What the Cat Saw

by Carolyn Hart

  Detective Dugan’s instinct was good. The necklace was the crux of everything. But Dugan was convinced that Chloe was the clever thief who’d created the vandalism as a diversion and that Nela was covering up for her. When Steve reported a tip about murder, Dugan might tab Chloe as a murderer as well as a thief.

  Nela put down her mug. She couldn’t count on the police investigation. But she wasn’t blinded by hometown loyalties. If Dugan wasn’t willing to look at the Haklo staff members as suspects, Nela was.

  Detective Dugan stood with arms folded. “All right.”

  Steve flicked on the speakerphone, punched for messages. He listened with a sense of relief. His whisper had been very well done, the faintly heard words sexless, unaccented wraiths that couldn’t be grasped. “Message received at eleven forty-two p.m. Monday:…Marian Grant was murdered…A skateboard on the second step…threw her over the railing…She knew who took the necklace…”

  Detective Dugan touched a number in her cell phone directory. “Mokie, get a trace on a call received at the Clarion last night at eleven forty-two. Send out a lab tech to One Willow Lane. Marian Grant died in a fall down the garage apartment stairs. Check for possible damage to the railing. Look for scratches, paint traces. If there is damage, get forensic evidence. Also measurements and photos. Thanks.”

  She turned to Steve. “Play the message again.” She listened with eyes half closed. At its end, she shook her head. “Can’t tell whether the caller was a man or a woman. Could have been anybody. No discernible accent.” Her eyes opened, settled on Steve. “Why you?”

  Steve was unruffled. “Goes with the territory. If you have a tip, call a reporter.”

  “Why last night?”

  Steve kept his expression faintly quizzical. “A big story in yesterday afternoon’s Clarion. It probably caught someone’s attention.”

  Katie’s face wrinkled in concentration. “I want to talk to that caller. Murder.” Her tone was considering. She squeezed her eyes in thought. “I figured all along that the necklace was the key and that Grant knew who took it. That explains the search of her office. The searcher messed everything up to try and make it look like more vandalism. The point has to be the necklace. A quarter of a million dollars is serious money. Let’s say Grant threatened to name the thief. People around her knew she jogged every morning. A skateboard on the steps couldn’t guarantee she’d be killed but the probability was good. Okay, the thief puts a skateboard on the steps then shows up around six fifteen, taking care not to be seen. If she was still alive, pressure on the carotid would dispatch her pronto. If she’s already dead, pick up the skateboard and melt away. Now, how could anyone except the murderer know about a skateboard on the steps? If someone did know, why keep quiet until now? Scared? Not sure? Maybe saw a skateboard in a weird place and decided Marian was too athletic to fall accidentally?” Her chin jutted. “I’ve got to find who made that call.”

  Steve felt uneasy. Murder made all kinds of sense, but he couldn’t figure out how Nela knew. If her sister had stolen the necklace and committed murder, Nela would never in a million years have told him about the skateboard. That she had revealed the skateboard affirmed her and Chloe’s innocence for him. But Nela had spent only one day at Haklo. Certainly no one would confide that kind of information to her. How the hell did Nela know?

  “Maybe”—and he knew he was dealing with his own worries—“you should hunt for somebody who has a skateboard.”

  Katie looked sardonic. “Who on the Haklo staff does wheelies? I’ll ask around.”

  In the Haklo staff lot, Nela felt a tiny spurt of amusement as she parked once again between the snazzy Thunderbird and the old Dodge. The Thunderbird, psychedelic VW, and prim Dodge surely made some kind of statement. But grim worry returned when she reached the walkway to the staff entrance and saw a police officer waiting there. Even though she knew the police would be called when the necklace was found, her stomach tightened. She walked a little faster. Anyone would be curious, right? She came to a stop and looked up the shallow flight of steps.

  Officer Baker’s faded red hair curled becomingly under her cap. “Good morning, ma’am.” She held the door open. “Please go directly to the conference room in the east wing.”

  Nela stopped and stared. Any innocent person would. “What’s happened?”

  Officer Baker was pleasant. “Miss Webster has asked that everyone report to the conference room. Detective Dugan wishes to speak with staff members.”

  In the conference room, Louise Spear stood at the head of the table, her brown eyes anxious. “Nela, please make coffee for us. I suppose the police know something now about Marian’s office.”

  As Nela measured beans, placed them in the grinder of the coffeemaker, she heard low voices around the edge of the partition, several asking Louise about the purpose of the meeting. She listened, making out what words she could. So far, no one had mentioned the necklace. Nela was surprised that Blythe Webster hadn’t told Louise of her discovery. Perhaps Louise knew and had been told not to mention the necklace.

  While the coffee was brewing, Nela glanced around the partition. In addition to the staff members present yesterday, Rosalind McNeill, eyes bright with excitement, sat toward the end of the table next to the imposing white-haired chef. The receptionist was clearly delighted by the change in routine. The chef’s brown eyes had the remote expression of someone in attendance but thinking of something else. A difficult recipe?

  Nela added two more mugs. When the coffeemaker pinged, Nela filled mugs and carried the tray around the table. When she’d served those who accepted, she returned the tray and the carafe to the kitchenette, then settled on the straight chair a little to one side of the long table.

  Once again Haklo staff was in place. She had a quick memory of Casablanca, another of Gram’s favorite movies, and Captain Renault’s wry, “Major Strasser has been shot. Round up the usual suspects.”

  Blythe Webster looked like a woman who had received shocking news, her eyes wide and staring. The fingers of one hand plucked at the pearl necklace at her throat. Cole Hamilton’s aging Kewpie doll face wavered between indignation, worry, and perplexity. Francis Garth looked immovable as a monolith, his gaze somber, his heavy shoulders hunched. Abby Andrews twined a strand of blond hair around one finger, her violet eyes uneasy as she looked from the detective to the director. Hollis Blair gave Abby a swift, warm look before his bony face once again settled into ridges of concern. Grace Webster noticed the exchange with cool disapproval. Robbie Powell wasn’t as youthfully handsome this morning. His green eyes darted around the room. His face thoughtful, Peter Owens propped an elbow on the table, gently swung his horn rims back and forth. Rosalind McNeill had the air of a woman awaiting the start of a performance. The chef stared unseeingly toward the buffalo mural.

  The door opened and Detective Dugan entered, trim in a stylish white wool blazer and black wool slacks. Detective Morrison followed, tape recorder in hand. In comparison with his fashionable superior, he looked down-at-the-heels in a baggy gray sweater and too large plaid wool slacks. He closed the hall door. Dugan stopped a few feet from the table and turned her gaze to Blythe.

  Blythe looked at her with hollow eyes and nodded.

  Dugan looked around the room, waited for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen.” Her voice was smooth with no hint of threat. “We are continuing our investigation into a series of events at the foundation, including vandalism and theft. However, our investigation has taken a much more serious turn. We have received a report on good authority”—Dugan paused for emphasis—“that Marian Grant was murdered.”

  Louise Spear gave a cry. “That can’t be.” She touched her throat with a shaking hand.

  “Murdered?” Grace Webster’s round face was incredulous. “She fell down the stairs.”

  Dugan stared at the younger Webster sister. “It may be that a device placed on the stairs caused her to fall. Therefore, when I ask questions, I want each of you to understand that we
are seeking information leading to a murderer. It is the duty of the innocent to answer truthfully and accurately. Detective Morrison will record this meeting. When you respond to a question, please preface your answer with your name.”

  If possible, Abby Andrews shrank even farther into her chair. Hollis Blair looked dazed. Cole Hamilton’s face screwed up in dismay. Robbie Powell sat rigid in his chair. The horn rims in Peter Owens’s hand came to a stop, remained unmoving. Rosalind’s mouth curved in an astonished O. The chef remained imperturbable.

  “Murder?” Cole’s voice rose is disbelief. “That’s impossible. How can you make such a claim? It was dark. Marian had on new running shoes. She fell.”

  “Forensic evidence supports the claim that her fall may have been caused by a foreign object placed on the second step.” Dugan’s gaze briefly touched each face.

  Nela pictured that telltale scrape on the baluster. Dugan had wasted no time. Obviously, she had already received a report. Had a police officer viewed the scarred surface, possibly brought a skateboard, experimented to see if pressure on one end tilted the board enough for the tip to strike at that level?

  Francis Garth cleared his throat. “Detective Dugan, I’d like to clarify our position. Is there a presumption by police that those present in this room are considered to be suspects in the as yet unproven murder of Marian Grant? If so, please explain how that conclusion has been reached.”

  Nela sensed both fear and indignation in the room.

  “This investigation is focused”—Dugan’s tone was firm—“on those who have keys to Haklo Foundation. Significant force would be required to break into Haklo. Yesterday when police arrived to investigate the search of Marian Grant’s office, there was no evidence of forcible entry. We believe the search of her office was connected to the theft of Miss Webster’s necklace. We believe Miss Grant had proof of the identity of the thief. This information may have led to murder. Miss Grant may have said the incident would be overlooked if the necklace was returned and the vandalism ceased. From what we understand, Miss Grant was always mindful of the Haklo Foundation’s stature in the community. We think she was trying to protect the foundation. Possibly she told the thief that she had evidence hidden away and gave the thief a deadline. Since there is now evidence that her death was not an accident, we can reasonably assume a connection between her death and the search of her office.”

  Nela spoke out forcefully. “Someone also searched the living room of her apartment Friday night.”

  The detective’s cold eyes paused at Nela.

  Nela understood that Dugan still thought it was possible that the 911 call from Marian’s apartment was phony. Dugan included Nela and Chloe among possible suspects. But if Nela and Chloe were the main suspects, what was the point of this inquiry? Did Dugan hope for some kind of damaging information about Chloe to surface? And why hadn’t Dugan mentioned the return of the necklace? Nela clenched her hands, saw Dugan take note. She forced her hands to go limp, knew that movement had been cataloged as well.

  Dugan continued smoothly. “We believe the person who took the necklace either searched Miss Grant’s office or arranged for such a search.” Again a quick glance at Nela. “That person had a key to the foundation.” She glanced down at a note card. “I have here a list of every person who has a key. Three people with keys are known to have been out of town this past weekend and their absence has been confirmed. Everyone in this room has a key. The final person who may have a key or access to a key”—she glanced at Robbie Powell—“is the former director, Erik Judd.”

  Robbie frowned. “Erik would never use his key to enter for any reason other than work.”

  “He has a key?”

  Robbie was bland. “Yes. He’s engaged in research here at Haklo for his history of the foundation.”

  “I understand Mr. Judd resented being fired.”

  Robbie shook his head. “Actually, he’s welcomed the time to be able to concentrate on his writing.”

  “Why was he fired?” Dugan’s tone was pleasant but her eyes sharp.

  There was an uncomfortable pause.

  Dugan’s cool gaze moved to Blythe.

  Blythe looked stubborn. “Erik was getting old and he wasn’t very exciting. After all, he’s in his fifties.” She spoke as if it were a greatly distant age. “I wanted someone to lead Haklo to a new level, give us vision. I know Erik was disappointed, but he has a pension. And we’ll publish his history.”

  Robbie said nothing.

  Nela saw the twitch of one eyelid. Robbie was keeping anger over his lover’s dismissal under wraps, but she had no doubt that beneath his smooth surface he harbored intense dislike for Hollis. She needed to find out more about both Erik and Robbie.

  Cole brushed back a white curl. “Erik dealt with problems quickly. I think it’s disappointing that Hollis hasn’t made any progress on clearing up these matters.” There was a flash of malice in his eyes.

  “Erik could not have done more than Hollis has, Cole.” There was an edge to Blythe’s voice. “Hollis is in no way responsible for the dreadful things that have happened. His energy and enthusiasm have inspired us all.” Blythe gave Hollis Blair a reassuring nod. “Anyway, vandalism doesn’t matter now. If someone hurt Marian, we have to find out what happened. As for that necklace, I don’t care if I ever see it again.”

  Nela was puzzled. The necklace was on Blythe’s desk this morning. Had she turned the jewelry over to the police? Was that her meaning?

  “I’ve told Detective Dugan that we will do everything we can to find out the truth of this”—she paused—“anonymous call that claims Marian was killed. I have to say it doesn’t seem likely to me. But it is now a police matter.” She was somber but there was no suggestion of personal distress.

  Nela studied Blythe’s composed face. Where was sorrow? Where was outrage? Blythe spoke like a woman directing a meeting and a troublesome issue had arisen. Marian Grant had been a part of Haklo since its inception. She had been important to Webster Harris…

  Nela looked toward Grace Webster. She appeared shocked and uneasy, but again there wasn’t the flare of sorrow and anger that would follow after learning of a cherished friend’s murder.

  Louise held tight to the gold chain at her neck. “This is dreadful. Nothing matters except Marian. Marian was part of our lives, the heart of Haklo. There’s a picture in her office of Webster breaking a champagne bottle on the front pillar when the building was first opened and Marian clapping and laughing out loud. When I was with her, I almost felt that Webster would walk in the room any minute.” Louise’s face crumpled in misery. She looked up and down the table. “All of us have to answer the detective’s questions. We have to tell the detective everything we know. For Marian.”

  “Of course we will,” Francis responded.

  Nela looked at the Webster sisters. Neither Blythe nor Grace spoke. Nela knew then that Steve had been right when he spoke of a small town’s suspicion of an affair between Harris and Marian. It would be interesting to check the oil man’s will. Nela had no doubt that Harris had made certain that Marian would remain as chief operating officer. Blythe and Grace had very likely long lived with hidden resentment.

  Grace gave her sister a searching look, then said rapidly, “If anyone knows anything, speak up.”

  Blythe nodded. “Absolutely. We have a duty to aid the police.”

  A duty, but no impassioned call for justice from either Grace or Blythe.

  The emotion came from Louise Spear. She pressed her fingertips against her cheeks. Her lips trembled. Hollis Blair’s bony face looked haggard. Abby Andrews sent quick, panicked glances around the room. Francis Garth’s heavy head moved until his dark eyes fastened on Peter Owens. Peter felt the glance and his professorial face hardened. Robbie Powell frowned, seemed to withdraw. Cole Hamilton was the picture of worried concern. Rosalind placed fingertips against her lips. The chef alone seemed unaffected, though her brown eyes were curious.

  “We’ll get star
ted.” Dugan glanced around the table. “Among those who work in this building, including any not present today, who—”

  Nela sensed danger. Dugan wasn’t confining her inquiry to this room. Was the expanded field—anyone with a connection to the foundation—a clever way to apply the question to Chloe?

  “—possesses a skateboard or has ever been seen with a skateboard?”

  Francis Garth’s heavy head turned toward Abby Andrews. Peter Owens, too, stared at the assistant curator. Hollis Blair’s bony face creased in dismay.

  Abby pushed back her chair, came to her feet. She turned toward Hollis. “Someone’s—”

  “Name first.” Dugan was forceful.

  “Abby Andrews.” She looked at the detective pleadingly. “Someone’s trying to get me in trouble. They used my computer for those awful letters. And now a skateboard. Ask anyone. My little brother was here for a visit and he forgot his skateboard. It was on the porch of the cabin. It disappeared last week.”

  Dugan took a step nearer the table. “Describe the skateboard.”

  “It’s black with orange stripes.”

  “When did you last see it?” The question came fast.

  “The Saturday”—Abby looked frightened—“before Marian died.”

  “Where?” Curt, short, demanding.

  “On the front porch of the cabin. It was propped up by the door.”

  “There are four cabins on the grounds west of the main building. You are the only person currently occupying a cabin.”

  Her violet eyes huge with fear, Abby nodded.

  “When did he leave the board on the porch?”

  “Craig was here the week before.”

  “Who would have occasion to see the skateboard on the porch?”

  “Anybody. Everybody. Blythe had all the staff members out to the cabin next door to discuss redoing the interiors. They passed my cabin to go inside. The skateboard was right there in plain sight.” Her voice wobbled but the challenge was clear.