What the Cat Saw (6 page)

The cat flap slapped.

Nela turned to face Jugs. He sauntered past her, beauty in motion, sinuous, graceful, silent.

“It’s your fault that I’m worried.” Her tone was accusing.

The cat flicked a glance over his shoulder. “…
My territory…I showed him…”
He disappeared into the kitchen.

Nela wondered if he had vanquished a neighboring tom or if she was simply thinking what he might have done when outside. What difference did it make whether the thought was hers or Jugs?

A big difference.

Either the cat remembered a board that rolled on a step or she had dredged up a long-ago memory of a teenage Bill on a skateboard in happy, sunny days.

What if the cat was right? What if Marian Grant hadn’t seen a skateboard on the step when she hurried out to jog early that January morning? The police surmised she’d caught a toe on a steep step, that she’d been going too fast. There had been no skateboard near the stairs when her body was discovered. But there could be reasons. Maybe some kid lived in that big house. Maybe the housekeeper saw the skateboard and either unthinkingly or perhaps quite deliberately removed it. Maybe the cat was thinking about some other skateboard on some other steps. Maybe the cat wasn’t thinking a damn thing.

Moreover, a skateboard on the steps might explain why Marian Grant fell, but again so what? She fell because she caught her toe
or slipped on a skateboard or simply took a misstep. Her death had been adjudged an accident. To think otherwise was absurd.

Then why did someone creep into the dead woman’s apartment last night and search the desk?

This was the easiest answer of all. As Officer Henson said, every town had its no-goods and last night one of them had taken a chance on finding something valuable in a dead woman’s apartment.

Still…Why the desk and not the purse?

The apartment was utterly quiet. She felt a light pressure on her leg. She looked down. Jugs twined around her leg, whisking the side of his face against her, staking claim to her. She reached down, paused to remove one rubber glove, and stroked his silky back.

His upright tail curved slightly forward. “…
You’re all right…I like you…”

Nela felt a catch in her throat. “I like you, too.”

The sound of her voice emphasized the silence surrounding them. There was no one to see them. With a decisive nod, she walked toward the door, retrieved the doorstop, pushed it beneath the door. Moving around the living room, she closed the blinds in the windows. She pulled back on the rubber glove and crossed to the desk.

She wasn’t sure why she was wearing the gloves now. Maybe she had the instincts of a crook. After all, wasn’t it reasonable for her to clean up the mess around the desk, make the room presentable again?

Although Nela was sure she was unobserved, she worked fast as she stacked papers. The cleanup turned out to be reasonably easy. In keeping with Chloe’s judgment of Marian Grant as efficient, each folder had a neat tab and it soon became apparent that the drawers had been emptied but the papers had fallen not far from the appropriate folder and showed no signs of having been checked over.

Nela was looking for something to explain what drew an intruder past an expensive purse to this sleek desk. She started with the drawer emptied nearest the desk, turned it right side up. She restored Miss Grant’s personal papers to the proper folder—insurance policies, a car title, medical records, bank and credit card statements, travel receipts, copies of tax submissions. Near the next drawer, she found clips of news stories about individuals, research programs, fellowships, and educational institutions. Each person or group featured had received a grant from the Haklo Foundation. She was getting good at her project and quickly placed clips in the correct folders. The second drawer slid into its place.

Doggedly, Nela continued until the floor was clear, the drawers replaced with the proper contents.

When she’d finished, she stared at the desk with a puzzled frown. She had a conviction that the searcher had emptied the drawers not to mess up the papers or even to check them, but to be sure there wasn’t something hidden among the folders.

She looked across the room at the Coach bag. Instead of finding reassurance, she felt more uneasy. Had the searcher been hunting for that obviously expensive necklace? If so, why not look in the purse? Why the desk? But who knew what a thief thought or why?

Nela stripped off the rubber gloves, returned them to the kitchen. She found a broom closet, picked up a broom and dustpan. Soon the last of the broken mirror had been swept up and dumped into the trash container. Lips pressed firmly together, she carefully eased the frame with the remnants of the mirror from the hook on the wall. When she’d placed the frame inside Miss Grant’s bedroom, she returned to the living room. She opened the blinds, welcoming bright shafts of winter sunlight.

Yet the apartment held no cheer. She had rarely felt so alone,
so cut off from human contact. She wouldn’t be around anyone until she went to Chloe’s job Monday. The job…There probably wouldn’t be anyone at the foundation on a Saturday but she could take a drive, find the way, make Monday morning easier. She grabbed her purse and Chloe’s coat.

She was almost to the door when she paused. The Coach purse now seemed huge to her because she knew that it contained a large sum of cash and an obviously expensive necklace. She yanked wool gloves from Chloe’s pockets. She put them on and picked up the Coach bag.

In the kitchen, she knelt by the cabinet that held Jugs’s canned food. In only a moment, the purse rested snugly behind cans stacked four high. Maybe a thief would head unerringly for the cat food cabinet. But she felt better. Monday at work, she’d find out how to contact Marian Grant’s sister and suggest that the purse, bank books, and other obvious valuables be removed from the apartment. She didn’t have to admit she knew the purse’s contents to suggest that it be put away for safekeeping.

She was considerably cheered as she stepped out on the high porch. The wind had died down. The day was cold, possibly in the thirties, but brilliant sunshine and a pale winter blue sky were exhilarating.

As she started down the steep steps, a streak of dark blue on the second baluster caught her gaze. She stopped and stared. An oblique line marred the white paint about sixteen inches above the step. The scrape on the wood indicated that something had struck the baluster, leaving an uneven mark on the paint.

Nela pictured early-morning darkness and a woman in a hurry, moving fast, not thinking about a familiar stairway. Likely her right foot would have come down on the first step, her left on the second.
A skateboard could have flipped up to strike the baluster while flinging her sideways to tumble over the railing.

The police had searched the area and found nothing, certainly not a skateboard.

The streak looked new and fresh. Nela was abruptly irritated with herself. Since when was she an expert on a marred surface on a white post? Since never. The scrape might have been there for months.

She started down the steps. Carefully.

H
AKLO FOUNDATION
glittered in faux gold letters in an arch over stone pillars. Nela turned in. Leafless trees bordered well-kept grounds. Winter-bare branches seemed even more bleak in contrast to a green lawn of fescue. The velvety grass emphasized the Mediterranean glow of the two-story golden stucco building atop a ridge.

At the foundation entrance, an impressive portico covered shallow stone steps. The imposing statue of Harris Webster gazed into infinity at the base of the steps. The red tile roof made Nela feel homesick. There were so many Spanish colonial buildings in old LA. Even the ornate stonework on oversize windows seemed familiar, but there should have been palm trees, not leafless sycamores.

A discreet sign with an arrow pointed to the right: P
ARKING
.

Obediently Nela turned right. She passed a line of evergreens. The short spur ended at a cross street. A sign to the right announced: G
UEST
P
ARKING
. The guest parking lot was out of sight behind the evergreens. A sign to the left:
STAFF ONLY
.

She turned left. A wing extended the length of the drive. At the end of the building, she turned left again. A matching wing extended from the other side with a courtyard in between. Arched windows
overlooked a courtyard garden with a tiled fountain, waterless in January. A cocktail reception could easily spill out into the courtyard in good weather. She glanced about but saw no parking areas. Once past the building, another discreet sign led to the staff parking lot, also screened by evergreens. Beyond the evergreens, a half dozen outbuildings likely provided either storage or housed maintenance. On the far side of sycamores that stood sentinel alongside the building, she glimpsed several rustic cabins.

She was a little surprised to see a car in the lot, a beige Camry. Nela turned into the parking area and chose the slot next to the Camry. It would take only a minute to spot the entrance she should use Monday.

When she stepped out of the VW and closed the door, the sound seemed loud, the country silence oppressive. She wasn’t accustomed to stillness. There was always noise in LA. She followed a covered walkway to the end of the near wing. The walk ended in a T. To her left was a doorway helpfully marked:
STAFF ONLY
. To the right, the sidewalk led past the sycamores to the cabins.

There were two keys on Chloe’s key ring. One fit the VW. Nela assumed the other afforded entrance to the building. The key to Marian Grant’s apartment had been separate, identifiable by a pink ribbon.

However, the foundation locks might be rigged so that any entrance outside of work hours triggered an alarm. As Nela hesitated, the heavy oak door opened.

A middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair peered out. Pale brown eyes, magnified by wire-rim glasses perched on a bony nose, looked at her accusingly. “This is private property. The foundation is closed to the public until Monday. I heard a car and if you continue to trespass I will call the police.”

Nela had no wish to deal further with law enforcement personnel. She spoke quickly, embarrassed and uncomfortable. “I’m Chloe Farley’s sister, Nela. Chloe gave me directions and I came by to be sure I knew the way on Monday.”

“Oh.” The brown eyes blinked rapidly. “I should have recognized you. Chloe has a picture on her bookcase. But so many things have happened and I’m here by myself. Oh dear. I hope you will forgive me. Please come in. I’m Louise Spear, the executive secretary. I’ll show you around.” She held the door wide. “That will make everything easier Monday. Do you have a key?”

As she stepped inside, Nela held up the key ring. “Is the bronze one the key to the staff entrance?”

Louise peered. “That’s it. Did you intend to try it to be sure?”

Nela smiled. “No. I thought I could knock Monday morning if necessary. I was afraid to use the key after hours in case it triggered an alarm.”

Louise shook her head. “Only broken windows sound an alarm. We can go in and out with a key at any time. The key works for all the outer doors.” She closed the door.

Nela looked up a wide marbled hallway with office doors on one side and windowed alcoves overlooking the courtyard on the other. The marble flooring was a swirl of golden tones. Between the alcoves, paintings of Western scenes hung on the walls.

Louise reached out, touched a panel of lights. Recessed lighting glowed to illuminate the paintings. She was proud. “Isn’t it beautiful? The paintings in this hall are from various places in Oklahoma. Our state has an amazingly varied terrain, everything from hills to prairies to mesas. There are beautiful paintings all through the foundation. I’m glad I can show you everything today when we don’t have to hurry. Mondays get busy. There’s a staff meeting at eleven.
It’s very responsible of you”—her tone was admiring and mildly surprised—“to make the extra effort to locate the foundation today. I will confess I wasn’t sure what to expect from Chloe’s sister. Chloe is”—a pause—“casual about things.”

Nela well understood. Chloe was not only casual, but slapdash and last minute.

“Though,” Louise added hurriedly, “she’s a nice girl and somehow everything gets done.”

Nela gave her a reassuring smile. There was no point in taking umbrage because truth was truth. “Chloe moves quickly.” That was true, too.

Louise smiled in return. “Yes, she does. I’ll show you her office, but first”—she began to walk, gesturing to her right—“these small offices are for summer interns. We also have a new position this year.” A faint frown touched her face. “For an assistant curator. The new director thought it would be good to put one person in charge of overseeing artifact donations. Haklo is unusual among foundations because we not only provide grants, we create our own programs to celebrate Oklahoma history. Thanks to Haklo, many schools around the state now have displays that we have provided, everything from memorabilia about Will Rogers to women’s roles in early statehood to Indian relics.” The frosted glass of the office door read:

ABBY ANDREWS
ASSISTANT CURATOR

Louise moved to the next door. “This is Chloe’s office.” She opened the door and flicked on the light.

Nela felt her sister’s presence as they stepped inside. Chloe had
put her personal stamp on a utilitarian room with a gray metal desk and a bank of filing cabinets. There on the bookcase was a picture of Nela and Chloe, arm in arm on a happy summer day at the Santa Monica pier. Four posters enlivened pale gray walls, an aerial view of Machu Picchu, a surfer catching a big one in Hawaii, a tousle-haired Amelia Earhart in a trench coat standing by a bright red Lockheed Vega, and the shining gold-domed ceiling of the Library of Congress.

Louise followed her gaze to the posters. “Has your sister been to all those places?”

“In her dreams.” When Chloe was little, Nela had often read Dr. Seuss to her. She sometimes wondered if a little girl’s spirit had responded to the lyrical call of places to go and things to see. If Chloe couldn’t go there—yet—in person, she’d travel in her imagination.