The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

by Leann Sweeney

  I knew better than to offer a reply, even a sympathetic one. I climbed the deck steps and opened the door carefully, in case Isis was free and decided to take off again. Syrah, who had been patiently waiting, slipped into the house first and scampered inside to who knows where. I’m sure he hoped to avoid the scolding I’d been giving Merlot.

  Billy stood in the kitchen, still holding Isis. She was staring up at him with a look that I’ve seen on Candace’s face before: complete adoration. Did almost every female—even the nonhuman kind—find this guy irresistible?

  “Thanks, Billy,” I said, setting my big cat down. Merlot decided to pretend nothing had happened and meandered over to his food dish.

  “No problem. Better get back outside.” Billy offered Isis to me, but I shook my head. I wanted nothing to do with that little troublemaker right now. He put her on the floor, and she dashed off in the direction Syrah had gone. Billy went back outside, anxious no doubt, to return to the action now that he was relieved of cat duty.

  Ritaestelle and Candace were seated at the dining room table, and Isis’s owner apparently didn’t see that black blur race through my living room.

  I wasn’t sure if I should listen in on this interview, but with my open floor plan—the kitchen blending into the dining room and the dining room into the living room—how could I avoid hearing what they were saying? A gloved Candace solved my dilemma by waving me over.

  She was clipping Ritaestelle’s fingernails. A tiny rusty pile had accumulated on a white paper towel beneath the hand Candace held. Blood still stained Ritaestelle’s hands.

  “Do you have something Miss Longworth can wear?” Candace said. “Deputy Ebeling is bringing me an evidence bag large enough to hold her robe.”

  “I’ll find something,” I said.

  “You are such a kind person,” Ritaestelle said. “Both of you are, and I am so grateful for your assistance. You, Jillian, seem to have saved my cat yet again. But where did she go? That handsome fireman was holding her, and now they both seem to be gone.” Ritaestelle’s voice cracked, and she reached up to her forehead with her free hand—and found the curler still in her hair. She yanked it from her bangs, muttering, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. No wonder everyone believes I am as crazy as a loon.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy at all,” I said. “And Isis will come around soon. She’s a little frisky tonight, that’s all. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back with something for you to wear.”

  I hurried toward the hall thinking that maybe I could corral Isis and bring her to Ritaestelle. But then I remembered that Candace would not want more cat hairs all over her evidence. Chablis had most certainly deposited a fair amount already. No, this reunion between Ritaestelle and Isis would have to wait.

  I stopped at the entrance to the long hall that leads to my bedroom. Syrah and Isis were engaged in button hockey on the wood floor. The slippery surface made for a great game of paw and slide in pursuit.

  Obviously the cats had no interest in murder, but I surely did. Doing CPR on a dead woman isn’t exactly something you easily forget. I shuddered as I remembered Evie’s eyes. No one deserved to die like that, and the thought of someone so young—about the same age as my stepdaughter—meeting such an end made my stomach clench.

  Evie must have followed Ritaestelle here; otherwise, how had she found my house? Or was it the other way around? What if . . . ? No. I needed to put the questions aside for now.

  I didn’t have much clothing that I thought would fit Ritaestelle. She wasn’t a large woman, but she definitely had more up top than me. I finally came back in the living room with one of John’s Houston Astros T-shirts, a pair of khakis that hung a little loose on me and a pair of slippers. Morris arrived with the evidence bag just as Ritaestelle finished signing the Miranda waiver.

  I held up the clothes. “Best I could do.”

  Ritaestelle looked up, glanced at Morris and then at Candace. “Is there somewhere a little more private where I could offer you this awful bathrobe? And you may have it, dear. I never want to see it again.”

  Candace took the bag from Morris and helped Ritaestelle rise. They started slowly toward the hall and the powder room.

  But I held up a hand before they could pass me. “Cats are in the hall. I’m sure you don’t want hair all over that robe, so let me close them off first.”

  Ritaestelle turned a pleading gaze on Candace. “Can I hold my Isis after I change?”

  “I suppose that would be all right.” Candace looked at me. “Can you hurry? I feel like I’m moving in slow motion on this case. Before the deputy coroner shows up, I want to gather as much information as possible.”

  But as I herded what turned out to be all four cats into the closest room—my quilting room—I heard Lydia Monk’s voice coming from the living room. “Oh boy,” I muttered. I tossed the buttons they’d been playing with toward them and shut the door.

  Candace must have heard the door close, because she and Ritaestelle were already heading my way. Ritaestelle’s limp was even more pronounced, and she might not want to see a doctor, but she sure needed to.

  “Could you keep the deputy coroner company while Miss Longworth changes?” Candace’s tone was polite as she offered me an entreating stare.

  I guessed that her words—to keep Lydia company—meant that Candace wanted me to make small talk until she and Ritaestelle returned. That wouldn’t be easy. Hello and good-bye was about all I wanted to say to Lydia. Of course, she’d want to check the house to see if Tom was hiding somewhere before she got down to the business of solving a murder.

  I took a deep breath and reentered my living room. Lydia was standing near the dining room table talking with Morris. The outfit was typical for Lydia: clingy low-cut purple shirt, black skinny jeans and feather earrings that reminded me of cat toys. She had a pair of tennis shoes in her hand but still wore her black patent stiletto heels. Sheesh. Could someone grab her and do a makeover?

  I cleared my throat, and she and Morris turned my way.

  “Good evening, Lydia,” I said.

  She smiled. Could she look any more smug? “Ah, Jillian. Here we are again investigating a murder close to you. This time in your own backyard. Sometimes I wonder about you. You just seem to attract trouble.”

  “This has been a very difficult night,” I said. “Have you seen that poor young woman’s body yet? I mean, that is why you’re here.” I knew darn well she hadn’t been down to the lake yet because the tennis shoes were clean and dry.

  “I know what my job is—thank you very much.” Her tone was scathing this time. “Tom around to help you wiggle out of your troubles tonight?”

  There it was, as suspected. The reason she’d come inside.

  “He’s not here,” I said, trying to keep my tone civil. How I wanted to remind her to get busy with what was important—investigating Evie Preston’s murder, not questioning me about Tom.

  Morris must have picked up on the tension because he said, “They’re waitin’ for you down by the lake, Lydia.”

  She kicked off her shoes, sat and slid her feet into the tennis shoes. “Like I said, I know why I’m here.” She picked up her high heels, tramped through the kitchen and out the back door.

  “Thanks, Morris,” I said.

  He nodded. “Got to keep that woman on task sometimes.”

  Candace and Ritaestelle returned. Candace held the evidence bag in one hand and Ritaestelle’s elbow in the other. It seemed to take forever for them to reach us at the dining room table.

  Once Ritaestelle was seated, Candace handed the tagged paper sack containing the robe to Morris. “I took pictures of the robe while she was wearing it when we first came inside, so I think we’re done with this piece of evidence for now. The nail clippings and her fingerprint card are in the envelopes on the counter. I’ll transport all this to the station when we’re done here, Deputy Ebeling.”

  Morris gestured toward the counter. “I’m keeping a log right over there. Go
t the names of everyone who responded, even the coroner.” He began scratching at the mosquito bites on his neck. Bet the insects were having a feast down by the water.

  “Great.” Candace turned her attention to Ritaestelle. “Now, if you don’t mind, please tell me, ma’am . . . why did you kill Evie Preston?”

  Twelve

  “You believe I meant to harm Evie?” Ritaestelle sounded incredulous. “I—I tried to save her. She was lying there. She was bleeding. She needed my help, and I—” The tears began again.

  I caught Candace’s eye. “Um, do you want me to leave?”

  “No. In fact, now that we’ve contacted the police in Woodcrest to talk with the victim’s mother, we can get down to business. What time did Miss Longworth show up here?” Candace raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  I glanced at Ritaestelle and then back at Candace. “I’m guessing ten fifteen. I was surprised to see her, but she was frightened. She believes someone has been drugging her. And by the way, when I let her inside, her robe was spotless.”

  “We’ll get to that in a minute,” Candace said. “Let’s start with this claim that Miss Longworth was drugged.” She pulled out a dining room chair and sat.

  So did I.

  The two-way radio Morris held at his side crackled, and then someone said, “Can you come down here to the lake? The deputy coroner is asking for you.”

  Morris raised his eyes to the ceiling and muttered something about the mosquitoes before he left.

  The waiver Ritaestelle had signed was still on the table, and Candace pulled her notebook toward her—the one I’d seen in her evidence bag before. She picked up the pen that rested on the waiver, poised it over the notebook and looked at Ritaestelle. “Why did you come to see Jillian Hart if you thought you were being drugged? Why not go to a hospital?”

  “I have no fondness for hospitals or doctors. Besides, since I stopped drinking the tea—most of it went down the sink since yesterday—I have been feeling much better.”

  “Ah,” Candace said. “You think someone drugged your tea. Did you report your suspicions to the local police?”

  Good question, I thought. Except that I had a feeling Ritaestelle didn’t want anyone in Woodcrest alerted to anything else that put her in a bad light.

  Ritaestelle hesitated before saying, “I am sure you understand small-town life, Deputy Carson. I do not appreciate people learning about my private life if I am not the one telling the story. There would be talk. Besides, there is already talk around town that I am a shoplifter. Which I most certainly am not.”

  Candace began writing while saying, “So you decided to visit a stranger in another town? Can you see how that seems a little odd?”

  “Oh, I do. But Jillian visited me first,” Ritaestelle said. “She came to my house yesterday, and because of my condition, my drugged condition, I could not meet with her. But I know of her, and thus I know of her reputation for helping others. And my Isis had been missing for days, so once I had my wits, I realized that was why she called on me.”

  “Let me get this straight. You came here to reclaim your cat? And to get assistance from a stranger about these other problems?” Candace said.

  “Yes. That sums it up quite well, Deputy Carson. I fear that I am being harmed—harmed by the removal of my dear Isis, harmed by these preposterous charges that I am a thief and harmed by someone who has been sedating me. Jillian Hart, from what I have read, is a kind and decent person. She will help me, so I do not regret coming here. I only regret what has happened to poor Evie.”

  “But you didn’t bother to get dressed?” Candace said.

  Ritaestelle raised her chin, her eyes still moist with tears. “I had to sneak out once Augusta fell asleep. She has been watching me like a hawk, and I have no idea why. I am telling you, Deputy Carson, there is something very strange going on in Woodcrest and more specifically inside my beloved home. And just so you know, I have spoken with the police chief about my situation—the shoplifting, that is. She happens to be a friend.”

  “I suspect we’ll be speaking with Chief Shelton,” Candace said. “Let’s move along. Tell me everything that happened from the minute you got here.”

  Ritaestelle talked in her long, rambling style, relating the events that I already knew, but my interest picked up when she got to what happened after I left her alone in my living room.

  She said, “I thought I heard something outside. Voices, perhaps? But then I began to wonder if the drugs were still playing tricks on me. Still, something made me get up and go to the back door. And then I foolishly opened it. Jillian’s cat ran out into the night. I knew she would never forgive me if I was responsible for losing her cat, so I grabbed a broom to help me walk. I used it like a cane.”

  Candace looked perplexed, but she sounded as tough as nails when she said, “You can hardly walk, and yet you go down to the lake after a cat? You don’t call for Jillian’s help?”

  “I did call for her, but she must not have heard me. As for the rest of it, I—I cannot explain my actions.” Ritaestelle shook her head sadly. “You see, the cat ran right to poor Evie. She was lying there on the dock. She was not breathing. Her eyes were wide-open. She was . . . gone.”

  Lying on the dock? But I’d found her in the water. Obviously I’d missed something.

  “How’d she get in the water? Because the victim is soaking wet,” Candace said.

  Candace and I were on the same wavelength, it would seem.

  “The victim. What an awful word. But her being wet is my fault,” Ritaestelle said. “I cradled my poor Evie’s head and then realized what I was doing. I had assumed she was dead. But what if she could be brought back? So I tried to lay her flat on the dock so I could breathe for her. Rescue breathing, we used to call it back in the day. But it was dark, and she was so much closer to the edge than I realized. Instead of putting her on the dock, I rolled her off my lap right into the water.” New tears sprang to her eyes. “If that poor girl drowned because of me, I will never forgive myself.”

  “You’re saying you shoved her body into the water?” Candace was writing this down and didn’t look at Ritaestelle, but I heard the suspicion in her voice.

  “Pushed. Accidentally,” Ritaestelle said. “And then Jillian came rushing out. I grabbed up her cat, and then I am afraid I do not recall much else aside from looking for a cellular phone. Yes. I remember that part.”

  Candace looked at me. “You found Miss Preston in the water?”

  “Yes. I pulled her up on the rocks to do CPR, but . . . well, you know the rest.” I hung my head. I felt that sting of failure again. Maybe Evie could have been saved if I’d known what I was doing or came out of the house sooner.

  “And you didn’t hear Miss Longworth call for you or hear this noise she talked about coming from the backyard?” Candace asked me.

  “I was in my bedroom closet, so I couldn’t hear anything.” The adrenaline was definitely wearing off. My knees stung, and my wet clothes were making me shiver. I like to keep the house cool in the summer, so the air-conditioning was set at around seventy-two. And my body temperature felt like it was seventy-two.

  Candace looked back over her notes and then said, “Miss Longworth stated that you went to look for Isis, right?”

  “Yes. But there was a problem.” I explained about Isis’s predicament. And I wondered then that if I hadn’t spent so much time helping her out of the basket, just brought Isis and the basket out into the living room instead, perhaps I would have been able to save Evie.

  Candace rose. “You know, after hearing all this, I’m thinking we need to get a formal statement down at the police station, Miss Longworth. You know, with video running and everything?”

  Ritaestelle seemed confused for a second or two. Then she said, “Are you arresting me?”

  “I’ll have to get with my chief on this,” Candace said. “You got anyone you want to call? Like maybe any lawyer friends you might have?”

  I caught Candace’s eye
and said, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Candace nodded, and we walked a few feet away into the living room.

  I whispered, “This woman needs to see a doctor. Her hip and her claim she’s been drugged make me think you’d better check her out before you put her in jail.”

  Candace stared at me, considering this. Sounding deflated, she said, “You’re right.” She pulled her two-way radio from her pocket and spoke into it. “Morris?”

  “Yeah?” came his staticky reply.

  “Paramedics still hanging around?”

  “Oh yeah,” he said.

  “Send them up to the house,” Candace said. She looked at me. “Man, I sure wanted to get this woman out of here before Lydia made her way back up here. Not too much chance of that now.”

  “I don’t want Lydia hanging around any longer than necessary. But I honestly believe Ritaestelle is telling the truth—for what that’s worth. And she is having a difficult time walking. I suspect she’s in considerable pain.”

  Candace sighed. “I’m sure you’re right—about the pain.”

  We walked back to join Ritaestelle, whose tears had dried. She was looking rather stoic now. “May I see my cat before you lock me up?”

  “I didn’t say we’re arresting you, Miss Longworth. I need a heck of lot more information before we go down that road,” Candace said.

  “May I please see my cat?” she repeated.

  “Sure,” Candace said. “Jillian?”

  I left to find Isis, thinking that in believing Ritaestelle, I was following my heart rather than my head. That blood on her robe sure was telling, and I didn’t know if this whole “I was drugged” thing was true. Plus, I now recalled that Ritaestelle had been holding that rock in her hand when I first saw her on the dock. I needed to tell Candace about that when I got the chance.

  I opened the door to my quilting room, not prepared for what I saw. Fabrics that I kept in color-coordinated stacks on a bookshelf littered the floor. And the drawer where I kept my quilt bindings must have been left ajar because Isis had various bindings wrapped all over her. Chablis was in a corner, grooming herself. I wished I had had time to clean the blood off her before she took care of the problem herself. Too late now.