What the Cat Saw (8 page)

N
ela used to love Monday mornings, especially a Monday when she was on her way to work. Since Bill died, the world had been gray. She did what she was supposed to do. Sometimes she was able to plunge into a task and forget grayness for a while. Maybe taking over Chloe’s job, doing something different, would brighten her world. Sunday had been a long, sad day. She’d wandered about Craddock, ended up at Chloe’s Hamburger Heaven. But sitting there, eating food that she knew was good but that had no savor, she’d accepted the truth. Old sayings didn’t lie. Wherever you go, there you are. It didn’t matter if she was in LA or a small wind-blown town half a continent away, there she was, carrying with her the pain and sadness. At least today she had a job waiting for her among people with tasks and accomplishments. She would concentrate on the people she met, think about the things they did, push sadness
and pain deep inside. She turned into the Haklo grounds, following a short line of cars.

In the lot, she parked next to a sleek blue Thunderbird. At the same time, an old beige Dodge sputtered to a stop on the other side of the VW.

“Good morning.” A plump sixtyish man with a mop of untidy white hair stepped out of the Dodge and bustled toward her, blue eyes shining.

Nela waited behind the Thunderbird. She noted the tag:
ROBBIE
.

Her welcomer’s genial face reminded her of Edmund Gwenn in
The Trouble with Harry.
“You must be Nela, Chloe’s sister. You look just like your picture.”

Nela knew her dark curls were tangled by the wind. The day on the pier had been windy, too.

“Welcome to Haklo.” He spoke as proudly as a man handing out keys to a city. “I’m Cole Hamilton.” He spoke as if she would, of course, know his name.

Nela responded with equal warmth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Oh, my dear, call me Cole. Everyone does.”

Heavy steps sounded behind them. A deep voice rumbled, “Good morning, Cole.” Despite his size, well over six feet and two hundred plus pounds, the huge dark-haired man moved with muscular grace. “Francis Garth. Good morning, Miss Farley. I knew you immediately when you pulled up in that car. It’s good of you to help us out while Chloe is gone.”

They were moving toward the walkway to the building, an oddly assorted trio, Francis Garth towering above Nela and her bubbly new friend. Cole was chattering, “…Chloe told us you were a reporter. That must be an exciting life. But the pressure…”

Nela had thrived on deadlines. It was the only life she’d ever wanted, talking to people, finding out what mattered, getting the facts right. She’d written everything from light fluffy features to a series on embezzlement at the city treasurer’s office. She’d learned how to dig for facts. More importantly, she’d learned how to read faces and body language. She wasn’t a reporter now. She’d lost her job more than six months ago. Last hired, first fired. Print journalism jobs were as scarce as champagne-colored natural pearls. She’d once done a story about a woman who had spent a lifetime collecting pearls of many shades, white, black, green, purple, and greatest prize of all, the golden tone of champagne. After her last newspaper job, Nela had waited tables at a swell café on Melrose Place in Hollywood. That job, too, was gone. But someday she would find an editor who would give her a chance…

Immersed in her thoughts, she’d taken a good half-dozen steps before she realized that Cole’s high tenor had broken off in midsentence.

Voices rose on the sidewalk from the cabins and around a curve came a very pretty girl and a lanky man in a light blue cashmere sweater and gray slacks. Nela knew him at once. Chloe’s description had been right on.
The director’s kind of like James Stewart in
The Shop Around the Corner…
He’s tall and angular and has this bony appealing face.
His companion looked up at him with a happy face and her words came quickly. “…I haven’t seen the Chihuly exhibit either. That would be such fun.”

Perhaps it was the stillness of the trio standing by the building steps that caught their attention. Abruptly, light and cheer fled from her delicate features. The director’s face reformed from boyish eagerness to defensive blandness. Nela wasn’t personally attracted, but many women would find his cleft-chinned good looks irresistible.

Nela sensed antagonism in the men beside her, though outwardly all was courtesy and good humor.

“Good morning.” Francis Garth’s deep voice was pleasant and impersonal. “Nela, here is our director, Hollis Blair, and”—his dark eyes moved without warmth to the blonde’s delicate face—“our new assistant curator, Abby Andrews.”

In the flurry of greetings, Cole Hamilton hurried up the steps, held the door. “Almost eight o’clock. We’re all on time this morning.” The dumpy little man with thick white hair suddenly looked as if his blue suit was too large for him.

As the door closed behind them, Hamilton veered toward a door marked
STAIRS
. “Have to see about some things.” He was subdued with no echo of the pride that she’d heard when he’d greeted her in the parking lot.

T
he new grant applications are in the first filing cabinet. The applications are made online but we print out copies for our records”—Louise gestured at the filing cabinet—“and we make copies for the members of the grants committee. Marian says they can look at them online but as a courtesy we also provide printed copies. The committee meets every fourth Thursday of the month. We have fifteen new applications to consider. Whenever a new application is received, Chloe prepares a one-page summary. I placed the remaining applications that need summaries in Chloe’s in-box. The top folder holds one Chloe had already prepared and you can look it over for the format. You can—”

“Louise.” The deep voice was gruff.

Francis Garth stood in Nela’s doorway, making it look small. His
heavy face was stern. He held up several stapled sheets. “There is an error in today’s agenda.”

Louise’s face registered a series of revealing expressions: knowledge, discomfort, dismay, regret.

Francis raised a heavy dark eyebrow. There was a trace of humor in a sudden twisted smile, but only a trace. “I take it there was no mistake. Why was the proposal removed?”

Louise cleared her throat. “I understand the director felt that opposing the wind farms was at odds with the foundation’s support of green energy.”

“Wind farms can ruin the Tallgrass Prairie ecosystem. Isn’t that a green”—it was almost an epithet—“concern? Hasn’t Haklo always respected tribal values? The Tallgrass Prairie is the heart of the Osage Nation.”

“Oh, Francis, I know how you feel about the Tallgrass Prairie. But Hollis persuaded Blythe that it was important for Haklo to rise above parochial interests to fulfill its mission of nurturing the planet.” Clearly Louise was repeating verbatim what she had been told.

“Nothing in this world should be permitted to defile the Tallgrass Prairie.” He spoke slowly, the words distinct and separate. He didn’t raise his voice but there was no mistaking his passion. He turned, moving swiftly for such a big man.

Louise stared at the empty doorway, her face troubled.

Nela had no idea what the Tallgrass Prairie meant. But whatever it was, wherever it was, Francis Garth was clearly furious.

Louise took a deep breath. “Let’s make the rounds, Nela. I want to introduce you to everyone.”

“I met several people coming in this morning, the director and
the assistant curator and Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Garth. I met Miss Webster Friday night at the apartment.” It wasn’t necessary to explain the circumstances.

“Wonderful. We’ll run by all the offices so you’ll know where to take the mail and we can drop in and say hello to Peter and Grace.”

As they reached the cross hall, Louise slowed. She looked puzzled. “Blythe’s door is closed. Usually everyone keeps their doors open. Webster wanted everyone to feel free and easy at Haklo.” She looked forlorn. “That’s the way it used to be.”

Nela doubted Louise realized how revealing her statement was. So Haklo was not a happy place. Not now. Was Louise’s dismay because of the death of a colleague? Nela wished that Chloe had been more attuned to the place where she worked, but Chloe was Chloe, not self-absorbed in a selfish way but always focusing on fun. Nela knew her sister well enough to be sure that all kinds of emotions would have swirled around Chloe without leaving any impression.

“But we still”—and now she was walking faster—“make such a wonderful difference in so many lives.”

They reached the horseshoe-shaped reception desk in the rotunda.

A plump woman with a round cheerful face beamed at them. “Hi, Louise. And you must be Nela. I’m Rosalind McNeill.” She eyed Nela with interest. “You sure don’t look like Chloe.” There was no hint of disparagement in the soft drawl, simply a fact mentioned in passing.

Nela smiled at the receptionist. “That’s what everyone says.”

Rosalind’s brown eyes sparkled. “Chloe’s very nice. You look nice, too.”

Nela imagined that Rosalind always found her glass half full and
that her presence was as relaxing to those around her as a sunny day at the beach. In contrast, tightly coiled Louise exuded tension from the wrinkle of her brows to thin shoulders always slightly tensed.

“I’m taking Nela around to introduce her. If the mail’s ready, we can deliver it.”

Rosalind shook her head. “I’m about half done. Lots of calls for Miss Webster this morning. Something’s got the members of the grants committee riled. They called, bang, bang, bang, one after the other. I’ve heard happier voices at wakes. I don’t think Miss Webster was hearing love notes. If I had one, I’d toss in a bottle of bath salts with her letter delivery.” She grinned. “I’ve been rereading Victorian fiction. Ah, the days when gentle ladies fainted at the drop of a handkerchief to be revived by smelling salts. Did you know they’re really a mixture of ammonia and water? That would revive anybody. From the tone of the callers, I’m betting Miss Webster could use a sniff.”

Louise looked ever more worried. “I’d better see what’s happened. Rosalind, you can finish sorting the mail, then give Nela the room numbers.” She turned to Nela. “I’m sorry you haven’t met some of the staff yet.”

“Meeting new people has always been what I enjoy most about working on a newspaper. I’ll be fine.”

Louise gave her a quick smile, which was replaced almost immediately by a furrow of worry as she turned and hurried toward the trustee’s office.

Rosalind’s glance was admiring. “Chloe said you were a reporter. That must be exciting.”

“It can be. I’m looking for a job right now.” She refused to be defensive. Everybody knew somebody who’d lost a job. She didn’t
mind waiting tables in the interim, but someday, somehow she would write again. Bill wouldn’t want her to give up. The only happiness she’d known in this last dreary year was when she was writing. That became a world in itself, arranging facts, finding words, creating a story.

Nela came behind the counter. A vase of fresh daisies sat on the corner of Rosalind’s desk. A foldout photo holder held pictures of three cats, a bright-eyed calico, a thoughtful brown tabby, and a silver gray with a Persian face.

Rosalind saw her glance. “My gals, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. They can’t write, but they snuggle next to me when I read. Funny thing”—there was an odd tone in her voice—“and you probably won’t believe me, but every time I sit down with
Jane Eyre
, Charlotte rubs her face against the book. Of course, she’s making it hers, but it’s only that particular book. Go figure.” As she talked, she flicked envelopes with the ease of long practice into a long plastic tray. Dividers were marked with recipients’ names. “I’ve added the mail for Miss Grant to Dr. Blair’s stack. I guess Chloe told you about the accident. That was a shocker.” She slapped the last of the letters in place. “The trustee’s mail is always delivered first.”

When Nela lifted the plastic tray, Rosalind gave a half salute. “If you need reinforcements, I’ll be at The Office.”

Clearly Rosalind’s tone was wry, but Nela dutifully inquired, “The Office?”

“That’s Craddock’s home-away-from-home watering hole. Coldest beer, hottest wings.” A grin. “When things get too hairy here at Haklo, we always kid around and say you can find us at The Office.” A sigh. “In my dreams.”

Blythe Webster’s door was still closed.

Nela shifted the tray on her hip. She’d been instructed to deliver
the mail. She would do so. She knocked lightly on the panel, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.

“…have to investigate.” The man’s voice was loud, stressed.

The door made a sighing sound.

Nela immediately realized she’d intruded at a stressful moment. Blythe Webster stood behind her desk, face drawn down in an intense frown. Louise Spear stood a few feet away. Eyes huge in a shocked face, Louise twisted her hands around and around each other. The lanky director moved back and forth, a few steps one way, then back again, clearly distraught.

Nela obviously had interrupted a grim conversation. The sooner she departed, the better. “Excuse me. I have the morning mail for Miss Webster.” She remained in the doorway, poised for a quick withdrawal.

Blythe lifted a hand to touch a double strand of pearls. Her face was set and pale. “Put the letters in the in-tray.”

Nela quickly crossed to the desk, deposited several letters and mailers.

Blythe managed a strained smile. “Nela, this is Dr. Blair, director of the foundation. Hollis, this is Nela Farley, Chloe’s sister. Nela is taking Chloe’s place while she’s on her holiday.”

“Thank you, Miss Webster. I met Dr. Blair earlier.” She began to move toward the door.

“Wait a minute.” Blythe’s tone was sharp. She glanced at a diamond-encrusted watch. “It’s almost ten. We must deal with this immediately. Nela, as you deliver the mail, inform each staff member that the meeting has been moved to ten o’clock. Attendance is mandatory.”

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