What the Cat Saw (14 page)

Jade Marlow rounded out the lot. Steve didn’t glance toward her desk. He was aware of her. Very aware. The new features reporter, Jade was a recent J-school grad, good, quick, smart, glossily lovely, a tall slender blonde, curvy in all the right places, sure she was going big places. She’d been inviting, but he had simply given her a cool blue look and walked away and now she avoided him. That was good. He looked at her and he saw Gail—beautiful, confident, blond, smart, and a producer wanted to see more of her. How much more? Did she get the role? Or was she playing a different kind of role? He didn’t give a damn. Not anymore. He wrenched his mind back to the newsroom.

Around the corner from the sports desk was the lair of the
Clarion
photographer, Alex Hill. Pudgy and always disheveled, Alex handled a Nikon D3S as delicately as a surgeon with a scalpel.

Steve felt pumped. It wasn’t the
LA Times
newsroom, but, in its own way, it was better. That’s why he didn’t mind spending part of every day in the publisher’s office. Maybe Dad would come back. Right now he still had only a trace of movement on his right side and his speech was jerky and sometimes unintelligible. It was up to Steve to make sure the
Clarion
kept on keeping on. Ads were the paper’s lifeblood. He went to all the service clubs meetings. He renewed old friendships, made new ones. He rode herd on ads and circulation and the aged heating system and the printing press that might need to be replaced. A memo from the business office recommended switching paper purchase to a mill in India. He’d worry about that tomorrow. Right now he was pleased with his afternoon. A good story, would probably run above the fold.

Steve clicked send and looked across the room at a trim, white-haired woman. As the file arrived, she half turned from her computer screen to give him a thumbs-up. Mim Barlow, the city editor, had worked at the
Clarion
since Steve was a little boy. She knew everyone in town, insisted on accuracy, and sensed news like a hawk spotting a rabbit. She was blunt, brusque, stone-faced, and scared the bejesus out of kid reporters. She was tough, but her toughness masked a crusader’s heart. She’d helped break a story about abuse at a local nursing home that resulted in two criminal convictions and the closure of the home. The night Mim received the Oklahoma Press Association’s Beachy Musselman Award for superior journalism, she’d walked back to the table carrying the plaque and taken her seat to thunderous applause. She’d bent closer to him. “If I’d sent the reporter out a month sooner—I’d heard some stuff at the beauty shop—maybe that frail little woman wouldn’t have died. Good, Steve, but not good enough. I was busy with that series on
the county commissioners and that road by the Hassenfelt farm. I let little get in the way of big.”

Maybe it was being around Mim that made him look at people’s faces and sometimes see more than anyone realized. He’d looked at a lot of faces today. One stood out, a face he wouldn’t forget. He’d seen her last night at Hamburger Heaven. He’d watched her leave with regret, wishing that someday, somehow he would see her again, damning himself as a fool to be enchanted simply because a beautiful, remote woman sat at a nearby table and her loneliness spoke to his.

Today he had seen her again.

He reached for his laptop, checked his notes. Cornelia Farley, called Nela. Pronounced
Nee-la
. Pretty name. Glossy black hair that looked as if it would be soft to the touch, curl around his fingers. He’d known last night that he wouldn’t forget her face and bewitching eyes that held depths of feeling.

She’d been the last to be interviewed by Dugan. As staff members exited the police interview, Steve queried them. All had “no comment” except Robbie Powell, who promised to provide an official statement. Powell refused to confirm or deny that Blythe Webster had declared a news blackout. Steve remained in the hall asking questions, though now he knew there would be no answers.

When Nela came out of the room, she’d walked fast, never noticed him standing nearby. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. She moved like a woman in a hurry.

Last night she’d been ice. This afternoon she was fire.

He wanted to know why.

She’d moved past him. He would have followed but he had a job to do. Brisk steps sounded and he’d turned to Dugan.

“Hey, Katie.” He’d known Katie Dugan since he was a high school
kid nosing after the city hall reporter and she was a new patrol officer. “Let’s run through the various incidents here at the foundation.”

The blockbuster was the revelation of the theft of Blythe Webster’s two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar necklace. Katie had been grim about the fact that no report had been made at the time. She’d related the disparate incidents, including a somewhat vague reference to misuse of foundation stationery. She’d balked at explaining how the stationery had been used, but she’d provided a detailed description of the necklace: diamonds set in eighteen-karat gold acanthus leaves connected by gold links. He’d come back to the office knowing he had a front-page story.

Now he’d finished his story but he couldn’t forget Nela Farley. He had seen her in profile as he left Haklo, sitting at her desk, working on a computer, but her face spoke of thoughts far afield. There was a determined set to her jaw. Now he looked across the room at the city desk, gave an abrupt nod, and came to his feet. As he passed Mim’s desk, he jerked a thumb in the general direction of Main Street. “Think I’ll drop by the cop shop.”

Mim’s sharp gray eyes brightened. “You got a hunch?”

“Maybe.” Maybe he felt the tug of a story behind a story. Nela Farley’s interview with Katie Dugan had transformed her. As a newcomer to town, her involvement at Haklo should have been peripheral. But he knew he cared about more than the story. He wanted to know Nela Farley. Maybe he was not going to let the little get in the way of the big.

A
t four thirty, Louise stepped through the connecting door. Her frizzy hair needed a comb. She’d not bothered to refresh her lipstick. Her eyes were dark with worry.

Nela watched her carefully. Had the detective told Louise that Nela and Chloe were her number-one suspects? Since the brutal interview with Dugan, Nela had made progress on the stack of grant applications while she considered how to combat the accusations against her and Chloe. It was essential that she continue to work at the foundation. It came down to a very clear imperative. She had to find out who was behind the vandalism, including the theft and likely the murder of Marian Grant, to save herself and Chloe. But first she had to get rid of the necklace.

Since Dugan hadn’t returned with a warrant for her arrest, Nela felt sure that the purse still remained hidden behind the stacked cans of cat food. Would it occur to the detective that the search of the apartment and the office might be a search for the necklace? Right now, Dugan was convinced of Chloe’s guilt and believed the necklace had already been sold and the proceeds pocketed. That’s why Dugan questioned the expensive trip to Tahiti. An investigation would prove that there had been a contest and that Leland won. No doubt inquiries were being made into Chloe and Nela’s finances as well. If poor equaled honest, she and Chloe had no worries. Unfortunately, the fact that Chloe’s bank account and Nela’s had lean balances didn’t prove their innocence.

Louise gave a huge sigh. “What a dreadful day. That horrible letter…At least it wasn’t sent to anyone other than members of the grants committee. That’s a huge relief. But I don’t know what to think about Marian’s office. There doesn’t seem to be any point other than making a mess. Of course there wasn’t any point to any of the other vandalism. And you must have been very upset when someone broke into the apartment.” Her glance at Nela was apologetic. “I’m afraid I’ve been so busy thinking about the foundation, I didn’t even stop to think how you must be feeling.” Louise came
around the desk, gently patted Nela’s shoulder. “A young girl like you isn’t used to these sorts of incidents.” Louise was earnest. “I don’t want you to think things like this happen much in Craddock. I’ve been at the foundation for twenty-three years and we never had any vandalism before September. Poor Hollis. The car was set on fire only a month after he came. What a way to begin your first big job. He’d only been an assistant director at a foundation up in Kansas for two years, and it was quite a plum for him to become head of the Haklo Foundation. Of course, it was real hard on Erik, our former director. But anyone who works for a family foundation has to remember that the family runs everything. Blythe’s the sole trustee and she has complete power over the staff.”

“Why did she want a new director?” Nela knew the question might be awkward, but she was going to ask a lot of awkward questions.

“Oh.” It was as if a curtain dropped over Louise’s face. “She met Hollis at a big philanthropy meeting in St. Louis. We attend every year. Hollis made a good impression. Fresh blood. That kind of thing.” She was suddenly brisk. “Here I am chattering away. You go home early and get some rest.”

As Nela left, Louise was sitting at her desk, her face once again drawn with worry. Nela forced herself to walk to Leland’s VW even though she felt like running. The sooner she reached the apartment, the sooner she could decide what to do about the damnable necklace.

S
teve Flynn ignored his shabby leather jacket hanging on the newsroom coat tree. He rarely bothered with a coat. Oklahomans weren’t much for coats even on bitter winter days. Hey, maybe it was in the twenties today. By the end of the week, it would be forty and that would seem balmy. He always moved too fast to feel
the cold, thoughts churning, writing leads in his head, thinking of sources to tap, wondering what lay behind facades.

He took the stairs down two at a time to a small lobby with a reception counter. A gust of wind caught his breath as he stepped onto Main Street. Craddock’s downtown was typical small-town Oklahoma. Main Street ran east and west. Traffic was picking up as five o’clock neared. Most buildings were two stories, with shops on the street and offices above. Craddock had shared in the prosperity fueling the southwest with the boom in natural gas production, especially locally from the Woodford Shale. New facades had replaced boarded-up windows. Some of the businesses had been there since he was a kid: Carson’s Drugs at the corner of Main and Maple, Walker’s Jewelry, Indian Nation Bank, Hamburger Heaven, and Beeson’s Best Bargains. There were plenty of new businesses: Jill’s Cupcakes, Happy Days Quilting Shop, Carole’s Fashions, and Mexicali Rose Restaurant.

It was two blocks to city hall. He walked fast, hoping he’d catch Katie before she went off duty. Again he didn’t use an elevator. The stairwells were dingy and had a musty smell. He came out in a back hallway and went through an unmarked frosted door to the detectives’ room.

Mokie Morrison looked up from his desk. “Jesus, man, it’s twenty-two degrees out there. That red thatch keep you warm?” Mokie wore a sweater thick enough for Nome.

Steve grinned at Mokie, who had three carefully arranged long black strands draped over an ever-expanding round bald spot. “Eat your heart out, baldie.” He jerked his head. “Dugan still here?”

“She’s got a hot date with her ex. Better hustle to catch her.”

At Katie’s office door, he hesitated before he knocked. Katie and Mark Dugan’s on-off relationship evoked plenty of good-natured
advice from her fellow officers. Katie blew off comments from soulful to ribald with a shrug. Steve was pretty sure Katie would never get over her ex. Mark was handsome, charming, lazy, always a day late and a dollar short. Like Mokie had told her one night as he and Steve and Katie shared beers, “Katie, he’s not worth your time.” Good advice but cold comfort in a lonely bed on a winter night. Just like he told himself that he was better off without Gail and then he’d remember her standing naked in their dusky bedroom, blond hair falling loose around her face, ivory white skin, perfect breasts, long slender legs.

He knocked.

Katie looked up as he stepped inside. “Yo, Steve.” She glanced at a plain watch face on a small black leather band.

“Just a few questions.” He turned a straight chair in front of her desk, straddled the seat. “I was out in the hall at Haklo when you talked to the staff. I timed the interviews.”

She raised a strong black brow. “That’s anal. Even for you.”

“Sometimes I pick up a vibe in funny ways. That’s what happened today.” His gaze was steady. “Some interviews lasted a few minutes, several ran about ten. You spent thirty-one minutes talking to Miss Farley.”

Not a muscle moved in Katie’s stolid face.

“Come on, Katie.” His tone was easy. “I picked up some stuff at Haklo. Nela Farley’s been in town since Friday afternoon. She’s subbing for her sister, Chloe, Louise Spear’s assistant. Why the inquisition?”

Katie massaged her chin with folded knuckles, an unconscious mannerism when she was thinking hard.

Steve kept his face bland.

Katie chose her words as carefully as a PGA player studying the
slope of a green. “I thought it was proper to discuss her nine-one-one call from Miss Grant’s apartment Friday night.”

Not, Steve thought quickly, to talk about a break-in or even a
purported
break-in, but the placement of a 911 call. He kept his voice casual. “Yeah, the report said she awoke to find an intruder in the living room.”

“She said”—slight emphasis—“she heard someone in the living room. She appeared to be upset.” Kati’s tone was even. “She unlocked the front door when the investigating officers arrived. That’s the only entrance to the apartment. No windows were broken. Officers found no sign of a forced entry.”

He frowned. “How did an intruder get inside?”

Katie was firm. “Investigating officers found no evidence of an illegal entry at Miss Grant’s apartment.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying Miss Farley lied?”

“I am saying no evidence was found to suggest a forced entry.” She glanced again at her watch. “If that’s all—”

He was running out of time. Work was fine but other people’s problems never beat out sex, and Katie was impatient to leave. He spoke quickly. “The apartment appeared to have been searched. Miss Grant’s office was searched. Do you believe both incidents are part of the pattern of vandalism, including the missing necklace?”