The Cat, the Lady and the Liar
( A Cats in Trouble Mystery - 3 )
Leann Sweeney
Cat quilter Jillian Hart finds a gorgeous stray cat belonging to the fabulously wealthy Ritaestelle Longworth, who believes she's being drugged. Before Jillian can get to those charges, a body turns up in the lake-and her cat Chablis finds Ritaestelle nearby. Can Jillian's cats aid her in solving a mystery with decades old roots?
Leann Sweeney
The Cat, the Lady and the Liar
This book is for three dear friends whom I have come to love: Kay, Lorraine and Jennifer. Thanks for everything.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people who help bring a book to life. My family: Mike, Jillian, Jeffrey, Shawn, Allison and Maddison make my world so much better. Thank you. The Tuesday night critique group, which tells me where I’ve gone wrong and what I’ve done right, has done much to shape this story. Kay, Amy, Laura, Dean, Bob, Millie, Susie, Charlie and Isabella hold a special place in my heart. The “fur” friends who inspire me—Indigo, Agatha Christie, Archie Goodwin, Rosie, Curry and Enzo have all helped the animal characters in my books act like they should. The cozy writers who are always beside me in spirit—I am so grateful for your support. My agent, Carol, stands by me and encourages me. Thanks for that! Last of all, I thank the best editor any writer could hope for. Claire, you are forever the best of the best.
In ancient Egypt, cats were worshipped as gods. Cats have never forgotten this.
—UNKNOWN
One
I try not to lie. Honest. But as I drove my minivan down the curving treelined road on the Longworth Estate, I convinced myself no other tactic would work. Not with the rules that Shawn Cuddahee of the Mercy Animal Sanctuary had told me I must obey during my visit to the owner of this grand mansion.
The Greek Revival house loomed in the distance, a stunning home in Woodcrest, South Carolina, and only fifteen miles from my place in Mercy. From what little research I’d done before embarking on this mission, I learned that the property encompassed twelve acres and that the historic house—brilliant white with tall green shutters—was more than a century old and four stories high. Having never been in an honest-to-goodness antebellum mansion as anything but a tourist, I felt a flutter of excitement. If I could get over my guilt about the lies I was about to tell, I might enjoy my assignment.
Shawn rescued small animals, those that were brought to him, dumped on him or found. The cat in question, a lovely long-haired black cat named Isis (according to her tags) had been saved from near-certain death by Shawn himself. He’d found her wandering near a busy highway. The fact that he’d rescued Isis from such a dangerous situation had led me here today. Shawn had tried to meet the registered owner, a woman named Ritaestelle Longworth, but his phone calls had not been returned. He’d even made a trip to Woodcrest last week, but the person who answered the door told him that Ms. Longworth was not seeing visitors. She was “indisposed.”
In the past, Shawn had returned “lost” pets to their owners, only to discover them “found” again. And again. And again. He considered such behavior abuse. He’d told me he didn’t care if this “Longworth woman” had a bazillion dollars; her cat needed to be cared for properly and not put in danger by indifference or neglect.
Yes, Shawn does have anger management issues—the local animal control officer has a restraining order against him—and when his calls to Ritaestelle Longworth were not returned, Shawn became so upset that I swear all the hair under his collar was singed. That was when I stepped in and said that by hook or by crook Miss Longworth and I would meet, and I would try to find out why Isis had ended up in a shelter.
I do help out at the sanctuary whenever I can, and this assignment seemed right up my alley—a cat in trouble. Right up my alley except for the lying part. But I do take cats in trouble seriously, and I always do what I can to help them.
Since Shawn had already identified himself as a shelter owner in the messages he’d left, we decided I couldn’t associate myself with him—at least at first. I would introduce myself as a journalist. I’d actually gotten a few tips for this role from my stepdaughter, Kara, who really is a journalist.
My goal today was to assess the living situation. Did this woman miss her cat? Since Isis had no front claws, why was she outdoors? Was this a simple mistake, or had she been abandoned? If I learned that Isis had been neglected in any way, then that would be the end of any contact with this woman. Shawn would find Isis a new home. He didn’t consider it catnapping when he had difficulty contacting the owner to return a newly homeless pet.
I reached a circular drive with a lovely pond in the center and parked in front of the house. The late-afternoon summer sun shimmered on the water, and the carefully tended garden surrounding the pond took my breath away. The flowers were a wonderful mix of reds, purples and yellows. Though I knew the names of many of the local flowers, these blooms were like nothing I’d seen before.
I slid from behind the wheel, and the next thing that caught my eye was a restored and gleaming black carriage positioned near the side of the house. What a stage setter, I thought. Then I made my way between the majestic columns and up the broad steps toward double, lacquered black doors. I’d learned that this house had been built in 1844 and the Longworths sat atop the social crowd in Woodcrest, a class system typical in small Southern towns. And yet Ritaestelle, the seventy-year-old head of household, couldn’t seem to take care of a cat.
That thought saddened me, and as I rang the doorbell, I used my other hand to take my phone from the pocket of my linen skirt. I pulled up the cat-cam feed and tapped a screen icon for my living room video. I saw my three cats, Syrah, Merlot and Chablis, fast asleep—two on the sofa and one on the overstuffed armchair. I realized that my heart rate had picked up—I was worried about telling tall tales—but the sight of these cats, my three best friends, calmed me instantly. I replaced my phone and waited for someone to answer the bell I’d heard chime inside.
When the door opened, a thin black man in what I could only call butler attire answered the door. I felt like I’d been transported back 150 years.
He said, “How may I help you, ma’am?”
His face was unreadable—no smile, no frown. I imagined he’d spoken those words a thousand times before. He had close-cropped silver hair, but I couldn’t tell if he was sixty, seventy, perhaps even eighty? Definitely older than my forty-three years.
Sound confident, I told myself before I spoke. “My name is Jillian Hart. I’d like to speak with Miss Longworth, please.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Miss Longworth is indisposed. If you’d like to leave your phone number, her assistant will call you.”
Since Shawn’s calls had never been returned, the same thing would probably happen to me. But I smiled and said, “That doesn’t exactly work for me. I’m a journalist, and I—”
“You’re a reporter?” he said. “There’s nothing much to report on here.”
“I’m doing a piece for my magazine on the grand homes of the South. I understand this house is seeking historical status. Is that true?” I knew this was true since I’d done my research, so I hoped it was my ticket inside.
He hesitated, and I quickly dug into my shoulder bag and pulled out my slim silver digital camera.
I smiled. “I’ve already gotten some lovely shots of this wonderful estate. May I take your picture?”
Kara had offered me this tip, and she’d been right. Cameras can truly open doors. The butler gentleman held up a hand. “Please, ma’am. Before you take any more pictures, why not step into the foyer? I’ll talk to Miss Longworth’s assistant. I�
��m sure Miss Ritaestelle would like to see her home in a magazine, but you don’t want no pictures of me. She can help you better with that kinda thing.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to hide my grin. One hurdle down. But how many more to go?
He stepped aside so I could enter, and the rich smell of polished wood met me at once. The foyer was smaller than I expected because a massive staircase took up most of the space. Rich honey-colored paneling graced the wall and followed the polished stairs upward. A ninety-degree left turn after the first few steps blocked my view of the rest of the stairs, but in a house with four stories, they probably made plenty of twists on the way up. Then my eyes widened in appreciation at probably the most stunning grandfather clock I’d ever seen. It stood directly in front of me and was made of black walnut burl wood with arches at the top and a large golden pendulum behind its leaded glass door.
I’d managed to keep my jaw from dropping at the sight of this foyer. On the wall to my left was a small, inlaid glass-covered table. An art deco-looking vase of clear red glass sat on the table, and an oil painting of a wagon and horse traveling on a country road hung on the wall above it.
A brocade-covered bench stood against the wall to my right, and the gentleman gestured for me to have a seat. “Let me check with Miss Preston.”
I assumed she was the assistant. “Thank you so much, but I didn’t get your name.” I smiled.
“It’s George. George Robertson.
“Thank you, Mr. Robertson.”
He nodded, walked away down the splendid paneled hallway and disappeared.
What I hadn’t noticed when I first arrived—perhaps because I kept marveling at this place—was that this house was seriously chilly. More than air-conditioned chilly, even for July. Maybe old-house chilly. Yes. That was what it was. Definitely drafty.
Thankful for the three-quarter-length sleeves of my jacket, I clutched my purse in my lap—the handbag that held the notebook I hoped I would be putting to good use soon. I’m not a fan of bags or dress-up, but this visit required both. Who knew that lies needed to be properly attired? But I was glad I’d taken Kara’s advice when she’d emphasized that I couldn’t wear capri pants and a T-shirt for this assignment. I’d been planning on a sundress, but she said that wouldn’t do either. Still, I was uncomfortable in this linen suit, and the high heels were seriously tight and hurting something awful. But the outfit had probably helped get me in the door. And even if I didn’t learn the information I came for, I felt privileged to simply be sitting in a house that reminded me of a museum.
I thought about kitty Isis and took out my phone to sneak a peek at the picture I’d taken of her. Since she’d had an encounter with a mud puddle after getting lost, she’d been bathed and groomed—probably by Allison, Shawn’s wife. Allison is so sweet, she could convince a Bengal tiger to let her bathe him. And the tiger would enjoy every minute.
Isis’s diamond-studded collar glittered, and her green eyes stared straight into the lens. My bet was that this cat had posed for plenty of pictures. I told Shawn the diamond collar was probably the best clue that Isis had not been abandoned and was simply lost. But he wasn’t about to agree with me. There had to be a meet and greet with the owner. A face-to-face assessment. He’d been burned too many times.
“Miss Preston will see you now.” It was Mr. Robertson. He stood at the edge of the foyer near the hallway, hands behind his back.
My heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice. Thank goodness I was holding my phone at an angle so that he couldn’t see what I was looking at. I stood and slipped the phone back into my pocket. What was I thinking pulling up that photo? I could have ruined everything, but I’d assumed I would be kept waiting as long as possible. I’d taken Mr. Robertson and Miss Preston by surprise, after all. But as my cop buddy Candace would say, never assume. Never.
“Follow me, please,” Mr. Robertson said.
He led me down the hall past a series of closed doors—tall doors a shade darker than the paneling. We walked all the way to the end and into a two-story library that smelled of must beneath more lemon oil. No doubt the thousands of books were the source of the musty smell. But it was a nice and comforting odor—old leather and aging paper.
Behind the desk, a young woman rose. She had ginger hair a shade lighter than my own, and by her looks, I guessed she spent time in the gym. Her bare arms were toned and tan. The sleeveless coral dress she wore was belted low on her slim hips and probably cost as much as five kitty quilts—the ones I hand quilted and sold for a hundred dollars each.
Mr. Robertson said, “Miss Preston, this is Miss Jillian Hart.”
The woman smiled, and in a thick Carolina accent said, “So very nice of you to call on us, Miss Hart.” She looked at Mr. Robertson, her smile growing even warmer. “Thanks, George. Perhaps you could bring us iced tea? It’s quite a warm day.”
He nodded and backed away, closing the door after him.
Two gold velvet wing chairs faced the desk, and the woman made a sweeping gesture at them. “Please join me.”
I crossed over an oval oriental rug toward her, cursing my high heels the entire way. The trip down the long hall had taken its toll, and my feet were screaming. I’d worn these shoes only once before, and I decided it had been a mistake to stuff my feet into them today.
The chair on the right offered a better view of the gardens beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, so that was where I sat. I’d been so awed by the house and now this room that I hadn’t noticed the laptop computer to Miss Preston’s right. Until now.
She pushed it away, folded her hands on the desk and leaned toward me. “I don’t seem to be able to find anything on the Internet about a journalist named Jillian Hart, but there is certainly a good deal about a woman by that name who takes a great interest in cats. Have you come about Isis?”
Two
So much for lying. I attempted to feign surprise. “Isis?” I asked. But my mouth had gone dry and I realized I’d now earned the title Dumbest Fake Journalist Ever. What to do? I couldn’t stick to the lie . . . but perhaps I could dodge the question. “Is Miss Longworth here? I had hoped to talk to her.”
“I’m sure you did.” She smiled. “Have you seen Isis? Is she at that shelter where you volunteer, perhaps?”
“Seems you know a lot more about me than I do about you. What’s your first name, Miss Preston?” I said. Buy some time; hope for one brilliant idea to get out of this mess.
“Evie. We can converse as Evie and Jillian if you’d like. I have no problem with that. Especially since you have a reputation as a kind and generous animal lover. But if you found Isis, she needs to come home.”
Ah, a tiny opening to accomplish my goal. To find out if Isis should come home. “I don’t have her.” Technically not a lie. “Does Miss Longworth miss her cat?”
“Of course she does. Quit hedging. I don’t imagine you want money. You’re not the type. But—”
The sound of a scuffle accompanied by a muffled cry came from somewhere above us. Evie’s gaze went to the ceiling, and her clasped hands clenched tighter.
“That didn’t sound good,” I said. “Is someone hurt . . . or sick?”
“That is none of your business.” Evie’s tone had gone frosty, and she looked as if she was hanging on to her composure by a quilting thread. She’d moved her hands to the arms of her desk chair and tilted her head, apparently trying to hear better.
“If you’re needed upstairs, I can leave. We can—”
The thud that interrupted me made us both jump. We stood, but though I was frozen, Evie raced past me, muttering, “Oh no. Oh no.”
Seemed I’d become invisible. But like my cats, I felt that mysterious and ominous noises must be investigated. So I gave her a few seconds and followed.
Once I was back in the foyer, I caught a glimpse of a coral blur at the top of the stairs. Before I tackled the steps, the shoes had to go. I might already have developed blisters on both heels anyway.
Cursed shoes in hand, I took the stairs two at time as quietly as possible, making that first ninety-degree turn and then climbing about ten more steps to the first landing. But when I saw several people, including Evie, at the end of the hall to my right, I stepped back onto the step so I wouldn’t be spotted. Peeking past the wall, I saw a silver-haired woman in a blue chenille bathrobe sitting on the floor. Evie knelt by the woman’s side, holding her hand, and an older lady in gray slacks and a white pleated shirt stood above them.
I heard the one with the slacks say, “She was trying to get downstairs.”
Evie looked up at the speaker. “How did that happen, Augusta? You’re supposed to stay with her.”
“And when I am supposed to use the ladies’?” Augusta said.
But Evie didn’t seem to be listening. She was murmuring something I couldn’t make out to the woman on the floor—the woman I recognized from photos I’d seen on the Internet: Ritaestelle Longworth.
“I’m fine, Evie. But I’m not deaf. I heard the doorbell, heard George talking to someone in the foyer. I want to go downstairs and—” She turned her gaze from Evie and looked straight at me.
I ducked back behind the wall, but too late.
“There she is,” I heard Miss Longworth say.
Should I run down the stairs? Get the heck out of here? But then I remembered that my handbag was sitting on the floor next to that yellow velvet chair. I stepped out from hiding. “Yes. I came to talk to you, Miss Longworth. But first, are you okay?”
She squinted and pointed at me. “I know you. Where do I know you from?”
“I don’t think you know me. Can I help them get you on your feet?” I started down the hall toward them.
But Evie put up the traffic-cop signal for stop. “You need to turn around and go back downstairs.”
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