The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

by Leann Sweeney

  All three cats had followed me and now surrounded me, and Syrah pawed at the broken phone. He then looked up at me and added his own meows to Merlot’s—because Merlot had not quit.

  The alarm was connected to the Mercy police station, and though I managed to get the pantry door open where the control panel was, the panic button—in fact the entire control panel—was too high for me to reach. It was about three inches too high for me to touch, even with my nose.

  I needed a chair, but as I was using my knees and thighs to slowly, painstakingly push a chair toward the pantry, Candace burst through the front door, her weapon drawn.

  She wore her pajamas.

  “Shelton’s taken Ritaestelle and Chablis,” I said. “I don’t know where they—”

  “They’re at the mansion,” Candace said as she grabbed a kitchen knife to pick the handcuffs open. “When I called Mike, he said as many officers as possible are on the way over there, that Shelton was holding everyone at gunpoint.”

  “They’re still alive?” I said as she freed me.

  “Far as I know,” Candace said. “I called Tom. He should be here any minute.”

  I bent and removed the belt from my ankles. “We have to go there. Now.”

  Thirty-two

  The scene on the circular drive outside Ritaestelle’s mansion was pure chaos. We’d been stopped at a roadblock at the entrance to the long driveway, but when the deputy saw Candace in Tom’s car, he’d waived us through. I couldn’t count the number of police cars in front of the house, their whirling lights blurred by the steady rain.

  Tom had arrived at my place only seconds after I’d removed the belt from my ankles. We made it to the Longworth estate in less than fifteen minutes. After I’d explained that Shelton had simply snapped and I wasn’t sure why, we’d said nothing else during the drive. We were all too worried about what we would find when we arrived.

  Mike Baca stood on the front porch talking on his cell phone. He waved us to him when he saw us get out of Tom’s car.

  “Shelton’s asking for us to bring Desmond Holloway here, but I’m not sure that’s what she really wants,” Mike said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because,” he said, “I’m talking to George Robertson on his cell phone. He says Shelton and Ritaestelle are in the study. Shelton has given Ritaestelle a gun and told her to either shoot her or Shelton will shoot your cat. Ritaestelle is trying to talk her out of this.” He spoke into the receiver then. “What’s going on, George?” He listened and then said, “Okay, good. Tell them to come out with their hands raised.”

  Relief washed over me. “They’re coming out?”

  “The family members, not Shelton or Ritaestelle,” he said.

  My heart sank.

  “You come, too, George,” Mike said. “We’ll take it from here.” Another pause. “No. You need to get out of there. A hostage negotiator is on the way.”

  Just then the front door opened, and Justine, Hildie, Muriel and Augusta all filed out, hands in the air. “Where’s Farley?” I said.

  “Took off with a suitcase full of stuff earlier today,” Mike said. “We’ll find out later what, if anything, he had to do with this mess.”

  Uniformed Woodcrest officers grabbed the women as they came out and pulled them off the porch.

  My heart was pounding, and I probably would have run into that house if not for Tom’s grip on my shoulders.

  Only a second later, a gunshot sounded.

  Not only could we hear it through the open door, but it sounded through Mike’s phone as well.

  “Talk to me, George,” Mike shouted. And then Mike took off, yelling, “Go, go, go,” to the officers waiting with their weapons ready. Mike pointed at Candace. “See where that stupid ambulance is. It was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”

  But Tom said, “I’ve got this, Candace. You two get away from the house.” He pulled out his phone. But before he completed the call, the ambulance came roaring down the drive.

  I wasn’t moving. I wanted to get in there. I had to get in there.

  Candace said, “Come on. We need to give them room to do their jobs.”

  Reluctantly I followed Tom and Candace back to Tom’s Prius.

  I was so stunned by the sound of that shot that I felt numb. “Do you think Ritaestelle’s dead? Did Shelton kill Chablis? What is—”

  Tom pulled me to him and pushed my wet hair away from my face. “We’ll know soon. Let’s get out of this rain.”

  Candace wore my raincoat and had the sense to open an umbrella so as not to allow her stitches to get wet. As for me, I no longer even felt the rain.

  She climbed in, and Tom and I sat in the front seats, but we all left our doors open.

  Why did someone else have to die? I thought. Why?

  The wait seemed endless. Finally, paramedics pushed a stretcher out the front door. I immediately jumped out of the car to see who was on the stretcher, to see if the body’s face was covered because someone had died.

  As they pulled the stretcher to the back of the ambulance, I had my answer. It was Nancy Shelton. She was alive, her body strapped tightly down. Her head was moving from side to side, and she was shouting, “No,” over and over.

  One shot. One shot. Unless something else happened that we hadn’t heard, Ritaestelle and Chablis were okay. They had to be okay.

  Mike Baca emerged through those giant front doors and waved us to him.

  I had never run so fast in my life. I even beat Tom to the door.

  As we joined Mike, he pointed at Jerry Raymond. “The redheaded woman. Cuff her and bring her inside.” He turned to us. “And by the way, what are you doing here, Candy?”

  “Long story, Chief,” she said.

  “My fault,” I said. “Are they all right?”

  Mike nodded. “Miss Longworth is asking for the two of you.” Mike looked at both Tom and me. “Go in, but stay away from that room on the right. We have to process the scene in there.”

  We entered the house.

  Meanwhile, Mike turned his attention to Candace, who stopped in the foyer. “I can’t have my best officer sick for any longer than necessary. You shouldn’t have come here.” He looked at her quizzically. “Are you wearing your pj’s?”

  “I’d say I wore the appropriate outfit,” Candace said.

  “You should rest that great brain of yours,” Mike said.

  I glanced back to see Deputy Jerry Raymond leading Muriel inside. She was crying crocodile tears. George Robertson stood in the hallway up ahead talking to a uniformed Woodcrest officer. He smiled when he spotted us.

  Mike had a grip on Candace’s elbow. “George, this one needs to sit down, lie down or—

  “I’m fine, Chief,” Candace said. “You can’t shut me out of this one.”

  Mike inhaled and let it out in a huff. “All right, but you sit, you stay quiet, you—”

  “I promise,” Candace said.

  Then Mike led us to the dining room.

  Ritaestelle was sitting at the table talking to a Woodcrest officer, my cat held close to her chest. Her face was ashen.

  When she saw me, she said, “I am so very sorry, Miss Jillian. But your precious Chablis is fine. She is a little afraid, but she’s fine.”

  We all sat down, and Mike said to the Woodcrest officer, “Thanks for letting us talk in here, Deputy Franklin.”

  “Miss Longworth has quite the tale to tell,” Franklin said. “You up to starting over?”

  Ritaestelle smiled wanly. “I most certainly am, Malcolm.” She scanned all our faces. “I remember when Malcolm was just a baby. I was at his baptism.”

  Candace said, “What happened, Miss Longworth?”

  “Let us ask the questions, Candy—I mean Candace,” Mike said. “We can handle this. You’ve been—”

  “I am fine. Do go on, Miss Longworth,” Candace said.

  “First,” Ritaestelle said, looking down at Chablis. “I expect someone wants to be in familiar arms.”


  She held my cat out, and I took Chablis from her and held her close. She began to purr—and shed clumps of hair that stuck to my wet blouse. When cats are afraid some of them do shed like this.

  I sat down, and Ritaestelle began to speak. “This all began many years ago, when Nancy and I were very young and matters of the heart left both of us scarred. We both hid our scars well—but they were always there.”

  “This was about Desmond Holloway, wasn’t it?” I said.

  “Yes, but about so much more. I thought I was being a kind person, a generous person, but I was wrong. I have hurt others. As Mr. Stewart so aptly put it”—she smiled at Tom—“I have lived my life wearing blinders.”

  She went on to talk about Desmond, how he told her when they first became romantically involved decades ago that he was done with Shelton—and all the others. “I never knew how hurt Nancy was when he chose me. Of course, he only chose me because I had money. When he returned to Woodcrest two months ago, Nancy informed me tonight that he did not even recognize her. She had to tell him who she was. You can imagine how upset that made her.”

  Tom nodded. “I’d substitute ‘enraged’ for ‘upset.’ That rage is what started everything.”

  “Yes,” Ritaestelle said. “When she reminded him who she was, he compounded the problem by telling her that he’d come back to be with me.”

  George entered the room with a blanket over his arm and carrying a tray. I flashed back to earlier in the day. So much had happened since.

  Once he’d set down coffee and sweet rolls and homemade chocolate chip cookies, he stopped by Ritaestelle’s chair at the head of the table. “I am so happy to have my lady home.” Then he took the blanket to Candace, helped her remove the raincoat and draped the blanket around her shoulders.

  Ritaestelle smiled at him—such a sweet, gentle smile—before he turned and left.

  “We pushed Shelton tonight,” Mike said. “We gave her enough information about the case—that we had a print on the medicine bottle, one in the car, that the financials were coming in tomorrow, that Miss Longworth probably didn’t order the tranquilizers, and—”

  “But Shelton wasn’t in this house day and night,” I said. “How could she drug Ritaestelle, hide stolen items and—” I stopped, picturing Muriel in handcuffs. “Oh. She had help.”

  “Yes,” Ritaestelle said. “The way Muriel acted at the funeral home, the way she was apologizing? Nancy told me she knew Muriel would . . . what was the word she used? Fold. Yes. She said that Muriel would fold.”

  “Okay, I get all this,” Candace said. “But what happened in here? What happened tonight? I don’t get any of that.”

  Ritaestelle closed her eyes briefly. “Yes. That was quite terrifying. Chief Baca, would you mind pouring me a cup of coffee? And if anyone would care for something stronger?” She raised her eyebrows. “George would be happy to bring you anything you would like. Brandy? A cocktail? Wine?”

  Even though wine sounded wonderfully medicinal, I opted for coffee. We all did. I even poured half-and-half from the little china pitcher into a saucer for Chablis. I held the saucer so she could lap up the treat.

  “This coffee is great,” Candace said, nodding. Then she winced and touched the back of her head. “Remind me not to nod. Nancy Shelton sure knows how to take someone down. But why me?”

  “You printed everyone yesterday,” I said. “I think she stole your print cards because she knew Muriel might have left print evidence somewhere it shouldn’t have been—like in the Caddy. But deep down she knew this was all coming to an end.” I looked at Mike. “Right, Chief?”

  “Yup. Things were spinning out of control, and tonight she decided to make one last headline by making a splash. She wanted to humiliate you, Miss Longworth. Make sure people in town talked about you for a long time.”

  “I sort of remember taking the fingerprints,” Candace murmured. She still wasn’t my normal Candace. “Sorry. What happened when she brought you here?”

  Ritaestelle looked at me. “I am so grateful she did not harm you.” Then she stared at the wall straight ahead. “When Nancy brought me inside at gunpoint, she threatened to kill anyone who came near us or anyone who tried to leave. She told George to line everyone up in the hallway and that she would know if anyone tried to leave. Then we went into the study. Of course George called the police immediately, though I did not know that at the time.”

  “This is the confusing part. What did she want?” I asked.

  “Like Chief Baca said,” Ritaestelle replied, “she wanted to make an exit that would forever link us. She wanted me to kill her.”

  “What?” I said. “Shoot her?”

  “Yes. I ended up doing so, too. But only because she was about to . . . to harm your precious cat. I could not have that. As soon as we sat down in the study, she held your poor cat so tightly, and then she produced another gun, one she had strapped to her ankle.”

  “Even bad cops don’t go anywhere without their backup weapons, I guess,” Tom said.

  “She set the gun on the table between us and told me that I was going to kill her. That was to be my legacy, she said—that I had killed a crazy woman in my fancy house. And if I did not pick up the gun and shoot her, then she would kill poor Chablis and then shoot herself. Whatever scenario I chose, the damage would be done.”

  Ritaestelle released a tremulous breath, the first time I’d seen her less than calm. “But first, she wanted me to know about all the harm I’d done. How I had driven Justine to drink, spoiled Farley, supported my freeloading cousins. Then she told me how she had enlisted Muriel to help her make me look like a fool to everyone—and that Muriel was happy to help. Ruining my reputation, she said, was the best revenge for stealing the only man she had ever cared about and for acting like I was running Woodcrest—even though being in charge was her job as police chief. She said she truly enjoyed every minute of listening to people talk about me when the shoplifting became known. Everyone was whispering and shaking their heads in confusion and contempt at what Nancy called my fall from grace.”

  “What about Evie?” I said softly. “Why did she kill her?”

  Ritaestelle lifted her coffee cup to her lips with shaky hands and sipped. “That is the saddest part of all this. Nancy told me that she was simply in the way. Evie came here the night I left to seek your help, Jillian, though I had no idea. When I drove out of the garage and away from the house, I never even saw Evie’s car parked near the front door.”

  “Why was she here?” Tom asked. “Was it something she learned from the family computers?”

  “Yes. She had called here about the passwords the night she died. Through these passwords, she had discovered that Muriel ordered those drugs using my credit card. She confronted her. But when Evie heard me leave, she took off after me. Unfortunately, Muriel immediately phoned Nancy.” Ritaestelle hung her head. “This is all my fault. I was so unaware of what was going on around me.”

  “Shelton caught up with Evie at Jillian’s house,” Tom said. “They argued, Evie ran off or Shelton ordered her down to the lake, and we know the rest.”

  Ritaestelle said, “Nancy did not offer details except to say that Evie was about to make a serious mistake, that she had to stop her.” She gazed down at her hands. “I have never even held a gun before tonight, never wanted to since my dear brother died in that hunting accident. I am only grateful that I hit what I aimed for. Her shoulder. My wonderful George rushed in and took care of me as he has done for so many years.”

  “Envy,” I said quietly, stroking my sleeping cat. “I understand now why it’s considered one of the deadly sins.”

  Thirty-three

  A week later, my cats had finally settled back into their normal routine. Isis, according to Ritaestelle, was happy to be home, but she was considering adopting a kitten as her playmate. Farley still hadn’t turned up, but Ritaestelle said that when he ran out of money, she expected he’d return. And she promised that she would not take him in, tha
t she would tell him to get a job.

  Meanwhile, I’d managed to collect almost all those buttons. The one that belonged to Nancy Shelton, however, was in an evidence envelope somewhere. If Shelton hadn’t popped another button, if she hadn’t feared that I’d find the one she lost in her struggle with Evie, things might have turned out differently. Yes, my cats had once again helped me figure things out—and Merlot, Candace told me, was good at sounding the call for help.

  “Merlot’s never talked to me on the phone before, never made those sounds I was hearing that night,” Candace said. She and Kara and I were sitting in the kitchen nook. “I knew something was wrong when I heard him so clearly and Jillian sounded so far away.”

  My wonderful hero, Merlot. He and Chablis were both asleep on the window seat, and I smiled at how peaceful they looked. Syrah was probably on the hunt for buttons I hoped he wouldn’t find—at least for a while.

  “So Merlot is why you knew Jillian was in trouble when she managed to do a redial that night?” Kara asked before sipping her sweet tea.

  “Yes,” Candace said. “He might as well have been talking.” I looked past them out at the dark blue lake, thinking about a young woman who didn’t have to die.

  “You’re sure quiet,” Candace said.

  I turned to her. “Sorry. It all seems so senseless. If those people would have talked out their problems, if they would have been straight with Ritaestelle, and she with them. If—”

  “There are always what-ifs when it comes to murder,” Candace said. “Here’s one for you. What if you hadn’t decided Ritaestelle was truly in need of help? If you hadn’t followed your heart, Nancy Shelton might have gotten away with murder.”

  “I doubt that,” I said. “The evidence you and Mike collected would have pointed to her eventually.”

  “But she might have killed Ritaestelle or herself before that happened,” Kara said. She tore off a piece of the apple strudel we’d been enjoying, one of two that Ritaestelle had George deliver to me this morning.