What the Cat Saw

by Carolyn Hart

  There was a touch of frost in Dugan’s voice. “I’m not smart enough to see the possibility Abby Andrews was picked to be a fall guy?”

  Nela felt a sickening swoop of disappointment even though she’d expected Dugan to be hostile.

  Steve’s face looked suddenly tough. “You know me better than that. I know you look at everything. Always. We’re trying to help, Katie. Give us a chance.”

  “Maybe it would have been a help if you people had told me the truth from the start.” Dugan’s broad face was equally tough. “I got news for you, and not the kind to put in the Clarion. Everybody’s on my radar. Including your girlfriend.” Her cold gaze moved to Nela. “Maybe you found the necklace in the purse. Or maybe your sister asked you to take care of it, but you got cold feet. Maybe—”

  Her phone rang. She glanced at caller ID, picked up the receiver. “Dugan…So anybody who took a close look would find it?” She raised a dark eyebrow, looked sardonic. “Yeah. Check for prints. Want to bet nothing doing except for the owner’s? Test for a match on the stair rail. Right. Thanks.” She replaced the receiver. She turned to Nela, went back to her attack. “Or maybe you decided the necklace was too damn hot to keep. I learned a long time ago that a pretty face doesn’t mean squat. You could be lying your head off. Or you could be telling the truth down the line. If you are, then something strange is going on out at Haklo and that necklace is at the heart of it. If you left the necklace on Blythe Webster’s desk, the water gets muddy. We found the necklace in a filing cabinet in Abby Andrews’s office. The tip came in an anonymous note left on Blythe Webster’s desk. Traffic has been pretty busy in and out of her office, apparently. The upshot? Anybody could be the perp.” She looked steadily at Nela. “Including you.”

  But Nela was thinking. Paint flecks…“They found the skateboard, didn’t they? You told Louise to take the officers to Abby’s cabin and they found the skateboard there.”

  Dugan stiffened, like a hunter on point. “Lady, you seem to know everything. You know too much.”

  “You said to check for a match on the stair rail. What else could it be but the skateboard?” Nela tried to speak naturally, as if she didn’t see Jugs’s glowing eyes. “I read in the Clarion that there was a call claiming there was a skateboard on Marian Grant’s stairs. Abby claimed someone took her skateboard. Now it’s back. Doesn’t it figure after the necklace was planted in Abby’s office that the skateboard would be back?”

  “Next thing I know”—Dugan’s voice was sardonic—“you’ll be filling out an application to be a cop. Thanks, but I can figure out what may or may not have happened. If you’re telling the truth, I appreciate the fact that you came forward. If you’re lying to me, I won’t be fooled. Now”—and she looked from Nela to Steve and back again—“nothing said in this room is to be repeated, revealed, discussed—or printed. Go out the back way. I don’t want anybody seeing you two leaving here. If either one of you gets loose lips, you’ll be my guest at the county jail.” She stared hard at Nela. “Ask Steve about the county jail. It makes the city jail seem like a resort.”

  They stood in an alleyway behind city hall, a few feet from a row of trash cans.

  Nela hugged Chloe’s coat tight, warding off not only the cold but the chill of fear. “Somebody put that necklace in Abby’s office and the skateboard at her cabin. It has to be the killer. How else could the skateboard show up again? It’s diabolical. Abby said the skateboard was missing and now they’ve found it in her cabin. You heard what Dugan said. It was some place where it wasn’t hard to find.”

  Steve looked thoughtful. “Maybe the murderer got a little too cute. Katie will give a fish eye at how nice and easy the evidence is falling in her lap. But she won’t cross Abby off her list. There’s been a lot at this point, the obscene letter file in her computer, the necklace, the skateboard.” He hunched his shoulders against a cold gust.

  The wind was frosty on Nela’s face, tugged at Chloe’s big coat. “Your ears are red from the cold. You need a coat.”

  He grinned. “Last I heard they didn’t have an ear coat in my size.”

  Nela laughed and felt a surge of gratitude. Steve had made her laugh when she was half scared, half mad. But the laugh died away. She reached out, gripped his arm. “I’m sorry about everything, Steve. Katie Dugan was your friend. Now she doesn’t trust you.”

  “Katie’s got a big bark. She’ll figure things out. But we have to play it her way. You’d better get back to Haklo. I’ll drop by the station later in the day, see what the official line is. I’ll be over to see you tonight.” It was a statement. He paused. “Okay?” The tone was light, but his eyes were serious.

  “If you were smart”—her voice caught in her throat—“you’d stay away from me.”

  “Not,” he said quietly, “in this lifetime.” He reached out, gently framed her shoulders with big strong hands, turned her around. “Walk straight and you come out on Alcott. You can take it to Main.”

  She walked away without looking back, still feeling the strength of his grip on her shoulders, and knew he stood, red hair stirred by the wind, ears red with cold, hands jammed in his pockets, and watched until she reached the end of the alley.

  Nela put the McDonald’s sack with a cheeseburger and fries on Chloe’s desk. She glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes after one. She stepped to the connecting door to Louise’s office, ready to apologize for her lateness.

  Louise sat at her desk, but she wasn’t working. She stared out the window, her pale face lined and unhappy, unaware of Nela’s presence. Indeed, she seemed to be very far away, sunk in a somber reverie. One hand fingered the collar of her pink blouse. The pink added a note of cheer to her gray jacket and skirt.

  Nela said quietly, “Excuse me, Louise. I’m sorry I’m late getting back from lunch.” She could eat while she worked if Louise had some tasks for her.

  “It doesn’t matter. I won’t need you now. I’m”—she appeared to make an effort to be matter-of-fact—“going to look over some materials this afternoon. I’ll need to concentrate. Please shut the door.”

  Nela was dismissed. She nodded and closed the door. She settled at Chloe’s desk, ate without tasting the food.

  Her phone buzzed. “Nela Farley.”

  Rosalind McNeill’s words tumbled. “Everything’s off schedule.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “After somebody dropped that anonymous letter on the T’s desk, she quizzed me like she was a private eye. But she didn’t waste any time calling the cops. First thing I know, they’re trooping in the front door and the T’s waiting for them like she’s a commissar. When they found the necklace in Abby’s office, I thought I was in a Brad Pitt movie. You know how the cops whisked Abby off in a cruiser? I thought they’d lock her up and throw away the key. Not so. Abby and Hollis just got back. They came in the front door, which is crazy, too, but everything’s jigsaw today. Maybe if the cops take you away, the cops bring you back. I’ll bet the director was right behind them in his snazzy Cadillac sports car. The T bought the Caddy for him, said it was more appropriate than the old Ford he used to drive. Anyway, they came in the front, Hollis looking like Sir Galahad and Abby clinging to his arm, pretty much in a Victorian swoon. She hung back, kept saying she couldn’t bear to be here, and he was all manly and stiff upper lip that she was innocent and the innocent don’t have anything to fear. So she sucked it up and they went down the hall and she turned to go to her office—”

  Nela heard steps in the hall and looked up in time to see Abby Andrews walk past. Abby stared straight ahead. Porcelain-perfect face pale, shoulders tight, she looked young, vulnerable, and scared.

  “—and Hollis marched into the T’s office and closed the door. A closed door at Haklo means something pretty stiff. Anyway, I guess we have to keep on keepin’ on. Neither hail nor sleet nor cops nor damsel in distress can stay the appointed rounds, so if you’ve got a minute you might drop around and get the mail. I’ve got everything sorted.”

 
Nela hadn’t given the morning mail delivery a thought after Blythe summoned her. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right there.”

  The long blue plastic tray, almost three-fourths full of envelopes, rested on top of the horseshoe-shaped reception counter. Rosalind looked up with a smile and bounced to her feet, her brown eyes excited. The soft splash of water in the tiled fountain between the reception desk and the French windows to the courtyard was cheerful, a restful counterpoint to Rosalind’s vitality. Before Nela could pick up the tray, Rosalind leaned on the counter, looking eager. “Did Louise fill you in on the cabin?”

  “The cabin?” Everyone standing in the hallway outside Abby’s office this morning heard Dugan ask for permission to search Abby’s cabin, but Nela maintained a look of polite inquiry. “She didn’t say anything about it.”

  “Well”—Rosalind looked around to be sure no one was near—“when the officers came through here, one of them—the tall, skinny one—was carrying something in a big billowy plastic sleeve and I’ll bet I know what it was.” She looked triumphant. She didn’t wait for Nela’s response. “Abby’s skateboard was supposed to be missing. Well, they found it—I guess in her cabin—and I’d like to know the story behind that.”

  “Someone could have taken the skateboard and put it back.”

  Rosalind squeezed her face in thought. “Someone else here at Haklo?”

  “Who wrote the anonymous letter? You can bet it wasn’t Abby.”

  Rosalind’s eyes were huge. She looked uneasy. “I guess somebody doesn’t like Abby very much.”

  As Nela walked down the hall, the plastic tray balanced on one hip, she wondered, was there bitter enmity toward Abby? There had certainly been an effort to focus blame on her, the file in her computer, the use of her brother’s skateboard to commit murder, the discovery of the necklace in her office, the reappearance of the missing skateboard. Was Abby a target simply because she made a good scapegoat? Or was she a vandal, thief, and murderer? Did she really care for Hollis Blair or was she willing to see his career jeopardized so that she could steal a quarter-million-dollar necklace? However, there was the clear fact that Abby’s latest problems had been caused by an anonymous letter. Did Abby have a gambler’s instinct and the guts to do a double bluff, write a note that accused her, then use the fact of the note to assert innocence? Had she decided the necklace was too dangerous to keep and well worth sacrificing to escape an accusation of murder?

  Nela pictured the strained face of the girl walking toward her office. Abby had been oblivious to Nela sitting at Chloe’s desk so Abby’s expression wasn’t formed with the expectation of presenting an air of innocence. But she had good reason to be fearful, whether innocent or guilty.

  Nela stopped at Blythe’s closed door. She knocked, then turned the knob. She felt an instant of déjà vu. Monday morning she’d stepped inside with the mail, interrupting a tense conversation between the trustee and the director. This afternoon, she walked in on the two of them again.

  There was a decided difference today. Blythe was nodding, her expression reassuring. Hollis had the air of a man unexpectedly encountering good fortune. His bony, appealing face was grateful. “…appreciate your understanding. Like I told Abby, we’ll get to the bottom of everything.”

  “Excuse me, may I leave the mail?” Nela hesitated in the doorway.

  Blythe nodded and waved at the in-box. A ruby ring flashed as red as her crimson suit.

  Hollis unfolded from the chair. Despite his lanky height, he looked very young as he gazed down at Blythe. “I’ll tell Abby. I told her to rest for a while, then go up to the lab. She’ll feel better if she keeps busy, and there are a bunch of donations to catalog. Knowing you’re behind her will be a huge relief.”

  “Hollis, I think you may be right that Abby is innocent.” Blythe was thoughtful. “Things certainly look black against her but it’s silly to think she’d hide the necklace, then put a note on my desk saying the necklace was hidden in her office. And if she did hide the necklace, who could possibly have known about it?”

  Just for an instant, his jaw was rigid. “The whole idea that she’d do anything dishonest is outrageous. As for the police, I think even that hard-faced woman detective is having second thoughts. We were waiting for her. Then, when she came in, she hadn’t really started when someone buzzed her and she left. When she came back, she didn’t say a word about Abby being a person of interest or give a warning. If she had, I would have said nothing doing ’til we got a lawyer. I still think maybe I should see about a lawyer. Instead, she said she just had a few factual questions. I thought”—he was earnest—“that it was all right for Abby to answer those. Dugan asked a few questions, then said we could go.” He was like a man who receives an unexpected bonus check in the mail and wonders if it’s for real. “I know you expected the worst.” His lopsided smile was rueful. “I wish you could have seen your face when I walked in and said we were back. You looked like you’d seen a ghost. So, now we have to hope the cops turn up the truth.” He turned away from the desk and moved past Nela with a brief nod.

  Blythe’s smile faded as he stepped into the hall. She looked tired and grim.

  Nela placed a half-dozen letters and several mailers in the upper box, but she didn’t turn away. “Miss Webster, may I speak to you?”

  Blythe looked at Nela in surprise. Until this moment, Nela knew her presence had scarcely registered with the trustee. Nela might have been a robot carrying out assigned duties. “Yes?” Her response was clipped. Clearly she was impatient, in no mood to waste time with Nela.

  Nela knew she was taking a gamble, but as Gram always pointed out, “Sure, the answer can be no, but it will never be yes if you don’t ask.” Nela was glad she’d chosen her best blouse and the skirt that swirled as she walked. If nothing else, she felt more confident and professional. She placed the tray on the corner of Blythe’s desk, noted the slight thinning of the trustee’s lips. She also shed, just a little, the deference of a minimum wage employee. “Miss Webster, I was between assignments at home and I was glad to be able to come to Craddock and take Chloe’s place while she’s gone. I’m an investigative reporter—”

  There was a flare of alarm in Blythe’s eyes. Certainly Nela now had her full attention.

  “—which makes me skilled at asking questions and discovering facts. I can help you protect the foundation.”

  Blythe frowned, her thin dark brows drawn down. Her brown eyes had a hard stare. “How?” The demand was sharp. “There have been too many stories already. I’m sick of stories about Haklo.” There was a distinct chill in her tone.

  Nela realized Blythe thought Nela was threatening to write an exposé revealing that only a member of the Haklo staff could have committed some, if not all, the acts of vandalism, including the destruction in Marian Grant’s office.

  “I’m not talking about writing a story. Here’s what we”—she placed a slight emphasis on the noun—“can do.”

  As Blythe listened, her rigid body relaxed and she no longer looked wary.

  Steve Flynn’s freckled face was thoughtful. As far as Katie Dugan was concerned, he and Nela hadn’t been in her office, certainly had not heard her conversation with the officers searching Abby’s cabin. But she’d tipped her hand when she’d dryly commented that there likely wouldn’t be any prints but to check with the paint flecks on the stair rail. Nela had instantly made the connection. Katie had neither confirmed nor denied Nela’s guess that the missing skateboard had been found. To get the quotes he wanted from Katie for a story, he had to have some outside ammunition.

  Steve punched his speakerphone.

  “Hey, Steve. How’s everything?” Robbie Powell’s voice was smooth and bland.

  “Doing a roundup on the latest at Haklo.” Steve was equally smooth. “What’s the statement about this morning?”

  Robbie was too much of a pro to stammer and stutter. Instead, he was silent for an appreciable moment. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Haklo Trustee Blythe
Webster this morning received an anonymous letter suggesting that her missing necklace was hidden in a staff office. Police were summoned. The necklace was found and is currently being held by police as evidence.”

  “Whose office?”

  “That information has not been released.”

  “And the further search?” Robbie might assume Steve’s information came from the police. But if the point ever arose, Steve certainly hadn’t made that claim.

  Robbie didn’t question the fact that Steve knew about the second search. “I have not spoken with a police officer. Haklo Foundation remains confident that the police investigation will be successful.” A pause. “If you have further questions, please contact Detective Dugan.” The connection ended.

  The delivery of mail afforded Nela quick glimpses of staff members, to whom, after a perfunctory nod, she became invisible, cloaked in the comfortable anonymity of a cog in the well-oiled Haklo machine.

  Louise Spear, sunk in apathy, held a folder at which she gazed with empty eyes. The brightness of the Baranovs’ print seemed almost shocking in contrast to the paleness of her face.

  Abby Andrews hunched at a desk covered with a welter of papers in her small, spare, utilitarian office. Her young face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed.

  In the east hallway, Hollis Blair’s office was not as large as either Blythe Webster’s or Marian Grant’s, but still imposing, with red velvet drapes, oak-paneled walls, a broad oak desk, a sofa and several easy chairs grouped on either side of a shiny aluminum coffee table. Filled bookcases lined one wall. Seated at his desk, he spoke into the speakerphone, his face grim. “I don’t want a criminal lawyer. That looks bad, like she might be guilty. You’ve represented the foundation for years—”