What the Cat Saw (10 page)

Whatever the reason for the search, Nela knew she had to do something about the purse that now rested behind a stack of cat food in Marian Grant’s kitchen cabinet. Nela’s situation was untenable. If she admitted she’d searched Miss Grant’s purse and not mentioned to anyone what she’d found, it would be difficult to
explain the fact that she’d hidden the purse. If she kept quiet, it would be devastating if anyone found the hidden purse.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come in.” Blythe spoke firmly.

The door opened and a dark-haired young woman stepped inside. She kept her gaze fastened on Blythe’s face. “Miss Webster, I found the file.”

Blythe’s fingers curled around the double strand of pearls at her throat. “Which computer, Penny?”

The young IT tech looked uncomfortable. “The computer is in the office assigned to Abby Andrews.”

Abby gave a choked cry. Her face flushed, then turned pale. She came to her feet, held out a trembling hand. “I never wrote anything like that. Never. I wouldn’t hurt the foundation.” She ignored Blythe, turned instead toward Hollis Blair, her gaze beseeching.

Hollis stood, too. His bony face flushed. “Of course you didn’t. Someone else used your computer, Abby.”

Blythe studied Abby. Her gaze was interested, neither supportive nor accusing. “Sit down, Abby, Hollis.” She waited until both of them took their seats. Blythe’s cameo-perfect face was composed.

Nela wondered if it was inherent in Blythe’s nature to exercise control. She also wondered if the trustee knew that she was diminishing both Hollis and Abby with her cool instruction.
Sit down, children.

Blythe continued in a measured voice. “Remain calm. There’s no proof Abby created the file. There’s no proof Abby didn’t. Let’s explore the possibilities.” She nodded at the IT staffer. “When was the file created?”

“Thursday at eleven oh eight p.m.” Penny Crawford carefully did not glance toward Abby.

“I was in my cabin.” Abby’s voice was defiant. “I was by myself. I had no reason to come here at night.”

Cole Hamilton peered at the assistant curator. “It requires a password to access a computer.” The question was implicit.

Robbie looked relieved, almost complacent. “They say you always leave an electronic footprint. This may explain all the trouble we’ve had this winter.”

Abby swung toward him, her thin face stricken. “I didn’t create that file. It’s a lie. Why would I do something like that? If anyone had reason to cause trouble for Dr. Blair, it’s you. You and your boyfriend.”

Nela realized that the usual office veneer had been stripped away. It was an unpleasant scene, but she watched each one, hoping that one of them might reveal something to explain the necklace in Marian’s purse.

Robbie’s smooth face turned to stone. “If Cole’s worried about the taint of immorality, maybe we should start at the top. With our new director and his girlfriend.”

“Let’s all stop saying things we’ll regret.” Peter Owens’s voice was calm.

“Don’t be a bore, Peter.” Grace was amused. “This is more fun than
The View
. What’s wrong with some home truths? Everybody knows Robbie’s as inflated with venom as a puff adder since Erik got canned. The psychology’s a little twisted to tag Abby as the villainess but these days nothing surprises. She’s the director’s adoring slave even though the rest of us aren’t sure he’s up to the job. Of course, he responds. Maybe Abby caused the troubles so she could console him.” She turned to Abby. “You are living in one of the foundation’s guest cabins. I saw his car there very late one night. I told Blythe. But she didn’t do anything about it. Of course”—she shot
a questioning look at her sister—“you were hell-bent to hire Hollis and you never, ever make a mistake, do you, Sister?” Grace didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s too bad Dad isn’t still around. Dad always had a rule about women in his office. He told everyone, ‘Don’t fool with the working stock,’ and in case you want to know what that means, a man in charge doesn’t screw the secretaries. They didn’t have assistant curators in those days. But the rule should be the same.”

Hollis’s voice grated. “My private life and Abby’s private life have nothing to do with you or with the foundation. The suggestion that she’d create any kind of situation that would harm the foundation is absurd. That’s a nasty, twisted idea. If we’re going to consider who might be angry with the foundation or”—his glance at Blythe was measuring—“with Blythe, we don’t have far to look.” He looked directly at Robbie Powell.

Robbie’s boyish face hardened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Grace laughed. “Come on, Robbie. Skip the hurt innocence. Be a big boy.” Her tone was chiding. “You started the toe-to-toe with Hollis when you suggested Abby was vandal-in-chief. Our director may not be able to keep his pants zipped, but he’s not a fool. If anybody wants to make a list of people pissed off at Blythe, you and your boyfriend clock in at one and two. Speaking of, how is our former director?”

Robbie’s voice was clipped. “Erik’s working diligently on a definitive history of the foundation.”

Nela sorted out the players in her mind. It was Erik in the cape who had opted to park in the visitors’ lot. Now she knew why.

Robbie looked at Blythe. “The foundation should be ready to sign a contract for its publication.”

Grace gave a hoot. “Don’t be a pushover, Blythe. Robbie’s trying to make you feel guilty because you booted Erik.”

“Grace, please.” Blythe frowned at her sister. “It was time for the foundation to have younger leadership, a more forward-looking vision.” The words were smooth, automatic, meaningless.

Robbie was strident. “Erik gave the best years of his life to the foundation. What thanks did he receive?”

Grace looked amused. “I rest my case. Who hates you the most, Blythe? Erik or Robbie? I’d say it was a tie. We know Robbie can get in and out of the building. You can bet Erik still has his keys. Or he could easily filch Robbie’s.”

“You have keys.” Robbie’s tone was hard. “You’ve been furious ever since Blythe vetoed the grant to the Sutton Gallery. The vandalism began the very next week. I hear the gallery might have to close down.”

Nela moved her gaze from one cold face to another.

“The gallery won’t close.” Grace spoke with icy precision. “I will make sure of that.”

Blythe was impatient. “I insist we remain on topic. We have to deal with the file in Abby’s computer.” She turned toward the assistant curator. “An emotional response isn’t helpful. We will deal with facts.”

Abby sent a desperate glance toward Hollis. She looked helpless, persecuted, and appealingly lovely.

Nela didn’t know these people but the idea seemed to be that Abby and Hollis were lovers. If ever anyone had the aura of a heroine adrift on an ice floe, it was Abby. Her need for support could be genuine or could be calculated to bring out the defending male response of chivalry. There was no doubt the handsome, lanky director was charging to Abby’s defense. He gave her a reassuring smile. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. It’s unpleasant, but it has nothing to do with you, Abby.”

Abby’s eyes never left his face.

A skateboard disappeared from Abby’s porch. Whose skateboard? When did it disappear? Before Marian Grant fell to her death?

Blythe wasn’t deflected. She tapped the folder. “Who knows your password?”

Abby’s voice shook. “I don’t know. Someone must have gotten it somehow.”

Blythe’s gaze sharpened. “Did you tell anyone your password?”

“Never. Someone got it somehow.” Her violet eyes were dark with misery.

Blythe looked skeptical. “How?”

Francis Garth shifted his big body, rumbled, “Stop badgering her, Blythe.”

Blythe massaged one temple. “My password’s written on a slip of paper in my desk drawer. Maybe—”

Louise clapped her hands together. “Don’t you remember, Blythe? Marian kept a list of current passwords in case a computer needed to be accessed.” Louise looked excited. “We can check.” She turned to Nela. “Go to Marian’s office. She kept a small notebook with tabs in her right-hand desk drawer. Marian was always organized. Look under
p
s for password.”

Nela closed the conference room door behind her. It was a relief to be outside that emotionally charged atmosphere. Maybe she would find an answer that would help Abby. The assistant curator was upset for good reason. To be accused of sending out a sleazy message on the director’s letterhead was bad enough, but obviously she and Hollis were more than employer and employee. All the dictums of good sense warned against an office romance, but dictums didn’t matter to love. A casual friend had warned her against dating Bill, pointing out, for God’s sake, he’s in the army, and what kind of
life is that? Good advice, but her heart didn’t care. Bill hadn’t planned to stay in the army. He was going to go back to school…

Nela jerked her thoughts back to Abby. Abby’s wavering denials did nothing to prove her innocence. Nela walked faster. Abby couldn’t prove her innocence and Nela couldn’t prove she’d had good intentions when she found that necklace in Marian’s purse.

In the main hall, Rosalind looked up from the reception desk. “Hey, is the meeting over? I’ve got a backlog of calls.”

It wasn’t Nela’s place to say the meeting might go on forever and all hell was breaking loose. She forced a smile. “Still going. They sent me for something from Miss Grant’s office.”

She felt hopeful when she reached the office door. Maybe she would find the notebook and possibly offer at least a sliver of succor to Abby. If Marian had indeed recorded computer passwords, someone might have obtained Abby’s password. The sooner Nela returned, the sooner the meeting would end. By then it would be nearing lunchtime. She’d go back to the apartment and do something about that damned necklace.

She opened the door to chaos. One word blazed in her mind.
Fury
.

6

W
hy didn’t you ask?” Blythe Webster flung out a hand. “I should have been consulted.” Her face was tight with anger.

Rosalind McNeill looked upset and uncertain. “I’m sorry, Miss Webster. Nela stopped in the doorway and I knew something dreadful had happened. I hurried over there. When I saw the mess, I raced to my desk and called nine-one-one. Then I ran to tell you and now you’re all here.” She gestured toward the staff members, who milled about near Marian’s office.

The sound of approaching sirens rose and fell.

Blythe pressed her lips together, finally said brusquely, “I understand, Rosalind. Of course you did the right thing.” The words clearly came with an effort at civility. “It’s just that we’ve had so much dreadful publicity. Now there will be more.” She turned away, moved toward the front door.

Rosalind looked after her with a worried face.

“You did the right thing.” Nela doubted her reassurance brought much comfort to Rosalind. “It’s against the law to conceal a crime.”

Nela stepped a little nearer to the open office door.

Hollis Blair stared into the trashed office with a tired, puzzled expression. Abby looked relieved. Perhaps she thought the violent destruction—drawers’ contents flung on the floor, filing cabinets emptied, computer terminal smashed, art work broken or slashed, chairs overturned—benefitted her. Certainly the file on her computer was no longer the center of attention.

Nela caught snatches of conversation.

Cole Hamilton paced back and forth. “…grounds need to be patrolled…”

Francis Garth massaged his heavy chin. “…obviously dealing with an unbalanced mind…”

Grace Webster jangled silver bracelets on one arm. “…I heard last week that Erik still hadn’t found a job…”

Peter Owens looked worried. “…suggest care in publicly discussing any grievances…”

Robbie Powell was businesslike. “…essential to prepare a press release…”

Outside, the sirens shrilled, then cut off.

Hollis Blair braced his shoulders, moved to join Blythe.

The heavy main door opened. A fast-moving, dark-haired woman in street clothes was followed by two uniformed officers, a thin wiry blonde and a large man with a balding head.

Nela was glad it wasn’t the same pair of officers who had been at Marian Grant’s apartment. Even the most incurious of police might wonder that she had called for help Friday night and today she had found a vandalized office. Logic denied a link, but swift
judgments often had little connection to logic. Happily, she’d never seen either the dark-haired woman or the uniformed officers before.