What the Cat Saw (3 page)

Nela smiled at the triple exclamation points though she’d chide Chloe for her language. Or maybe not. Chloe was Chloe.

Nela seized on the clue: Haklo Foundation. A few sentences later, she hit pay dirt.

Nela’s lips curved. In a perfect world, she’d like to see Chloe walking down the aisle with a regular guy, not hopping on the back of a vagabond’s Harley. On a positive note, Leland had brought her to his hometown and introduced her to his father. As usual, Nela wasn’t clear what Leland did—if anything—but Chloe always sounded happy when she called. Besides—one of Chloe’s favorite words—her sister’s boyfriends might have their quirks, from a vegetarian chef to a treasure hunter, but so far they’d all turned out to be nice men. Otherwise, Nela would have been worried about a faraway jaunt to Tahiti with a guy Chloe had known only since last summer.

Nela closed the folder. Tomorrow she’d scout around, spot the foundation, do some grocery shopping.

A creak startled her.

She looked up in time to see a cat door flap fall as lean hindquarters and a tall black tail disappeared into darkness through the front door. So Jugs was an indoor-outdoor fellow. He’d had his nap and was ready to roam.

An in and out cat. That meant he went down the garage apartment stairs. That’s how he would see if a board rolled on the second step…Nonsense. Boards didn’t roll and that’s all there was to it.

Except for skateboards.

“That’s enough, Nela.” She spoke aloud. That was enough, more than enough, of her odd and silly imaginings about the thoughts of cats. She forced herself to focus on what she felt was an improvement. She and Jugs were sharing space. That was definitely a step
in the right direction. Thankfully, he’d remained aloof. Maybe the next time she looked at him, she’d be able to discipline her mind. Maybe his presence would help prove she had nothing to fear from cats. Maybe she’d finally be able to face what was in her mind, come to grips with grief.

Bill…

She pushed up from the couch, willing away memory. She walked swiftly to the bookcases that lined one wall, looked at titles to try to force other thoughts into her mind. It hurt too much to think of Bill and their plans that ended in blood and death. The phone rang.

Startled, Nela turned. After a moment’s hesitation, she walked swiftly to the cream-colored phone on the desk near the bookshelves. “Hello.” Her answer was tentative.

“Nela, you’re there! How’s everything? Did you find the pizza? Isn’t Jugs a honeybunch?”

Nela had felt so alone when she arrived. Hearing Chloe’s husky voice was like a welcoming hug. “He’s great. I’m great. How about you and Leland?”

“Oooooh.” It was halfway between a squeal and a coo. “You can’t believe how gorgeous everything is. We had to catch a red-eye to get to LA in time for our flight but we made it. We just checked in and we’re leaving to ride an outrigger. Doesn’t that sound like fun? He’s already downstairs so I better scoot. Thanks, Nela. You’re the best.”

Nela shook her head as she replaced the receiver in the cradle. Talking to Chloe was like trying to catch a shooting star. None of her questions were answered: What was the job? Exactly where was it? What happened to Miss Grant? Perhaps she should follow Chloe’s example and let the good times roll. In Chloe’s world, everything seemed to work out. Nela smiled.
Have fun, sweetie. Be happy. Love him because
…

Again there were images to block, pain to forestall. She swung again to the bookshelves. She’d find a weighty tome, read until she felt sleepy. Midway through the first shelf, she pulled out a large picture book and carried it to the sofa. The cover photograph featured a marble statue of a tall, lean man. Even in cold stone, the hard-ridged face compelled attention. Deep-set eyes, a beaked nose, and jutting chin proclaimed power, strength, and ruthless determination. Behind the statue rose wide steps leading to a pale yellow stucco building. The title was in red Gothic letters:
The Haklo
Foundation
,
the Story of Harris Webster and the Fortune He Shared
.

She thumbed through the beautifully crafted book. No expense had been spared in its production. She turned back to the introduction. Harris Webster was the descendant of an early Craddock family. Caleb Webster arrived in the Chickasaw Nation in 1885. After his marriage to Mary Castle, a member of the Chickasaw Nation, he began to prosper. He wrangled horses for her father, later opened an early dry goods store, apparently on very thin credit. He prospered, added a livery stable, and established a bank. His son, Lewis, increased the family’s wealth with a cattle ranch. The Websters were one of Craddock’s leading families, but the great wealth came from Caleb’s grandson, Harris, a hugely successful wildcatter in the 1950s and ’60s. He sold Webster Exploration to Exxon for one hundred million dollars in 1988. Harris Webster married Ellen White in 1970. Their first child died at birth. A daughter, Blythe, was born in 1973, and a second daughter, Grace, in 1985. Ellen died in 1987 from cancer.

Webster set up a trust, establishing the foundation in 1989 with an endowment of fifty million dollars. He served as the sole trustee until his death in 2007. His designated successor as sole trustee was his oldest daughter, Blythe.

The following facing pages featured portraits in oval frames. Caleb Webster’s blunt, square-jawed face looked young and appealing, the black-and-white photo likely taken when he was in his late twenties. His hair was parted in the middle, his collar high and stiff. Mary Castle’s dark hair was drawn back in a bun, emphasizing the severity of her features: the deep-set eyes, high-bridged nose and high cheekbones, thin lips pursed. She had looked gravely into the camera with a questioning gaze. The rest of the portraits were in color. Lewis Webster was dark-haired and narrow-faced with a strong chin. A merry smile curved the lips of his round-faced, blond wife, Lillian.

Harris Webster’s color portrait, taken possibly when he was in his forties, exuded vigor and strength. Unlike the other photographs, he was pictured outdoors against a leafy background, a breeze ruffling thick black curls. Bronze skin suggested hours spent under the sun. His brown eyes stared confidently into the camera. His smile was that of a man who met any challenge with complete expectation of victory. His pale blond wife Ellen appeared fragile. Her expression was pensive, a woman turned inward.

The portraits of the Webster daughters hung side by side, affording an interesting contrast. Blythe Webster looked intelligent, imperious, and reserved. Ebony hair framed an oval face with a pleasant, though aloof, expression. The straight, unwavering stare of her dark brown eyes hinted at unknown depths. Her much younger sister Grace was blue-eyed with a fair complexion. Strawberry blond hair cascaded in thick curls. Her smile was amused, possibly wry, but there was something in the cast of her face which suggested a will that would not bend.

Nela bunched a pillow behind her and began to read.

2

F
asten seat belt sign…nattering shrill voices behind her…rain like tears…cat’s eyes…alone, alone, alone…

Nela moved restlessly, swimming up from the depths of sleep. She’d tossed and turned for hours before drifting into fitful slumber. Her eyes opened. She stared at unfamiliar shadows, felt the strangeness of the bed. She blinked at the luminous dial of the bedside clock. Almost half past one. One in the morning. In a dead woman’s apartment.

She’d chosen a guest room. There was no way she would use Miss Grant’s bedroom where a red silk robe lay across the arm of the empire sofa. Had Miss Grant dropped the robe there with no thought that there would not be time ever again to straighten the room?

Nela had firmly shut the door to the guest bedroom in case Jugs
was accustomed to sharing a bed, though surely when he came back inside he would seek out Miss Grant’s room.

A splintering crash sounded from the living room.

Nela jerked upright, heart pounding. Had the cat knocked something over? But cats were agile, moving silently through time and space.

A heavy thud.

Nela swung her legs over the bedside. A line of light shone beneath the closed bedroom door. She had turned off the living room light before she came into the bedroom. Someone had turned on that light. Someone was in the apartment.

Fully awake now, adrenaline charged her mind and body. In one swift movement, she was on her feet and moving across the floor. An uncle who was an LA cop had drilled into his young nieces: React. Move. Don’t freeze. Fight. Scream. Yell. Run.

Nela’s mind closed in on the first necessity. Lock the door. Set up a barrier. Don’t make it easy.

More crashes.

Nela reached the door. Her hands touched cold wood. The door panel was smooth. Guest rooms did not come equipped with deadbolts. She slipped her hand down, found the knob, pushed the button lock.

Now for her cell…Her purse was on the dresser. She turned, moved through the velvety darkness, hands outstretched. She tried to judge where she’d left her suitcase. She veered a little, but one knee caught the case. Losing her balance, she tumbled forward. Scrambling up, she thudded into the chest, but her purse was there. She yanked out the cell phone, opened it. As the cell phone glowed, she punched 911.

Not a breath of sound came from beyond the closed door but
she sensed menace. She felt threatened not only by the alien presence in the living room, but the darkness that surrounded her. She hurried to the wall and turned on the overhead light, welcoming the brightness.

A brisk voice. “Craddock nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“Someone’s broken in.” Her voice was shaky but forceful. “Send the police.”

“Ma’am, please speak louder. Where are you?”

“Oh God, I don’t know the address. I’m in a garage apartment behind a big mansion on Cimarron.” She scrambled to remember. “The Webster house on Cimarron. Blythe Webster. Behind the house there’s a garage apartment. Call the Craddock police. I need—”

The doorknob rattled.

Nela backed away. “I’m in a bedroom. Someone’s trying to get inside. Send help.”
Fight. Scream. Yell.
She lowered the cell, shouted, “The police are coming. They’re on their way.”

“Ma’am, try to be calm. We need the address.”

“The garage apartment behind the Webster house on Cimarron.” Again, she held the phone away, yelled, “The police are coming.”

In the background behind the responder’s calm tone, she heard a male voice. “Ten-sixty-seven. Ten-seventy. Possible four-fifty-nine.”