What the Cat Saw (25 page)

Steve had clear memories of summers at the lake and Grace’s daredevil boat races. She appeared supremely pleased in her photograph, strawberry blond hair cascading to her shoulders, an exuberant smile, seductive off-the-shoulder white blouse. Her chin had the same decided firmness as her sister’s.

The photo had accompanied the press release put out by Haklo when Hollis became director. Chestnut hair, deep-set blue eyes, a bony nose, high cheekbones, full lips spread in a friendly smile. Steve had played golf with Hollis several times and found him good-humored and intelligent with perceptive questions about Craddock. The last time they’d met had been at a reception in early December for the new director of the chamber of commerce. Steve recalled a man who looked tired and worried. Hollis had brightened when he was joined by the Haklo assistant curator, Abby Andrews. At the time, Steve had thought it generous of Hollis to bring an assistant curator to a function. Apparently, he was interested in more than Abby Andrews’s work advancement.

Steve didn’t bother to look at Louise’s photo. He knew Louise. Casting her as a vandal, much less a murderer, was ludicrous.

Steve turned to the screen, brought up several photos of Cole Hamilton. One had been taken with Harris Webster on the deck of a cruiser. Each man held up a string of fish. Harris’s string was longer. The oilman’s predatory face was relaxed. Cole beamed, basking in the moment. In a more recent picture at a November open house at Haklo, Cole’s round face was morose as he stood by himself at the edge of a group.

Cole was no longer at the side of Harris Webster, the center of Haklo. After Harris’s death, Marian Grant ran the foundation. Very likely Marian treated Cole kindly. Marian had been part of that close-knit group, Harris, Cole, herself, and Louise. But this summer Blythe Webster took over and soon there was a new director and Cole’s title changed from vice president to advisory vice president.

Steve reached for the phone. “Louise? Steve Flynn.”

“Yes.” Her tone was tense.

He spoke easily. “I hear Cole Hamilton is being pushed out of his job.”

“Steve, don’t print that.” A tiny sigh traveled over the connection. “I don’t know what’s going to happen about Cole. Just between you and me, Blythe has asked him to step down, but he won’t turn in a resignation. I don’t think Blythe wants to terminate him. In any event, he is the current advisory vice president. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Right. I’ll wait until there’s an announcement. Thanks, Louise.”

The call ended. Steve looked again at Cole’s pictures, such an affable, comfortable man, especially in the early photos. How much did his job, not just the work, but the prestige of being a part of Haklo, matter to a man who had no family and who had spent his life working for Harris Webster? Wasn’t vandalism the kind of revenge a somewhat effete, deeply angry, and hurt man might take? Stealing the necklace was part of that pattern, striking out at the woman who was treating him badly. Cole Hamilton, soft-spoken and genial, scarcely seemed likely to kill. But murder might have been the only way to prevent exposure.

Steve looked at the next name on his list.

Steve scanned the index in the annual report of the Haklo Foundation issued shortly after the end of the fiscal year in October. He flipped to the business development section. A figure jumped out at him. The business development budget last year had been two hundred and eighty thousand dollars. The current budget had been cut to one hundred and fifty thousand. Just as in Washington, money meant power. Francis Garth was an impressive man at the peak of his career, whose priorities weren’t those of a new director.

Steve turned back to the computer. Burly, muscular Francis stared into the camera with a heavy, determined face. Not a man to welcome a downgrade. Would a bull of a man be likely to resort to vandalism? It didn’t seem in character. But Francis Garth was highly intelligent, able to think and plan a campaign. A series of unfortunate incidents would damage Hollis Blair’s resume. As for murder, Francis had the air of a man who would, without a qualm, do what he had to do.

A very different man from Robbie Powell. And Erik Judd. Steve didn’t hesitate to combine their resumes.

There were plenty of file photos taken over the years, individually and together, of Robbie Powell and Erik Judd: Robbie making a presentation at a Rotary luncheon, Erik shaking hands with a visiting congressman, Robbie handing out prizes at a livestock show, Erik in earnest conversation with Harris Webster. Robbie’s young blond good looks had aged into well-preserved smoothness, hair always perfectly cut, face tanned, expensive clothes well fitted. Erik’s dramatic personality might amuse some, but he always got the job done and he was known for kindness and thoughtfulness. He was also a scholar and in his free time wrote highly acclaimed essays on early Oklahoma history. Under his direction, Haklo had maintained a reputation as a conservative, well-run foundation, nothing flashy but year after year of steady growth.

Steve was thoughtful. Robbie and Erik were highly respected for
their abilities. On a personal level, they were committed to each other. Until this past summer, they had very likely never imagined a cataclysmic change in their lives. Steve had seen too many men who had lost jobs in the last few years to dismiss the effect of that loss. He’d heard that Erik had withdrawn from many activities, presumably to concentrate on writing a history of Haklo. Was he depressed or was he genuinely enjoying time to be a scholar? How angry was Robbie at the injury to Erik? Erik was polished, civilized, erudite, and now diminished. Robbie was quick to react to slights and never missed an opportunity for a dig at the new director. Did the acts of vandalism cause more injury to Hollis or to Blythe?

Steve picked up the next dossier.

Steve had met both Owens and his wife. Peter was casual, understated. Denise was intense, vocal, and self-assured. There were two photos, the official photo online at the Haklo website and a picture at the college last spring with his wife and a visiting poet. The official photo was bland and unrevealing. At the university event, he
stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, smiling pleasantly. He was perhaps six-two, shaggy dark hair, horn-rimmed glasses, relaxed demeanor. He stood a pace behind his petite, dark-haired wife, who was engaged in intense conversation with a heavyset, white-haired woman.

Abby Andrews was the last entry, but definitely not least, thanks to a file in her computer and a missing skateboard. However, this dossier contained very little information.

In Abby’s Haklo staff photo, she stared gravely into the camera, her lovely features composed. She wore a string of pearls with a pale blue cashmere sweater. The
Clarion
always carried photos of new Haklo staff. Abby appeared very young with a smooth, unlined face.

Steve tapped impatient fingers on his desk. There was nothing odd or peculiar in her background. A nice recent college grad. Yet, an obscene letter was found in her computer and a skateboard went missing from the front porch of her cabin.

Steve’s face crinkled. Why was she living in a Haklo cabin?

He speed-dialed Louise. “Just rounding up a few points. Tell me about the Haklo cabins. Their history and function.”

Louise’s tone was bland. “Harris thought it would be appropriate for visiting scholars and scientists to be able to stay on the foundation
grounds. Eventually, it was decided the cabins would be ideal for summer interns.” Full stop.

“And?” Steve prodded.

“The cabins have always been useful for guests.”

“Abby Andrews isn’t a guest.”

“I think Hollis offered her a cabin since she is paying off student loans.”

“Right. Thanks, Louise.” He wasn’t sure that the knowledge mattered, but it was one more out-of-the-ordinary fact about Abby Andrews. Except it wasn’t out of the ordinary once her relationship with Hollis Blair was evident.

He felt great uncertainty about the importance of Abby Andrews. Surely the idea that she engineered the vandalism, which hurt Hollis, didn’t make sense. But on another level, it made all kinds of sense in Katie Dugan’s initial premise that the point of the vandalism was to make the theft of the necklace possible. Student debt was a crippling factor for a lot of college graduates, and a quarter-million-dollar necklace could pay off loans and then some.

As for the missing skateboard, it became important because of his whispered message. He’d based that message on Nela’s insistence that there had been a skateboard on Marian’s steps. How and when had Nela learned—or guessed—that Marian Grant stepped down on a skateboard and fell to her death? Nela said she could not tell him how she knew. He felt a ripple of uneasiness.

“Hey, buddy.” He spoke aloud. “Don’t get spooked.” But his Irish grandmother would have looked at him and said softly, “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ ”

Maybe so, but he wanted to know the basis for Nela’s claim. He didn’t think Nela was protecting Chloe. Chloe might have known
that Abby’s skateboard was missing. However, it seemed unlikely that Chloe would link a missing skateboard to Marian’s fall. Why would she? Was it possible that Chloe was suspicious about Marian’s fall and for some reason saw Abby as a threat to Marian? It seemed very unlikely. But, as he had also learned long ago, if you want to know, ask.

He picked up his phone.

T
he office door opened. Her face impassive, Detective Dugan looked at Blythe. “Miss Webster, we can use your assistance.”