The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

by Leann Sweeney

  As we drove away, Ritaestelle said, “I am unclear about that particular interaction, but I do appreciate you speaking up for me, Mr. Stewart.”

  “That’s what you’re paying me for. Your friend Chief Shelton, I’m guessing, would love to have you back in Woodcrest so she could take over this investigation. Cops are territorial like that.”

  “Ah. Are you saying I should not trust Nancy?” Ritaestelle said.

  “For now, trust us,” Tom said. “But in the end, my money’s on Candace to figure this out—with our help.”

  I saw Ritaestelle nod her head in agreement. “Can I ask where we are driving to now in your precious little car?”

  “You are about to be reunited with another old friend,” Tom said.

  Five minutes later we pulled into the driveway of Karen Stewart’s cottage.

  “Why are we visiting your mother, Tom?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.” He slid from behind the wheel, came around and helped Ritaestelle get out.

  But as we walked up the steps of her latticed porch, it dawned on me. Karen was in a relationship with Ed Duffy. And Ed had told us he’d once cared very much about Ritaestelle.

  Sure enough, both Karen and Ed met us at the front screen door. Karen wore a vintage-looking cotton print dress, belted at the waist and buttoned up to her neck. Ed’s shirt was clean and pressed—as Karen always made sure of when he was at home.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” Karen said as she opened the door for us to enter.

  The ceiling fan in Karen’s small, darkened living room was churning at high speed. She never ran the air conditioner, and I assumed all the heavy drapes were closed to keep the heat out as much as possible.

  Tom helped Ritaestelle to a mustard-colored velour rocker in the corner while saying, “Mom, this is Ritaestelle Longworth. Ed, you already know her, of course.”

  Ritaestelle’s eyes grew wide and her fingers covered her mouth for a few seconds. “Sweet Lord. Edwin Duffy? Is that really you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Nice to see you again.” Ed stared at the floor, not at the woman he told us he had once loved.

  “I am never ma’am to you, Edwin. I will always be Ritaestelle.” She blinked rapidly, and I could see this was a poignant moment for her.

  “I’ve made fresh lemonade, so I’ll be right back,” Karen said.

  “Let me help you.” I followed her into the kitchen, wondering what in the heck Tom thought he was doing. Why did he want his poor mother to endure this reunion? I’d have to get some answers about this move.

  Unlike the cluttered shop where Ed spent most of his time, Karen’s small house was tidy and spotless. Just like the clothes she always wore, her kitchen was vintage—a stainless toaster still as shiny as the day she had bought it, a gleaming glass whistling teapot on the old gas range. The refrigerator was turquoise, rounded on the edges and small. She opened the door and took out a Fiestaware pitcher. Another pitcher holding ice water and sliced cucumbers sat near the sink.

  She placed the lemonade on a wooden tray she’d already set up with six glasses. Why six? Maybe she liked even numbers. That was something I would expect of Karen. Tom’s mother was an odd lady, with her dark, slick hair, deep blue eyes and commanding presence. Seemed like Ed preferred women who took charge.

  Karen said, “I never would have thought I would be entertaining one of Ed’s old girlfriends. Old in more ways than one. Forced him to tell me all about her, though. The man could have married into money. Instead he ended up with me.”

  “I’d say he got lucky,” I said with a smile. Karen might be peculiar, but she was good for Ed and he adored her. That gave me a hint about this visit. Karen, a recovering alcoholic, didn’t need secrets between herself and Ed. She’d found happiness, and my guess was that Tom wanted to keep it that way.

  “Would you mind carrying the ice water, Jillian?” Karen said.

  We both walked back into the living room, and soon everyone held his or her beverage of choice.

  Karen sat next to Ed, who’d trimmed his beard in the last few days. I had to say, at times his clothes and limited grooming reminded me of a cult leader, but not today. He sat as stiff as a soldier on the plaid couch with its wooden arms. But perhaps because of his confession to Karen about his old love Ritaestelle, he didn’t seem as anxious today as when we’d talked to him about her the other day.

  “Ritaestelle and Ed were just catching up,” Tom said. “But the reason we came today is that we hoped that you, Ed, could offer insight into why someone might want to set up Ritaestelle—make her look bad.” Tom went on to explain the details about the shoplifting accusations, the drugging, and a beloved cat that mysteriously found herself wandering by a busy highway.

  While Tom talked, I kept glancing at Ritaestelle, but she kept her eyes focused on the cold glass she clung to with both hands.

  “I ain’t sure why you’re goin’ back fifty years, Tommy,” Ed said in his slow, measured tone. “Sure, everyone, ’specially the girls in school, suffered from envy when it came to Ritaestelle. Class president, valedictorian, and a pretty thing to boot. Seemed natural they’d be wantin’ some of that. But what’s that got to do with anything?”

  I noticed Ed was careful not to say he had also “wanted some of that.” Karen stared at him intently when he spoke of Ritaestelle. But not in a jealous way. Seemed to me she’d had a long talk with Ed about this woman.

  “Maybe history has nothing to do with the murder, though I doubt that,” Tom said. “Here’s the deal. Before I start talking to Ritaestelle’s family, I want to be armed with as much information as possible. Mom’s insistence that I become a Boy Scout taught me one thing—be prepared. This is personal to someone. Close and personal. A serial killer didn’t chase Evie into Jillian’s backyard.”

  “I sure as hell hope not,” Ed said.

  “What about her cousins Muriel and Augusta? Did you know them?” Tom said.

  “Sure. Everyone knew everyone in Woodcrest. Augusta was a year ahead of us and Muriel a year behind. Needy girls, but their daddy died young and I could see they were troubled and missin’ him.”

  “That’s very true, Edwin,” Ritaestelle said. “Especially because my aunt—their mother, Estelle—was ill. Part of my name came from her. Unfortunately she became quite neglectful due to her sickness and died of cancer when we were all in our twenties. But her funeral brought Edwin and me together. We were close for a time. What did happen to us, Edwin?”

  Oh boy. What happened to their relationship? Did Ritaestelle realize what she was saying? I felt the need to protect Karen and get this conversation back on track.

  “This crime was personal, not random,” I said. I’d known this and guessed Candace and Mike knew this as well. But Tom’s approach wasn’t about finding evidence he could hand to that prosecutor we’d met, or to a judge. Maybe that was why he quit the force—so he could do things his way.

  “Yes. Highly personal murder, I’d say,” Tom said. “Evie Preston followed Ritaestelle and was confronted by a killer. Sorry to say this, Ritaestelle, but you seem to have lived your life with blinders on. Now they’ve been ripped off, and you’re in big trouble. Still, I can’t rule out that Evie had some secrets herself. I’ll be checking on her, too.”

  “Blinders,” Ritaestelle said, as if to herself. She looked at Tom. “That is a very insightful observation, Mr. Stewart.”

  “Gaslighting,” I murmured.

  “Ah, yes. That’s exactly what this sounds like.” Karen, sitting between me and Ed on the couch, patted my thigh. “I didn’t know you enjoyed the 1940s as much as I do.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” Ritaestelle said.

  Tom glanced back and forth between Karen and me, looking lost.

  “Gaslighting,” I said. “The term comes from an old movie. Karen, you probably know more about it than I do.”

  “If I remember right,” she said, “in the film Gaslight, a woman is almost driven mad by her husband’s manipulati
ons. One of the things he does is dim the gas lights in their home and then make her believe she’s imagining that they’ve been turned down.”

  Tom nodded. “I get it. That’s like what the Manson family did when they broke into houses—that was before they got into more violent stuff. They would rearrange the furniture and steal nothing.”

  “I’m not a cinema expert, nor do I know much about Charles Manson,” Ritaestelle said, “but, Karen, your explanation is such a relief. There is actually a word for what someone is trying to do to me.”

  “We find the reason, we’ll get answers. Money seems the most likely motive. Someone drives you crazy, gets you declared incompetent and ends up in control of a fortune.” Tom looked at Ed. “By the way, did you know Ritaestelle’s brother, too?”

  “Nope. He was older than us by—what? Five years?” He looked Ritaestelle’s way.

  “That would be correct,” she answered. “You have a good memory, Edwin.”

  Ed took a long swig of his lemonade, looking more embarrassed than I’d ever seen him.

  The awkward silence was broken by a knock on the door.

  Tom rose from the recliner he’d been sitting in. “I’ll get that.”

  He let Desmond Holloway in, and the two shook hands. What the heck was he doing here?

  But I remembered that sixth glass and understood then that he’d been invited.

  After introductions he went straight to Ritaestelle, bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I came to help you, princess.”

  The cramped living room and the late-morning air that whooshed in with Holloway made me feel so warm I gulped down half my glass of cucumber ice water.

  Ed offered Desmond his spot on the sofa closest to Ritaestelle. Then he walked to the hall closet and brought out a folding chair. But Tom took the chair from him, set it up and told Ed to have the recliner. That was the spot I was most used to seeing Ed in, and for some reason the tension that had arrived with Holloway seemed to ease. But why did the man bother me?

  He chatted on for several minutes about missing having coffee with Ritaestelle every morning, not talking to her on the phone, not sharing dinner a few times a week. I noticed that Ritaestelle seemed like a schoolgirl, hanging on his every word.

  “You two have coffee every morning?” Tom asked.

  He and I must think alike, because if they shared a drink every day, maybe the tea hadn’t been drugged. Perhaps it was the coffee. But what motive would he have to harm Ritaestelle?

  Tom got straight to that. He looked at Ritaestelle, unsmiling. “You leaving anything in your will for this guy?”

  “Thomas Lee Stewart,” Karen said. “You’re bordering on rude.”

  “Mom, you may have grown up in the South and have all the same manners the Longworth bunch has, but I need to get to the bottom of this mess. If you think that’s rude, you can head for the kitchen or bedroom.”

  “I don’t appreciate your tone,” Karen said. “And you shouldn’t tell your mother what to do in her own house. But I understand, and I forgive you.” She folded her hands in her lap and spoke to Ritaestelle. “I believe you should answer my son’s question.”

  Ritaestelle cleared her throat. “Desmond and I are quite frank with each other. He is well aware that I will not be bequeathing anything to him.”

  Tom looked at Holloway. “What about spending time together? When Ritaestelle was stumbling around her house in a stupor and her cat went missing, where were you?”

  Wow. Tom sure didn’t like Holloway, and I wondered if he knew something he hadn’t shared with me.

  Holloway’s ears were bright red even though he had a pasted-on smile. “We spoke on the phone. When she wasn’t feeling well, Ritaestelle didn’t want to see me.”

  “That’s true, Mr. Stewart,” Ritaestelle said. “Besides, Desmond would never harm me.”

  “Really?” Tom looked at Holloway. “Who else were you messing with when you were hanging out with Ritaestelle before you skipped town way back when? Word is, Augusta was on your list of conquests.”

  This time Desmond’s entire face lit up with embarrassment. “I—I suppose Augusta told you that?”

  “No, she didn’t,” Tom said.

  “Who told you? And what else did they say?” Holloway was fidgeting with a diamond ring on his left pinkie, turning it around and around.

  But before Tom could answer, Ritaestelle said, “Augusta, too? I knew about Nancy, and Charlotte, that girl who went on to sing in the opera, and even my friend Raye. I knew there were others, too. But Augusta? She is related to me, for heaven’s sake.”

  Yup, Tom knew exactly where he’d been headed with this and wore a satisfied smile as Holloway fought to find the words to get out of the trouble he suddenly found himself in. The fact that he’d even been involved with Chief Shelton made me think this Desmond character went after anything in a skirt.

  “She meant nothing to me, Ritaestelle,” Holloway finally said.

  “You mean she did not have enough money. You discarded one paramour after another and kept returning to me because I was wealthy. I forgave you, though I knew your true colors, but this? I am sorry, but this is too much.” Her jaw tightened, and she looked at Tom. “Is there anything else about Desmond I should know?”

  “I can give you a complete report later. He does get around—like all over the world with wealthy women,” Tom said.

  Holloway rose. “I will allow you time to digest this information, but do be careful believing everything you hear. I care very much about you, Ritaestelle.”

  Once he was gone, Ritaestelle glanced back and forth between Ed and Karen. “I must apologize for taking up your time with my problems—some of which I obviously knew nothing about.”

  “You’re a good woman, Rita,” Ed said. “Don’t let nobody, even yourself, convince you of anything different.”

  We talked a while longer, but I realized why Tom had brought these particular players together today. He wanted happiness for his mother, he wanted Ritaestelle to hear an unpleasant truth, but most of all, he wanted Ed to be at peace. Ritaestelle had hurt him once, but that was over. He’d found love again, a love with Karen that I knew would last. Yup, I had a new insight into Tom, one I liked very much.

  Twenty-three

  We left fifteen minutes later and returned to my house for lunch. Ritaestelle said little during the drive, and she didn’t talk during our meal of salad and sandwiches. Once Tom left to begin his case file and set up interviews with Farley, his mother and others, Ritaestelle asked if I’d join her outside.

  She seemed to be walking better, but I did take her elbow once we were out on the deck and helped her settle into the wicker rocker. The warm breeze began playing with her silver hair. I remembered that red Velcro roller in her bangs when she came to my door what seemed like a century ago. Her hair had gone flat and wispy in the last couple of days, but that seemed to be the last thing on her mind. She rocked and stared out at the water, seemingly lost in thought.

  I sat next to her in the lawn chair. I usually sat at the glass patio table behind us in one of the wrought-iron armchairs. I’d read or stitch and listen to the water lapping and the birds singing. But for now I wanted to be close to my new friend.

  After about five minutes of silence, I mustered enough courage to ask Ritaestelle about Desmond Holloway. Since I had the feeling the meeting with him was what had brought her outside to think, she might need to talk about him—get that bad taste out of her mouth.

  “From what I understood today, you were willing to forgive Desmond’s other indiscretions, but not when it came to Augusta. Tell me about that,” I said.

  Ritaestelle’s rocking tempo picked up when I posed this question.

  “I thought he was being completely honest,” she said. “I believed him when he told me he had revealed everything about all his lady friends. That was the condition I’d set for me to allow him back into my life—that he tell the truth. Now I know that not only did he lie by omissio
n, but Augusta did, too. I feel like a fool.”

  “You knew about your friend Nancy, though?” I said.

  “That was aeons ago. She cannot stand the man now. She, too, realized that he was not to be trusted. But unlike me, she gave up on him, while I welcomed him back with open arms. I suppose that her being a police officer helped her see him for what he was. She warned me when he returned to Woodcrest that he was a deceiver, but did I listen?”

  I could picture Nancy Shelton giving him a big piece of her mind when she found out he was a cheater. She might have even broken a few of his fingers. “Are you finished with Desmond now?”

  “Most definitely. My relationship with Augusta is what concerns me. I certainly need to discuss her betrayal—though I would never toss her out the door. She is family and a most devoted soul, despite what might have gone on with her and Desmond.” Ritaestelle’s rocking slowed.

  “Um, I may be out of line, but why are all these people living with you?” I asked.

  Ritaestelle looked over at me. “You are not out of line. I have asked myself the same question, especially in the last few days. I am what you might call a soft touch when it comes to them. Whatever would they do without me?”

  “They might have to fend for themselves,” I said. “The question is, would that be a bad thing?”

  I didn’t get an answer because Candace came around the side of the house and said, “Hey there.”

  I stood, and after she climbed the deck steps, she nodded at Ritaestelle and said, “Afternoon, Miss Longworth.”

  “You look quite tired, Deputy Carson,” she said. “Perhaps it’s the heat? Seems quite warm to be wearing that dark green uniform.”

  “You get used to it,” Candace said. “I have a few questions. I’ve just come from the initial interviews with your family and staff. Going back for the search of your house. It may sound like more of the same stuff, but I’ve found that after a few days, certain things someone witnessed become clearer.”

  “Please ask whatever you want. And may I take this moment to say that I am sincerely sorry I have caused so many problems,” Ritaestelle said.