The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

by Leann Sweeney

  It felt like a fist had tightened in my gut. Hearing his voice brought back that awful call he’d made and his terrible accusation that I’d killed John. I swallowed hard and put my hands in my lap. If they began to tremble, I didn’t want this man to see. I didn’t want him to know how he’d hurt me.

  I felt Tom’s foot press mine, and that small gesture was enough to settle me.

  He said, “Where were you last night?” Tom started off the interview where he’d finished with everyone else.

  I wondered why for a second, but it was a direct and almost accusatory question. Yes. That was the right way to go after this guy.

  “Did you know my father was a lawyer? He would suggest I have an attorney present to answer questions from even you. What are you? A failed cop?” Farley’s smile was smug.

  “Oh, I don’t think you want to go there, Longworth,” Tom said. “I’ve got a failure list from your aunt that has your name written all over it. Where were you last night?”

  Farley rolled his eyes and sighed. “If Aunt Rita thinks this is the way to get her out of trouble, I’ll go along. I actually like the old woman. I was at the movie theater. Summer blockbuster time, you know.”

  “Alone?” Tom asked. “No. Dumb question. You’re probably alone most of time.”

  Farley’s tongue flicked around his lips, and he picked up his glass. Then he looked at me. “Where were you? With your boyfriend here? Is he the reason you—”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I said, keeping my tone even. But I felt ready to erupt. I couldn’t let this twerp get to me. “We’re here because your aunt is afraid of her own family. Why is that, Farley?”

  Tom’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and I knew the surprise was directed my way because of my harsh tone. I still hadn’t told him what Farley had said to me.

  Farley stared at me and I stared right back. We were facing off like Syrah and Isis had done the other day.

  “Can’t answer that one, Longworth?” Tom said with a laugh. “Too tough a question, huh? Yeah, well, I’ll bet you could screw up a two-car funeral. That’s about how smart you are.”

  “I don’t have to sit here and be insulted.” He started to get up.

  Tom tapped his temple. “Think money, Longworth. Think about all the comforts of home you’ll miss out on when your aunt kicks your ass to the curb because you wouldn’t cooperate.”

  Farley sat back down. “I’ve told the police everything I know. I didn’t hear my aunt leave that night. I was here the whole time. I—”

  “What about Evie? Was she here? I heard you liked Evie,” Tom said.

  “She went home, said she’d work from there even though she wasn’t done. But she did call for the password list. I gave it to her,” he said.

  He’d gone sullen now—like the spoiled brat he probably had always been.

  “Password list?” Tom asked.

  “I told that cop. The hot one, not the guy,” he said. “Ask her.”

  I wasn’t about to make the mistake of giving away the fact that Candace couldn’t remember most of what went on here yesterday, so I said, “The Mercy police as well as your aunt want you to cooperate. What is this password list?”

  “We all have computers and bank accounts that Evie manages.” He paused and in a quiet voice said, “Managed. Anyway, we all have passwords, but she keeps a list so she can transfer money into our accounts and I guess so she can check up on what we’re doing on our computers.”

  “Each of you has two passwords and Evie knew them?” Tom asked.

  “Didn’t I just say that?” he said impatiently.

  “You’re getting testy, Longworth,” Tom said, obviously very interested in this arrangement. “Why would Evie Preston need the password to everyone’s computer? Why not just to the bank accounts on a main server in the house?”

  “She watched the money, okay?” Farley’s face was flushed, his eyes darting everywhere to avoid meeting Tom’s.

  Tom leaned back with a smile. “Let me guess. Online porn? Or online gambling? Which one was Evie keeping an eye on at your aunt’s request?”

  “Gambling,” Farley muttered. He looked up. “Happy now? And just so you know, she watched what everyone was doing. Like how much dear mummy was ordering from the liquor store every week. Where Augusta was shopping online. How much jewelry Muriel ordered from that stupid QVC television station.”

  Oh boy. Had that been Ritaestelle’s idea? Or Evie’s? Is that what got her killed? But I remembered then that he said he’d answered the phone that night. That made me want to ask a question that had bothered me from the start.

  “Do you always answer the phone?” I said.

  “No one else will, so yeah, I play servant most days.” He refused to look at me.

  Was he anticipating my question? “Did you talk to Shawn Cuddahee when he called about Ritaestelle’s missing cat?”

  “What if I did?” he said. “The man wouldn’t be straight with me about what he wanted, so why should I be straight with him?”

  “You knew who he was?” I said.

  “I know how to use Google. What does that have to do with anything?” But something in Farley’s expression and that evasiveness said it did have something to do with everything.

  “You never passed the message on to Ritaestelle or Evie?” I asked.

  “Why should I?” he answered.

  Farley Longworth might be the most immature forty-year-old I’d ever met. “Because your aunt loved her cat. You had to know that Shawn calling her more than once was probably about Isis.”

  I could almost see his brain working to find an angle to put this in a good light. And he found it. “See, that’s just it. Do I want my aunt, who’s obviously physically and mentally ill, to become more disturbed by the news that her cat was found dead?”

  “Come on, Longworth,” Tom said. “A rescue shelter wouldn’t be calling with that news. The county animal control officer would do that job if Isis had been found dead.”

  “I didn’t know why he was phoning. You know why? Because he was a smart-ass and wouldn’t say. I blew it off. So what?”

  Smart-ass? I guess Shawn could come across that way. And any conversation between this man and Shawn would have gone downhill pretty fast.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a jerk?” Tom said.

  “I think I’m done. Good luck.” He rose and turned to leave, but then turned back. “Oh. Tell Aunt Rita I love her, would you?”

  Once he left, I took a deep breath, let it out and began shoving strudel into my face. There is nothing as comforting as dessert.

  Tom stared at me for several seconds, eyes narrowed. “That guy did more than accuse you of extortion when he called the other day.”

  I pointed at my mouth, indicating I couldn’t answer.

  Tom waited, never taking his eyes off me.

  After I’d swallowed and paid close attention to cleaning off my hands and around my mouth, I smiled. “Just Hildie to go. Better check what time that visitation is so we can pace our last interview.”

  “Jillian, what did Longworth say that hurt you so much that you couldn’t tell me?”

  My turn to avoid a stare. “We’ve been so involved in these interviews, I haven’t checked on my cats since we arrived—not to mention Ritaestelle and Kara.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and pulled up the cat-cam feed.

  Tom placed his hand over the screen. “Jilly,” he said quietly. “Trust me.”

  Another deep breath needed. Why did this still bother me so much? “Guess you won’t quit until I tell you.”

  “That’s me. Persistent,” he said.

  “And perceptive. That’s probably what made you a good cop and makes you a great PI.” I sighed. “When Farley called, he said people have been talking, saying that I probably murdered my husband for the house and the money.”

  “What?” Tom said, incredulous.

  “I knew then what Ritaestelle must feel like—what she was going through with
all the whispers and stares she must have been getting recently. I wanted more than ever to help her. Because it hurts to think that—”

  “No one thinks you did anything to hurt your husband.” He slid the phone away and took my hand. “You are one of the most well-liked people to have ever moved into town. Excuse the cliché, but people in these parts don’t take kindly to strangers. But you? No one has an unkind word to say.”

  “You’re only saying that—”

  “Because it’s true,” he said. “Besides, that lunkhead is full of hot air. He’s a middle-aged bully. Bullies attack other people because they don’t want people to look at them and see that they’re empty inside.”

  I laughed. “Lunkhead?”

  “One of my mom’s favorite words,” he said with a smile. “You better?”

  “I am fine. Let’s see the strudel maker. I might just kiss her.”

  George Robertson arrived as I was cleaning strudel remains from the table and Tom was pouring himself more iced coffee.

  “Please, Mrs. Hart,” Mr. Robertson said. “I’ll take care of clearing the table. Would you like to take some strudel to Miss Ritaestelle? I’m sure she’s missing Hildie’s sweets.”

  “Great idea,” I said.

  “I’ll help you take the dress, her shoes and the dessert to the car when you’re ready to leave.” He began gathering empty glasses and dirtied napkins. One, I realized, was covered in Justine’s makeup. I felt awful for her. She was one miserable woman.

  Once Mr. Robertson had most everything on one tray, he said, “Follow me. Hildie’s in the kitchen, and there is no way I could get her to come up here and talk to you.”

  That was how we found ourselves on two of the half dozen stools that surrounded a large stainless-steel preparation area in the center of a gigantic kitchen. To my left was an entry that led to a narrow winding staircase and the elevator that apparently got plenty of use. Across from us were the sinks—four of them—and three windows that looked out on the back driveway leading to the four garages. To the right was a huge refrigerator, gas stove, stacked ovens and a three-tiered rack where fresh fruits and vegetables waited for Hildie to work her magic.

  Hildie herself might as well have been an appliance in the kitchen. The chubby, graying woman with the round, ruddy face had said nothing when Mr. Robertson introduced us. She was busy peeling mangoes.

  “Hildie—or would you rather I call you by your last name?” I said. “Trouble is I don’t know what it is.”

  “Hildie is fine,” she said. “Everyone call me Hildie.”

  She had an accent—I recalled Ritaestelle saying she was from Germany—but she’d been in this country long enough that her English was probably fine.

  “Good. And please, we’re Jillian and Tom. Nothing formal down here, right?” The kitchen was about a half dozen steps lower than the rest of the house.

  “No. Nothing formal,” she answered, focused on her work.

  “Thank you for the great food,” Tom said. “Bet you keep the folks here well-fed.”

  “Is my job,” Hildie said.

  “Yes, but Ritaestelle thinks you are wonderful,” I said.

  Finally she looked at me. “How is my lady? She okay?”

  “She is looking forward to coming home. You can help her with that. We need to know what happened to Miss Preston and why. We need to know who might have been trying to hurt Ritaestelle’s reputation.”

  “Miss Preston is bossy young woman. They didn’t like her much.” She put her paring knife down, made a mound of the mango peelings and pushed them aside.

  “Who didn’t like her?” Tom said.

  “The family,” she said.

  Okay, I thought. This might be like pulling teeth, and we had to get home and get ready for a funeral visitation. “But Ritaestelle liked her?”

  “My lady is foolish. She likes everyone,” Hildie said.

  “Was it foolish to like Miss Preston, then?” Tom asked.

  “She was cold like a fish.” Hildie began to cube the mangoes. “But my lady thought the family needed a person like her. They were always taking advantage. My lady is very generous. Too generous.”

  “Did you like Miss Preston?” I said.

  Hildie stopped cutting and looked at me. “What does this matter?”

  Good question, I thought. “I suppose it doesn’t. Was there any one person in the family who disliked her enough to kill her?”

  She considered this for a few seconds. “If love and hate are close, then I would say Mr. Farley. I could tell about him. How he wanted her. But she didn’t like him. Not at all.”

  “He had a thing for her?” Tom said.

  Hildie smiled for the first time. “Yes. A thing. She had no thing for him. Who would?”

  I was beginning to like Hildie. “The night Ritaestelle left here, did you see or hear anything?”

  “I was in my room.” She pointed at the ceiling with her knife. “Way up on the top. I hear nothing.”

  “Did it surprise you that Ritaestelle left like that, so late?” Tom said. “And not exactly dressed to go visiting?”

  Hildie smiled at him again. “You’re a funny man. Not exactly dressed. I like that. Was I surprised? I think yes. But she was worried. She was sick. I would run away myself if someone was hurting me that way.”

  “Do you have any clue who might have been hurting your lady?” I said.

  “I don’t know much. I stay here most of the time. But I know why she came to you.” She scooped up her cubed mangoes and tossed them into a stainless bowl. Then she went to the sink and returned with a colander filled with strawberries and blueberries. She added them to the bowl.

  “Why did she come to me?” I said.

  Hildie walked over to the rack and returned with two limes and a squeeze bottle of honey. She rolled a lime on the counter. “What I see about you now? Or what I knew then?” she said.

  “What you knew then,” I said, watching her quickly cut the lime in half and squeeze the juice on top of the other fruit.

  “She knew you could help her find the black cat.” Hildie shook her head disapprovingly as she drizzled honey over the fruit. “Black cats are supposed to be good luck in some countries. Here, I think they are bad luck.”

  It all came back to Isis.

  Tom, his eyes intent on that luscious-looking bowl of fruit, said, “What do you see about Jillian now?”

  Hildie looked into my eyes for the first time. “That you have much kindness in you. That my lady did the right thing.”

  I felt embarrassment heat my cheeks. “Back to Isis. Do you know how she got out?”

  “Of course I know.” Hildie took a spatula from the drawer in front of her and gently mixed the fruit.

  “You know and you never told anyone?” Tom said.

  She kept working. “No one ever ask.”

  I almost laughed. This was a woman who only wanted to work, not be bothered by questions. “How did the cat get out?”

  “I saw Mr. Farley take her away, wrapped in a towel so she wouldn’t scratch him with her back claws. That Isis, she is good with what she has left. That black cat has what you Americans call an attitude.”

  I could see Farley doing that. Yes, indeed.

  Thirty

  We arrived home thirty minutes later after I made a convincing speech to Tom that he should not beat Farley Longworth senseless after the revelations about how that spoiled man had hurt me and tried to kill a cat. Knowledge is power, and we had plenty of that after our visit. Giving Farley some of that knowledge would not be a good idea, and Tom was well aware of that—after he’d calmed down.

  When we came in through the back door, I saw Ritaestelle and Kara sitting in the living room. They were listening to a classical music station on a digital TV cable station. My cats hurried into the kitchen to greet us—probably hoping for a treat as well as some petting. I usually gave them treats when I came home after being away for hours. My guilt issues definitely extended to my fur frien
ds.

  “There’s a visitation for Evie tonight,” I called out over the music.

  Kara picked up the remote and muted the TV. She stood, and soon Ritaestelle rose as well. Just took her a little longer.

  “Oh my,” Ritaestelle said. “How will I—”

  I held up the dress. “Justine sent clothes, and Mr. Robertson gave me all the information.”

  “Thank goodness.” Ritaestelle’s hand went to her heart. “I could not stop thinking about that poor girl today.”

  Kara took the dress and the shoebox. “Pay attention to your babies. They have been vocalizing their unhappiness about your absence every chance they got—well, Syrah and Merlot have. Chablis just clung to me like a toddler missing her mommy.”

  I smiled.

  Tom set the sack with the strudel on the counter. “I’ve got to get home, check my messages and change. Meet you at the funeral home?”

  I nodded, and he brushed my lips with his before leaving.

  “I’ll take these to the guest room,” Kara said, draping the dress over her arm. She hurried out of the kitchen, her bare feet slapping on the floor.

  After I doled out a pile of crunchy tuna treats to my cats, I grabbed a paper napkin and the strudel. Ritaestelle was still standing, Isis in her arms.

  “I have something especially for you.” I held up the bag. “From Hildie.”

  Ritaestelle put her cat down, and Isis raced into the kitchen. She’d bully Chablis out of her share of the treats, but I’d given Chablis a few extra anticipating this.

  Kara returned and soon the three of us sat down in the breakfast nook to enjoy the strudel. The lake sparkled beneath the low-slung sun, but we’d heard on the radio that storms were moving in from the east. I would need an extra umbrella for Ritaestelle tonight.

  I summarized our visit to the Longworth Estate, leaving out many details even though Kara tried to squeeze them from me. Tom and I had to talk to Mike Baca before Kara could print any of what we learned, anything that might prove newsworthy, that is. Plus, Ritaestelle didn’t need to know just how nasty her nephew was—though she probably knew more than I gave her credit for.