What the Cat Saw by Carolyn Hart Page A

sense of recognition. She was the first to look away.
    T he foundation chef, a mountainous woman with blue-white hair and three chins that cascaded to an ample bosom, seemed unfazed by the request for an unexpected meal. Within twenty minutes, she had wheeled a cart into the conference room. Nela and Louise bustled to help and soon an attractive buffet was set on a side table. Louise looked pleased at the array of food: chilled shrimp with cocktail sauce, mixed green salad, crisply crusted ham and cheese quiches, steamed asparagus with a mustard and butter sauce, chocolate cake, coffee, iced tea.
    The large police officer remained standing by the door, declining an offer of food. With a balding head but youthful face, Sergeant Fisher might have been an old thirty or a young fifty.
    The staff members returned to the seats they’d taken that morning. The meal was eaten quickly and in almost complete silence.
    Francis Garth pushed back his plate and glanced at the grandfather clock. “Sergeant”—he turned to the end of the table—“will we be seen in a particular order? I need to leave for Stillwater by one o’clock. I have a meeting with a researcher on switchgrass production.”
    Sergeant Fisher’s voice was as unrevealing as his face. “I will inform Detective Dugan.”
    Cole Hamilton’s face once again furrowed in worry. He shot a sideways glance toward the policeman. “I’m sure all of us wish the police the very best, but why talk to us? What do we know that would be helpful? Someone broke in.”
    “Did someone break in?” Grace’s tone was silky. “I suppose the police are checking all the ground-floor windows and doors. Of course, if any had been smashed, the alarm would sound.” She flickeda glance toward the large square windows. “It would take a crowbar and maybe a sledgehammer to break in through these windows.”
    Nela’s glance flicked to the swiftly moving fingers on the laptop.
    Grace smoothed back a lock of strawberry blond hair. “It’s the same in all the conference rooms and offices. Dad built this place like a fortress. The only windows that might be vulnerable are the French windows in the main rotunda. Funny thing, though. Nobody”—she looked from face to face—“noticed anything out of the ordinary when they came to work this morning. It’s a little hard to believe Rosalind crunched through broken glass when she opened the French window blinds this morning and neglected to mention it.”
    Peter Owens poked his horn rims higher on his nose. “Your point?”
    “If nobody broke in, how did the office trasher get inside?” Grace looked at each face in turn.
    No one spoke.
    Nela glanced around the room. Blythe looked grim, Hollis thoughtful. The reporter’s freckled face was bland. His eyes never dropped beneath the rim of the table. The unobtrusive note-taking continued.
    Grace’s smile was sardonic. “My, what a silent class. It looks like teacher will have to explain. A key, my dears.”
    Beside Nela, those broad freckled hands moved silently over the electronic keypad.
    Blythe’s tone was cold. “It’s better to let the authorities reach their own conclusions.”
    Hollis Blair rubbed knuckles on his bony chin. “We have to provide them with anything pertinent.”
    Blythe slowly turned toward Nela. There was a welter of conflicting expressions on her usually contained face: uncertainty, inquiry, and possibly suspicion.
    Sergeant Fisher’s curious gaze moved from Blythe to settle on Nela.
    Nela’s chest felt tight. She knew what was coming. These police officers hadn’t connected Nela to Friday night’s 911, but Blythe Webster had heard the sirens and hurried to see. Obviously Blythe was making a connection.
    Nela lifted her head, spoke quickly. “Friday night someone broke into Miss Grant’s apartment. The sounds of a search woke me up. I was staying there to take care of Miss Grant’s cat.” She heard the exclamations from around the table. Only Blythe was