The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

by Leann Sweeney

  Mr. Robertson left, and I took a napkin from the pile of folded white linen at one end of the tray and laid it across my lap. I’d start with the sandwiches, but I couldn’t take my eye off that strudel.

  “How are you—may I call you Muriel?” Tom said.

  “That is my name, so most certainly,” she said.

  Mr. Robertson returned carrying another tray. This one held three pitchers—ice water, sweet tea and iced coffee. Fresh glasses surrounded the pitchers, and there was also a bowl with sliced lemons. Mr. Robertson left without a word, my “thank you” echoing after him through the gigantic room.

  I could learn to like this sort of treatment. But as I bit into the delicious chicken-salad sandwich—was that dill she’d added?—I realized that perhaps this was the reason no family member left this house and went out on their own. Being waited on hand and foot might be almost too comfortable.

  “Muriel,” I said once I’d finished off my little sandwich, “do you mind if we tape our conversation?” I nodded toward the recorder sitting in front of Tom.

  “Oh dear. The police didn’t even do that. Why would you ever want to record what I have to say?” She ran a thin hand through her vibrant red hair.

  Tom tapped his temple. “I’m not good at remembering. Do you object?”

  Ah. Object. Good word choice, I thought.

  “I—I suppose not,” she finally said after some hesitation. “But I do have an appointment this afternoon, so if we could get on with this?”

  Tom pressed the RECORD button.

  “Did you know we have a mutual acquaintance?” I said.

  “You mean aside from Ritaestelle?” Muriel replied.

  “Belle Lowry. She tells me her cousin was married to you for a time.” I hadn’t wanted to start out the interview this way, but Tom had told me I should—that it would put her on her heels right from the start.

  “He was. What does ancient history have to do with anything?” Suddenly Muriel’s face almost matched her hair.

  Ancient, but not forgotten history, I thought. “Nothing to do with anything. Just popped into my head.”

  She looked as if she wanted to literally pop me in the head. Had she done exactly that to Evie and Candace? I wondered.

  “What do you want to know?” Muriel sounded icily calm. “I am very much out of the loop around here. I was sleeping when Ritaestelle took off the other night in, of all things, her bathrobe.”

  “You almost sound embarrassed,” I said. “Did the shoplifting and the drug taking embarrass you, too?”

  “I suppose so,” Muriel said, “though I never would have said a word to anyone had there not been a murder. I suspected Ritaestelle was taking some sort of mind-altering substance. She started slurring her words and staggering around the house, you see. But if she’d turned into a thief, which seems to be the case, well . . . I can imagine she needed something to make her forget what she’d done.”

  “You believed she actually stole things she hardly needed?” I tried to keep my voice even, not sound like this was ridiculous.

  “I believe it because there’s proof. When you talk to Justine, ask her. She’ll tell you,” she said.

  “I will. But why do you think she would do such a thing?” I asked.

  “I believed Ritaestelle was troubled and this caused her to do certain things that were entirely out of character.” Muriel examined her French manicure, picking off a strip of clear polish and rolling it between her fingers.

  “Troubled by what?” I asked, catching Tom’s slight smile out of the corner of my eye. Maybe I wasn’t as bad at this job as I thought I would be.

  “We all come to moments in our life when the past shows us the future. She let opportunities slip by and she was filled with regret. She never married when she had so many suitors. She never knew the joy of sharing a life with a man.” Muriel nodded, as if she were convincing herself of this.

  “What about Desmond?” I said. “He seems to have brought her joy.” Though that had come to a screeching halt now that she’d learned that he’d carried on with Augusta. But if Muriel didn’t know this, I wasn’t about to tell her.

  Muriel laughed, and it was such a sweet, pleasant laugh that I almost forgot that this woman seemed to have no problem telling tales about her benefactor.

  “Ah, Desmond,” she said. “In and out of Ritaestelle’s life. He will leave her again, of that much I am sure. Remember what I said about the past showing us the future?” She turned to Tom then. “And here I thought you were the detective. Yet Miss Jillian is asking all the questions. Why is that?”

  “You’re saying you want me to ask the questions?” Tom said this in a tone that I had never heard before. He sounded harsh—almost cruel.

  Muriel looked back to me, and I noticed a small twitch by her right eye. “What else can I help you with, Miss Jillian?”

  She was trying to keep her composure. Perhaps now was the time to rattle her a little more. “I understand your engagement ring went missing.” This time the look I caught from Tom was less than approving. He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. Had I just screwed up? Given away something that Mike Baca wanted to remain a secret for now?

  “Yes, but how did you know?” Muriel said.

  “I’m not sure I should get into that. Let’s move on. Now—”

  “I knew she took it—and apparently Ritaestelle had the gall to tell you what she’d done. She was always jealous of my marriage, and this is how she pays me back after all I’ve done for her. By stealing from me.” Muriel’s lips tightened in anger. But she didn’t flush like she had earlier. “Did she give it to you as a gift because you are her new best friend?”

  Now I was flustered. How could I get this on track? Throw it right back at her, I decided. “Did you tell the police she took your ring?”

  “No. That’s family business—or so I thought. Perhaps I jumped to conclusions thinking she gave the ring to you. I suppose she admitted her theft to the police officers and that’s how you found out.” She looked at Tom. “Would you be so kind as to pour me a glass of water?”

  He did so and handed it across the table.

  She took it with a shaky hand.

  “Am I making you nervous? Because that’s not my intent.” I was beginning to feel sorry for her, something I suppose a cop would never allow herself to do. But I wasn’t a cop and I couldn’t help myself, so I added, “Ritaestelle did not give me your ring.”

  “I am so sorry if you took offense. I’m the one at fault. It’s the blood sugar problem,” she said. “We get so few visitors since Ritaestelle began to act strange, and I find that rather stressful—which causes big highs and big lows in the blood sugar. And poor Evie losing her life doesn’t help. Then I discovered that my ring had disappeared. No, stress is not good for a diabetic.” She took a long sip of water.

  Her world revolved around Ritaestelle, hers and everyone’s who lived here, no doubt. That seemed so sad. “We’ve bothered you enough. Your insights have been helpful.”

  Before she left, Tom asked her about her whereabouts last night. She gave the same answer as her sister and was on her way, tottering out of the dining room on her high heels as fast as she was able.

  Twenty-eight

  Once Muriel was gone, I reached for a pimento-cheese sandwich and said, “I messed up about the ring. Sorry.”

  “She would have found out anyway. I didn’t mean to throw you off your game.” He plucked several grapes off their stems.

  “I don’t much care for those cousins, and I feel guilty about that. I should have sympathy for them because they’re pretty darn pitiful,” I said. The pimento cheese was homemade and yummy. I grabbed another one. “Muriel talked about Ritaestelle wasting her opportunities, and yet what have they done with their lives? Both of them have never stepped out of Ritaestelle’s shadow.”

  “What was the most important thing you learned from them?” Tom asked. He dipped a baby carrot in the dressing and, cupping his hand be
neath to catch drips, brought it to his mouth.

  “Probably the tranquilizers,” I said. “Guess that will be my first question for Ritaestelle when we get back home.”

  I stood and put a slice of strudel on my napkin. “We should change chairs. Your turn to sit in the top spot.”

  “Good idea,” Tom said, around a mouthful of sandwich.

  “You didn’t press them too hard about their alibis for last night. Is that because you don’t think either of them hurt Candace?” I said.

  “Interrogation 101. You get people locked into a story. Then you ask them again later and see if you get the same answer. In this case, Mike will be asking them again and I’ll give him what we’ve got. Then we’ll see if they’re consistent.”

  “Makes sense to me,” I said. “This is quite an education.”

  Justine Longworth arrived next, after I’d had only one bite of pastry. But oh my god, what a bite it was. The flaky strudel, rich with cinnamon and butter and apples, practically melted in my mouth.

  I tapped at my chin with a new napkin and smiled at Justine, who carried what looked like a black dress in a dry cleaner’s bag.

  Tom stood, introduced himself and thanked her for coming to talk to us.

  She took the chair next to his after draping the dress over a different seat back. Now that I was close to her, and despite her makeup, I could tell she’d indeed had cosmetic surgery. Her mouth was pulled tight by what was probably a recent facelift. A face as thin as hers didn’t look normal with the bee-sting look to her lips and the collagenenhanced cheeks. I had no argument with her hair, though. Layered, then highlighted and low-lighted in shades of brownish red and dark blond, the style and colors suited her complexion.

  Her khaki sleeveless dress had that Ann Taylor look. Whatever funds Ritaestelle allotted her relatives, none of them seemed to be wanting.

  “You were married to Ritaestelle’s brother, I understand,” Tom said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  She sounded curt and seemed none too happy to be talking to the likes of us.

  “How is your relationship with Ritaestelle?” he asked.

  “That’s not the kind of information the police were interested in,” Justine said. She seemed composed, but again, definitely not happy.

  “We’re not the police. We were hired by your sister-in-law to find out the truth about past events.” Tom offered his best sarcastic smile. “You know, the kind of stuff that made her run to a stranger for help.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Be specific,” she said.

  Not intimidated, I thought. Maybe this woman had more backbone than anyone else who lived here.

  “Is that alcohol I smell on your breath, Ms. Longworth?” Tom said.

  Whoa. Good thing we’d changed chairs and he picked up on that. Since Tom’s mother was a recovering alcoholic, he probably had Justine figured out the minute she sat down.

  “I enjoy a glass of wine every now and then. What does that have to do with anything?” she said.

  But that alabaster skin was growing blotchy at her throat. He’d found her weakness instantly and confronted her. I could never have been so blunt.

  “Maybe your drinking has nothing to do with anything, but it’s—what?” Tom checked his watch. “Two o’clock? A little early, don’t you think?”

  “Get on with your questions.” Her eyes bored into Tom’s.

  “I already asked one and you didn’t answer. Got something to hide?” he said.

  “Oh, all right. I get along fine with Ritaestelle. We stay out of each other’s way. She prefers socializing, inviting this one and that one here. Has her dinner parties. Me? I like to be alone.” She raised her sculpted brows and tried to smile.

  “Alone with your friend Chivas? Bet your drink of choice is expensive,” Tom said.

  He was baiting her, and I had no idea why. But I trusted he knew what he was doing.

  “What I do in the privacy of my upstairs rooms is no one’s business,” Justine said coldly. “It certainly has kept me out of this embarrassment Ritaestelle has created. My husband is turning over in his grave, I’m sure.”

  “She’s a disgrace? Is that what you’re saying?” Tom said.

  “She’s apparently a thief and a liar.” Justine turned her head away from Tom, but the facade was beginning to crumble. She was blinking hard.

  Softly Tom said, “I can see you don’t want to believe that. And who’s the real disgrace, Justine?”

  Her head snapped back in his direction, and she glared at him, but tears glistened in her eyes. A tense few seconds passed before she said, “I thought she was the sane one. I thought I could depend on her. Obviously that’s not the case.”

  “Who’s the real disgrace?” Tom repeated.

  She whispered, “I am.” Tears slipped from her lids and down her cheeks.

  I grabbed a napkin and passed it across to her. My heart had sped up. Were we about to get a confession?

  “Thank you,” she said to me, then dabbed at her wet face. She made eye contact with Tom again, but this time the hostility was gone. “Ritaestelle is the rock in this family. Always there for everyone. Her leaving us like this, well, you see how selfish I can sound. But in truth, her departure has made me realize how poorly I’ve treated her and how much I owe her.”

  “Sounds nice,” Tom said, “but that means you didn’t always feel that way. What’s your main beef with Ritaestelle?”

  “The way she treats my son. Like he’s a moron. He deserved—” She stopped herself. “No. That’s the story I tell myself when I open a bottle of wine at noon. You want to know the real issue?”

  Tom leaned toward her, arms resting on the table. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “My husband left all the Longworth money not to us, but to Ritaestelle. There. I’ve said it. My own husband thought I’d fritter it away. Trouble is, he was probably right. I’m not good at anything but leeching off my sister-in-law. And Farley is the same. We depend on Ritaestelle for everything—and that is both a curse and a blessing.”

  Tom nodded and smiled. “Thanks for being straight. Most refreshing thing that’s happened in, oh, the last hour.”

  Justine bit the side of her mouth. “I don’t know anything. That’s the truth.”

  “Maybe you know more than you think.” Tom gripped the chair’s arms and settled back. “Muriel said that you would know what the police found yesterday when they executed the search warrant. What was she talking about?”

  “Oh, that.” Justine twisted the makeup-stained napkin. “Some of my jewelry was found behind Ritaestelle’s armoire—hidden in a brown paper sack. Items that my late husband bought me.”

  Muriel’s ring and now Justine’s jewelry. Wow. Those were a step up from a bag of rubber bands.

  “You believe Ritaestelle took them?” Tom asked.

  Justine shook her head. “I simply cannot picture Ritaestelle sneaking around, grabbing up things that aren’t hers and hiding them away. The woman can buy anything she wants.”

  “Who can you picture doing something like that?” Tom said.

  “I suppose Muriel or Augusta. Out of spite. They have their own issues concerning the family fortune—or didn’t you make them cry and spill their guts, Mr. Stewart?” Her turn for sarcasm. But this time she almost managed a real smile.

  Tom laughed. “We saved the best for you, Justine. You’ve been very helpful.”

  She reached to her right and rested a hand on the black dress. “Mrs. Hart, would you mind taking this for Ritaestelle to wear this evening? Evie’s visitation is tonight, and I’m sure she won’t want to miss it.”

  “No problem. Do you have a time and place?” I said.

  “I’ll have George write everything down. You’ll find a shoebox on the hall table holding the other things she might need.”

  “One more question,” Tom said. “Where were you last night?”

  “In my room visiting with my friend Jim Beam. See, I don�
��t go for the expensive stuff. I go for what suits someone like me—someone cheap.”

  She left the room, shoulders hunched, head down—something no amount of cosmetic surgery could ever fix.

  “She’s right about the visitation,” I said. “Ritaestelle will definitely want to go.”

  “That’s not exactly how I wanted to spend my evening,” Tom said.

  “I can take her,” I said.

  “No, we will take her. After what happened to Candace, I’m not taking any chances.” His turn for a strudel break before the last family member arrived. “The question remains, who did that to Candace and why?”

  I said, “I have a hard time even thinking about anyone hurting her. But I guess you’re right about being careful.”

  “I know I’m right,” he said.

  “Guess what I forgot. To ask about Isis. Someone put that cat outside and—”

  “No one will admit to it. We’ll find out eventually,” he said.

  “Why are you so sure?” I said.

  “One of these people—my guess for now is Justine— will crack. The pressure of a police search yesterday, us coming here today and all of them seeing a dead woman tonight will be too much.” He rested a hand on mine. “We’ll get the truth.”

  I smiled at Tom but then felt another’s presence before I looked toward the entrance to the dining room and saw him.

  Farley Longworth was leaning on the doorframe. “Isn’t that sweet. I see you’ve already found a replacement, Mrs. Hart.”

  Twenty-nine

  He said my name with such contempt, I felt the blood drain from my face.

  Tom glanced at me and then at Farley. “What’s that supposed to mean, Longworth?”

  He sauntered into the room, a small balding man with skin as pale as his mother’s. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  Tom stood. “I’m here to ask you questions—because your aunt hired me to do that.”

  Farley was wearing navy pleated Bermuda shorts and a white polo. All that was missing was a cardigan tied around his shoulders. He took a glass from the table and poured himself some tea before sitting down. “How is Aunt Rita? And how much is she offering you to set up her family to look like criminals?”