Isis’s diamond-studded collar glittered, and her green eyes stared straight into the lens. My bet was that this cat had posed for plenty of pictures. I told Shawn the diamond collar was probably the best clue that Isis had not been abandoned and was simply lost. But he wasn’t about to agree with me. There had to be a meet and greet with the owner. A face-to-face assessment. He’d been burned too many times.
“Miss Preston will see you now.” It was Mr. Robertson. He stood at the edge of the foyer near the hallway, hands behind his back.
My heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice. Thank goodness I was holding my phone at an angle so that he couldn’t see what I was looking at. I stood and slipped the phone back into my pocket. What was I thinking pulling up that photo? I could have ruined everything, but I’d assumed I would be kept waiting as long as possible. I’d taken Mr. Robertson and Miss Preston by surprise, after all. But as my cop buddy Candace would say, never assume. Never.
“Follow me, please,” Mr. Robertson said.
He led me down the hall past a series of closed doors—tall doors a shade darker than the paneling. We walked all the way to the end and into a two-story library that smelled of must beneath more lemon oil. No doubt the thousands of books were the source of the musty smell. But it was a nice and comforting odor—old leather and aging paper.
Behind the desk, a young woman rose. She had ginger hair a shade lighter than my own, and by her looks, I guessed she spent time in the gym. Her bare arms were toned and tan. The sleeveless coral dress she wore was belted low on her slim hips and probably cost as much as five kitty quilts—the ones I hand quilted and sold for a hundred dollars each.
Mr. Robertson said, “Miss Preston, this is Miss Jillian Hart.”
The woman smiled, and in a thick Carolina accent said, “So very nice of you to call on us, Miss Hart.” She looked at Mr. Robertson, her smile growing even warmer. “Thanks, George. Perhaps you could bring us iced tea? It’s quite a warm day.”
He nodded and backed away, closing the door after him.
Two gold velvet wing chairs faced the desk, and the woman made a sweeping gesture at them. “Please join me.”
I crossed over an oval oriental rug toward her, cursing my high heels the entire way. The trip down the long hall had taken its toll, and my feet were screaming. I’d worn these shoes only once before, and I decided it had been a mistake to stuff my feet into them today.
The chair on the right offered a better view of the gardens beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, so that was where I sat. I’d been so awed by the house and now this room that I hadn’t noticed the laptop computer to Miss Preston’s right. Until now.
She pushed it away, folded her hands on the desk and leaned toward me. “I don’t seem to be able to find anything on the Internet about a journalist named Jillian Hart, but there is certainly a good deal about a woman by that name who takes a great interest in cats. Have you come about Isis?”
Two
So much for lying. I attempted to feign surprise. “Isis?” I asked. But my mouth had gone dry and I realized I’d now earned the title Dumbest Fake Journalist Ever. What to do? I couldn’t stick to the lie . . . but perhaps I could dodge the question. “Is Miss Longworth here? I had hoped to talk to her.”
“I’m sure you did.” She smiled. “Have you seen Isis? Is she at that shelter where you volunteer, perhaps?”
“Seems you know a lot more about me than I do about you. What’s your first name, Miss Preston?” I said. Buy some time; hope for one brilliant idea to get out of this mess.
“Evie. We can converse as Evie and Jillian if you’d like. I have no problem with that. Especially since you have a reputation as a kind and generous animal lover. But if you found Isis, she needs to come home.”
Ah, a tiny opening to accomplish my goal. To find out if Isis should come home. “I don’t have her.” Technically not a lie. “Does Miss Longworth miss her cat?”
“Of course she does. Quit hedging. I don’t imagine you want money. You’re not the type. But—”
The sound of a scuffle accompanied by a muffled cry came from somewhere above us. Evie’s gaze went to the ceiling, and her clasped hands clenched tighter.
“That didn’t sound good,” I said. “Is someone hurt . . . or sick?”
“That is none of your business.” Evie’s tone had gone frosty, and she looked as if she was hanging on to her composure by a quilting thread. She’d moved her hands to the arms of her desk chair and tilted her head, apparently trying to hear better.
“If you’re needed upstairs, I can leave. We can—”
The thud that interrupted me made us both jump. We stood, but though I was frozen, Evie raced past me, muttering, “Oh no. Oh no.”
Seemed I’d become invisible. But like my cats, I felt that mysterious and ominous noises must be investigated. So I gave her a few seconds and followed.
Once I was back in the foyer, I caught a glimpse of a coral blur at the top of the stairs. Before I tackled the steps, the shoes had to go. I might already have developed blisters on both heels anyway.
Cursed shoes in hand, I took the stairs two at time as quietly as possible, making that first ninety-degree turn and then climbing about ten more steps to the first landing. But when I saw several people, including Evie, at the end of the hall to my right, I stepped back onto the step so I wouldn’t be spotted. Peeking past the wall, I saw a silver-haired woman in a blue chenille bathrobe sitting on the floor. Evie knelt by the woman’s side, holding her hand, and an older lady in gray slacks and a white pleated shirt stood above them.
I heard the one with the slacks say, “She was trying to get downstairs.”
Evie looked up at the speaker. “How did that happen, Augusta? You’re supposed to stay with her.”
“And when I am supposed to use the ladies’?” Augusta said.
But Evie didn’t seem to be listening. She was murmuring something I couldn’t make out to the woman on the floor—the woman I recognized from photos I’d seen on the Internet: Ritaestelle Longworth.
“I’m fine, Evie. But I’m not deaf. I heard the doorbell, heard George talking to someone in the foyer. I want to go downstairs and—” She turned her gaze from Evie and looked straight at me.
I ducked back behind the wall, but too late.
“There she is,” I heard Miss Longworth say.
Should I run down the stairs? Get the heck out of here? But then I remembered that my handbag was sitting on the floor next to that yellow velvet chair. I stepped out from hiding. “Yes. I came to talk to you, Miss Longworth. But first, are you okay?”
She squinted and pointed at me. “I know you. Where do I know you from?”
“I don’t think you know me. Can I help them get you on your feet?” I started down the hall toward them.
But Evie put up the traffic-cop signal for stop. “You need to turn around and go back downstairs.”
Miss Longworth was struggling to rise, and Augusta and Evie turned their attention to her.
Bad decisions, I’m told, make for good stories. But I had the feeling this bad decision wouldn’t sound like a good story to Shawn. I’d failed at this assignment and had been caught snooping around where I shouldn’t have been. Time to leave while everyone was occupied. I hurried down the stairs and was met at the bottom by Mr. Robertson. A silver tray with two glasses of iced tea sat on a small telephone table in the hallway.
George was holding my handbag. “You need this, ma’am?”
“Yes, thanks.” I was breathless from hurrying down the steep stairs.
“I suggest you go quick. I’m guessing Miss Preston isn’t too pleased about now.” He stepped aside and let me pass.
“Thanks, Mr. Robertson,” I said.
He nodded solemnly, but I caught a twinkle in his eye as I left the house with my shoes in one hand and my purse in the other.
Minivans aren’t exactly the fastest vehicles, so my getaway wasn’t all that quick. Once I made it out of the l
ong driveway and onto the county road, I hit fifty-five miles an hour, my max. My heart was still pounding, and I vowed never to do anything like that again. Shawn would have to deal with this problem himself. Maybe he’d be visiting Miss Longworth in the hospital. I mean, her hip or her leg could have been broken after that fall.
I heard the sound of a siren and checked the rearview mirror. Dark car with flashing lights on the dash. Not your regular squad car. Must be an unmarked. Up ahead I saw a speed limit sign: forty-five. Wouldn’t you know? I had no reason to be speeding in the first place. It wasn’t like anyone at the house would get in their car and chase me.
As I pulled over, I realized I’d been running from the lies I’d told. It was impossible to run from yourself, of course, and now my pocketbook would take a hit. Perhaps the officer would cut me a break.
I watched in the side mirror as a woman in a navy suit—definitely not your usual police uniform—got out of the police car. She was tall and broad shouldered, with steel gray hair curled tightly to her head. I noted she wasn’t carrying the typical police “speeding ticket” pad. But I did see a gold badge glint on her lapel.
I rolled down my window and she offered me a thin smile. Her eyes said it all: You are in trouble.
But the first words out of her mouth weren’t, “Do you know how fast you were going?” as I’d expected. Instead, she said, “Jillian Hart?”
“Uh, yes, ma’am.” She was definitely a ma’am.
“I understand you were visiting the Longworth Estate. Is that correct?”
The word ye-es came out as two syllables, conveying my confusion. Was telling a small lie and sneaking up the stairs cause for an arrest in Woodcrest? But someone in that house—Evie Preston, no doubt—had wasted no time calling the police.
The woman said, “I don’t know your business in coming to town, Ms. Hart, but I suggest you stay away from Miss Longworth.” Her tone was stern, her pearl gray eyes filled with a lot more than a suggestion.
“Um, Officer—Sorry. I didn’t get your name.” Maybe I overstepped in coming here, but I hadn’t done anything to be warned away, and in a manner that made it seem as if she was reading from an old Bonanza script.
“It’s Chief. Police Chief Shelton. And they don’t want you coming round to the house. Is that clear?” she said.
“Clear as can be. But who are they?” I said.
“I don’t need to tell you that,” she said tersely. “I advise you to keep away from the estate and out of Woodcrest.”
“I’m not trying to cause trouble,” I said, using my best conciliatory tone. But this woman was definitely getting under my skin. All I cared about was a cat who either needed to go back home or needed to be sent to a place where she would be loved and protected. Seemed like such a simple task. But apparently not.
Chief Shelton’s eyes softened. “I never said you were causing trouble. Miss Longworth is not strong enough to be bothered by strangers right now. Can you understand that?”
“Oh, you’re her friend, then.” That had to be the explanation for her pulling me over to give me this message in person. “I didn’t intend to bother her. It’s just that—”
“Good. Then we’re clear.” She started to walk away but stopped and looked at me again. “No ticket this time, but watch your speed, Ms. Hart.”
She waited for me to pull out onto the highway and then followed me to the sign that stated, MERCY—3 MILES. I watched in my mirror as she made a U-turn and drove back the way she’d come—going a lot faster than the posted speed limit.
Three
On my drive through town toward my house on Mercy Lake, I decided that Shawn wouldn’t be thrilled with what had happened inside the Longworth house, or what had happened outside on the way home. I’d failed to fool anyone, I’d snuck around and got caught and I’d discovered that Ritaestelle Longworth wasn’t well. Feeling a little down about all this, I decided I needed time with my three best friends before I talked to him.
As for the nature of Ritaestelle’s problems, well . . . that bothered me. She’d thought she recognized me, but I’d never laid eyes on the woman before. Was she confused? Did she have Alzheimer’s? Those possibilities combined with the way the assistant reacted to me might lead Shawn to conclude that Ritaestelle wasn’t equipped to care for her cat. But from what the assistant said, they clearly wanted Isis back.
And in my opinion, it wasn’t clear that she shouldn’t get her cat back. With plenty of hired help hanging around that mansion, how hard could it be to make sure one black cat got the attention she required? Added to that, Ritaestelle might be missing Isis this minute. A beloved pet can help the healing process.
The minute I disengaged the alarm at my back door and walked inside my house, I was reminded of this. Three gorgeous friends sat waiting, Syrah and Merlot on the floor, and Chablis stretched out on the granite countertop.
I knelt to give the two boys on the floor a scratch on the head, and Chablis jumped down for her share of affection a second later. I felt the tension in my shoulders ease almost immediately.
“What do I do, kids?” I said.
Merlot answered with a deep trill of a meow.
“Should I tell Shawn what happened or think of another way to see Miss Ritaestelle Longworth?”
Syrah cocked his head and twitched his ears, while Chablis lay at my feet and rolled onto her back for a tummy scratch. I obliged her.
The sight of them, plus the fact that Isis the cat had both a name tag and a microchip, convinced me that Ritaestelle cared about her cat and shouldn’t suffer from missing her. Maybe I should try to talk to her again before I reported back to Shawn. Isis’s safety had obviously been important at some point. But how could I get back inside that house? I’d burned several bridges today already. Perhaps I had no choice but to come clean to Shawn.
A familiar rappity-rap-rap on the back door that could belong only to my friend Deputy Candace Carson of the Mercy PD made me rise. Candace is in her twenties, while I am in my forties, but she’s still my best friend. Maybe she could help.
She opened the door before I could get there and when she came inside said, “What have I said about keeping your door locked?”
I sighed. “I know. I get so anxious to greet my fur friends that—”
“And see what they’ve been up to?” She glanced past my left shoulder.
I turned and now saw what I had missed earlier. On the floor next to the breakfast bar that separates my kitchen and living room were buttons. Buttons everywhere. Just beyond lay my overturned button box.
I whirled, ready to confront my cats, but they had disappeared. Who said cats don’t know when they’ve done something wrong?
“Darn,” I said. “I’ll be finding buttons for months. Under tables, stuffed in sofa cushions, behind the toilet. Sheesh.”
I went over and picked up the small wooden box and saw teeth marks that had to belong to Merlot. He weighed twenty pounds, so his bite was definitely recognizable. But I was sure the other two had a paw in this mess, too.
Candace knelt next to me and helped retrieve buttons, saying, “What’s with these, anyway?”
“I’m making an appliquéd Christmas quilt for Kara that incorporates all kinds of buttons in the design,” I said.
“Christmas in July?” Candace held a square turquoise button and stared at it with what could only be interpreted as confusion. “And what’s with this square one?”
“Cute, huh? You hardly ever see square buttons. Anyway, I always start early making gifts since orders for lots of cat quilts come in from now until a week before Christmas.”
“Oh, I forgot. You plan ahead.” She laughed. She wasn’t wearing her uniform, and her ash blond hair hung loose on her shoulders. When Candace was on the job, she never wore her hair down. She usually braided it and wrapped the braid tightly at the nape of her neck.
“Day off?” I asked.
“I started my vacation today. One week without listening to Morris complain is l
ike a trip to Disney World for me,” she said.
Deputy Morris Ebeling, her sixtysomething partner, did need to put away his badge soon. He was a nice guy once you got beyond the grumpy facade.
After the last of the buttons we could find were back in the box, I stood, holding the box closer to again inspect the damage Merlot had done.
“You’re smiling,” Candace said. “Why?”
“This plain old box belonged to my grandmother, the woman who first taught me to quilt. But these teeth marks?” I looked at her. “I like them.”
Candace’s eyebrows came together in confusion. “Huh?”
“I have no idea where all the other dings and knicks on the box came from. Like this one.” I traced one long scratch along the side with my finger. “But now it has a flaw from my little family, too.”
“Okay, Miss Glass Half Full. And speaking of glasses, got any sweet tea?” She was already at the refrigerator and opened the door. “Ah, yes.” She removed the pitcher and took two glasses from the cupboard above the dishwasher.
“You staying in town on your vacation?” I set the button box on the counter.
“Yes. I’m painting my mom’s bedroom, among other things.” She handed me my tea.
We both went into the living room and sat on the sofa.
“What fun,” I said. “Or do you enjoy fumes and spills and drop cloths as much as you enjoy collecting evidence?”
Candace grinned. “I do. And she’s got a leaky faucet that could use some attention, too.”
“I know who to call next time I need help with home repairs. But now, maybe you can help me with something outside that realm. I’ve been volunteering more at the sanctuary and—”
“No. I cannot take a cat, or a litter of kittens or a rambunctious Lab that someone couldn’t convince to even walk on a leash or—”
“It’s not that. Shawn found this black cat named Isis.” I went on to explain about the cat, her owner and what had transpired today.
I could tell Candace was becoming more and more interested as the story went on. When I was finished she said, “You were inside the Longworth house? Oh my god. Tell me what it was like. A palace, right? Like that palace the Queen of England lives in?”
The Cat, the Lady and the Liar Page 2
