The Cat, the Lady and the Liar acitm-3

by Leann Sweeney

  After I handed Ritaestelle her water, she thanked me profusely and then said, “Now, as to my attire. I do not normally leave the house dressed like this. But I had a chance to escape and I took it.”

  I blinked. Escape? Should I add paranoia to her list of recent problems? I tried to keep my voice even when I said, “You escaped? That sounds serious.”

  “It is seriously shameful when you are forced to leave your home in such an unpleasant fashion.”

  “It is.” I nodded in agreement, feeling downright foolish. Perhaps I should have been a tad frightened by this visit, but it all seemed so innocent and, well, silly. Ritaestelle was probably in need of a doctor for more than her hip—and perhaps simply someone to talk to. I could do that much for her. “Can you tell me about what happened tonight?”

  Ritaestelle sipped at her water and then carefully set her glass on a coaster on the end table beside her. “Certainly. I do owe you an explanation after you have so kindly invited me into your home. Let me begin by saying I know what you do—make those darling quilts for cats, help at the Mercy Animal Sanctuary. But you also assist with crime investigations. As I mentioned, that is how I recognized you—from your photograph in the newspaper. Your abilities in crime investigation are what interest me the most. You see, I think I have been a victim of sabotage.”

  “Sabotage? That’s a strong word.” Merlot loped across the room and leaped onto the sofa next to me. Then, strangely enough, all twenty pounds of him climbed into my lap. What was bothering him? He can be a big old fraidy cat, but this woman seemed harmless enough.

  “That is the biggest, most handsome cat I have ever seen.” She glanced down and then around the room. “But what happened to your other friends?”

  Indeed, Syrah and Chablis had disappeared. And once again, though the focus was on cats, she still hadn’t mentioned Isis. Maybe she had amnesia. Maybe that explained her other problems. “Merlot’s a Maine coon, and this breed is often large. But forgive me if I’m a little confused about the mention of sabotage. What do you mean by that?”

  “The sabotage. Yes, that is why I came. I am still a little unclear about certain events, probably because of the drugs someone has been spiking my tea with. I do so enjoy my tea. But perhaps sabotage is not quite the word I was searching for.”

  “You’ve been drugged?” This time I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. That sure might clarify a few things.

  “Yes, and I sincerely wish I knew why. And I wish I knew who was doing such a thing. I have two cousins living with me, along with my late brother’s wife and her son. Then there’s the staff: a cook, my assistant, my wonderful butler. We are a full house.”

  “That woman I saw you with—the one named Augusta. Who’s she?”

  “My cousin. But I cannot believe she would ever hurt me. After I heard the doorbell when you arrived, I so wanted to see who had come to call, as is my custom. But when I made it out to the hallway, I slipped and fell. What you witnessed was Augusta and Evie trying to help.” Ritaestelle shook her head sadly and then met my gaze. “Why would someone want to harm me?”

  “You mean drug you?” I asked, stroking Merlot. But he wasn’t purring. He was in protection mode, I decided. So why wasn’t I afraid? This visit simply seemed odd and somehow sad.

  “Yes, why drug me? I am a very generous person in my community. I believed, perhaps wrongly, that I am well liked by the town folk and by the people in my home. And yet this happened. I even called my friend Nancy, who is now the chief of police. She came over, was quite concerned, and yet she seems to have doubts about whether I was even sedated. She said at times, as we age, we have to manage the world differently. We become forgetful and a tad clumsy.”

  “Did that upset you?” I said.

  Ritaestelle said, “What bothered me most was that though Nancy can be quite abrupt, that day she was oversolicitous. She is never that kind, so I was, shall we say, confused—or more confused than those drugs were making me. She offered me the name of a doctor. I already have a doctor, and she knew as much.”

  Today, in the park, I had seen Nancy Shelton’s concern for her friend firsthand. “Maybe she thought you weren’t getting the best care,” I said.

  “I did not need a doctor visit or any more caretakers. I was feeling absolutely fine before someone put drugs in my tea.” Ritaestelle glanced toward the ceiling briefly. “Is sabotage the correct word? Perhaps subversion is better.”

  I took a deep breath, making sure not to look at her outfit, but rather kept my gaze on the amazingly flawless skin on her face. The wealthy certainly can afford the best skin care. And like Scarlett O’Hara, she’d probably protected herself all her life from the damaging summer sun. “I hate to be forward,” I said, “but have you been seen by your doctor, Miss Longworth?”

  She smiled again. “Please call me Ritaestelle, remember? I see you have your doubts about me as well. Your lovely green eyes tell me as much. Are they green . . . or gray?”

  “Depends on what I’m wearing,” I said with a smile.

  “To answer your question, yes. Burton, my personal physician for more than thirty years, came to the house about three weeks ago. He said he thought I might be suffering from a virus, wanted me to come to the office for laboratory tests and perhaps go to the hospital for an MRI of my brain. I was having none of that, let me tell you. I am as healthy as a horse.”

  “But you could have a medical problem,” I said.

  Her shoulders stiffened. “Nonsense. I am being drugged, and I want you to help me prove it.”

  That shut me up for a few seconds. Then I said, “Why me?”

  “If an old friend who happens to be a police officer refuses to assist me, who am I to turn to? Besides, you, my dear, are trustworthy. A heroine. And I suspect you know where my cat is. You came to my house to talk about Isis, of that much I am sure. Her disappearance is a major concern—that and the sabotage. I do not understand where she has gone. She would never leave me willingly.”

  No, not willingly, I thought. Being shoved out the door couldn’t have been something Isis liked one bit. Until I learned more, I decided Ritaestelle shouldn’t know that her cat was hiding somewhere in my house. Cats understand when they are in trouble. And they are smart enough to trust their instincts and hide from that trouble. The fact that Isis had not made an appearance told me a little something about Ritaestelle. Still, if the poor woman had been drugged as she claimed, that might explain why she’d thrown her cat outside; maybe she’d been in a state of confusion. But did it explain the shoplifting? Ritaestelle hadn’t spoken about that.

  I said, “I confess that I am aware your cat is missing. However—”

  A loud and mournful meow echoed down the hall behind us.

  “What was that?” Ritaestelle rose from her chair, groaning with the effort. She turned in the direction of the hallway. “Is she here? Is my Isis here? Because that most certainly sounded like her.” She turned back to me, her calm facade gone. “Why did you keep this from me?”

  There was no getting around Isis’s presence now. Ritaestelle’s Southern charm had evaporated like so much steam. She was angry—and I didn’t blame her. Isis didn’t come out to greet her mistress because she was probably trapped somewhere.

  Was she stuck in the sewing cabinet again? Or had she gotten caught in a bureau drawer? These were unfamiliar surroundings, so she could definitely be trapped. “I’m sorry for not telling you about Isis right away. But I can explain,” I said. “Can you wait here for a second while I find her?”

  “You do have her, then? Oh, good gracious, thank the Lord.” Her anger melted away, and all that I now saw in her body language was relief. “Show me where she is.” She stepped toward the hallway and in the direction of the now insistent meows.

  “Please. You’re having trouble with your hip. Let me bring her to you.”

  “I respect the privacy of your home, so I will wait here, but do please bring her to me,” she said.

  I
hurried past her toward the other part of the house. Ritaestelle may have been troubled, but she obviously loved her cat. Nothing heals a soul better than a furry friend. And she could definitely use some healing.

  I stopped in the quilting room first, Merlot on my heels. No Isis. And no Chablis or Syrah either. I understood then that if I found my two cats, I’d find Isis.

  Another pitiful meow came from my bedroom. Ah. That was where they were. I hurried down the hall and found Syrah and Chablis sitting outside my closet. I’d closed the door—and unknowingly closed in Isis. But the bawling had stopped, and when I opened the door, Isis didn’t come streaking out as I’d expected.

  I flipped on the light. My closet is a large walk-in, and L shaped. Now I heard a pitiful mewl coming from around the corner where I’d stored extra cat quilts and several boxes of John’s things—photos and a few personal items I would never part with.

  “Come here, Isis,” I said softly. “I promise I won’t tap you on the nose or squirt you with coffee.” Oh, I was definitely feeling guilty now.

  I walked slowly toward her soft meows. But when I found her, I had to cover my mouth to keep from breaking into laughter. The goddess was surely embarrassed by her predicament, and I didn’t want to make her feel worse.

  Isis had climbed into a basket—one that had come with a floral arrangement, I’m sure. It was dark-colored wicker with a handle—and much too small for her. And yet she’d managed to squeeze into it and now obviously couldn’t get out.

  I knelt and realized at once that she’d squirmed so much, she’d managed to wedge herself into that basket. I couldn’t even get my hands around her body to get her out. This would require a dismantling of the basket.

  “Wait right here, oh brilliant one.” Like she was actually able to move anywhere. I do like to offer hope in these situations, however; this was the kind of problem my own cats had made me familiar with.

  I hurried back down the hall to my quilting room, where there were plenty of tools to be found. I called out to Ritaestelle that I would be right with her, Isis in tow, and then gathered a small needle-nose pliers (excellent for pulling stuck needles through layers of a quilt), my large sheers and a seam ripper.

  Taking my arsenal with me, I allowed myself a laugh and even picked up my phone from my nightstand. I had to get a picture of this first.

  With all this going on, I’d have thought my own three cats would be following the action, but they must have decided Ritaestelle needed company. After I snapped a photo of Isis in all her glory, I worked away at one handle of the less than top quality basket. I used the pliers to pull away some of the wicker that attached the handle to the basket. I realized the sheers were too big for the job and ended up using the seam ripper to tear away the wicker strips. After maybe five minutes, I lifted one side of the handle toward Isis’s back and then up and away.

  Silly thing just sat there and looked up at me, as helpless as, well . . . a kitten. I gently reached under her and lifted her up and out of her tiny prison. How had she ever managed to get in there in the first place?

  I held her close, which she didn’t seem to mind at all. I left the basket and my tools on the floor, picked up my phone and off we went for the reunion. I was betting Isis would be more than ecstatic to see her “mom” after this latest experience.

  But when I got to the living room, Isis purring away in my arms, the chair where Ritaestelle had been sitting was empty. Then my protector cat Merlot let out one of his loud, deep-throated meows—the ones I rarely hear. He was in the kitchen.

  Had Ritaestelle gone for more water and fallen again? If so, I sure couldn’t see her in there. I rushed around the counter, and the smell of the humid night air greeted me at once.

  The back door was open.

  Merlot and Syrah were sitting on the stoop, and Syrah’s ears were twitching like crazy. That was always a sign that something was wrong.

  “Ritaestelle?” I called, joining my two cats at the back door.

  From somewhere down near the lake I heard her call, “Here. I am down here. We need help.”

  I heard the panic in her voice, but I couldn’t see anything except the giant black silhouettes of the huge trees on my sloping back lawn.

  I turned on the lights and saw her then.

  What was she doing on the dock? What was she holding?

  I got a taste of my own heart about then. Chablis wasn’t here with the other cats. Had she gone down to the lake? And why was the back door open in the first place?

  I had enough sense to shut the door before I set Isis down. I didn’t want her racing off to find another highway. After making sure she and my two boys didn’t get outside, I slipped out into the night.

  I keep a pair of Crocs on the back deck and put them on before I ran down toward the water to the sound of Ritaestelle’s pleas for me to hurry.

  But I ran a little too fast. The pine needles were damp with dew, and I fell on my rear. I hadn’t realized I was still clinging to my phone, but it went flying out of my hand somewhere to my right. I scrambled to my feet and made it to the dock. Ritaestelle’s face was so pale in the moonlight, so fraught with terror, that I swallowed hard. Especially when I realized she had Chablis under one arm. And it looked like she held a rock in her other hand.

  “Help us. Help her,” Ritaestelle said. She looked down into the water.

  I followed her gaze.

  The lake lapped against the riprap, a sound I’d always found soothing. But the sight of the woman facedown in the water, her lifeless body swaying with each small wave, was anything but soothing.

  Ten

  I scrambled to the shore, climbed over the low metal corrugated retaining wall, and carefully stepped on the stones that led to the water. I squatted and reached out for the woman’s outstretched arms. I could touch only her hands, but they were still warm.

  She might be alive.

  “Hurry, Jillian. Hurry,” I muttered as my heart pounded wildly.

  I waded into the tepid water, and as I fought to turn the woman over, I looked up at Ritaestelle. “My phone. I lost it up there somewhere. Please find it.” I turned my head in the direction she should go.

  “Oh, dear sweet Jesus. I will try my best.” Ritaestelle must have dropped the rock she’d been holding because I heard something hit the dock and plunk into the water.

  I struggled with the woman’s slippery and surprisingly heavy body. She was such a small person, and yet turning her over seemed almost impossible. But I finally flipped her face up. Then I positioned myself at her head, grasped her beneath her armpits and began to drag her out of the water. I glimpsed at Ritaestelle, who was slowly making her way down from the dock and up onto the lawn.

  I hauled the woman onto the riprap, worrying about tearing up her back on the rocks. Then I pressed two fingers to her neck and felt for a pulse. Nothing.

  I smoothed sopping hair away from her face.

  And stared into the wide eyes of Evie Preston.

  Those eyes and her slack jaw confirmed what I feared. I was probably too late.

  I fought back tears, thinking that I couldn’t give up. I turned her head to the side and emptied her mouth of water. Then I did the CPR I’d learned in a class right after John died—was I even doing it right?—until my shoulders and arms burned. But she didn’t suddenly gasp for breath like on television. Evie Preston, who couldn’t be more than thirty years old, was dead.

  I shook my head sadly and stood. How I wished I’d gotten to her sooner. She might have had a chance.

  Her body was secure enough on the riprap that I decided I could leave her and find my phone. Still, it felt wrong to abandon her by the lake. No one should be alone in death.

  Ritaestelle was limping in circles on the pine needles, Chablis clutched to her chest. She’d never find my phone. I had to do what needed to be done, even if fear and sadness wanted to take control.

  As I closed in on Ritaestelle and Chablis, I saw that Ritaestelle was crying. Out of br
eath after the struggle to save poor Evie, I stood heaving, my hands on my hips. I was completely soaked, and my knees stung from kneeling on the rocks. I felt like I was in shock. But there was no time for that. I had to call the police.

  Chablis made eye contact with me, and then her lids slowly closed and opened again. She seemed perfectly calm amid the swirling emotions brought on by this tragic death. It was as if Chablis knew she had a job to do—comfort a woman she didn’t even know.

  “Just hang on to the cat, and I’ll find the phone,” I said after I caught my breath enough to speak. I squinted in the dim light cast by my deck and back-door lights, searching for the spot where I’d fallen on the way down to the lake. Sure enough, the place where I’d skidded was evident in the pine needles just a few feet ahead. I got down on all fours and felt around where I thought the phone had probably landed. Seconds later, I picked up my cell and dialed 911.

  I had to stay on the line until the police arrived, but in the meantime, I helped Ritaestelle up the slope while she protested the whole time that we had to help Evie, that Evie shouldn’t be left alone. We stopped at the stairs that led up to my deck, and I told Ritaestelle to stay put. Then I dragged a lawn chair down from the deck and helped her sit.

  Ritaestelle looked up at me, terror evident in her eyes. “Did I drown her?”

  I pressed the phone against my chest so the dispatcher couldn’t hear me. “Don’t talk about what happened now. Wait for the police.”

  “But I—”

  I put a finger to my lips. “Shh.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. More tears escaped.

  Seconds later the cavalry arrived.

  Leading the charge was Candace, still dressed in the same shorts and cotton shirt she’d been wearing when she left my place not long ago. Two night-duty uniformed Mercy officers, a couple of paramedics carrying a stretcher, and Billy Cranor, a volunteer fireman, were right behind her.

  I disconnected from the dispatcher and pointed toward the lake. “She’s down there on the riprap, but—”