What the Cat Saw

by Carolyn Hart

  “I don’t see why Louise went to the artifact room.”

  “That’s easy, whether the killer’s Abby or someone else.” Steve felt confident. “Abby could ask Louise to come up, say she needed to check out something with her. If it’s someone else, it’s even easier. Abby had the tail pinned on her a half-dozen times Wednesday. The murderer says, ‘Louise, I may have found something in the artifact room that implicates Abby but I don’t want to take it to the police unless you agree.’ ”

  “Why did the murderer leave on the light?” Nela shivered. “That bothers me. I keep thinking about the light on all night and Louise lying there dead.”

  Steve didn’t believe the light mattered one way or the other. “Maybe the idea was that the light would attract attention and Louise would be found sooner rather than later.”

  “She would have been found early today by Abby, except Abby and Hollis were gone this morning. I don’t think Grace ever came in today, although she wouldn’t pay any attention if she had.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Nela gave him a quirked smile. He noticed for the first time that she had a hint of a dimple in her right cheek. “Grace wouldn’t consider it necessary to personally check on anything. She and Blythe are accustomed to having others take care of details for them. When Blythe came here Friday night, she hadn’t given a thought to who would take care of Jugs. She’d assumed it was taken care of. Minions can always be dispatched.”

  “You aren’t a big fan of the Webster sisters?”

  Nela considered the question. “Neither for nor against. As Fitzgerald said, ‘the rich are different.’ But”—and she looked a little shamefaced—“to be fair—”

  Steve was touched by her rush to be generous. She had a kind heart. And that, he realized with an odd sense of sadness, was nothing he would ever have said about Gail.

  “—Blythe is doing her best to find out what happened, even though I don’t think either she or Grace were fond of Marian. Too much history there because of their father and mother. As for Grace”—and now she again felt the prickle of unease that she’d experienced when she spoke with Grace Webster about Marian’s last day—“I don’t know if she was warning me or threatening me when we talked about the necklace and she said that ‘sometimes it’s safer not to know.’ ”

  “It could have been either?”

  Once again Nela gave a question grave consideration. “It could have been either.”

  “We have to look at everything again.” He hated the sense of uncertainty that enveloped him, but they had to face facts. “I was positive the car fire meant a lot, that one of the men was hot for Anne Nesbitt, that she’d brushed him off. I talked to her. If one of them was interested, she didn’t pick up on it. I think she was telling me the truth. She would have known, right?” He wondered if she knew how he felt, sitting so near her.

  Nela looked at him. Her eyes widened, then her gaze slipped away. Her voice was soft when she answered. “She would know.”

  He felt a quickening of his breath and then her eyes moved to the photograph of the dark-haired man in the latticed frame with its carefully worked border of red, white, and blue ribbons. Steve willed his voice to be businesslike. “So, scratch the idea that one of the men was getting back at her. That means we still have to figure out whether the vandalism started with the car fire or whether the fire gave someone a clever way of setting up camouflage to steal a necklace or whether the necklace was just one more way of attacking Haklo and making life miserable for the director and the trustee.” His lips compressed for a moment. “It’s like trying to catch minnows with your bare hands, too many of them and too slippery and fast.”

  Nela smoothed Jugs’s fur.

  Steve gazed at her long fingers, a lovely hand, smooth, graceful, gentle.

  She look at him with quick intelligence. “If the objective was to steal the necklace, would there have been so much destruction? The Indian baskets were slashed. A crystal statuette was thrown at a mirror in Marian’s apartment. The mess in her office was more than just the aftermath of a search. I think”—she spoke slowly—“someone is frighteningly angry.”

  “And scared.” He tried to sort out his confusion. “Scared as hell, now. That’s why Marian and Louise died. I don’t think there was ever a plan to murder anyone. It was a campaign to cause trouble. Maybe Abby Andrews really did see a way to snatch a quarter million dollars worth of jewelry. If so, her heroine-tied-to-the-tracks posture is an act. But there are other reasons Haklo could be the target. Blythe decided to get really involved at Haklo this summer. Grace not only resents her sister’s status as sole trustee, she’s mad because Blythe squashed support for her lover’s art exhibition. Erik Judd lost his job and Robbie Powell’s been furious ever since. Cole’s miserable about being pushed out as a vice president. Francis’s budget has been whacked. Peter may be looking at the end of in-house publications if Blythe decides to use a local agency and that might ease him out of his job. Or maybe my first instinct was right and Anne Nesbitt’s wrong. Maybe one of the overtures at the workplace wasn’t gracefully deflected and somebody was infuriated by Hollis’s usual approach to a good-looking woman.”

  Nela looked discouraged. “What troubles me is that when I think of everyone at Haklo, I see nice faces.”

  “I do, too. We have to hope Katie gets a break somewhere. She’s smart. If anyone can ever figure out the truth, it will be Katie. She’ll put on pressure. Somebody will crack. The murderer has to be in a panic now. Everything’s spiraled out of control.” He reached out, gently touched her shoulder. “Tomorrow will be better.” He gathered up his papers. He wished he believed his words.

  He stood and Nela came to her feet.

  He looked down at her. She seemed small and vulnerable to him. He wished he could take her in his arms, reassure her, lift her face…“Yeah. Well. I better let you get some rest.” He needed to leave before he said things he knew she didn’t want to hear from him now. The best he could manage sounded lame and awkward. “We’ll get through this.”

  Jugs twined around his ankles. He looked down, managed a grin. “Hey, Jugs, you’ll look after the lady, right? Promise?”

  “I’ll count on Jugs.” She managed a smile, said swiftly, “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  As the door closed behind him, he carried with him a memory of her smile.

  As Nela picked up the coffee mugs, she heard a clatter behind her. She knew the sound now, Jugs pushing through the cat flap. She turned and glimpsed the end of a black tail as the flap dropped. It would be interesting to know what Jugs did when he was outside, what he saw, the thoughts in his mind. Was he watching Steve climb into his car and leave? Or was he immersed in stalking a mouse? Were mice frisking about on cold January nights? Surely a sensible mouse was ensconced behind a wall or nestled in a corner of the garage.

  She knew Jugs’s evening pattern now. He would return in a little while. She would be glad of his company tonight. They’d already established a routine, Jugs padding into the guest bedroom just before she shut and locked the door.

  Nela rinsed out the mugs and the coffeepot. The apartment seemed empty without Steve. He brought strength and calmness and she wished that he were still here.

  A knock sounded at the front door.

  Nela dried her hands and stepped out into the living room. Had he left something behind? But the coffee table by the sofa was clear. As she walked toward the door, she felt eager. Perhaps he had something more to say. Perhaps they could talk for a while yet and she could feel safe and content. He hadn’t left anything behind, except a vivid memory of his presence. She smiled. Not a coat certainly. She would have to encourage him to wear a coat.

  She had left the porch light on for him to see his way to his car. She opened the door and felt an instant of déjà vu. Blythe Webster had worn her elegant mink coat over pajamas on Friday night. She again wore her mink, but tonight the coat was open to reveal a black sweater and slacks and ankle-high black leather b
oots, not pajamas and sneakers.

  She appeared haggard, worried. “I couldn’t relax and I decided to walk on the terrace. I saw Steve Flynn come down the stairs. I suppose he wanted more information about Louise since your office was next to hers. Anyway, I thought maybe he’d told you more about what’s happened. I can wait and see what’s in the paper in the morning, but I’m so upset about Louise. Do you mind telling me what he said?”

  Nela understood. When something horrible happens, facts don’t ease the pain, but there is a desperate hunger to know what there is to know.

  Blythe’s tone was almost beseeching. “If it isn’t too late…”

  Blythe’s unexpected diffidence surprised Nela. Here was a woman who was accustomed always to having her way, accustomed to ordering, not asking.

  “Of course.” Nela held the door wide. “Please come in.” She stood aside for Blythe to enter, then closed the door and led the way to the living room. Nela sank into the easy chair.

  Blythe sat on the edge of the sofa, facing Nela. Behind her stretched a shining expanse of flooring. The bookcase next to the front door was bare tonight. Nela never saw it without remembering Marian’s Coach bag and the secret it had held.

  Light from a lamp beside the sofa emphasized Blythe’s haggard appearance. One eyelid flickered. Lines were grooved deep beside her lips. Perched there, she looked small in the long luxurious coat.

  Nela abhorred fur coats, sad that small living creatures were killed when cloth would serve as well. But tonight she found the huddled figure on the sofa pitiable. Blythe looked as if she would never be warm.

  “I’m afraid none of us know very much.” Nela marshaled her thoughts, made an effort to repeat all that Steve had said.

  Blythe hunched in the big coat, absorbing every word. Her features remained tight and stiff. She looked much older than her late thirties.

  A clatter.

  Blythe’s eyes flared. She jerked to look behind her. “Oh, it’s the cat.”

  Jugs stood just inside the front door, the pupils of his eyes huge from his foray into darkness. He sat down just past the bookcase.

  Nela smiled. “It’s too cold out tonight even for Jugs.”

  Blythe let out a sigh. Her tense posture relaxed as she once again faced Nela.

  Nela knew nothing she could share would ease the core of Blythe’s distress, but she laid out the possibilities, one by one. “…and everything may hinge on why Anne Nesbitt’s car was set on fire.” Nela leaned forward. “Perhaps you can help. You were there every day. You know these men. Did one of them make a play for Anne Nesbitt?”

  Not a muscle moved in Blythe’s face. “Anne Nesbitt.” Blythe’s tone was cold.

  Jugs paced silently across the floor, stood a few feet behind the sofa. He looked at Nela with his huge green eyes. “…angry…angry…danger…”

  Nela stared at Jugs.

  Anger.

  Abruptly, Nela felt the presence of anger, hot as flickering flame. When she mentioned Anne Nesbitt…

  Bill once told her that you could never fool a cat. A cat always knew exactly what someone thought and felt. There might be a smile, a face ostensibly expressing sympathy or welcome, but a cat knew the truth. A cat knew if there was sadness or heartbreak or fear or horror or love or hatred.

  Or anger.

  Slowly Nela turned her gaze to Blythe.

  The older woman’s posture hadn’t changed, but naked now, unmistakable in that hard tight face, were eyes that glittered with fury.

  Nela’s recoil was instinctive. She reached to push up from the chair.

  “Don’t move.” Blythe’s right hand darted into the capacious pocket of the fur coat. In an instant, she held a black pistol aimed at Nela.

  Nela sat rigid in the pretty chintz-covered chair, her hand gripping the arm. Was the feel of chintz beneath her fingers the last sensation she would ever know? Nela’s chest ached. The hole in the barrel of the big gun seemed to expand. The gun never wavered in the grip of the small hand with brightly painted, perfect nails.

  Nela looked into the eyes of death. “You hated Anne Nesbitt. Because of Hollis.”

  Blythe went to Kansas City and met Hollis, a handsome, lanky man who made women feel admired, attractive, desirable. It was in his nature. The woman across from her responded, but she didn’t see that the admiring glances, the soft touch of a hand were meaningless. She’d once lost love, her father buying off a man she thought cared for her. She was lonely, hungry for a man. Marian Grant and Louise Spear saw the danger. Hollis’s easy charm was automatic, any woman, anytime. Blythe thought he was hers for the taking and Hollis turned interested eyes on Anne Nesbitt.

  Blythe’s lips quivered. “We danced at the hotel. I thought…Oh, it doesn’t matter what I thought. He was a lie. He made a fool of me. I brought Hollis here. I made him the director, introduced him to everyone, bought him a car, and then he went after that sluttish girl, had the nerve to tell me how beautiful she was. I thought when she left…but that’s when I realized he’d been involved all along with Abby. She’s a simpering, stupid, irritating fool. A nobody. I could have fired her, but I knew a better way.” There was a flicker of malicious delight across her face. “No one ever suspected me.” She was pleased with herself.

  Nela’s thoughts whirled. She was cornered. There was no one to help her, no one to save her. But she would fight. At the end, she would lunge to her feet, slam the coffee table hard against Blythe’s legs, jump to one side. That’s when the gun would roar. Perhaps if she kept Blythe talking long enough, she could take her by surprise. She’d keep her talking…“You’re very clever, Blythe. You planned everything well. You must have felt confident that Abby would be blamed for the vandalism, but Marian saw you put the necklace in her office.”

  “Marian threatened me.” Blythe’s voice trembled with outrage. “She said I had to ‘find’ the necklace, say it had never been stolen. She said I had to step away from Haklo, leave the running of it to Hollis, move to the house in La Jolla.”

  A clatter at the door.

  Blythe heard the sound behind her. This time she didn’t look around. “I always hated Marian. She stole Dad from Mother. I had to be nice to her, but I hated her. She thought I would do whatever she asked. She said she had hidden the necklace.”

  This time it was not Jugs entering through the cat flap. Jugs crouched a few feet behind the sofa, tail flicking. His head turned to watch the figure coming inside.

  Nela forced herself to look at Blythe, not at the figure that stepped inside, face somber. But there might not be hope there for Nela, either. “You took Abby’s skateboard and put it on Marian’s steps. You knew when she jogged and you were there to get the skateboard after she fell.”

  Blythe looked satisfied for an instant, then anger again distorted her features. “Marian told me the necklace was in a safe place. I was wild all week. I was afraid to go in the apartment during the daytime. There’s always someone around, the housekeeper or one of the maids. I couldn’t take a chance someone would see me. They knew I didn’t like Marian. I hadn’t been to Marian’s apartment in years. At night your stupid sister was here and then I thought I had my chance Friday night. I had to find the necklace. No one told me you were in Marian’s apartment.”

  How ironic that Blythe had desperately searched the apartment and Marian’s office only to find the necklace, courtesy of Nela, lying a few days later in the center of her desk.

  Near the front door, Grace Webster listened, too, her rounded face drawn and sad.

  “I found the necklace in Marian’s purse.” Nela nodded toward the bookcase by the door, felt a lurch inside, prayed that Blythe didn’t turn around.

  Blythe’s gaze never wavered, nor the gun in her hand. Another spasm of anger twisted her face. “Her purse?” There was a sudden blinking of Blythe’s eyes. “Oh. A safe place. I thought she meant she’d hidden it away. I should have taken her purse but I didn’t know anyone was here and I couldn’t afford to be seen. I thought a
bout taking the purse as I ran across the room. If only I had.”

  Grace Webster, slim and athletic in a rose turtleneck and gray slacks, walked nearer on the thick soles of running shoes.

  Nela continued with only a flicker of a glance at Grace. “I put the necklace on your desk Monday night. You found it there Tuesday morning and thought you had another chance to destroy Abby, but Louise saw you, didn’t she?” Now Louise’s troubled words were clear. She shouldn’t have been there. But I saw her…Louise wouldn’t have been surprised if Abby had come down to her office from upstairs, but the trustee didn’t visit the offices of employees. Not usually. Not except the day Blythe came because she knew Louise lay dead upstairs and she wanted her found. Staff came to the trustee’s office. Blythe shouldn’t have been there…but she was.

  Blythe sagged inside the big fur coat. Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Louise came to my office Wednesday and said she was glad I’d asked you to find out more about Marian’s last day. Then she asked if I’d seen anything when I came to Abby’s office. I couldn’t have her tell anyone I’d gone to Abby’s office. I told her I’d been worried and had dropped by to talk to Abby but she wasn’t there. I told Louise I’d see if Abby would meet with us upstairs a few minutes after five. Just before five, I slipped upstairs and put one of the clubs just inside the door. I left the light on. I waited until I thought everyone had left. I put on my coat and gloves and stopped at Louise’s office and said we could run upstairs and talk to Abby. We went inside and I said that Abby must have just stepped out and we’d wait for her. Louise walked over to look at the exhibit of clubs. I came up behind her…”

  Grace Webster briefly closed her eyes, opened them. She looked at the woman huddled on the couch, the woman who was her sister. There were memories in Grace’s haunted gaze, perhaps of an older sister pushing her on a swing, of family dinners, of sunny days and laughter, of a special link between an older and younger sister that quarrels might fray but never quite destroy.

  Grace came around the end of the sofa. Her eyes dropped to the gun, rose to her sister’s face. “You didn’t know what you were doing, did you, Blythe?”