What the Cat Saw

by Carolyn Hart

He’d known Rosalind since kindergarten. Some people could be badasses. Some couldn’t. Rosalind couldn’t. He drew a line through her name. Kay Hoover was the grandmother of his best buddy in high school. She made pralines to die for. Mama Kay thought about food. And family. And food. And family. He marked out her name. Two more quick strokes went through Chloe and Nela’s names. He couldn’t vouch for Chloe, but he believed Nela. If she was innocent, Chloe was innocent.

  Now for a closer look at those with easy access to Haklo.

  In the chair behind Chloe’s desk, Nela had a good view of the portion of hall revealed by the open door. She waited and watched. The sound she had expected was not long in coming. Not more than ten minutes later, brisk steps clipped in the hallway.

  Nela had only a brief glimpse, but the glimpse was telling. Detective Dugan strode purposefully past, accompanied by a somber Blythe Webster. Dugan was in all black today, turtleneck, skirt, and boots. The cheerful color of Blythe’s crimson suit looked at odds with her resolute expression, a woman engaged in an unwanted task. Two uniformed officers followed, balding, moonfaced Sergeant Fisher with his ever-ready electronic tablet and a chunky woman officer in her late twenties.

  Nela eased from the chair and moved to the open door. She didn’t step into the hall. Instead, unseen, she listened.

  “The light is on, but the office is empty.” Dugan had a clear, carrying voice.

  The squeak of a chair pushed back. Rapid steps sounded. Louise Spear hurried past Chloe’s doorway, didn’t even glance toward Nela. “What’s wrong?” Her voice was anxious, held definite foreboding.

  “Where is Miss Andrews?” Dugan sounded pleasant, but firm.

  “Usually at this time she’s upstairs in the artifact room.” Louise sounded puzzled.

  “Sergeant, ask Miss Andrews to join us.”

  “Blythe, what’s going on? Why are the police here?”

  Blythe sounded remote, as if she were trying to remain calm. “The police have to make an investigation. I don’t have anything to say right now. Let’s see what happens.”

  Nela slid closer to the door. No one spoke until the officer returned with Abby.

  Abby’s face was fearful and pinched. She stared with wide, frightened eyes at the cluster of people outside her office. “What’s wrong? Why do you want to talk to me?”

  Blythe Webster spoke in a tight, contained voice. “Abby, it’s necessary for the police to search your office. I have granted them permission to do so.”

  “Why?” Abby’s breathing was uneven. “What are they looking for?”

  Hurrying steps came down the hall. Hollis Blair strode forward, brows drawn in a tight frown. He looked from Blythe to Dugan to Abby. “I saw police cars. What’s happening?”

  Abby’s voice shook. “They want to search my office.”

  Nela stepped into the hallway. She might be sent away, but surely it was only natural to respond to the arrival of the police.

  Abby’s delicate face twisted in fear. “I don’t think they have any right. I haven’t done anything.” She lifted a trembling hand to push back a tangle of blond hair.

  Hollis appeared both shocked and angry. “I’ll take care of everything.” He swung toward the police detective, who stood in the doorway. “Detective, I want an explanation.”

  Dugan was brief. “Information received necessitates a search of the office. The search will proceed.”

  “On whose authority?” The director bit off the words.

  “Mine.” Blythe Webster spoke quietly.

  Abby turned toward Blythe. “I haven’t done anything. Why are you—”

  Dugan interrupted, “The search of the office is not directed at you personally, Miss Andrews.” But Dugan’s brown eyes never moved from Abby’s lovely, anxious face. “Please step into the doorway and see if you notice any disarray in your office.”

  Arms folded, a gold link bracelet glittering on one wrist, Blythe listened, eyes narrowed, lips compressed.

  Two more uniformed police came from the main hallway along with Detective Morrison.

  “Disarray?” Abby repeated uncertainly.

  “Anything out of place? A drawer open that you left shut? Any suggestion that an unauthorized person had been in your office?” Dugan’s questions came quick and fast.

  “Oh my God.” Abby hurried to the doorway. In a moment, she faced her tormentors. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Her voice rose in distress. “Why? What are you looking for?”

  Dugan nodded toward Detective Morrison and the two newly arrived uniformed officers, a lean, wiry man with bushy eyebrows in a pasty face and the redheaded policewoman who had come to the garage apartment when Nela called for help.

  Hollis Blair glared at Blythe, his handsome features strained, his jaw rigid. “Why wasn’t I notified? There better be a damn good reason for this.” He jerked a thumb toward Dugan.

  The trustee’s shoulders stiffened. She gave him a level stare, her brown eyes cool. Her expression was not hostile, but the distance seemed to increase between them.

  By now, the hallway around Nela was crowded. Louise Spear stood a little to one side, eyes huge, staring at Abby’s office, her face puckered in a worried frown. Other staff members hurried toward the clump of people, likely drawn by the arrival of the police and the hubbub in the west hallway. Rosalind McNeill tried to appear grave but she almost bounced in excitement. Cole Hamilton moved back and forth uneasily, darting quick looks past Dugan. Occasionally one eyelid jerked in a nervous tic. Peter Owens, his gaze intent, looked from Blythe to Abby to Hollis. Francis Garth stood with folded arms, heavy head jutting forward, thick black brows lowered, massive legs planted solidly. Robbie Powell muttered, “Police again. This can’t be good for Haklo.”

  Heels clicked on marble as Grace Webster arrived. She clapped her hands. “Never a dull moment.”

  Hollis moved nearer Blythe. “I’m the director. I should know if the police are called. And why.”

  “I’m the trustee.” That was all Blythe said.

  Hollis Blair stiffened. His angular face flushed. After a tense pause, he took two steps to stand beside Abby.

  “Whoop-de-do, Blythe’s in her dowager queen mode. Sis, I hate to break it to you”—Grace Webster’s tone was saccharine—“but what are sisters for? That frozen face makes you look fifty, not a happy number for somebody who’s barreling up on the big Four-O.”

  “I didn’t know you were coming in today.” Blythe’s voice was cold.

  “Can’t stay away. Haklo used to be bo-ring. Not anymore.” Grace yanked a thumb over her shoulder. “What’s the cavalry here for?”

  Blythe ignored the question, her face smooth, her eyes focused on the doorway.

  Grace’s look of amusement faded, replaced with anger.

  The public relations director took a few steps toward Blythe. “The Clarion will pick up the call. We need to be prepared—”

  Sergeant Fisher came to the doorway. “Detective.”

  The silence among the onlookers was sudden and absolute. Abby Andrews clutched Hollis Blair’s arm.

  Detective Dugan stepped into Abby’s office. A muttered murmur, no words intelligible to those in the hall. The office door closed.

  Blythe stood with a hand at her throat. Louise shivered. Abby wavered on her feet. Hollis slid a strengthening arm around her shoulders. Cole Hamilton’s face drew down in disapproval. Francis Garth gazed at the assistant curator speculatively. Robbie Powell was impassive, but his eyes locked on the office door. Grace’s look of defiant amusement fled.

  14

  Steve Flynn picked up a folder. He’d gathered up odds and ends of information about those with Haklo keys. Nothing had jumped out at him. No bright red arrow pointed to a vandal, thief, and murderer. Somewhere there had to be a fact that mattered. He settled down to reread the dossiers.

  Blythe Webster, 39. BA in English, OU. After graduation returned to Craddock and lived at home. Younger sister still in middle school. Served
as a hostess for her father. Unmarried. Craddock gossip in 2005 linked her to a handsome young landman who worked for Webster Exploration. Rumor had it that Harris Webster offered the landman a hundred thousand dollars to relocate—by himself—to Argentina. Harris told Blythe he knew a skunk when he saw one and he was saving her from an unhappy marriage. Blythe spent a year in Italy. She returned to Craddock when her father’s health worsened. At his death, she became the sole trustee of Haklo Foundation. She traveled extensively and left the running of Haklo to Marian Grant, COO. However, as trustee, she always attended the annual conference of small charitable foundations. Following the conference this past summer in St. Louis, she took a renewed interest in the foundation. In short order, she instituted a number of changes. From corporate luncheons to the bar at the country club, the locals delighted in totting up the casualties both inside and outside the foundation. Erik Judd was fired. A grant to a local art gallery wasn’t renewed. Haklo ended support of a scholarship program for Native Americans at Craddock College.

  Steve glanced at a photograph. Shining black hair framed an olive-skinned face. Her eyes, large and expressive, were her most compelling feature. Her lips were perhaps a little too reminiscent of her father’s thin mouth. Her composed expression suggested a woman with power. He’d often dealt with Blythe Webster. She expected to be treated with deference. She could be abrupt and was reputedly wary in personal relationships. That he could understand. How did you get over knowing a man preferred cash on hand to your company? He knew odds and ends about her. She collected Roman coins and had a take-no-prisoner mentality in her dealings. She once drove a coin dealer into bankruptcy when he sold a coin she wanted to a rival collector. She played scratch golf. She was generous in her praise for employees and gave substantial bonuses at Christmas.

  Grace Webster, honorary trustee, 27. A strawberry blonde who liked to have fun. Usually ebullient, though she was often caustic with her sister. Her contemporaries dubbed her the wild one. Five colleges. Never graduated. Backpacked across Europe. A succession of boyfriends. Harris Webster was amused by her escapades. He told a friend that he never worried about Grace and men, saying she always had the upper hand, enchanting men but never enchanted. When her father died, she was angry that Blythe became the sole trustee. Everyone thought that Harris saw Grace as too young and carefree for the responsibility. Perhaps out of spite, she comes to Haklo daily when she is in Craddock and keeps up a running critique of Blythe’s decisions. Their relationship is frosty. Her latest lover was a local artist, Maurice Crown, who delighted in satiric paintings. A recent painting juxtaposed the Haklo Foundation crest with gallons of crude oil gushing from a Gulf platform. Blythe promptly cancelled a grant to the gallery that featured Crown’s paintings. Grace was furious, insisting foundation bylaws prohibited cancellation of grants except on the basis of criminal malfeasance. However, the trustee had all the power. Grace is markedly different from her sister, adventurous, enthusiastic, always ready to take a dare, impulsive, careless, optimistic. Perhaps the trait they hold in common is bedrock stubbornness. Each is always determined to do exactly as she chooses.

  Steve had clear memories of summers at the lake and Grace’s daredevil boat races. She appeared supremely pleased in her photograph, strawberry blond hair cascading to her shoulders, an exuberant smile, seductive off-the-shoulder white blouse. Her chin had the same decided firmness as her sister’s.

  Hollis Blair, director, 32. BBS in business, OSU. MA in art history with an emphasis on the American West, SMU. PhD in education, University of Texas. At 28, he joined the staff of a medium-size charitable foundation in Kansas City. Blythe Webster heard Blair speak at a foundation workshop in St. Louis last summer. After the session, she invited him to join her for dinner. She met with him several times during the weeklong workshop. Within three days after her return to Craddock, Erik Judd had been fired and Hollis Blair hired. He arrived August 1. He is affable, charming, outgoing, eager to please.

  The photo had accompanied the press release put out by Haklo when Hollis became director. Chestnut hair, deep-set blue eyes, a bony nose, high cheekbones, full lips spread in a friendly smile. Steve had played golf with Hollis several times and found him good-humored and intelligent with perceptive questions about Craddock. The last time they’d met had been at a reception in early December for the new director of the chamber of commerce. Steve recalled a man who looked tired and worried. Hollis had brightened when he was joined by the Haklo assistant curator, Abby Andrews. At the time, Steve had thought it generous of Hollis to bring an assistant curator to a function. Apparently, he was interested in more than Abby Andrews’s work advancement.

  Louise Spear, executive secretary, 58. Widow. A grown daughter in Corpus Christi, three grandchildren. Louise started as a secretary at Webster Exploration in 1974, moved to the foundation when it was created. Louise is precise, careful, responsible, and follows instructions. She considered Harris Webster a great man. Haklo was second only to her family in her affections. She has taught Sunday School at the Craddock Methodist Church for 34 years. Kind, gentle, thoughtful, always ready to help.

  Steve didn’t bother to look at Louise’s photo. He knew Louise. Casting her as a vandal, much less a murderer, was ludicrous.

  Cole Hamilton, advisory vice president, 64. BBA 1969, OU. Widower. No children. Longtime crony of Harris Webster. When Haklo was formed, he left Webster Exploration to serve as senior vice president. Active in local charities, he served as a sounding board for Harris. A former member of the grants committee once said caustically, “Cole always loses at poker to Harris. That seems to be his primary qualification for his title. But he’s sure he’s indispensable, second only in importance to Harris.” His advice always began, “Harris agrees that Haklo should…” A man who took great pride in being a part of Haklo. But Harris was dead and Blythe was now the trustee.

  Steve turned to the screen, brought up several photos of Cole Hamilton. One had been taken with Harris Webster on the deck of a cruiser. Each man held up a string of fish. Harris’s string was longer. The oilman’s predatory face was relaxed. Cole beamed, basking in the moment. In a more recent picture at a November open house at Haklo, Cole’s round face was morose as he stood by himself at the edge of a group.

  Cole was no longer at the side of Harris Webster, the center of Haklo. After Harris’s death, Marian Grant ran the foundation. Very likely Marian treated Cole kindly. Marian had been part of that close-knit group, Harris, Cole, herself, and Louise. But this summer Blythe Webster took over and soon there was a new director and Cole’s title changed from vice president to advisory vice president.

  Steve reached for the phone. “Louise? Steve Flynn.”

  “Yes.” Her tone was tense.

  He spoke easily. “I hear Cole Hamilton is being pushed out of his job.”

  “Steve, don’t print that.” A tiny sigh traveled over the connection. “I don’t know what’s going to happen about Cole. Just between you and me, Blythe has asked him to step down, but he won’t turn in a resignation. I don’t think Blythe wants to terminate him. In any event, he is the current advisory vice president. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Right. I’ll wait until there’s an announcement. Thanks, Louise.”

  The call ended. Steve looked again at Cole’s pictures, such an affable, comfortable man, especially in the early photos. How much did his job, not just the work, but the prestige of being a part of Haklo, matter to a man who had no family and who had spent his life working for Harris Webster? Wasn’t vandalism the kind of revenge a somewhat effete, deeply angry, and hurt man might take? Stealing the necklace was part of that pattern, striking out at the woman who was treating him badly. Cole Hamilton, soft-spoken and genial, scarcely seemed likely to kill. But murder might have been the only way to prevent exposure.

  Steve looked at the next name on his list.

  Francis Garth, business development research fellow, 47. BA, MA, University of Tulsa. PhD in economics, University of
Chicago. Native of Pawhuska. Active as a member of the Osage Tribe. Prominent family, longtime civic supporters. Divorced some years ago, no children. Long-distance runner. Mountain climber. Taught in Chicago, a think tank in Austin, joined Haklo in 1994. A proponent of encouraging Oklahoma exports to foreign countries, especially Costa Rica. Knowledgeable about beef industry and exportable non-food crops. Instrumental in arranging grants for factory expansion. Passionate in his support of the Tallgrass Prairie.

  Steve scanned the index in the annual report of the Haklo Foundation issued shortly after the end of the fiscal year in October. He flipped to the business development section. A figure jumped out at him. The business development budget last year had been two hundred and eighty thousand dollars. The current budget had been cut to one hundred and fifty thousand. Just as in Washington, money meant power. Francis Garth was an impressive man at the peak of his career, whose priorities weren’t those of a new director.

  Steve turned back to the computer. Burly, muscular Francis stared into the camera with a heavy, determined face. Not a man to welcome a downgrade. Would a bull of a man be likely to resort to vandalism? It didn’t seem in character. But Francis Garth was highly intelligent, able to think and plan a campaign. A series of unfortunate incidents would damage Hollis Blair’s resume. As for murder, Francis had the air of a man who would, without a qualm, do what he had to do.

  A very different man from Robbie Powell. And Erik Judd. Steve didn’t hesitate to combine their resumes.

  Robbie Powell, director of public relations, 44. BA in public relations, University of Missouri. Worked at PR agencies in Kansas City and later Dallas. Joined staff at a medium-size Dallas charitable foundation, became the protégé of the foundation director, Erik Judd. Judd, 55, was a University of Cincinnati graduate in social work. Worked in social service agency in Ohio, earned his PhD in finance, joined the Dallas foundation, within ten years named director. When Judd was hired by Harris Webster as director, he brought Robbie with him. They shared a home in the older part of Craddock, a rambling ranch-style house. When an anti-gay city councilman berated Harris for their lifestyle, the philanthropist’s response was forcible and pungent. “I hired Erik to run my foundation and he’s doing a damn fine job. Robbie’s dandy at PR. When I need a stud for breeding, I buy the best bull out there. For the foundation, I bought the best PR man available. I know the difference between the foundation and my ranch.” The Webster clout made it clear that no hostility to its staff would be tolerated. That power and changing mores assured acceptance by Craddock society. Erik was highly respected for his accomplishments as was Robbie. But past success didn’t matter to Blythe when she decided she wanted new ideas and younger leadership.