What the Cat Saw

by Carolyn Hart

She raised an eyebrow, waited.

  “I want the backstairs gossip on Francis Garth, Cole Hamilton, Peter Owens. Bed playmates. If any.” There was no playfulness in his voice. The request was serious.

  Mim was always self-possessed. The only indication of surprise was a brief flicker in her eyes. Then, she gave an abrupt nod. She didn’t take the time to say not for publication, to warn that she couldn’t vouch for gossip, that of course she picked up scurrilous comments about Craddock movers and shakers that she never shared. She wasn’t going to tell Steve something he already knew. “Francis reportedly has been sleeping with the mayor’s wife, but lost out this summer to Mack Harris.” Mack Harris was a tall, rangy rodeo champion who’d bought a ranch near Craddock. “Cole Hamilton spends a lot of time at the Cowboy Club and he likes ’em young.” The Cowboy Club was a gentlemen’s retreat with gambling, music, and dancing women dressed as briefly as Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. “Denise Owens and the twins spent the summer at her parents’ lake home in Minnesota. My granddaughter’s on the same swim team as the Owens girls and there was a lot of surprise that they stayed away all summer. Press of ‘work’ kept Peter in Craddock.”

  With one ear cocked for the sound of Louise’s brisk steps in the hall, Nela tidied and straightened the office, finally began to rearrange the contents of the center drawer in Chloe’s desk. As she worked, she ignored the ringing of Louise’s telephone. Trinkets and odds and ends brought her sister near, as if Chloe were smiling at her with laughing eyes: two ticket stubs from the Oklahoma City Civic Center production of Peter Pan, keepsake menus from a half-dozen Oklahoma City and Norman restaurants (on the menu from Legend’s in Norman, Chloe had written in huge letters with a half-dozen exclamation points: Better Than the Best!!!!!!), a map of Turner Falls, a dog-eared copy of Far Side cartoons, jacks and a rubber ball in a plastic bag, a Rubik’s cube, a deck of cards. The motley collection was typical of her quirky sister.

  Finally, Nela picked up a much creased and folded sheet of ruled paper. She sensed something that was not meant for other eyes, not even those of a loving sister. She gently laid the folded strip in the back center of the drawer, returned each item. She had just closed the drawer when the staccato tap of heels sounded, coming fast, coming near. They stopped just short of Chloe’s office. “Louise?” Blythe Webster’s tone was sharp, just this side of angry. “Louise…” There was an exasperated sigh.

  Nela knew that Blythe had realized Louise’s office was empty. A flurry of steps and Blythe stood in Chloe’s doorway. Blythe was trim in a soft gray cashmere sweater and black slacks. Impatience was evident in every line of her tense body. Her face was tight with irritation. “Where’s Louise? I keep calling and I get her answering machine.”

  “I haven’t seen her this morning.” Nela glanced at the clock. Almost ten. She’d been at work for two hours. “She wasn’t in her office when I arrived.”

  “Not here?” Blythe’s voice was odd. “She’s always here. She would have told me if she were going out.”

  “Her coat’s in her office.” Nela meant to be reassuring but realized that her voice held a question.

  “Well.” Blythe seemed at a loss, uncertain what to do. Then she looked relieved. She pulled a cell phone from a pocket, touched a number.

  In only an instant, there was a faint musical ring, a ghostly faraway repetition of the first few bars of “Oklahoma.”

  Nela pushed up from her desk. Blythe was right behind her. The musical ring continued twice again, louder now as they reached Louise’s desk. Nela pulled out the bottom-right drawer. The last ring was ending. A black leather shoulder bag nestled in the drawer.

  “Well, she’s here if her purse is here.” Blythe sounded relieved. “She’s somewhere in the building. Find her for me.” She swung on her heel and surged out of the office.

  Nela was glad to have a task. The directive hadn’t been delivered with grace or charm, but if you ran the ship, you could navigate any damn way you pleased. Anyway, she had her orders, she’d carry them out.

  Steve wasn’t a lazy reporter. He had one more call to make. In fact, it took five calls to track down Anne Nesbitt. The connection crackled.

  “…almost time for the next presentation. I’m at an elementary school in Bartlesville. It’s such fun. I have a slide show of our dinosaur exhibits. Kids love it.” She sounded sunny and happy. “How can I help you?”

  “This is Steve Flynn, The Craddock Clarion. The police haven’t given up on the arson of your car.”

  A pause. “Oh”—a small sigh—“I appreciate the police continuing to try but I think it had to be some kind of nut. Not anybody I knew. Like”—she paused—“how do they put it when the criminal is a stranger? A casual crime. That’s what happened.”

  Steve picked his words. “There have been other problems since you left Haklo. It’s important, in fact it may be a matter of life and death, to know if the destruction of your car is linked to later vandalism. I want to ask a serious question. Was a male staffer at Haklo hitting on you? If so, did you rebuff him?”

  She didn’t rush to answer. “Men are”—now it was she who spoke with care—“often very nice to me. Some men always see women in a certain way. Hollis Blair was very friendly, but he was never over the line. Hollis”—there was good humor in her tone—“is a guy who automatically sends out signals to women. The other men were interested, but I made it clear that I’m in a committed relationship. I’ve been fortunate in both school and jobs that I’ve dealt with nice men who recognize boundaries. No one bothered me at Haklo.”

  Steve ended the call with a feeling of bewilderment. He’d been so certain…

  Rosalind waggled a hand in greeting. She was speaking brightly into the phone. “…some unexpected repairs have to be made and the foundation won’t be available for tours this Saturday. If you would like to reschedule, please call.” She gave the number. “We’re very sorry for the cancellation. Again, this is Rosalind McNeill at Haklo Foundation.” She hung up and heaved a sigh. “The T is definitely out of sorts. But I kind of get her point. She cancelled the Saturday tours. She said there’s not a good feeling here.” Rosalind’s round face suddenly looked half scared, half uneasy. “She’s got that right. Anyway”—she managed a smile almost as bright as her usual—“I have the mail tray ready.” She nodded at the blue plastic tray on the counter.

  Nela started to explain she was looking for Louise, then realized she would be visiting each office with the mail and she could combine the tasks. She would, however, change her route and end up at Blythe’s office. Hopefully, she would be able to report Louise’s whereabouts when she delivered Blythe’s mail. And, in fact, her answer might be right here at hand. Rosalind knew who came and who went.

  “Is Louise in Hollis’s office?” Louise handled correspondence and projects for both the director and the trustee.

  “The director isn’t here this morning. He called in and said he would be in around noon.” Rosalind’s face took on a conspiratorial glow. “Abby called in, too. She said she had an appointment and would come in around noon.” Rosalind raised both eyebrows.

  Nela had not paid particular attention, but remembered that Abby’s office had been dark. Nela had assumed Abby was upstairs in the artifact room. She didn’t care about the twin absences of Hollis and Abby. “I guess Louise is upstairs.” She gestured toward the broad steps of the curving twin stairways to the second floor. “What time did she go up?”

  Rosalind was too good-natured to be offended by Nela’s lack of interest in the activities of the director and assistant curator. Her smile was cheerful. “I’ve been here since eight. I haven’t seen Louise this morning. She must have taken the back stairs.”

  Nela received the same answer everywhere she delivered mail. No one had seen Louise. Nela deposited mail in the in-box on Grace Webster’s desk. There was no jacket on her coat tree, no evidence she had been to Haklo this morning. Nela very much doubted that Grace had bothered to inform Rosalind of her presence
or absence.

  There was no one left to ask.

  As she stepped out of Grace’s office, the plastic tray held only the mail for Louise and for the trustee. Nela headed for the back stairs that led down to the first floor of the west wing. She would leave Louise’s mail, and if Louise had since returned to her office, all would be well.

  Light spilled into the hallway from the open door to the artifact room. Abby had called in, said she wasn’t coming until late morning. There was no reason for the light to be on if Abby wasn’t working. Possibly Louise was there.

  Nela walked faster. She reached the doorway and stopped. She glanced across the room. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at death.

  Louise’s body lay facedown in a crumpled heap near the back table where Abby cataloged and mounted Indian war clubs. Yesterday Louise’s pink blouse had been soft and pretty with the gray wool suit. Harsh light from overhead fluorescent panels threw splotched dark stains on the back of Louise’s gray suit into stark relief.

  18

  Muttered voices and heavy footsteps sounded from the far end of the hallway near the staff entrance and the back stairway to the second floor. Nela assumed more police were arriving as well as the medical examiner and a forensic unit and all the various people involved in a homicide investigation. This time there was no question as to the cause of death. Homicide by person or persons unknown. Louise Spear had walked into the artifact room sometime late yesterday afternoon and someone, someone she knew, someone with a key to Haklo, struck her down, crushing the back of her head.

  Nela sat numbly at Chloe’s desk and waited. Dugan had taken only a moment to talk to Nela—how did she find the body?—then directed Nela and the other shaken and shocked Haklo staff members, who’d gathered in the upper-west hallway, to remain in their offices until further notice. Rosalind, eyes red-rimmed, brought lunch, ham sandwiches, chips, coffee. Nela forced herself to eat. The day was going to be long and hard. She needed energy to recall and tell Katie Dugan what she knew. Louise Spear had been worried and upset yesterday, but it had never occurred to Nela that Louise was in danger. Her distress had seemed natural, the care of a woman who had served Haklo for so many years. If only she had asked Louise what troubled her…If only…

  Nela was painfully aware of the spread of light through the connecting doorway. This morning she’d assumed that any moment Louise would return to her office.

  More steps, these coming from the other direction. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m not going to talk to her. I’m on my way upstairs, but I want to see her, Mokie.”

  Nela came to her feet. Steve was coming down the hall.

  “Katie’ll have my head on a platter if any of the witnesses talk to anybody.” Mokie’s gravelly voice was steely.

  Nela realized with a chill that there must be officers stationed in every hall to prevent conversation and ensure staff members stayed sequestered.

  “That includes you, Steve.” It was an order.

  “Not to worry.” Steve’s voice was nearer, loud, determined. He came through the open door in a rush.

  She moved to meet him.

  He reached her, gripped her shoulders. His broad freckled face was grim, but his blue eyes looked deep into hers, saying, It’s bad, I’m here, I’ll help.

  She drew strength from his reassuring gaze and from his touch, the warmth and certainty of his hands.

  “I know it’s rotten.” His voice held a recognition of the grisly scene she’d found and taut anger at the death of a woman who had been good and kind and generous.

  “I kept hunting for her.” Nela hated thinking how long Louise’s body had lain there. “And all the while—”

  Mokie stood in the doorway. “Save it for Dugan.” Mokie’s voice was gruff.

  Nela glanced at Mokie, nodded. “Right.” She looked back at Steve.

  He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “I’ve got to cover the story. I’ll see you tonight. I’ll bring dinner.”

  The afternoon dragged, one slow hour after another. Nothing to do. No one to talk to. Only the sounds of people coming and going. She tried not to remember what she had seen, tried to figure who might have committed murder, knew the list was long. All the staff members had been present late yesterday afternoon. Erik Judd had been in the library. Any of them could have killed Louise.

  It was a quarter to five when footsteps came near, purposeful, quick steps. Detective Dugan came through the open door, followed by Mokie Morrison. He was much taller, but Dugan carried with her an air of command.

  Dugan flicked a thumb at Mokie. He settled in a chair a little to one side, pulled out a small recorder, turned it on. “Office of Nela Farley, temporary assistant to murder victim. Time: four forty-six p.m. Investigating officers Detective Flynn, Detective Mokie Morrison. Investigation into homicide of Louise Spear.”

  Dugan didn’t draw up a second chair. She stood in front of Chloe’s desk, arms folded, and stared down at Nela. Although her white blouse, gray cardigan, and gray wool skirt would have been proper attire in any office, she looked every inch a cop, eyes sharp and questioning, face hard. “When did you last see Louise Spear?”

  “Just before I left yesterday. A few minutes before five.” When had Louise died? Why had she gone upstairs to the artifact room? That was where Abby worked. Once again, always, there was a link to Abby.

  “Where did you see her?”

  Nela gestured toward the connecting doorway. “In her office. I stood in the doorway, said good night.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Not then. I talked to her earlier in the day. She was very upset after the necklace was found in Abby’s office. When I came back from lunch, she was sitting in her office and she looked dreadful. She wasn’t doing any work. And later, I talked to everyone, asking about Marian Grant’s last day—”

  “We’ll get to that in a minute.” Dugan was impatient. “Tell me about Louise Spear.”

  Nela’s eyes narrowed as she tried to remember Louise’s words. “Louise said she didn’t see Marian in the afternoon, that the last time she saw her, Marian seemed fine. Then Louise started talking about the necklace. Louise said that things sometimes weren’t what they seemed to be, but we couldn’t get away from the fact that the police found the necklace in Abby’s office. It was all a little confused. She said either Abby put it in the cabinet or someone put it there to get Abby in trouble. And then she said”—Nela hesitated because the words seemed so damning now—“that ‘she shouldn’t have been there. But I saw her.’ ”

  Dugan’s expression was thoughtful. “ ‘She shouldn’t have been there. But I saw her.’ ”

  When Nela opened the apartment door, Steve wished he could wipe away the pain and distress in her face. She carried too many burdens. He wanted to see her smile. He wanted her eyes to light up with happiness. He wanted her to know laughter and carefree days. And nights. Preferably with him. He held up a carryout bag. “Greek food. And”—he paused for emphasis, waggling a red can of coffee mixed with chicory—“I brought the Flynn special, coffee that will stiffen your spine.”

  Nela had already set the table.

  He put the coffee on to brew while she emptied the sacks. “Dinner first, then I’ll bring you up to date. But nothing about Haklo while we eat.”

  They feasted on chicken kabobs and Greek salad, finishing with baklava and steaming mugs of chicory coffee. “Can’t end a meal at the Flynn house in the winter without coffee that barks.” He looked toward Jugs, in his usual place at the end of the table. “Sorry for the language.”

  Resisting a second piece of baklava, Steve raised his mug in a salute to Jugs. “I don’t usually like to share a girl with another guy, but I’ll make an exception for you, buddy.”

  Jugs looked regal, front paws outstretched.

  “Jugs is a gentleman.” Nela smiled. “He has definite ideas on the proper place for a cat during meals, but he minds his manners.”

  Soon enough the dishes were done and they
were in the living room.

  Jugs settled between them on the sofa.

  Nela smoothed Jugs’s bristly coat, welcomed the warmth. “Tell me, Steve.” The brightness from their cheerful interlude fled her eyes.

  He didn’t have to look at notes. He’d covered the investigation all through the afternoon, written the lead story with five minutes to spare on deadline. “You are the last person to admit seeing Louise, so she was alive at a few minutes before five. Her death occurred sometime between five and nine p.m. They can figure that from the state of rigor mortis. The autopsy will likely be more definitive. Katie thinks she was killed shortly after five p.m. For some reason, she went to the artifact room. There’s no indication from the position of the body that she fought her attacker. Instead, she was apparently struck from behind, a blow that crushed the base of her skull. She fell and was hit at least three more times. Death from massive trauma. The weapon was a Plains Indian war club, a rounded polished ball of stone fastened by a strip of leather to a handle. The stone has a circumference of seven inches. The handle is eighteen inches long, partially wrapped in hide. On the length of the handle, there are several prints belonging to Abby Andrews along with some unidentified prints. Katie doubts the murderer was thoughtful enough to leave prints, and likely the unidentified prints belong to a previous collector or shop owner.”

  “Abby was cataloging the clubs. Of course her prints are on them.” Nela had a quick picture of Abby yesterday as Nela crossed the room.

  Steve shrugged. “Yeah. A point in her favor. Or a point against her. Everybody knew she was handling the war clubs. If she killed Louise, she didn’t have to worry about gloves. Like you said, her prints are all over the clubs. Some of the prints are smudged either by Abby or by gloves worn by the murderer. If somebody else hefted the weapon, they must have worn gloves. But why not? If it was after five o’clock, maybe the murderer was already in a coat, ready to leave. Louise wouldn’t be surprised at gloves in this weather.”