cabin.” Abby’s voice was defiant. “I was by myself. I had no reason to come here at night.”

  Cole Hamilton peered at the assistant curator. “It requires a password to access a computer.” The question was implicit.

  Robbie looked relieved, almost complacent. “They say you always leave an electronic footprint. This may explain all the trouble we’ve had this winter.”

  Abby swung toward him, her thin face stricken. “I didn’t create that file. It’s a lie. Why would I do something like that? If anyone had reason to cause trouble for Dr. Blair, it’s you. You and your boyfriend.”

  Nela realized that the usual office veneer had been stripped away. It was an unpleasant scene, but she watched each one, hoping that one of them might reveal something to explain the necklace in Marian’s purse.

  Robbie’s smooth face turned to stone. “If Cole’s worried about the taint of immorality, maybe we should start at the top. With our new director and his girlfriend.”

  “Let’s all stop saying things we’ll regret.” Peter Owens’s voice was calm.

  “Don’t be a bore, Peter.” Grace was amused. “This is more fun than The View. What’s wrong with some home truths? Everybody knows Robbie’s as inflated with venom as a puff adder since Erik got canned. The psychology’s a little twisted to tag Abby as the villainess but these days nothing surprises. She’s the director’s adoring slave even though the rest of us aren’t sure he’s up to the job. Of course, he responds. Maybe Abby caused the troubles so she could console him.” She turned to Abby. “You are living in one of the foundation’s guest cabins. I saw his car there very late one night. I told Blythe. But she didn’t do anything about it. Of course”—she shot a questioning look at her sister—“you were hell-bent to hire Hollis and you never, ever make a mistake, do you, Sister?” Grace didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s too bad Dad isn’t still around. Dad always had a rule about women in his office. He told everyone, ‘Don’t fool with the working stock,’ and in case you want to know what that means, a man in charge doesn’t screw the secretaries. They didn’t have assistant curators in those days. But the rule should be the same.”

  Hollis’s voice grated. “My private life and Abby’s private life have nothing to do with you or with the foundation. The suggestion that she’d create any kind of situation that would harm the foundation is absurd. That’s a nasty, twisted idea. If we’re going to consider who might be angry with the foundation or”—his glance at Blythe was measuring—“with Blythe, we don’t have far to look.” He looked directly at Robbie Powell.

  Robbie’s boyish face hardened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Grace laughed. “Come on, Robbie. Skip the hurt innocence. Be a big boy.” Her tone was chiding. “You started the toe-to-toe with Hollis when you suggested Abby was vandal-in-chief. Our director may not be able to keep his pants zipped, but he’s not a fool. If anybody wants to make a list of people pissed off at Blythe, you and your boyfriend clock in at one and two. Speaking of, how is our former director?”

  Robbie’s voice was clipped. “Erik’s working diligently on a definitive history of the foundation.”

  Nela sorted out the players in her mind. It was Erik in the cape who had opted to park in the visitors’ lot. Now she knew why.

  Robbie looked at Blythe. “The foundation should be ready to sign a contract for its publication.”

  Grace gave a hoot. “Don’t be a pushover, Blythe. Robbie’s trying to make you feel guilty because you booted Erik.”

  “Grace, please.” Blythe frowned at her sister. “It was time for the foundation to have younger leadership, a more forward-looking vision.” The words were smooth, automatic, meaningless.

  Robbie was strident. “Erik gave the best years of his life to the foundation. What thanks did he receive?”

  Grace looked amused. “I rest my case. Who hates you the most, Blythe? Erik or Robbie? I’d say it was a tie. We know Robbie can get in and out of the building. You can bet Erik still has his keys. Or he could easily filch Robbie’s.”

  “You have keys.” Robbie’s tone was hard. “You’ve been furious ever since Blythe vetoed the grant to the Sutton Gallery. The vandalism began the very next week. I hear th
e gallery might have to close down.”

  Nela moved her gaze from one cold face to another.

  “The gallery won’t close.” Grace spoke with icy precision. “I will make sure of that.”

  Blythe was impatient. “I insist we remain on topic. We have to deal with the file in Abby’s computer.” She turned toward the assistant curator. “An emotional response isn’t helpful. We will deal with facts.”

  Abby sent a desperate glance toward Hollis. She looked helpless, persecuted, and appealingly lovely.

  Nela didn’t know these people but the idea seemed to be that Abby and Hollis were lovers. If ever anyone had the aura of a heroine adrift on an ice floe, it was Abby. Her need for support could be genuine or could be calculated to bring out the defending male response of chivalry. There was no doubt the handsome, lanky director was charging to Abby’s defense. He gave her a reassuring smile. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. It’s unpleasant, but it has nothing to do with you, Abby.”

  Abby’s eyes never left his face.

  A skateboard disappeared from Abby’s porch. Whose skateboard? When did it disappear? Before Marian Grant fell to her death?

  Blythe wasn’t deflected. She tapped the folder. “Who knows your password?”

  Abby’s voice shook. “I don’t know. Someone must have gotten it somehow.”

  Blythe’s gaze sharpened. “Did you tell anyone your password?”

  “Never. Someone got it somehow.” Her violet eyes were dark with misery.

  Blythe looked skeptical. “How?”

  Francis Garth shifted his big body, rumbled, “Stop badgering her, Blythe.”

  Blythe massaged one temple. “My password’s written on a slip of paper in my desk drawer. Maybe—”

  Louise clapped her hands together. “Don’t you remember, Blythe? Marian kept a list of current passwords in case a computer needed to be accessed.” Louise looked excited. “We can check.” She turned to Nela. “Go to Marian’s office. She kept a small notebook with tabs in her right-hand desk drawer. Marian was always organized. Look under ps for password.”