What the Cat Saw (20 page)

Dugan took a step nearer the table. “Describe the skateboard.”

“It’s black with orange stripes.”

“When did you last see it?” The question came fast.

“The Saturday”—Abby looked frightened—“before Marian died.”

“Where?” Curt, short, demanding.

“On the front porch of the cabin. It was propped up by the door.”

“There are four cabins on the grounds west of the main building. You are the only person currently occupying a cabin.”

Her violet eyes huge with fear, Abby nodded.

“When did he leave the board on the porch?”

“Craig was here the week before.”

“Who would have occasion to see the skateboard on the porch?”

“Anybody. Everybody. Blythe had all the staff members out to the cabin next door to discuss redoing the interiors. They passed my cabin to go inside. The skateboard was right there in plain sight.” Her voice wobbled but the challenge was clear.

Dugan turned to Blythe. “Is there anyone in addition to those present who were included in the survey of the cabin?”

Blythe’s face creased in thought. “I think that’s—oh, of course. Chloe Farley was with Louise.”

Nela’s glance locked with Dugan’s. She hoped the detective read her loud and clear:
Look at these people. They’re scared. I’m not. Chloe’s innocent.

The detective’s face didn’t change. There might have been grudging respect in her dark brown eyes, but the brief silent exchange didn’t deflect her from Abby. “When did you notice the skateboard was gone?”

“Sunday afternoon. I’d found a box in the basement and I was going to pack it up to mail to Craig.”

Dugan gazed at each person in turn. “Does anyone have knowledge of the skateboard between Saturday and Sunday?”

No one answered.

11

N
ela’s fingers automatically worked the computer keyboard as she prepared a summary of a grant application. Below her surface attention to the task, her thoughts darted as she tried to make sense of the tense meeting with Detective Dugan. Of course murder mattered more than theft, but why hadn’t Dugan even mentioned the return of the necklace, especially since she believed the necklace might be the reason for Marian Grant’s murder? Why was Dugan keeping that information quiet?

All through the rest of the morning and during lunch and the afternoon, she’d waited for word of the necklace’s return to reach her. She had waited for the sound of Dugan’s firm steps and the level stare that accused.

It was shortly after three when Louise Spear stood in the doorway between her office and Chloe’s. Louise’s face was drawn with strain. “Nela, please come here for a moment.”

Nela rose and walked into Louise’s office. When she stepped through the connecting door, she expected to see Dugan. Instead, she was alone with Louise.

“Close the door. Sit down.”

The door into the hallway was already shut. Louise’s office was paneled in gleaming oak. Bookcases filled one wall. A print of a dramatic painting by the Baranovs hung behind her desk, the magnificent colors vibrant and life affirming. Nela loved the glorious colors favored by the Russian artists. The print commanded attention. Nela wondered if, consciously or subconsciously, plain and modest Louise chose the compelling print to make herself less noticeable.

Louise stood to one side of her light oak desk. A shaft of pale winter sunlight emphasized deep lines etched at the corners of her eyes and lips. She looked fatigued and worried.

Nela sat in the plain wooden chair that faced the desk. Had Louise been deputized to fire Nela? Why hadn’t the police detective talked to her first? Had the redheaded reporter informed Dugan of her after-hours visit to Haklo?

Louise’s brown eyes scarcely seemed to acknowledge her presence. She was turned inward and her thoughts obviously weren’t pleasant. Finally, she gazed at Nela. “Tell me about Friday night.” She rubbed one thumb along the knuckles of her clenched right hand. “At Marian’s apartment.”

Nela described the sounds of a search and the light beneath the door and the arrival of the police.

Louise stared at Nela with wide worried eyes. “Did you see anyone when you opened the bedroom door?”

Nela knew abruptly that this was why Louise had called Nela into her office. Louise could have taken the necklace. But she could
have taken the necklace many times in the last few years if she had wished. Why this fall? Did she need money? Did she resent Hollis Blair?

“Nela?” Louise appeared tense.

Nela felt suddenly that Louise was afraid of what Nela might say. “I didn’t open the bedroom door until the police knocked. The thief was gone by then.”

Louise’s shoulders slumped. “I was hoping you might have some idea who was there. Well, I suppose if you knew anything you would have told the police.”

“Yes. I would have told the police.” But perhaps she’d been wiser than she knew when she’d stayed safe in the bedroom waiting until the front door slammed behind the intruder, an intruder who looked everywhere for a hidden necklace and it wasn’t hidden at all. “Have the police found out anything more about the necklace?” Why had no one discussed the return of the necklace? Surely its mysterious arrival was another pointer to someone with a key. That hadn’t been Nela’s intent when she brought it, but maybe underlining the connection to Haklo had been a very good idea.

“Unfortunately they haven’t been able to trace it. The detective said they have queries out to pawnshops.” She lifted thin fingers to touch one temple. “That will be all for now, Nela.”

Nela managed to nod and get up and walk into Chloe’s office without revealing her shock. She settled behind Chloe’s desk and stared blankly at the computer screen. The necklace was still missing. But she’d left it on Blythe’s desk. Nela opened the bottom drawer, pulled out her purse. She reached for her cell, then glanced at the open door to Louise’s office. She couldn’t afford to be overheard when she spoke to Steve. She had to wait until she left the foundation. She dropped the cell in the purse, closed the drawer.

I
t was one of those days. A tractor trailer overturned on the exit ramp into Craddock. One of Craddock’s leading literary lights, a much-published Oklahoma historian, died unexpectedly. A black Lab saved his family by butting against a bedroom door to awaken sleeping parents in time to gather up their five children and escape a house fire caused by a frayed extension cord on a portable heater. Every winter when the frigid days came, the
Clarion
warned readers to be wary of the dangers of frayed cords and of carbon monoxide from faulty fireplaces and wood stoves and generators. Every winter there were blazes. This one had a happy ending. Some didn’t.

Steve Flynn was in and out of the office. Lunch was a Big Mac on the run. It was almost three thirty before he had time to call Katie Dugan. He punched his speakerphone.

“Hey, Steve.” Of course she had caller ID.

“Bring me up to date on Haklo.”

“I suppose you plan a story on the anonymous call to the
Clarion
?”

He leaned back in his swivel chair, propped his feet on the desk, balanced a laptop on his lap. “We print the news as we get it.” His tone was laconic.

“I can always dream, can’t I? But probably our inquiries have tipped the murderer. If there is a murderer. Which isn’t clear.”

“And?”

“On the record, we are pursuing inquiries into the anonymous call to the
Clarion
that claimed the death of Marian Grant was murder.”

Steve typed the quote, not that he wouldn’t remember. It was stock Katie-speak when she didn’t intend to elaborate. “And?”

Silence.

“Come on, Katie. Surely there’s movement somewhere in this story. A little bird told me there was a bad”—he drew out the vowel but Katie didn’t smile—“letter that went out to members of the grants committee.”

She gave a quick little spurt of irritation. He knew she was wondering where he’d picked up that piece of information. “No comment.”

“Do you have a lab report on damage to the apartment stairs?”

“No comment.”

She hadn’t said there was no report, which meant there was a report, but she was unwilling to reveal what had been learned. “Could a skateboard—if one is found—be tested for a match?”

“No comment.”

“What’s the status of the search for the necklace?” That should flush the fact of its return, although he was puzzled that Katie was playing coy about the jewelry’s unaccountable arrival on the desk of its owner. The anonymous tip about murder was the lead of the story he would write, but the necklace would get big play, especially since once again a key had surely been used to enter Haklo. The noose would draw tighter around Haklo employees.

“At this point in the investigation, no trace of the necklace has been found.”

Steve felt like he’d been sucker punched. The blow came from nowhere. His feet swung to the floor and he sat up straight. He listened blankly to the rest of Katie’s response. “Inquiries have been made and will continue to be made at pawnshops and auction houses. Although Miss Webster has so far declined to request reimbursement from insurance, the insurance company with her permission has supplied photographs and a detailed description of the jewelry. If you ask pretty please, I’ll send over a jpeg.”

“Yeah.” It was like staring at a billboard in Czech. Nothing made sense.

“Hey, I thought you’d appreciate this puppy. Did a sexy broad just walk by your desk? I don’t need a swami to tell me you’ve lost interest in our conversation. Ciao.”

The connection ended.

He e-mailed the police department’s Public Information office, requesting the jpeg. All the while, thoughts ran and nipped at each other’s tails like hungry rats….
She could have gone back to Haklo…intelligent eyes, quick on her feet…glossy black hair…promised not to lie…necklace gone…Someone took it…She could be telling the truth about the skateboard…If she didn’t trust him, the smart thing was to remove the necklace…sure as hell must not have gotten a lot of sleep last night…Hurts, doesn’t it, buddy?
…

He reached out to punch the speakerphone, slowly drew back his hand. What good would it do to call Katie Dugan? He had no proof. Yeah, he could pinpoint Nela in the doorway of Haklo after ten p.m. He had a picture of the necklace on Blythe Webster’s desk. But still, it came down to his word against hers. She could swear she left with him and never returned, make it clear that he could as easily have returned for the necklace as she. Katie would believe him. Belief wasn’t proof. He glanced at the clock. He had ten minutes to meet his deadline. The dog and the fire would run below the fold today. Murder trumped a feel-good story. Or was Nela’s claim of a skateboard as phony as her promise not to lie? Of course, she hadn’t lied yet. What would she say when he asked her about her return trip to Haklo? As for the skateboard, damned if there wasn’t knowledge of one floating around Haklo. Could Nela have known about the skateboard missing from the cabin? He didn’t
know. As for now, he had a story to write. He typed fast, his face set in hard, angry lines. When done, he reread the piece.