What the Cat Saw (21 page)

Steve ended up with a summary of the vandalism, a description of Marian’s career at Haklo, and the foundation’s importance to Craddock.

He finished reading, zapped the article to Mim. He stared at the
phone. He didn’t like being played for a fool. Besides, he’d picked up a hand to play when he hadn’t called the cops last night. Now he couldn’t pretend to himself that he didn’t know beans about a quarter-million-dollar piece of jewelry. His options were limited. Should he call Nela? Be waiting by the VW when she got off work?

To what purpose?

Ace Busey, his plaid wool shirt emanating waves of old cigarette smoke, settled one hip on the edge of Steve’s desk. “Somebody’s ticked you off big time. Must be a gal. Hasn’t Papa told you that dames are deadly?”

Steve looked up into Ace’s saggy, streetwise face. “Just concentrating.”

Ace raised a shaggy eyebrow. “You look like a prune on a hot day. Lighten up. No dame is worth it.”

Steve forced a humorless smile. “That’s a given.”

Ace slouched to his feet. “Got to catch a smoke.” As he walked away, he said over his shoulder, “Don’t say Papa didn’t warn you.”

N
ela stepped into Louise’s office with grant application folders. “I’ve attached one-page summaries to each application.” Dry words for dreams and hopes and visions boiled down to a page. She wished that everything was different, that she could be excited about the foundation’s outreach, make a difference for kids at summer camps, for libraries with budgets cut to the bone, for research to help drought-stricken farmers.

Louise looked up. Her thoughts seemed to come from a far distance. “Oh, yes.” She gestured at her in-box. “I’ll take care of them tomorrow.”

Nela placed the folders in the lower receptacle. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Louise slowly shook her head. The movement seemed to take great effort.

Nela understood the burden of grief. “I’m sorry about Miss Grant. She must have been a wonderful person.”

“Friday afternoon when I went in her office, I could tell she was upset. I asked if something was wrong. There was an odd look in her eyes. She said”—Louise’s face crinkled in memory—“ ‘There’s nothing wrong that can’t be fixed. And I intend to fix it.’ Of course, Marian believed she could handle anything.” Louise massaged one temple. “Just a few days before she died, she told me she should have done something in St. Louis, that she’d known from the start it was a mistake to bring Hollis here. I knew what she meant. I was there, too. Hollis has too much charm. I know what happens when he walks into a room. Some women are more vulnerable than others.” She shook her head. “And that girl chasing after him.” Her eyes were huge with distress. “If someone put a skateboard on Marian’s stairs and Abby’s brother’s skateboard is missing, there has to be a connection. Oh, I don’t know what to think. I may be all wrong.”

Nela looked at her sharply. “Do you have an idea who may have taken the skateboard?”

Louise drew herself up. Her voice was stiff. “I don’t know anything about the skateboard.” There was a ring of truth in her voice. But her eyes were still dark with worry. “It’s just that I keep thinking about Marian. I can’t bear to think what may have happened.”

Nela knew, better than most, that outsiders couldn’t lessen heartbreak. Nothing Nela did would ease Louise’s sadness about Marian
Grant or restore Haklo to happier days. But she knew, too, that kindness helps. “I’m sorry you’re upset.”

Louise’s face softened. “You’re a nice girl, Nela. Just like your sister. None of this has anything to do with you—”

Nela wished with all her heart that Louise was right.

“—and I’m sorry if I’ve troubled you. Don’t worry. I know I’m tired. Things are always worse when you’re tired.” She glanced at the clock. “You can go home now. Home…” For an instant, she pressed her lips together. “You’re a long way from home. I don’t think I could bear to go to Marian’s apartment. Especially after someone coming inside Friday night.” Once again lines of worry framed her eyes and lips. “Thank you for staying there. I know Jugs. He must miss Marian terribly. Go home early and pet Jugs for me. For Marian. Tell him he’s a good cat.” Louise turned away to look toward the windows.

By the time Nela reached the connecting doorway, Louise appeared lost in her thoughts, her thin face drawn and weary. In Chloe’s office, Nela glanced at her watch. Only a few minutes after four. She shrugged into her coat. In the hallway, she walked fast, fumbling in her purse for her cell phone. Steve had to know about the necklace. As soon as she was safely alone in the VW, she’d call him.

S
teve glanced at caller ID. He let the phone ring three times before he picked up the hand unit. “Flynn.”

“Steve”—the connection was scratchy, obviously a call from a cell—“the necklace wasn’t found.”

“Yeah.” The word was clipped.

She talked fast. “Someone took the necklace from Blythe’s desk. What can we do?”

“Someone took it?” His tone was taunting.

There was silence. Finally, she spoke. “What do you mean?”

“Two people knew the necklace was there. You. Me. I didn’t take it. Do the math.”

“You think—” She broke off. “I see.” A pause. “That’s a funny thing.” Her tone was bleak. “It never occurred to me to think you went back and got the necklace.”

The connection ended.

“Nela…” He spoke to emptiness.

N
ela knew what it was to be alone, to feel separated from the world. There had been a moment with Steve—more than one—when warmth seemed near again. That brief connection was broken. There was no point in wasting time thinking about a stocky man with red hair. He’d been a stranger. He was a stranger again with no reason to share what he knew about people he knew.

It was up to her now to find the devious mind behind the troubles at Haklo and she might have very little time to act. She needed the perspective of someone who knew the staff. Louise not only might wonder if Nela came back inside, but, picturing faces in her mind, Nela had no idea which staff member to contact. What would she say? But she had to do something. She opened the car door, taking care not to let the wind butt the edge against the glossy blue Thunderbird with the personalized license plate:
ROBBIE
. The car was as slick as the PR director. Definitely he wouldn’t be the right person to ask who might have a motive to cause trouble for Haklo. Although he kept his comments within bounds, his dislike of Hollis Blair was obvious. Vandalism might have appealed to Robbie as a way of attacking Hollis.

She’d liked Erik Judd. She had sensed beneath his drama that particular empathy that often belongs to creative people.

Nela stared at the Thunderbird, slowly shut the VW door. She used her iPhone, found an address and directions.

It was a five-minute drive to a quiet neighborhood with older homes, some of them brick duplexes, others 1950s vintage ranch-style houses. A green Porsche sat in the drive of the third house on the left, a one-story rambling brick house with bay windows. The house appeared well kept, no fading paint or cracks in the drive. The window glass glistened.

Nela walked swiftly to the front porch, lifted a shiny brass knocker.

The door opened almost at once. Erik Judd stared out at her, his face anxious. “Has something happened to Robbie?”

Obviously he knew who she was, that she had taken Chloe’s place, and her unexpected arrival, certainly something beyond the norm, raised fear that something was wrong.

“He’s fine.” Nela understood the shock of unexpected arrivals. She still dreamed about the moment that Bill’s brother walked in. “The police believe Marian Grant was murdered.”

Erik’s eyebrows folded into a frown. “Robbie called me. But”—his gaze was suspicious—“what does that have to do with you? Why are you here?”

“Everyone at the foundation is a suspect.” She looked at him steadily. Sometimes truth wins the day. If he shut the door in her face, so be it. But he might not. She might have only a little time left to do her best for Chloe. He would do what he could to protect Robbie. “That’s why I came. You and I both have someone we love who may be at risk from the police. The police are suspicious of Chloe because she’s new to Haklo this fall. But Robbie may have
publicly taken too much satisfaction from Hollis Blair’s difficulties because of the vandalism.”

Erik raised a silver eyebrow. “From a bare acquaintance on Saturday, you seem to have learned a great deal about me and Robbie. But I fail to see why you are standing on our front porch.”

“I’m an investigative reporter.” She might not have a job right now, but that made no difference. She knew how to ask and probe and seek for a story. Now she would use her skills to save herself and Chloe.

Erik’s pale blue eyes studied her. “Why do you want to talk to me?”

“You know everyone at Haklo.” She saw a flicker of understanding in his watchful gaze. “I want you to tell me who could have committed the vandalism at Haklo and who would kill to avoid exposure as a vandal and a thief.”

He smoothed one curling swoop of his mustache. “Aren’t you a bit fearful of a private meeting with the ‘disgruntled former director’?” His tone put the description in quote marks.

“Oh”—her tone was careless—“Steve Flynn knows where I am.”

He was suddenly amused. “Quick thinking, my dear. But I don’t believe that. However”—he held the door wide, made a sweeping bow—“enter my parlor if you desire.”

She hesitated for only a moment, then stepped inside.

He led the way into a comfortable, manly den with leather furniture, a wide-screen TV, and Indian blankets hung on the paneled walls.

She skirted an easel with a half-finished watercolor of purple and gold wildflowers in a meadow, chose a cane chair.

Erik sat opposite in a red leather chair that was a dramatic setting for his curling white hair, black silk shirt, and white wide-cuffed
wool trousers and black half boots. He listened, nodding occasionally as she marshaled her facts.

When she was done, he nodded approval. “Quite concise and complete. I’m aware of all the incidents. I should make it clear that I am not a recluse brooding over ill treatment. It was”—he paused, seeking the right word—“a shock when Blythe dismissed me, especially for a callow youth with no experience, except perhaps”—his mouth twisted in a wry smile—“in the useful art of charming ladies. I always assumed outstanding leadership was sufficient. I was wrong. However”—and now he sounded quite comfortable—“I have enjoyed thoroughly a return to the life of a writer. In fact, if you’d looked in the Haklo library a half hour ago, you would have found me there. I often spend the afternoon at Haklo with my research on the foundation. Robbie has remained angry even though I’ve assured him I am content. Now”—he leaned forward—“I want to be clear. Neither Robbie nor I have ever done anything that would be detrimental to Haklo. I devoted the best years of my life to making Haklo one of the finest charitable foundations in the country. I am sickened by the events that have occurred this fall. As for Robbie, I’m afraid he has enjoyed watching Hollis squirm, but Robbie knows that I would utterly oppose any kind of attack on Haklo. Haklo is bigger than Hollis or Blythe or me or Robbie.”

“Someone there, someone with a key, must be behind the vandalism and the theft.” Nela held his gaze. “If you care about Haklo, help me figure out who is guilty.”

Erik frowned. One hand touched the crystal eagle that hung from a leather necklace. “From what you’ve told me, it does seem likely that the vandal is a staff member.” His eyes narrowed. “Not Louise. Not Rosalind. I can’t speak to the new director or his girlfriend or your sister.” A stop. “Harris Webster used to worry about
his daughters. Blythe has always been obsessive. Once she was obsessed with a young man who worked for Harris. Now she’s obsessed with Haklo but the vandalism punishes Haklo. Grace is impulsive, a wild thing. She’s furious that her father made Blythe the sole trustee. Francis is ruthless. Whatever is important to him is all that matters. Cole used to be a major force at Haklo, Webster’s good friend. Now he’s yesterday. I think it’s broken his heart. Peter is fighting Blythe’s ideas of outsourcing. He has a wife who likes money. But that tweedy, casual appearance is misleading. He’s climbed Kilimanjaro.”

As she drove away, Nela carried with her two impressions. Erik trusted Robbie, truly believed Robbie would never do anything to jeopardize the foundation that Erik loved. No doubt he would describe her visit and emphasize how he had made it clear that both he and Robbie had nothing to do with the attacks on Haklo. But if Robbie had been tempted to cause just enough trouble to harm the new director, exposure meant more than criminal action, it meant breaking the heart of the man he loved. Would Robbie be willing to kill to keep the vandalism from Erik?

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