What the Cat Saw (4 page)

“I have that, ma’am. Residence listed to Marian Grant.” Her voice fainter, the responder spoke quickly, “Garage apartment One Willow Lane behind residence at Nine-thirteen Cimarron.”

In the distance, a man’s voice repeated her words. “Officers en route.”

The woman’s calm voice was loud and clear. “Help is on the way, ma’am. Can you describe the intruder?”

Beyond the door, there was a thud of running feet.

The responder continued to speak. “Officers will arrive in less than three minutes. Tell the intruder help is on the way.”

Nela’s shouts hurt her throat. “The police are coming. They’re coming.”

She heard the slam of a door. She was breathless as she spoke to the responder. “I think he’s leaving. Hurry. Please hurry.”

The responder continued to speak calmly.

Nela held the phone but she scarcely listened. Finally, a siren wailed. Nela approached the bedroom door, leaned against the panel, drawing in deep gulps of air. More sirens shrieked.

A pounding on the front door. “Police. Open up. Police.”

In the bedroom, Nela took time to grab a heavy silver-backed hand mirror from the dresser, then turned the knob. She plunged into the living room, makeshift weapon raised high, ready to dart and squirm.

She moved fast, focused on the door. She turned the lock, yanked open the front door.

Two policemen entered, guns in hand.

Nela backed up until she was hard against the wall. “He got away. I heard the door slam.”

The older officer, eyes flicking around the room, spoke into a transmitter clipped to his collar. “Cars two and three. Search grounds for prowler.” He nodded at his younger companion. “Cover me.” He glanced at Nela, his eyes cool. “Stay where you are, ma’am.” With that warning, he moved warily across the room, alert, intent, ready for trouble.

Nela shivered, was suddenly aware of her cotton pj’s. The night air was cold. As she turned to watch the officers, her eyes widened at the swath of destruction in the once cool and elegant room.

The officers moved fast. Doors banged against walls. They were
in the kitchen. One of them muttered, “Nobody here. Window secure.”

They moved back into the living room, oblivious to her. At the closed door to Miss Grant’s bedroom, the lead officer shouted, “Police,” flung back the door, stood to one side as he flipped on the light. There was silence in the bedroom. Cautiously, he edged inside, his backup advancing with him.

Outside, car doors slammed and men shouted. Cold night air swirled through the open front door.

Finally, the officers returned, guns put away. The tall man stopped in front of her, his face impassive, his hooded eyes moving around the room. “You hurt, ma’am?” His voice was gruff but kind. The younger officer closed the front door, but the room was already achingly cold.

“I’m fine.” Maybe not fine. Maybe still a little breathless, pulse racing, but standing in the trashed room, she felt safe, safe and grateful for the quick response of the Craddock police.

“Check the living room windows, Pierce.”

The stocky officer began a circuit of the windows.

The officer in charge cleared his throat. “Ma’am, can you describe the intruder?” He looked into her face, his eyes probing.

Nela clasped her hands together. “I never saw him. I heard him. I was in the guest bedroom.” She realized she was shaking with cold. “Please, let me get my jacket. It’s right by the door.” She moved fast and yanked Chloe’s long car coat from a coat tree near the front door. She shrugged into it, knew she looked absurd in the big floppy coat, bare legs and feet sticking out below the hem.

When she turned back, the officer held a small electronic notepad in one hand. “Name?”

“Nela Farley. Actually, it’s Cornelia, but I’m called Nela.” With every moment that passed, she felt more assured.

“Cornelia Farley.” He spelled the name as he swiped the keys. His questions came fast. She answered, wishing she could be more help, knowing that all she had to report was noise.

Shouts and calls sounded outside. Officer Pierce made a slow circuit of the room, making notes.

The inquiring officer’s nose wrinkled above a thin black mustache. “So you got here tonight. Anybody know you were here?”

“My sister.”

He nodded. “I got it. You’re in town to take her job. Anyone else know you’re here?”

“They’re expecting me at her office Monday.”

“Do they know”—he was patient—“that you’re staying here?” He jerked a thumb at the room.

“No.” Chloe hadn’t mentioned that Nela would be in Miss Grant’s apartment.

The officer’s gaze was intent. “You know anyone at the office?”

“Not a soul. I don’t know anyone in Craddock.”

“So, nobody came here because you’re here.” He surveyed the litter. The computer was lying on the floor. Drawers were pulled out and upended. Glass from a smashed mirror sparkled on the floor. The cracked mirror hung crookedly on a wall. “More than likely, somebody saw the death notice in the
Clarion
and thought the apartment was empty.” He sounded satisfied. “Did the intruder make this mess?”

Nela nodded. “The noise woke me up.”

“I’ll bet it did. Wake anybody up.” His tone was dry. “Looks like the perp got mad. Tossed that little statue and totaled the mirror. Maybe he didn’t find cash. Or whatever he was looking for.”

Nela, too, looked at the broken mirror. Lying on the floor was a crystal statuette of a horse that had been on the desk.

A woman’s imperious voice rose above the hubbub outside. Footsteps rattled on the steps. “Of course I can go upstairs.” The voice was rather high and thin and utterly confident. “The place belongs to me.”

The front door opened.

Nela and her inquisitor—she noted his name tag: Officer T. B. Hansen—looked toward the open doorway.

A slender woman strode inside. Blue silk pajama legs were visible beneath a three-quarter-length mink coat. She wore running shoes.

She was followed by a middle-aged, redheaded patrol woman who gave Officer Hansen a worried look.

He made a slight hand gesture and the officer looked relieved.

The newcomer held her fur coat folded over against her for warmth. Her black hair appeared disheveled from sleep, but her stare at the officer was wide awake and demanding. “What’s going on here?”

Officer Hansen stood straighter. “Reports of a prowler, Miss Webster.”

The woman’s eyes widened in surprise. “Here?” She glanced around the room. “Who made this mess?”

The officer’s tone was noncommittal. “The young lady said an intruder is responsible.”

The woman stared at Nela with narrowed eyes. “Who are you?” Her tone was just this side of accusing.

Nela took a quick breath. “Nela Farley, Chloe’s sister.”

The woman raised one sleek dark eyebrow in inquiry. “You don’t look like her.”

“No.” Nela glimpsed herself in the remnants of mirror. Not only
did she not resemble her tall, willowy sister, she looked like a bedraggled waif, dark eyes huge in a pale face, slender bare legs poking from beneath the overlarge coat. “I’m five-four and dark haired. She’s five-nine and blond.”

Miss Webster asked sharply, “Did Chloe give you Marian’s keys?”

Nela nodded. “She asked me to stay here and take care of Jugs. I flew in this afternoon and drove down. I arrived about six. I’m driving Chloe’s boyfriend’s VW. Chloe told me to park the VW in the garage.”

“Oh.” Miss Webster’s tone was considering now, not hostile. “That car. God knows that monstrosity should be kept in a garage. Or driven into a lake.” She sped a quick smile toward Nela. “Thanks for putting the VW in the garage. I didn’t know you were staying here. I hadn’t thought about it.” Her tone was careless. Clearly, the habitation of employees was not her concern. “Louise told me the cat was taken care of. I didn’t ask how.” Also clearly, the care of a dead employee’s animal was not her responsibility. These kinds of things were handled by others. “I suppose this is a convenient place to stay while you’re visiting, and having you here puts off deciding what to do with the cat. We have to find him a home. Marian was crazy about that animal.” She shook her head, looked abruptly sad. “I can’t believe she’s gone. And to have someone break in her home makes me furious. Did you see the burglar? I heard the sirens. By the time I reached a window, police were milling around with flashlights and yelling. I thought I was in the middle of a war zone.”

Once again Nela told her story, climbing from the deep pit of sleep, bangs and crashes in the living room, hurrying to lock the bedroom door, calling for help, the turning of the knob, the arrival of the police.

Blythe Webster’s eyes glinted with anger. “Someone must have read about Marian’s death in the newspaper and come like a vulture to pick over her things. Look at this mess. I’m glad you were here. Who knows what might have happened to the rest of her things if you hadn’t been here? It would be awful to think of a robber stealing from Marian. So everything’s worked out for the best.”

The echo of Chloe’s favorite phrase was strangely disturbing to Nela. Was it all for the best that she’d known moments of dark fear?

Blythe must have sensed Nela’s reaction. She turned over a hand in appeal. “Forgive me. It’s dreadful that you have come to help us and run into something like this. Thank you for being here and calling for help. I don’t know what we should do now.” She looked at Officer Hansen in appeal. “What do you suggest?” Her gesture included the shattered mirror and the emptied drawers.

“Nothing for the moment. We’ll send a tech tomorrow to see about prints. But I doubt we’ll find anything helpful. Would you”—he directed his question to Blythe Webster—“know if anything is missing?”

“I have no idea about Marian’s belongings. I guess they were looking for money.” Her gaze settled on the Coach purse atop a bookcase near the front door. “That’s Marian’s purse. Why didn’t a thief grab the purse?” She looked at Nela. “I guess he must have intended to take it but got scared when he heard you. He must have been shocked out of his pants when he realized someone was in the bedroom. Well, no harm done apparently, except for a bad introduction to Craddock for you.” Her glance at Nela was sympathetic. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough welcome. We’ll make it up to you. By the way, I’m Blythe Webster. I own all of this.” She waved a casual hand. “Marian worked for me. I run the foundation. I’ll be seeing you
there.” She turned toward the patrolman. “Send me a report.” She moved to the door, looked back at the police officer, a faint frown on her face. “How did the thief get in?”

Hansen said carefully, “We haven’t found evidence of a break-in.” His hooded gaze settled on Nela. “When we arrived, the front door was locked. Ms. Farley opened the door for us.”

Blythe Webster looked puzzled. “If nobody broke in and the door was locked, how did someone get in?”

Nela felt her face tighten. “I don’t know.” She didn’t like the searching looks turned toward her. “Maybe someone had a key.”

Blythe Webster’s brown eyes narrowed. “I suppose somewhere up at the house we may have a key in case of an emergency. I’ll ask my housekeeper. But I can’t imagine that Marian passed out keys to her apartment. That would be very unlike her.”

The officer turned to Nela. “Are you sure you locked the front door?”

“Positive.”

He didn’t appear impressed. He’d probably been told many things by many witnesses that turned out to be mistaken or false. “There was a real nice story in the
Clarion
about Miss Grant and a funeral notice. The intruder counted on the place being empty. Maybe he found the door unlocked.”

Nela started to speak.

He forestalled her. “Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he jiggled a credit card, got lucky. It’s an old door. Once inside, he locked the door to keep anyone from surprising him. When he heard you calling for help, he ran out and slammed the front door behind him.” He glanced toward the door, gave a satisfied nod. “It’s an old lock, one where the lock doesn’t pop up when the inside handle is turned. Then it took only a minute to get down the stairs and disappear in
the dark.” He looked from Nela to Miss Webster. “Did either of you hear a car?”

Nela shook her head. Inside the apartment, she had been acutely aware of sounds from outside, waiting for the police to arrive. She hadn’t heard anything until the sirens rose and fell.

Blythe Webster was dismissive. “I was asleep. The sirens woke me. But most cars don’t make much noise these days.”

Officer Pierce yanked a thumb toward the front door. “They haven’t found any trace outside. It looks like he got clean away.”

“Whoever came is long gone now.” Blythe sounded relieved. She turned to Nela. “As soon as the police finish, you can lock up and feel quite safe. Can’t she, Officer?”

Officer Hansen’s face was studiously unexpressive. “You may be right, Miss Webster.”

Officer Pierce, who had arrived with Hansen, spoke quickly. “Right. Once you scare ’em away, they won’t come back.”

The redheaded patrol woman, who had followed Blythe Webster inside, nodded in agreement.

“I locked the door.” Nela was insistent.

Blythe Webster nodded. “You thought you did.” Her tone was understanding. “Anyway, these things happen. I’m glad you’re fine. I expect you’re very tired. As for me, I’m ready for a nightcap…Oh, here’s Jugs.”

Nela distinctly remembered engaging the front-door lock. She would have objected again, continued to insist, but at the mention of the cat, she swung to look toward the doorway.

The big-eared brown tabby strolled past them, his gaze flicking around the room.

Nela looked into the cat’s huge pupils, still dilated for night vision. “…
Cars…strangers…like the day She died…lying on
the concrete…”
The cat moved away, heading straight for the open door to Marian Grant’s bedroom.

Blythe Webster’s face abruptly tightened, cheekbones jutting. “Do you suppose he’s hunting for Marian? I hate that.” There was a quiver in her voice. “Anyway, now that everything’s under control, I’ll say good night.” In a flurry, she was gone.

Nela scarcely heard the clatter as Blythe Webster hurried down the wooden steps….
lying on the concrete
…There was a square of concrete to one side of the apartment stairs, possibly at one time intended for outdoor parking.