The Cat, the Lady and the Liar acitm-3

by Leann Sweeney

  I slouched in relief. “Yes. I want to bring Miss Longworth’s cat back to her. She seems to need her friend more than ever right now,” I said.

  Chief Shelton closed her eyes, hung her head briefly. “You may want to rethink that.”

  “Why’s that?” Tom said.

  “Because I hate to tell you this, but the family told me that Ritaestelle tossed that cat out the door last week. I’d say Isis is lucky to be alive.”

  Eight

  Chief Shelton’s words hung in the hot, sticky air. She was saying that Miss Longworth tossed her cat out the door like so much garbage. This was such unexpected information that I could hardly believe it. Neither Tom nor I spoke for several seconds.

  Tom finally said, “You’re sure the cat didn’t sneak out? In others words, act . . . well, catlike?”

  “That’s not what I understand.” The chief looked at me. “Is the cat okay?”

  “Yes. She’s with me.” My voice sounded flat. I’d been so certain I would be returning Isis to her home. But now I wasn’t so sure.

  The chief said, “Do you think you can keep Isis for a while? Or . . . perhaps I can find someone to take her.”

  “It would be too stressful for her to end up at yet another place so soon,” I said. “I’m just getting to know her, and I don’t mind keeping her for a while.” If I could get a good night’s sleep, that is.

  Shelton nodded. “All right. I’m not a cat person, so I trust your judgment. Where did you find her, by the way?”

  “Shawn found her near the highway between here and Mercy,” I said absently. Would Isis calm down? Would my own cats completely freak out by having such a spoiled animal in the same house with them for longer than I’d thought?

  “If I can offer a suggestion?” Shelton said.

  “Sure,” Tom answered after a glance my way. He obviously could tell how stunned I was by this news. How dismayed.

  “Please leave Ritaestelle alone for now. There have been problems. I won’t betray her confidence, but plans are in the works to help her.” Shelton looked at me. “When the family believes Ritaestelle is ready, they’ll tell her that Isis is safe. In fact, I’ll tell her myself. She and I go back a long way.”

  Just as Ed and Rebecca had said. They went way, way back. “I have no intention of bothering Miss Longworth. I’ve been trying to do the right thing by both her and her cat,” I said.

  “I understand,” Shelton said with a sad smile.

  Tom pulled a business card from his shirt pocket. “Why don’t you call me when you think Miss Longworth is well enough to hear the news about Isis?”

  She took the card and smiled. “Thank you for your concern. And again, forgive me for yesterday, Ms. Hart. Evie Preston was understandably upset when she saw you come upstairs and observe Ritaestelle at her worst. She called me right away, and I took off after you without thinking. Protecting our friends is important here in Woodcrest. Now, I have to get back to the station. But I do so appreciate your concern.”

  After she was gone, Tom said, “Protecting their secrets is what she meant.”

  “I—I—This is plain awful,” I said, shaking my head. “Not what I expected. But I’m glad we came. After listening all night to that cat screech, I was ready to bring Isis with me today and drop her off at the Longworth place. Now I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “A little information can make all the difference. Let’s go.” Tom put his arm around my shoulder. “You look completely wrung out. If you want, come to my place for a nap before you go home. Dashiell and I will make sure you’re comfortable.”

  Dashiell was Tom’s big, lovable cat. He purred as loud as a jet engine when he curled up in my lap. I leaned into Tom and we started walking.

  He went on, saying, “By the way, the original Dashiell Hammett had a great quote that seems appropriate right now. He said, ‘You got to look on the bright side, even if there ain’t one.’ ”

  I stopped and rested a hand on Tom’s cheek. “Thanks for coming, and for stepping in when I was too taken aback to even speak.”

  “I’m glad I could help. You don’t have to go it alone, Jilly. People care about you—and I’m one of them.”

  We hugged and I gave him a quick kiss. But as we continued on through the quiet little park to Tom’s car, I only wanted to go home. After what I’d heard, I needed to love on my own kitties. And maybe, just maybe, I could make friends with Isis.

  On the ride back to Mercy, I’d checked my phone and the video feeds from my cat cam, but I didn’t see any of my three in the living room. Usually Merlot would be sleeping on the window seat about now, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Meanwhile, Tom got a call from a customer about a malfunction in a security camera he’d installed, and though he offered again to drop me off at his place for some peace and quiet, I refused. I arrived home about three o’clock, disengaged the alarm at the back door and walked into the kitchen. I heard the sounds of Animal Planet coming from the TV—Syrah especially enjoyed Animal Planet while I was gone—but when I called my three cats’ names in succession, none of them came to greet me.

  Strange. And even stranger, I heard no yowling coming from Isis’s basement apartment. Suddenly I no longer felt tired. What went on while I was away?

  I kept calling for my cats in a questioning tone as I descended the basement steps. The first thing I saw downstairs was the bedroom door ajar. A hint of panic tightened my gut. But when I reached the door, I saw scratch marks on the doorknob as well as all around the knob.

  “Sy-rah?” I called, trying to keep the irritation I felt out of my voice. “What have you been up to, my friend?” This was his work, no doubt about it. Who knew cats could open doors? But he’d done it before, and now he’d done it again.

  The bedroom was empty. No Isis, no other cats. Last autumn someone broke in and catnapped Syrah, so I still felt worried even though my home was now well-secured. That was how I’d met Tom, in fact. He’d set up the cameras and alarms and checked everything regularly. Since the alarm hadn’t gone off, surely there hadn’t been another break-in. But the question remained, where in this house were my cats and our less than friendly visitor, Isis? A quick look in the basement pantry, utility room and bathroom proved they were not down here.

  I went back upstairs, and it didn’t take long to find them—or at least I saw Syrah, Chablis and Merlot. They were in my quilting room and had my sewing machine cabinet surrounded. The scene reminded me of three ships on the ocean ready to attack a pirate vessel. Isis could be considered a pirate in this house—trying to steal attention and upset the norm. She must be in my Koala cabinet—a lovely piece of equipment that expands to provide a cutting table and plenty of room for machine piecing—not to mention plenty of places to hide.

  Chablis was the first to break her intense stare on that cabinet. She turned and offered me a tiny mew in greeting. But Syrah and Merlot didn’t take their eyes off the right-side cupboard. I didn’t feel the least bit of sympathy for Isis. In fact, I was willing to bet she hadn’t been grateful or sweet when Syrah opened that door downstairs and let her escape.

  I walked over to the cabinet and squatted. Merlot was the next to acknowledge my presence. And when he looked at me, I saw his ear was bleeding a little at the tip. That would have to be thoroughly cleaned, and soon. But first, Isis needed to have another lesson as to who was boss in my house.

  Syrah remained as still as a statue, his ears flat. He was one unhappy cat. I decided having three observers when I removed Isis from the cabinet might be a bad idea. I gathered up Merlot and Chablis, put them outside the room and shut them out. But I decided to allow Syrah to stay. He was top cat in the group, and I needed to help him maintain his status.

  I got down on all fours, widened the cabinet door and peered inside the cabinet. Green slitted eyes stared back at me. Isis hissed when she saw my face. Syrah slowly moved in beside me and sat. He didn’t spit; he didn’t hiss; he just stared Isis down. She turned her head away briefly.


  I quickly reached in and grabbed her by the scruff so she couldn’t bite me as I pulled her out. To my surprise, she didn’t try to scratch or bite. She allowed me to pick her up as Syrah watched intently.

  I stood and looked down at Syrah. “Thanks, my friend. Good work.”

  Isis began to purr, probably more from fear than from anything else. Syrah can indeed be intimidating in his own quiet way. I carried Isis out to the living room with my three felines following close behind. When I sat on the couch and Chablis jumped up beside us, Isis hissed at her. I tapped the goddess’s nose. She blinked and looked up at me. Bet that had never happened before. But she quit hissing, and soon all three of my cats were on the couch wanting a sniff of her. After about five minutes of this, Isis jumped down, her tail swishing. But a peace had been forged, and I was hoping against hope that I might actually get some sleep tonight.

  I turned off Animal Planet, rested my head against the sofa cushions and the next thing I heard was my phone ringing. Seems I’d taken that nap after all. As I reached in my dress pocket for my phone, I realized that Isis had joined Chablis on the couch. Chablis likes it when I nap—she loves to snuggle close—and even though Isis was way at the other end of the sofa, I had to smile. My three cats had accomplished what I could never have done—tamed the entitled one.

  The caller ID showed Candace’s name and number. I answered with a “Hey there.”

  “How does iced coffee from Belle’s Beans and a couple of chili dogs from the Main Street Café sound? I need a break from Mom and her painting instructions.” I heard the strain in Candace’s voice. She loved her mom dearly but didn’t like to be “instructed” by anyone and certainly not by her mother.

  “You’re doing pickup and delivery?” I said.

  “Absolutely. See you soon.” She hung up.

  I checked the clock on the DVR across the room. Past five o’clock. Wow. That was one nice snooze. But I needed to clean Merlot’s scratch, splash some water on my face and change my clothes. I am not a fan of anything besides capris, jeans, T-shirts and shorts. And the nap had taken a toll on this dress. It was a wrinkled mess.

  After I used soap and water on a less than happy Merlot’s ear, I went to the bedroom, stripped off the dress in my bathroom and tossed it toward the closet and my hamper—and missed. I turned on the sink’s faucet, and after dousing myself with cold water, I reached for a towel. And saw Isis already curled up on my discarded clothing. She blinked sleepily. Seemed she was making herself right at home. But whether we would become her family was another story. My cats may have put Isis in her place, but that didn’t mean they wanted her around permanently.

  I pulled on a pair of cutoffs and a T-shirt with a picture of a rather mean-looking Persian cat. The quote beneath the picture said, IF YOU WANT A FRIEND, GET A DOG. Of course, Persians are sweet cats and my felines are the best friends I could ever have, but the picture and quote made me smile.

  Candace arrived thirty minutes later, but it wasn’t until we were done with our decadent chili dogs and fries that Isis made her appearance. She promptly spit at Candace, her coat burgeoning to twice its size. Taking the straw from my drink, I drew up some coffee and used the straw like a blow dart to splatter the cold liquid in Isis’s face. She blinked and sat down. But her glare didn’t last as long as her previous attempts to intimidate me. She washed her face and then came over and rubbed against Candace’s chair. What a little suck-up. But she made me laugh. Seems she was learning that this wasn’t the Longworth Estate.

  I’d been updating Candace on today’s visit to Woodcrest while we ate. Now I told her how Isis had definitely begun to learn a few lessons.

  After daring to pet Isis for a few seconds, Candace said, “Sounds to me like your work is done. Find this cat a home—and fast.”

  I sighed. “Not yet. Call it intuition, but something doesn’t feel right about all this.”

  “There is nothing right about people changing drastically when they get older. It’s difficult. Take my mother—please.”

  I laughed at the old Dangerfield joke.

  “No, really,” Candace went on. “Mom had certain traits when I was a kid that seemed a little controlling. But now? It’s so much worse, and it drives me nuts.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But as far as Ritaestelle Long-worth? Don’t you think it’s odd to go from having money out the wazoo to stealing cheap stuff from the drugstore? That seems like such a major turnaround. My brain tells me to leave this alone, but my heart is telling me this is a woman who could use a friend.”

  Candace shook her head vigorously. “Don’t, Jillian. Leave this alone. You’ve gone above and beyond. Just call it quits.”

  I sighed. “You’re right.”

  Candace pulled a Rear Window DVD from the canvas tote she’d brought inside. “This is the special edition with the trailer narrated by Jimmy Stewart. Let’s forget everything for a couple hours, okay?”

  And so we did. Candace and I share a love of old movies, especially Hitchcock, and we enjoyed every minute. Isis even cozied up to Candace for a while, but then she and Chablis started chasing each other. I was amazed. Talk about turnarounds.

  Once we both started yawning, Candace headed for home around ten p.m. I set the security alarm, poured myself a glass of water and went to my bedroom. The dress I probably wouldn’t wear again for another year still lay on the floor. I tossed it into the closet, again missing the hamper. I shut the door and made a beeline for my bed.

  But before I could climb beneath the covers, the doorbell rang.

  Huh?

  The only person besides Candace who would show up at my place this late without calling was Kara. My heart thumped against my chest. Was something wrong? And why didn’t Kara call me if there was a problem?

  I hurried to the kitchen, shut off the alarm and rushed to the foyer. But when I looked through the peephole, it wasn’t Kara after all. The woman I recognized on my doorstep made me gasp in surprise.

  Ritaestelle Longworth.

  Nine

  The surprise must have still been evident on my face when I opened the door, because Ritaestelle Longworth said, “You weren’t expecting me?” She smiled amiably.

  Then I realized she wore a white chenille bathrobe with her initials in scrolled gold embroidery on the left pocket. She also had a red Velcro hair roller in her silver bangs and a honey-colored Coach handbag over her arm.

  “I—I . . . Please come inside.” I opened the door wider and then immediately thought about Isis. My three cats had raced after me to the foyer to see what was up, but not Isis. Had she gotten a whiff of her owner—a cat’s sense of smell is hundreds of times more keen than a human’s—and decided not to greet the person who’d thrown her out? Probably.

  After Miss Longworth stepped inside, I shut the door after her, still too confused by her arrival to think of anything to say.

  She erased the awkward silence by starting right in with, “Since you came to see me yesterday and we did not converse, I thought I would come your way and say hello. I looked up your address and that wonderful little GPS device in my car made the journey quite trouble-free. See, I knew I recognized you—from that article they ran in the newspaper a while back. How you solved that murder and helped all those poor cats find homes. You are such a hero, Ms. Hart.”

  Here she was, dressed in her nightclothes, a roller in her hair, talking in her restrained, polite, Old South manner like she’d been invited for tea. Was this really happening?

  “Um, thank you, Miss Longworth. What can I do for you?” I would have checked my watch had I been wearing one. Did she realize how late it was? Perhaps not. This woman was obviously troubled—and yet she was as smiley as a Cheshire cat.

  “Please call me Ritaestelle. Now, I am most certain you are completely bewildered by my sudden appearance in your charming little town. Do you mind if we sit down? As you were witness to, I had a fall yesterday, and my hip is a smidgeon intolerant of me standing.”
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  “Of course. Please come into the living room. Can I help you to the sofa?” I said.

  “No, no, I can make it. Oh, and look at your lovely cats leading the way. How precious.”

  No mention of Isis. Did she even remember her own cat? This all seemed a little surreal.

  We made our way to the living room, her limp obvious, and I wondered if she’d been seen by a doctor.

  She eased herself into one of the overstuffed chairs and sighed as she sank into the cushions. “What a comfy, splendid chair.” She glanced around. “And I do imagine you have a lovely view of the lake in the daytime, what with all your windows.”

  “I do. But, if I can ask again, why are you here and—” I couldn’t seem to get the rest of the sentence out—the part about her being dressed for bed.

  “Before we get into an explanation, my dear young woman—and you have every right to be inquiring—I could certainly use a drink of water. I left my house in rather a rush, as I am sure you have already determined.” She smiled that odd and oh, so gracious smile again.

  “Um, sure. Ice?”

  “That would be wonderful.” She reached down and patted Chablis on the head. My cat was sniffing at Ritaestelle’s chenille slippers. Yes, the lady was even wearing slippers that matched her robe. Syrah had taken his regal sitting position at the foyer entrance, and Merlot paced in front of the windows. Moths and flies must be fluttering around out there.

  I went to the kitchen, wondering if I should bring up the subject of Isis, wait for Ritaestelle to say something or forget about her cat for the time being. Isis seemed to want the latter, considering she hadn’t shown her face. Yes, that seemed the best option for now.