The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

by Leann Sweeney

  Shelton cleared her throat. “We don’t need to get into that right now.” She smiled at Kara. “Good evening, Miss Hart.”

  Kara nodded at her and rubbed circles on my back, saying, “You okay? You look pale.”

  “I’m fine. Funerals are—well, you know,” I said.

  She nodded solemnly. “Oh, I know all right.” She looked at Shelton. “I haven’t met Evie Preston’s family, but I’d like to do a human interest story for the paper. What can you tell me about them?”

  Shelton, who’d been uncharacteristically pleasant until now, reverted to her normal cranky self in a flash. “Those people are from my town, and I don’t want you bothering them. They’re grieving.”

  “But—” Kara started.

  “Would you hush?” Shelton said. “The poor girl’s body is right over there.” She tossed her head in the direction of the casket. The twisting motion strained her navy jacket—did she ever wear anything else?—and a button popped off.

  I bent and picked it up. The button looked similar to the one Syrah had been playing with today. As I handed it to her, I said, “Did you lose a button like this before?”

  She flushed. “I’ve gained a few pounds in the last month. I suppose I could have lost one at your place.”

  “I’ll steal the button back from my cat and return it. I was a textile arts major, even did some dress designing before I fell in love with quilting. Are your suits custom-made by—”

  “Can you please give me insight into the family?” Kara said impatiently.

  Shelton turned to Kara, looking equally impatient. “Like I said, you’ll upset those people. I can’t have that.”

  “Do you even want to solve Evie’s murder?” Kara said. But at least she did whisper.

  “That’s a ridiculous question,” Shelton said. Tiny beads of sweat dotted her upper lip. It was warm in the room, and I was sure wearing that suit made it that much warmer.

  “Please,” I said. “This gathering is for Evie.” I looked at Kara. “Can you wait until after the visitation has ended to approach the family?”

  “I suppose.” She glared at Shelton. “But for now, I think I’ll introduce myself.” She walked over to them.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Shelton said. “But we’re not used to your stepdaughter’s aggressive, big-city type of reporting here.”

  “A human interest story is aggressive?” I said.

  She raked a hand through her tight gray curls. “Maybe not, but did you see her headline about Deputy Carson? ‘Officer Attacked’? That seemed like someone was shouting at us. We aren’t fearmongers in these parts.”

  “I wouldn’t think that a genteel approach to murder and assault would be effective in helping the police convey information to the community or to generate tips,” I said.

  “I see you’ve been brainwashed by your stepdaughter,” she said. “But I suppose that’s part of trying to be a mother.”

  Trying? Maybe there was a grain of truth to that—I was trying—but why did she have to bite back at me? My guess? Nancy Shelton, no matter how hard she tried, couldn’t hide the fact that she was bitter. Did she even have a family, or did the Woodcrest Police fill that void for her?

  I caught Ritaestelle’s eye, and she looked almost pleading now, unlike before. I should have been paying closer attention to what was going on over there. “If you’ll excuse me, Ritaestelle looks like she’s had enough. She might want to go home.”

  “You know her that well, huh? Have you asked her if she might want to go to her real home?” Shelton said.

  “Ritaestelle was drugged,” I said. “What’s to stop whoever did it from doing it again?”

  “I have been her friend for years. I will protect her,” she said.

  Guess this mingling of people from Mercy and people from Woodcrest had her feeling territorial. “You’re right,” I said. “Why don’t we ask her?” But I knew what Ritaestelle would say.

  We walked over to the circle of women surrounding Ritaestelle.

  “Why, Mrs. Hart,” Augusta said. “Glad you could take time to say hello to us.” She nodded at Shelton. “Hello, Nancy.”

  Justine said, “We’ve been trying to convince our Ritaestelle to return home. We miss her and Isis.”

  Her breath smelled so strongly of alcohol, I was wondering if poor Ritaestelle might be getting intoxicated being so close to her.

  “Yes. You need to come home, something I was saying to Mrs. Hart moments ago,” Shelton said. “What do you say, Ritaestelle? We’ll let the Mercy police do their job and bring this killer to justice while I watch over you.”

  Muriel cleared her throat. “I don’t think it’s a good idea at all.” She focused on the linoleum floor, her hands gripping her small black handbag tightly.

  “Why is that, Muriel?” Shelton said sharply.

  “Because I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that it’s not safe—not yet,” Muriel said. “I mean, look what happened to that police officer. Why don’t you take care of us, Nancy? We could use some looking after.”

  “You’re afraid?” Shelton said. “What are you afraid of?”

  “Indeed, what are you afraid of, Muriel?” Ritaestelle said. She sounded very curious, and I felt the same way.

  She smiled at her cousin. “It’s a feeling, is all.”

  “Intuition is important,” Ritaestelle said. “I’m taking your advice, Muriel. If Jillian will have me, I would like to remain with her for a few more days. I have the utmost faith that Jillian and Mr. Stewart will get to the bottom of this.” Ritaestelle smiled up at me.

  Shelton wasn’t smiling. “You don’t trust me?”

  “Of course I do,” Ritaestelle said. “But you have always wanted to do things your way, when sometimes, you need a little help. You are working with all the officers, are you not?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I have the same information they do. But who just helped you fend off Desmond?”

  “You did. And that reminded me how close you are to all of us. Even to Desmond at one time. I believe one needs a little distance to see things clearly.” Ritaestelle made a gesture that encompassed all the women. “We are all so close to the problem—that problem being who is perpetrating these crimes—that perhaps we cannot see the forest for the trees.”

  Oh boy. The Nancy Shelton I’d come to know in the last week would surely bristle at that assessment.

  But she surprised me by smiling at Ritaestelle. “You’re right. It’s hard for me to let go and allow other people do what I consider to be my job. If you’re more comfortable at Mrs. Hart’s house, then I will follow you there and make sure you arrive safely.”

  Justine, Muriel and Augusta all murmured their agreement. But did any of these women truly agree? Or was it simply in their best interest to go along with the woman who held the purse strings? How deep did the jealousy run? Because it existed. I’d felt it earlier today. I’d been feeling it all along, but on a subconscious level. Seeing them all here together, with everyone being so kind and polite, seeing Ritaestelle exert her will in her soft-spoken yet insistent way—well, I saw how life must have been in the Longworth house. Probably for a very long time. The jealousy might be what Ritaestelle feared. Those undercurrents of ill will would pull her down if she went back there. She was smart enough to know it, too.

  “Are you ready to head back to my house?” I asked Ritaestelle.

  She started to rise, and everyone wanted to be the one to help her up. But Muriel got to her first. She said, “Before you go, Ritaestelle, I want to tell you how sorry I am.”

  “Sorry for what?” Ritaestelle said.

  Muriel seemed flustered. “For everything. For me taking advantage of you. For—”

  Shelton said, “She’ll be back home soon enough, and you can sit down together. But Ritaestelle looks too tired to chat right now.” Shelton looked at me. “You ready?”

  I glanced over and saw that Kara and Brennan were still talking to the Prestons. Kara would
get her story, no matter what Nancy Shelton said or did.

  “Let me say good-bye to Kara,” I said.

  After I did and she told me she would call me tomorrow, we left. Muriel, Justine and Augusta had already gone by the time we went out the door. I told Shelton there was no need to follow us, that we’d be fine, but she insisted. Being on the sidelines of this investigation was getting to her, and I couldn’t blame her.

  The umbrellas had been a good idea, because rain had started to fall. Nancy Shelton kept a firm grip on Ritaestelle’s elbow, while I managed to keep us dry during the walk to the car.

  Once Ritaestelle and I were driving home, I decided to ask her about the tranquilizers. When I told her about the discovery, she seemed dumbfounded.

  “Someone could have ordered drugs with my name on the bottle? Prescription drugs?” she said.

  “If they knew enough about you, I think so. The police may be able to see which computer was used to place the order. It’s all just more gaslighting,” I said.

  “Who could be that vindictive?” She shook her head. “I truly do not understand this.”

  “I believe that Evie found out, and that’s why she was murdered,” I said. “She did have access to all the computers.”

  “Our Evie was quite knowledgeable about the computers, of that much I am certain,” she said. “Seems a computer can be used to do great harm even though it can also be used to make life easier. She did learn about Farley’s problems through monitoring his computer—at my request.”

  Ah. I’d been right about that. “Could Farley be angry enough with Evie to kill her?” I said.

  “I believe that Farley is a coward at heart,” Ritaestelle said. “He is far different from his father. I can see him involved in petty crimes, yes. He was already in debt—or would have been had I not been foolish enough to take care of what he owed. But a serious crime like murder? He is not brave enough to kill someone.”

  “I tend to agree with you,” I said, thinking about him as Tom had described him—as a bully.

  We fell silent, and I pulled into my driveway ten minutes later. Nancy Shelton pulled up behind me seconds later and got out of her car.

  We walked to the front door together, Shelton behind us.

  “Thank you so much, Nancy,” Ritaestelle said. “You have been most helpful.”

  She said, “Jillian has a button that might belong to me. I’d like to retrieve it.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Might take me a minute to find it.”

  We entered the house, and the button she’d come for was right at the junction of the hall and foyer. I picked it up, and my stomach lurched. There was indeed fabric clinging to the button—but more than I’d thought. The navy blue fabric of Nancy Shelton’s suits. This button had not fallen off—it had been ripped off. This was what Syrah had been digging for in the pine needles. And he’d carried it back inside the house the night Evie was murdered.

  Shelton said, “I see you understand. I won’t be needing that button now.” Her voice was as hard as granite, her gray eyes cold.

  And then she pulled a gun from beneath her jacket.

  Thirty-one

  “Both of you, into the living room,” Shelton said.

  Ritaestelle didn’t budge. “Nancy, whatever has come over you?”

  “You. You came over me a long, long time ago.” She pushed Ritaestelle’s shoulder with her free hand. “Get into the living room.”

  I took Ritaestelle’s arm and tugged. “Come on. Let’s do as she says.”

  The poor woman’s expression was a mixture of fear and confusion. “Certainly. Most certainly.”

  Shelton followed us into the living room, where four cats were all on their feet and on alert. They sensed the danger, probably the minute they’d heard Shelton’s voice.

  “Why did you kill her?” I said. “Did she find out what you were up to?”

  Shelton smiled contemptuously. “What was I up to?”

  “Gaslighting Ritaestelle. But why?” I said.

  “It’s none of your business. It was never any of your business,” Shelton said. “Turn around.”

  Goose bumps rose on my arms. “If you plan to kill me, at least explain why.”

  “I don’t owe you any explanation.” She swung the gun in the direction of Merlot, whose coat was puffed out so much he looked like a lion. “If you don’t turn around, I’m taking out one of your precious cats.”

  I immediately did as she commanded.

  Ritaestelle sounded surprisingly calm as she said, “You do not want to do this, Nancy. I have harmed you in some serious fashion, so shoot me, not Jillian.”

  “Shut up,” Shelton said. “Just stay where I can see you. And you, cat woman, put your hands behind your back.”

  Seconds later I felt the cold metal on my wrists, heard the clink as the cuffs snapped closed.

  “Get over to the couch and sit. Now.” Shelton’s voice sounded stressed, and all the anger she’d obviously held in check was pouring out in her words and actions.

  I did as I was told, my heart pounding. Was I about to watch her kill Ritaestelle? I would be helpless to stop her, and the thought made my stomach roil.

  Using one hand, Shelton lifted her jacket and removed her thin black belt. She turned to Ritaestelle and said, “If you move one inch, I will kill her. Understand?”

  Ritaestelle nodded. “I understand. But we can work this out, Nancy. We have been friends for so many years and—”

  “You were never my friend. You stole from me. You ruined the best thing that ever happened in my life.” Shelton knelt at my feet and bound my ankles together with the belt.

  Though the temptation to kick her or knee her in the face was strong, that could be a huge mistake. She might manage to hold on to the gun and kill Ritaestelle or one of my cats if I did hurt her. I glanced around and noted that the cats had the sense to have slinked out of the room—or at least out of sight.

  When Shelton was finished binding me, she rose and pointed her gun at Ritaestelle again. “Where’s your cat?”

  “She ran away. She is frightened. I am frightened, Nancy.” But Ritaestelle sounded so composed. How did she do that?

  “Good. You should be scared. Let’s find that cat. Now.”

  They started looking, with Shelton holding the gun in the small of Ritaestelle’s back.

  Why did she want Isis? I didn’t understand any of this. What was this best thing that ever happened that she’d mentioned?

  Oh, but I had an idea.

  I recalled Ritaestelle talking about the past, how Desmond had once been involved with Nancy Shelton. Had he dumped her for Ritaestelle? Good possibility. And the gaslighting had begun about two months ago—when Desmond came back into Ritaestelle’s life.

  Would asking questions about this do any good? No. Shelton was too angry. And she obviously had a plan. The fact that she hadn’t yet used her weapon was encouraging. We might be able to talk her out of whatever she wanted to do.

  But when the two returned and Shelton held Chablis, not Isis, all rational thought left me. “What are you doing?” I said, hoping to conceal the panic welling up inside.

  “Couldn’t find Isis. But any cat will do.” She waved the gun in the direction of the door. “You’re driving, Ritaestelle. And if you don’t follow my directions, I will kill this cat.”

  I closed my eyes, wanted to scream no, but I kept quiet. This woman was on the edge. She’d been pushed there by something she’d heard tonight. Maybe the encounter in the parking lot with Desmond? The two had spoken after Ritaestelle and I went into the funeral home. Right now, whatever they’d said to each other didn’t matter. What mattered was the safety of Ritaestelle and Chablis.

  But before I could think of something, anything, to do, Shelton, Ritaestelle and my Chablis left.

  I took a deep breath, trying to contain the terror I felt. I had to get out of these cuffs. I had to free my feet.

  But how?

  Slowly, tentatively, th
ree cats ventured back into the living room. A few tears escaped when I saw them. Merlot jumped up on the couch and began to sniff me.

  Syrah leaped onto the coffee table and stared at me as if to say, “What’s wrong? Get up.”

  Isis joined him and they sat there together looking at me.

  Syrah may have been able to open doors, but handcuffs were a different story. This was my problem.

  Maybe I could get to the security alarm or the landline. I could still use my fingers, even if they were behind me. But just as I was about to get up and hop to the kitchen, I felt my phone in my back pocket.

  I tried to visualize the face of the phone and remembered the phone icon was at the bottom left-hand corner. I moved my hands to the right-hand pocket, ready to at least press that icon, then visualize exactly where each number might be, but before I could do this, just moving made the phone redial the last person I’d spoken to. Pocket dialing. This had happened before with my very sensitive touchscreen phone. I never thought in a million years I would be so glad to accidentally call someone.

  I heard the phone ring once, twice and then heard the faint sound of Candace’s voice.

  “Hey, Jillian, how was the visitation?” I could barely hear her say. Her voice was distant and muffled by my clothing.

  I shouted, “Candace, can you hear me?”

  “Jillian?” she called louder. “What’s going on?”

  Merlot bent his head against my hip and rubbed against me. Then he began a loud, throaty, insistent meow.

  “Merlot?” I could hear Candace say.

  At the top of my lungs, I yelled, “Help me.”

  “Jillian? What’s wrong?” This time Candace was shouting, too.

  “Come to my house. My house,” I yelled.

  “Your house?”

  “Yes.” I choked down a sob and hollered, “Yes,” louder.

  “I’m on my way. Don’t hang up,” she shouted.

  Hang up? I couldn’t hang up if I tried.

  But I decided that trying to dial 911 was still a good idea. I stood and hopped toward the landline on the kitchen counter. I turned around and tried to pick up the receiver. And dropped it on the tile floor. I heard it break apart, and plastic pieces slid in front of me.