The Cat, the Lady and the Liar
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Teaser chapter
Praise for the Novels of Leann Sweeney
The Cats in Trouble Mysteries
The Cat, the Professor and the Poison
“A fun, entertaining story . . . the mystery will keep the reader guessing and the conclusion is satisfying and will leave readers looking forward to Jillian’s next adventure. I enjoyed this story so much.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Sure to please the cat and cozy fans of the world. . . . After reading the first book, I just knew I was going to fall in love with this series and have.”
—Feathered Quill Book Reviews
“The characters and friends Jillian makes along the way and the care she gives to the cats she encounters will make her a fast favorite.”
—The Mystery Reader
The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse
“A solid start to a cozy mystery series.”
—CA Reviews
“The first installment of what promises to be a delightful cozy series. . . . Leann Sweeney presents readers with a solid mystery that kept this reader guessing through all of the plot twists and turns. Plenty of cat trivia adds to the richness of the narrative . . . highly recommended!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“The cats are entertaining four-legged assistants. . . . Kitty lovers will enjoy the feline trivia.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Great fun for cat lovers . . . a lot of hometown charm.”
—The Mystery Reader
“Fans will enjoy her amateur sleuth investigation.”
—The Best Reviews
“[Leann Sweeney’s] brand-new series about adorable cats that just can’t stay out of trouble is bound to be a hit!”
—Fantastic Fiction
“Sweet but not syrupy, sharply written and brimming with heart.”
—Cozy Library
The Yellow Rose Mysteries
“As Texas as a Dr Pepper-swigging armadillo at the Alamo. A rip-roaring read!”
—Carolyn Hart, author of Death Walked In
“Full of emotions! Anger, sadness, fear, happiness, laughter, joy, and tears . . . they are all there, and you will feel them along with the characters in this book!”
—Armchair Interviews
“An intriguing puzzle [that] has buried layers that must be uncovered.”
—Rendezvous
“I adore this series.”
—Roundtable Reviews
“A welcome new voice in mystery fiction.”
—Jeff Abbott, national bestselling author of Trust Me
“A dandy debut . . . will leave mystery fans eager to read more about Abby Rose.”
—Bill Crider, author of Of All Sad Worlds
“Pick Your Poison goes down sweet.”
—New York Times bestselling and Edgar Award-winning author of Rick Riordan
“A witty down-home Texas mystery . . . [a] fine tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
Other Novels by Leann Sweeney
The Cats in Trouble Mysteries
The Cat, the Professor and the Poison
The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse
The Yellow Rose Mysteries
Pushing Up Bluebonnets
Shoot from the Lip
Dead Giveaway
A Wedding to Die For
Pick Your Poison
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, April 2011
Copyright © Leann Sweeney, 2011
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eISBN : 978-1-101-51366-8
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This book is for three dear friends whom I have come to love: Kay, Lorraine and Jennifer. Thanks for everything.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people who help bring a book to life. My family: Mike, Jillian, Jeffrey, Shawn, Allison and Maddison make my world so much better. Thank you. The Tuesday night critique group, which tells me where I’ve gone wrong and what I’ve done right, has done much to shape this story. Kay, Amy, Laura, Dean, Bob, Millie, Susie, Charlie and Isabella hold a special place in my heart. The “fur” friends who inspire me—Indigo, Agatha Christie, Archie Goodwin, Rosie, Curry and Enzo have all helped the animal characters in my books act like they should. The cozy writers who are always beside me in spirit—I am so grateful for your support. My agent, Carol, stands by me and encourages me. Thanks for that! Last of all, I thank the best editor any writer co
uld hope for. Claire, you are forever the best of the best.
In ancient Egypt, cats were worshipped as gods. Cats have never forgotten this.
—UNKNOWN
One
I try not to lie. Honest. But as I drove my minivan down the curving treelined road on the Longworth Estate, I convinced myself no other tactic would work. Not with the rules that Shawn Cuddahee of the Mercy Animal Sanctuary had told me I must obey during my visit to the owner of this grand mansion.
The Greek Revival house loomed in the distance, a stunning home in Woodcrest, South Carolina, and only fifteen miles from my place in Mercy. From what little research I’d done before embarking on this mission, I learned that the property encompassed twelve acres and that the historic house—brilliant white with tall green shutters—was more than a century old and four stories high. Having never been in an honest-to-goodness antebellum mansion as anything but a tourist, I felt a flutter of excitement. If I could get over my guilt about the lies I was about to tell, I might enjoy my assignment.
Shawn rescued small animals, those that were brought to him, dumped on him or found. The cat in question, a lovely long-haired black cat named Isis (according to her tags) had been saved from near-certain death by Shawn himself. He’d found her wandering near a busy highway. The fact that he’d rescued Isis from such a dangerous situation had led me here today. Shawn had tried to meet the registered owner, a woman named Ritaestelle Longworth, but his phone calls had not been returned. He’d even made a trip to Woodcrest last week, but the person who answered the door told him that Ms. Longworth was not seeing visitors. She was “indisposed.”
In the past, Shawn had returned “lost” pets to their owners, only to discover them “found” again. And again. And again. He considered such behavior abuse. He’d told me he didn’t care if this “Longworth woman” had a bazillion dollars; her cat needed to be cared for properly and not put in danger by indifference or neglect.
Yes, Shawn does have anger management issues—the local animal control officer has a restraining order against him—and when his calls to Ritaestelle Longworth were not returned, Shawn became so upset that I swear all the hair under his collar was singed. That was when I stepped in and said that by hook or by crook Miss Longworth and I would meet, and I would try to find out why Isis had ended up in a shelter.
I do help out at the sanctuary whenever I can, and this assignment seemed right up my alley—a cat in trouble. Right up my alley except for the lying part. But I do take cats in trouble seriously, and I always do what I can to help them.
Since Shawn had already identified himself as a shelter owner in the messages he’d left, we decided I couldn’t associate myself with him—at least at first. I would introduce myself as a journalist. I’d actually gotten a few tips for this role from my stepdaughter, Kara, who really is a journalist.
My goal today was to assess the living situation. Did this woman miss her cat? Since Isis had no front claws, why was she outdoors? Was this a simple mistake, or had she been abandoned? If I learned that Isis had been neglected in any way, then that would be the end of any contact with this woman. Shawn would find Isis a new home. He didn’t consider it catnapping when he had difficulty contacting the owner to return a newly homeless pet.
I reached a circular drive with a lovely pond in the center and parked in front of the house. The late-afternoon summer sun shimmered on the water, and the carefully tended garden surrounding the pond took my breath away. The flowers were a wonderful mix of reds, purples and yellows. Though I knew the names of many of the local flowers, these blooms were like nothing I’d seen before.
I slid from behind the wheel, and the next thing that caught my eye was a restored and gleaming black carriage positioned near the side of the house. What a stage setter, I thought. Then I made my way between the majestic columns and up the broad steps toward double, lacquered black doors. I’d learned that this house had been built in 1844 and the Longworths sat atop the social crowd in Woodcrest, a class system typical in small Southern towns. And yet Ritaestelle, the seventy-year-old head of household, couldn’t seem to take care of a cat.
That thought saddened me, and as I rang the doorbell, I used my other hand to take my phone from the pocket of my linen skirt. I pulled up the cat-cam feed and tapped a screen icon for my living room video. I saw my three cats, Syrah, Merlot and Chablis, fast asleep—two on the sofa and one on the overstuffed armchair. I realized that my heart rate had picked up—I was worried about telling tall tales—but the sight of these cats, my three best friends, calmed me instantly. I replaced my phone and waited for someone to answer the bell I’d heard chime inside.
When the door opened, a thin black man in what I could only call butler attire answered the door. I felt like I’d been transported back 150 years.
He said, “How may I help you, ma’am?”
His face was unreadable—no smile, no frown. I imagined he’d spoken those words a thousand times before. He had close-cropped silver hair, but I couldn’t tell if he was sixty, seventy, perhaps even eighty? Definitely older than my forty-three years.
Sound confident, I told myself before I spoke. “My name is Jillian Hart. I’d like to speak with Miss Longworth, please.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Miss Longworth is indisposed. If you’d like to leave your phone number, her assistant will call you.”
Since Shawn’s calls had never been returned, the same thing would probably happen to me. But I smiled and said, “That doesn’t exactly work for me. I’m a journalist, and I—”
“You’re a reporter?” he said. “There’s nothing much to report on here.”
“I’m doing a piece for my magazine on the grand homes of the South. I understand this house is seeking historical status. Is that true?” I knew this was true since I’d done my research, so I hoped it was my ticket inside.
He hesitated, and I quickly dug into my shoulder bag and pulled out my slim silver digital camera.
I smiled. “I’ve already gotten some lovely shots of this wonderful estate. May I take your picture?”
Kara had offered me this tip, and she’d been right. Cameras can truly open doors. The butler gentleman held up a hand. “Please, ma’am. Before you take any more pictures, why not step into the foyer? I’ll talk to Miss Longworth’s assistant. I’m sure Miss Ritaestelle would like to see her home in a magazine, but you don’t want no pictures of me. She can help you better with that kinda thing.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to hide my grin. One hurdle down. But how many more to go?
He stepped aside so I could enter, and the rich smell of polished wood met me at once. The foyer was smaller than I expected because a massive staircase took up most of the space. Rich honey-colored paneling graced the wall and followed the polished stairs upward. A ninety-degree left turn after the first few steps blocked my view of the rest of the stairs, but in a house with four stories, they probably made plenty of twists on the way up. Then my eyes widened in appreciation at probably the most stunning grandfather clock I’d ever seen. It stood directly in front of me and was made of black walnut burl wood with arches at the top and a large golden pendulum behind its leaded glass door.
I’d managed to keep my jaw from dropping at the sight of this foyer. On the wall to my left was a small, inlaid glass-covered table. An art deco-looking vase of clear red glass sat on the table, and an oil painting of a wagon and horse traveling on a country road hung on the wall above it.
A brocade-covered bench stood against the wall to my right, and the gentleman gestured for me to have a seat. “Let me check with Miss Preston.”
I assumed she was the assistant. “Thank you so much, but I didn’t get your name.” I smiled.
“It’s George. George Robertson.
“Thank you, Mr. Robertson.”
He nodded, walked away down the splendid paneled hallway and disappeared.
What I hadn’t noticed when I first arrived—perhaps because I kept marveling at
this place—was that this house was seriously chilly. More than air-conditioned chilly, even for July. Maybe old-house chilly. Yes. That was what it was. Definitely drafty.
Thankful for the three-quarter-length sleeves of my jacket, I clutched my purse in my lap—the handbag that held the notebook I hoped I would be putting to good use soon. I’m not a fan of bags or dress-up, but this visit required both. Who knew that lies needed to be properly attired? But I was glad I’d taken Kara’s advice when she’d emphasized that I couldn’t wear capri pants and a T-shirt for this assignment. I’d been planning on a sundress, but she said that wouldn’t do either. Still, I was uncomfortable in this linen suit, and the high heels were seriously tight and hurting something awful. But the outfit had probably helped get me in the door. And even if I didn’t learn the information I came for, I felt privileged to simply be sitting in a house that reminded me of a museum.
I thought about kitty Isis and took out my phone to sneak a peek at the picture I’d taken of her. Since she’d had an encounter with a mud puddle after getting lost, she’d been bathed and groomed—probably by Allison, Shawn’s wife. Allison is so sweet, she could convince a Bengal tiger to let her bathe him. And the tiger would enjoy every minute.