What the Cat Saw (24 page)

She looked at Nela. “Go to your office. Remain there. Do not discuss the letter with anyone.”

S
teve Flynn set a full mug of coffee on his desk. Arson of the Haklo employee’s car seemed more and more like an outlier to the subsequent vandalism. His mouth twisted in an almost-smile. Mokie might be an old dog, but he hadn’t forgotten the hunt. Maybe his instinct was right, some woman had set sexy Anne Nesbitt’s car on fire in a jealous rage.

Steve laid out his notes on his desk, scanned them. Mokie had been thorough.

Maybe no stranger did arrive that afternoon. Maybe the perp was already present, a member of the Haklo staff, the crime carefully planned, the bow and arrow, gas tin, and wad of cloth hidden near the employee lot. Yeah, there was an odd lag in time between the fire and the destruction of the Indian baskets, but he’d try to reconcile that puzzle later. For now…He pulled out a fresh legal pad, picked up his pen.

He’d known Rosalind since kindergarten. Some people could be badasses. Some couldn’t. Rosalind couldn’t. He drew a line through her name. Kay Hoover was the grandmother of his best buddy in high school. She made pralines to die for. Mama Kay thought about food. And family. And food. And family. He marked out her name. Two more quick strokes went through Chloe and Nela’s names. He
couldn’t vouch for Chloe, but he believed Nela. If she was innocent, Chloe was innocent.

Now for a closer look at those with easy access to Haklo.

I
n the chair behind Chloe’s desk, Nela had a good view of the portion of hall revealed by the open door. She waited and watched. The sound she had expected was not long in coming. Not more than ten minutes later, brisk steps clipped in the hallway.

Nela had only a brief glimpse, but the glimpse was telling. Detective Dugan strode purposefully past, accompanied by a somber Blythe Webster. Dugan was in all black today, turtleneck, skirt, and boots. The cheerful color of Blythe’s crimson suit looked at odds with her resolute expression, a woman engaged in an unwanted task. Two uniformed officers followed, balding, moonfaced Sergeant Fisher with his ever-ready electronic tablet and a chunky woman officer in her late twenties.

Nela eased from the chair and moved to the open door. She didn’t step into the hall. Instead, unseen, she listened.

“The light is on, but the office is empty.” Dugan had a clear, carrying voice.

The squeak of a chair pushed back. Rapid steps sounded. Louise Spear hurried past Chloe’s doorway, didn’t even glance toward Nela. “What’s wrong?” Her voice was anxious, held definite foreboding.

“Where is Miss Andrews?” Dugan sounded pleasant, but firm.

“Usually at this time she’s upstairs in the artifact room.” Louise sounded puzzled.

“Sergeant, ask Miss Andrews to join us.”

“Blythe, what’s going on? Why are the police here?”

Blythe sounded remote, as if she were trying to remain calm.
“The police have to make an investigation. I don’t have anything to say right now. Let’s see what happens.”

Nela slid closer to the door. No one spoke until the officer returned with Abby.

Abby’s face was fearful and pinched. She stared with wide, frightened eyes at the cluster of people outside her office. “What’s wrong? Why do you want to talk to me?”

Blythe Webster spoke in a tight, contained voice. “Abby, it’s necessary for the police to search your office. I have granted them permission to do so.”

“Why?” Abby’s breathing was uneven. “What are they looking for?”

Hurrying steps came down the hall. Hollis Blair strode forward, brows drawn in a tight frown. He looked from Blythe to Dugan to Abby. “I saw police cars. What’s happening?”

Abby’s voice shook. “They want to search my office.”

Nela stepped into the hallway. She might be sent away, but surely it was only natural to respond to the arrival of the police.

Abby’s delicate face twisted in fear. “I don’t think they have any right. I haven’t done anything.” She lifted a trembling hand to push back a tangle of blond hair.

Hollis appeared both shocked and angry. “I’ll take care of everything.” He swung toward the police detective, who stood in the doorway. “Detective, I want an explanation.”

Dugan was brief. “Information received necessitates a search of the office. The search will proceed.”

“On whose authority?” The director bit off the words.

“Mine.” Blythe Webster spoke quietly.

Abby turned toward Blythe. “I haven’t done anything. Why are you—”

Dugan interrupted, “The search of the office is not directed at
you personally, Miss Andrews.” But Dugan’s brown eyes never moved from Abby’s lovely, anxious face. “Please step into the doorway and see if you notice any disarray in your office.”

Arms folded, a gold link bracelet glittering on one wrist, Blythe listened, eyes narrowed, lips compressed.

Two more uniformed police came from the main hallway along with Detective Morrison.

“Disarray?” Abby repeated uncertainly.

“Anything out of place? A drawer open that you left shut? Any suggestion that an unauthorized person had been in your office?” Dugan’s questions came quick and fast.

“Oh my God.” Abby hurried to the doorway. In a moment, she faced her tormentors. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Her voice rose in distress. “Why? What are you looking for?”

Dugan nodded toward Detective Morrison and the two newly arrived uniformed officers, a lean, wiry man with bushy eyebrows in a pasty face and the redheaded policewoman who had come to the garage apartment when Nela called for help.

Hollis Blair glared at Blythe, his handsome features strained, his jaw rigid. “Why wasn’t I notified? There better be a damn good reason for this.” He jerked a thumb toward Dugan.

The trustee’s shoulders stiffened. She gave him a level stare, her brown eyes cool. Her expression was not hostile, but the distance seemed to increase between them.

By now, the hallway around Nela was crowded. Louise Spear stood a little to one side, eyes huge, staring at Abby’s office, her face puckered in a worried frown. Other staff members hurried toward the clump of people, likely drawn by the arrival of the police and the hubbub in the west hallway. Rosalind McNeill tried to appear grave but she almost bounced in excitement. Cole Hamilton moved
back and forth uneasily, darting quick looks past Dugan. Occasionally one eyelid jerked in a nervous tic. Peter Owens, his gaze intent, looked from Blythe to Abby to Hollis. Francis Garth stood with folded arms, heavy head jutting forward, thick black brows lowered, massive legs planted solidly. Robbie Powell muttered, “Police again. This can’t be good for Haklo.”

Heels clicked on marble as Grace Webster arrived. She clapped her hands. “Never a dull moment.”

Hollis moved nearer Blythe. “I’m the director. I should know if the police are called. And why.”

“I’m the trustee.” That was all Blythe said.

Hollis Blair stiffened. His angular face flushed. After a tense pause, he took two steps to stand beside Abby.

“Whoop-de-do, Blythe’s in her dowager queen mode. Sis, I hate to break it to you”—Grace Webster’s tone was saccharine—“but what are sisters for? That frozen face makes you look fifty, not a happy number for somebody who’s barreling up on the big Four-O.”

“I didn’t know you were coming in today.” Blythe’s voice was cold.

“Can’t stay away. Haklo used to be bo-ring. Not anymore.” Grace yanked a thumb over her shoulder. “What’s the cavalry here for?”

Blythe ignored the question, her face smooth, her eyes focused on the doorway.

Grace’s look of amusement faded, replaced with anger.

The public relations director took a few steps toward Blythe. “The
Clarion
will pick up the call. We need to be prepared—”

Sergeant Fisher came to the doorway. “Detective.”

The silence among the onlookers was sudden and absolute. Abby Andrews clutched Hollis Blair’s arm.

Detective Dugan stepped into Abby’s office. A muttered murmur, no words intelligible to those in the hall. The office door closed.

Blythe stood with a hand at her throat. Louise shivered. Abby wavered on her feet. Hollis slid a strengthening arm around her shoulders. Cole Hamilton’s face drew down in disapproval. Francis Garth gazed at the assistant curator speculatively. Robbie Powell was impassive, but his eyes locked on the office door. Grace’s look of defiant amusement fled.

14

S
teve Flynn picked up a folder. He’d gathered up odds and ends of information about those with Haklo keys. Nothing had jumped out at him. No bright red arrow pointed to a vandal, thief, and murderer. Somewhere there had to be a fact that mattered. He settled down to reread the dossiers.

Steve glanced at a photograph. Shining black hair framed an olive-skinned face. Her eyes, large and expressive, were her most compelling feature. Her lips were perhaps a little too reminiscent of her father’s thin mouth. Her composed expression suggested a woman with power. He’d often dealt with Blythe Webster. She expected to be treated with deference. She could be abrupt and was reputedly wary in personal relationships. That he could understand. How did you get over knowing a man preferred cash on hand to your company? He knew odds and ends about her. She collected Roman coins and had a take-no-prisoner mentality in her dealings. She once drove a coin dealer into bankruptcy when he sold a coin she wanted to a rival collector. She played scratch golf. She was generous in her praise for employees and gave substantial bonuses at Christmas.