What the Cat Saw (28 page)

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.

T
he 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—”

A woman’s brisk voice interrupted. “As you’ve explained the
circumstances, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to represent her. Of the names I suggested, Perry Womack is one of the best. And he’s welcome”—the tone was wry—“in polite society. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another call waiting.”

The remaining staff offices were on the second floor. Grace Webster occupied the corner front office to the west, directly above her sister’s office. The difference in decor was interesting. Blond Danish modern furniture, jagged slaps of oil on unframed canvases, swirls of orange, black, crimson. A sculpture of partially crushed Coke cans, coils of rusted barbed wire, and withered sunflower stalks stood stark and—to Nela—ugly in the center of the room. A casually dressed Grace lounged on an oversize puffy pink sofa, eyes half closed as she held her cell to one ear. “…missed you too. Two weeks is too long. Way too long…”

The large second-floor east office, the same size as Marian Grant’s on the first floor, had a shabby, lived-in, fusty, musty air with stacks of books, framed photographs tucked on curio stands. The desk held more pictures, but no computer monitor. There was an aura of yesterday, pictures of a young, vigorous Webster Harris and an eager Cole Hamilton with a bush of curly brown hair. There was no evidence of work in progress. He looked up from a worn book with a frayed cover, then his eyes dropped back to the page.

Robbie Powell’s office was light and airy with calico plaid drapes that matched the sofa, splashes of color in photographs of outdoor scenes, and a sleek modern desk with three computers. He reclined in a blue leather swivel chair. His smooth voice was as schmoozy as a maître d’ escorting high rollers to their usual table. “…hope you and Lorraine will mark the donor dinner on your calendars if you’re not in Nice or Sydney. We’ll definitely have lamb fries in honor of the Lazy Q. You know—”

The interruption over the speakerphone was brusque. “What’s this I hear about somebody pushing Marian down some damned stairs?”

Robbie’s face tightened, but his tone remained soft as butter. “Now, Buck, you know gossip runs wild sometimes. That’s absolutely false. Now the dinner—”

“The dinner be damned. There’s no getting around the fact that a bunch of strange things have been happening out at Haklo, and I don’t give money if it’s going to be wasted cleaning up after vandals. Or, for God’s sake, killers.”

Francis Garth barely glanced up from the keyboard as Nela deposited the incoming mail. His massive hands dwarfed the keys. His heavy face was somber beneath the thatch of thick brown hair. He looked like a man thinking hard and darkly. His office was bare bones, uncarpeted floor, obviously worn wooden desk, wooden filing cabinets. The only decoration was a representation of the Seal of the Osage Nation depicting a blue arrowhead against a brilliant circle of yellow. A peace pipe crossed an eagle feather in the center of the arrowhead.

Pride of place in Peter Owens’s office was a low broad wooden coffee table covered with brochures, flyers, and pamphlets. Deeply absorbed with a sketch pad and a stack of photographs, he scarcely noticed the arrival of the mail. Working, he had an air of contentment, a man enjoying thinking and planning.

As Nela hurried down the stairs to the rotunda, carrying the empty tray, she hoped that she would be smart and lucky. At some time between the disappearance of the necklace and Marian Grant’s fall, Marian had gained knowledge of the whereabouts of the necklace and the identity of the thief. When had she found the necklace? Surely there had been some act, some word by Marian that revealed how or when she came into possession of the stolen necklace.

Thanks to Blythe Webster, Nela could now ask questions as she wished. Nela accepted the fact that no matter how carefully she phrased her questions, she might alert a murderer. One of the persons with a key to Haklo hid ruthlessness and danger beneath a facade of civility. Nela understood the risk, but she had a chance to make a difference and she was going to take it.

She hurried across the rotunda to the reception desk. There was no better place to start than with Rosalind McNeill, who saw staff members come and go as they moved about the foundation.

At the slap of the tray on the counter, Rosalind whirled around on her desk chair. Her eyes lighted and she popped to her feet. “I saw you go in the T’s office and Hollis come out. He looked like a man who just got sprung from death row. Is Abby in the clear? I figure since she and Hollis came back, the cops must have learned something to clear her. What’s going on?”

“The investigation is continuing, but the detective is looking at everyone at Haklo, not just Abby.” Nela thought it might cheer Abby if that word trickled back to her. “I talked to Blythe Webster and offered to help since I have a background in investigative reporting. She agreed that it would be a good thing for me to gather information from staff members.” Speaking with Rosalind was the next best thing to putting up a public placard. How better to establish herself as the new eyes and ears of Haklo?

Rosalind’s eyes widened. “That’s cool. Gee, I wish I could perch on your shoulder.” Her gaze was admiring.

“Miss Webster authorized me to speak to everyone on her behalf. Rosalind, I want you to think back to Marian Grant’s last week here. Start with Thursday…” The day the theft of the necklace was discovered.

16

M
okie Morrison brushed back his one strand of black hair, slanted his eyes toward Dugan’s closed door. “I’ve seen feral hogs in a better mood.”

Steve grinned. “When was the last time you were in the woods?”

“Boy Scouts. I went on a campout. Once and done. We met up with two copperheads, a cave with bats, and a feral hog. I haven’t been outside the city limits since. But today”—and he was almost not kidding—“I’d pick the snakes, bats, and hog over Katie.”

“Yeah. Well, I got a deadline.” He gave Mokie a mock salute. His smile slid away as he knocked lightly on Katie’s door, turned the knob.

She looked up from the papers spread on the desktop. “Yeah?” Her broad face was as inviting as a slab of granite.

“Clarion,”
he said gently, making his visit official. He stepped
inside, closed the door, pulled folded paper from his pocket, turned it lengthwise. He already had a soft-leaded pencil in his other hand. Without an invitation, he dropped into the wooden chair. “I talked to Robbie Powell out at Haklo. He said Blythe Webster received an anonymous letter saying the stolen necklace was hidden in a staff member’s office. Robbie said to check with you about the necklace and the second search.”

Katie briefly compressed her lips, obviously not pleased by Steve’s questions. “The necklace was found.” Full stop.

“Where?”

The reply was grudging. “In a filing cabinet. Miss Webster identified the necklace, which is now in police custody.”

Steve’s glance was chiding. “Where was the filing cabinet located?”

“The discovery was prompted by an anonymous letter. At present, there is no proof that the occupant of the office knew of the presence of the stolen property. Therefore, the identity of the office occupant is not necessarily relevant.”

“What prompted a search elsewhere on the grounds?”

“Information received in the anonymous letter.”

“Where did the search take place?”

“No comment.”

“Was anything found that appears to be linked to Marian Grant’s fall?”

Her eyes narrowed. She knew he knew about the skateboard. “No comment.”

“Is there a person of interest?”

Katie shook her head. “Not at this time.”

Steve felt like high-fiving Katie. She hadn’t succumbed to the lure of evidence against Abby that had been so nicely and neatly wrapped up and delivered to her. “How did the anonymous letter arrive?”

“That has not been determined.”

“Did the letter come through the mail?”

“No.”

“Did the contents or envelope contain fingerprints?”

“The only fingerprints belonged to Miss Webster, who opened the envelope and read the letter. She immediately notified police.”

“Was the letter handwritten?”

“No.”

“Was the message printed?” Should there be another search of files in Haklo computers?

“No.”

Steve figured that out in a flash. Words, maybe even pictures, pasted on a blank sheet. That took time. Last night or this morning, someone from Haklo had worn gloves, patiently clipped needed words from newspapers or magazines.

“Did you send somebody through the wastebaskets out at Haklo?”

“You’re quick.” That’s all she said.

“Katie”—Steve’s voice was quiet—“you want to figure out what happened out there and whether somebody killed Marian Grant. I do, too. I want to clear up the mess. I don’t want Nela Farley hurt.”

Katie’s eyes narrowed. “But you just met the woman. What’s with the white knight to the rescue?”

Steve looked at Katie. They’d known each other for a long time. They had a careful relationship because he was a reporter and she was a cop. But they were—deep down, where it counted—friends. “You know how it works, Katie. You look at someone. Your eyes meet and there’s more there than you can ever explain or describe. You and Mark. Me and Nela. Maybe everything will be good for us. Maybe not. But for now, it’s me and Nela. I think she’s honest. I want to help her. The best way to help is to figure out what the hell
happened at Haklo. Can you and I talk it out for a minute?” He put down the sheet with notes on her desk, placed the pencil beside the paper. “Off the record.”

M
arian had an air. Everybody always kept on their toes around her. She was her usual self that week except”—a little frown creased Rosalind’s round face—“she was really mad about the necklace. The necklace disappearing upset her even more than the vandalism. That was Thursday. Friday morning she looked distracted, as if she was thinking hard. But she looked really upset again Friday afternoon.”

“Friday afternoon?” Nela prompted.

Rosalind gestured toward the French windows to the courtyard. “It’s been cold since you came to town, but that week—Marian’s last week—we had a couple of beautiful days. It was in the sixties that Friday. Marian loved the courtyard. Sometimes she’d take a cup of coffee and go out and sit in the sun with a book of poetry. She said poetry helped her think better. Oh, golly.” Rosalind’s eyes widened. “She was reading
Spoon River Anthology
. She didn’t know she was going to have her own epitaph the next week.” Rosalind’s voice was a little shaky. She paused for an instant, then continued, talking fast, “I was on the phone with a teacher calling about a school tour group. I looked up as Marian came inside. She looked odd. I worried maybe she didn’t feel well. Of course, it may just have been being out in the courtyard and seeing the fountain still messed up. Like I said, the vandalism really made her mad. But she had a weird look when she came in. She walked past me and turned to her right. She was heading for the west wing. I didn’t see her again.”