All of them took off before I could finish, with Candace yelling, “Stay left. Avoid that path you see down the center of those pine needles.”
Candace, my wonderful evidence preserver.
Deputy Morris Ebeling, also in street clothes, came strolling around the corner of my house a few seconds later. Nothing short of the apocalypse would make Morris hurry.
“What the hell you been up to now, Jillian?” he said. “You look pretty messed up.”
I was wet, and I glanced down at my scraped knees, which were plastered with wet pine needles. They didn’t hurt. I felt numb.
He noticed Ritaestelle then, still weeping, still clinging to my cat. He sighed heavily and took a small notebook from his shirt pocket. “Who we got here? The owner of the Caddy or the owner of the Ford?”
Must be like a parking lot out there now, I thought. When Ritaestelle said nothing, I decided to tell Morris what he wanted to know. But I only got out, “This is—” before he interrupted.
“What? She can’t talk?” Morris eyed me like a stern father. He had to be twenty years older than me, so he was old enough to my father.
“Yes, sir, I can most certainly talk,” Ritaestelle said quietly. She was hanging on to Chablis for dear life. “The Cadillac is mine, and I am Ritaestelle Longworth of Woodcrest. This tragedy, however, has nothing to do with this kind lady.”
“Well, I’m Mercy police deputy Morris Ebeling. And seeing as how everyone’s hoverin’ over a body down by the water in Jillian Hart’s backyard, I disagree that this here has nothin’ to do with her. Are you that Ritaestelle Longworth from Woodcrest who lives in a house big enough to be a church?”
Ritaestelle nodded.
“I knew your brother before he passed on,” Morris said. “He done right by me at a bad time in my life, so I guess I’ll return the favor by doing right by you.” Morris squatted so he was at eye level with Ritaestelle. In the gentlest voice—one I never knew he even could find—he said, “You want to tell me how you got that blood on your hands?”
My eyes widened when I saw what he had noticed and I had not. She did have blood on her hands, and Chablis had blood on her champagne fur. Guess fear and desperation blur such details. The smears of rusty red made my stomach turn over.
“B-but she drowned,” I said. “I never saw any blood on—”
Morris glared at me, bushy eyebrows raised. I got the message.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll be quiet.”
“Thank you, Jillian,” Morris said through tight lips. “You’ll get your turn, and I cannot wait to hear what you have to say.”
He turned his attention back to Ritaestelle. “You want to tell me about the blood?”
Ritaestelle lifted her chin. “If you knew my brother, then you know what Farley is whispering in my ear right now. He’s telling me not to say a word.”
“Yeah. Lawyers are like that.” Morris offered up a small, genial laugh. “Don’t say nothing to nobody. That’s their deal. But see, Miss Longworth, that’s not always best. You tell me what happened, and I promise, I’ll help you.”
Why did I want to scream at her not to say anything? A young woman was dead, Ritaestelle had blood on her hands and yet something put me squarely on Ritaestelle’s side. Was that because she’d come to me for help? No . . . it was something about me I’d learned to respect in the last year: my intuition. I sensed that this lady had done nothing worse than leave her house in her bathrobe.
“I do appreciate your concern, Officer, and your sincere wish to assist me in this most difficult time, but I would appreciate a few moments to consider these events. A young woman who was in my employ has died in a most tragic fashion. I am very troubled, very saddened.”
“Can you at least get over your grief long enough to tell me her name?” The old Morris was back and in familiar irritable form. He poised a small pencil over a notebook page.
“Evie Preston.” Ritaestelle’s lower lip began to tremble, and tears again slid down her cheeks. She turned to me. “What will I ever tell her mother?”
“I believe the police will notify her family,” I said.
“But she worked for me. I am responsible for her,” Ritaestelle said.
“Be responsible enough to tell me what happened if you care that much,” Morris said, his tone downright nasty now. “And since you seem worried about talking without a lawyer, you don’t have to tell me nothin’ and you can have a mouthpiece sittin’ next to you if that’s what you want. I won’t go into that crap about if you can’t afford a lawyer,’cause we know that ain’t the case.”
Wow. Was that an actual Miranda warning? One that would stand up in court? And why did Morris have to sound so cold, so mean?
“You are absolutely right, Officer,” Ritaestelle said. “I need to quit sniffling like a crybaby and take responsibility here—so you can get on with the awful business of telling Evie’s mother what happened. I am quite willing to enlighten you about what I know, and I do not require a lawyer.”
I was a little confused by this turnaround on Ritaestelle’s part but didn’t have to time to consider it for long because Candace joined us.
“That’s great you want to cooperate, but first of all, we need to collect evidence,” Candace said. Everyone knew Candace was obsessed with evidence.
Morris stood. He closed his eyes and moved his head from side to side in disgust. “Aw, for crying out loud, Candy.”
Candace looked at me. “Will you get my evidence kit from my car? We’ll need photos before we take her robe. That is a robe you’re wearing, right?”
Ritaestelle looked down toward her chest. “Why, yes. But I can explain. It is not as odd as you might think.”
Oh, yes, it is, I wanted to say.
“By the way, I am Deputy Candace Carson, Mercy PD. Didn’t have time to grab my badge when I heard about all this on the scanner, but believe me, I am a peace officer. I’ve spoken with my chief, and he’s asked me to take the lead on this.” Candace glanced at Morris briefly, and I’m sure she caught his unhappy expression before he looked at the ground.
Seemed like a good time for me to leave. I took off for Candace’s car for the requested evidence kit. I’d calmed down enough that questions seemed to ricochet off the inside of my skull. Why had Ritaestelle come outside? And considering her condition, how had she made it down to the dock? What was Evie Preston doing here? And what exactly happened in the relatively short time it took me to release Isis from the mess she’d gotten herself into?
When I returned to the backyard, I handed Candace her evidence satchel. I saw that Morris was now down by the lake. Bet he was plenty miffed that Police Chief Mike Baca had handed this investigation over to Candace so quickly. But then I realized that once she’d discerned that Evie Preston had been the victim of foul play, she’d called up Mike and asked for the assignment—even though she was supposed to be on vacation.
Candace took her camera from the evidence kit first. “Please hand the cat to Jillian and stand up, Miss Longworth.”
Ritaestelle blinked several times, as if processing these directions. Then she said, “Why, certainly.”
I took Chablis from her arms. Ritaestelle struggled to get out of the lawn chair, and Candace finally had to help her stand.
Candace said, “Just put your arms out and let me photograph the bloodstains.”
Again Ritaestelle looked down at her robe, her expression puzzled. But now her eyes widened in what sure seemed like horror. “On, my sweet Jesus. I cradled Evie’s head and—”
“Miss Longworth,” Candace interrupted. “Deputy Ebeling informed me before he left us that you invoked your right to counsel and then changed your mind. Let’s be clear that you realize anything you say may be used against you in a court of law.”
“I am completely aware. I simply mentioned that my late brother would have told me not to say anything. That does not mean I intend to follow any advice Farley might offer from the grave.” Ritaestelle lifted her chin, her li
ps tight. “I will tell you anything to assist you in unearthing what happened to Evie. It is the least I can do for her now.”
Candace said, “Then will you sign a document that you have waived your rights?”
“Certainly. Your name is Deputy Carson, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Maybe we could go inside for the pictures?” I suggested. “Better lighting . . . and better footing.” I’d noticed that Ritaestelle’s slippers were gone. She needed to get inside before the fire ants found her.
Candace said, “Good idea. The deputy coroner is on her way, and we don’t want to be a distraction.” Candace eyed me.
Her look was a heads-up that I would be the distraction. Deputy Coroner Lydia Monk dislikes me intensely—mostly because she is obsessed with Tom Stewart. For some reason she thinks he’s her soul mate. Problem is, they’ve never even been on a date.
I helped Ritaestelle up the deck stairs and opened the back door. I should have anticipated the three cats that would be waiting there. When Isis took off like a speed demon toward the lake, Merlot and Syrah followed.
I shoved Chablis back in Ritaestelle’s arms and shot after them.
Eleven
As I ran down the sloping lawn, I heard Candace shout, “Cats coming. Protect the evidence.”
Like you could protect anything, especially evidence, from a cat.
I saw Billy Cranor race up from the shore toward the three escapees, his fireman suspenders flapping at his waist. Isis managed to elude him and headed for a pine tree. A declawed cat—not my favorite subject, the declawing—can climb trees. But Isis apparently never practiced her technique. She made it about six feet up the trunk but couldn’t hang on. Billy grabbed her.
Meanwhile, after a futile attempt to avoid the path that Candace so desperately wanted us to stay away from, I reached the spot where my two had stopped to enjoy the outdoors before their inevitable capture. Syrah began furiously digging around in the pine needles, and I wondered if there was a mouse or chipmunk hiding under there. Merlot, knowing he was in trouble, decided to surrender by lying down and offering me his belly.
Billy said, “Can you handle those two while I take this one back to the house?”
“Indeed I can. Mine know better. The one you’ve got has never been taught the rules.” I knelt by Merlot and scratched his head. “Lying on your back, huh? What a pathetic ploy.” I scooped him up, and this got Syrah’s attention. The jealousy factor is never completely obliterated when it comes to my three, even by an adventure like this. I said, “Come on. In the house where you belong.”
Syrah raced ahead toward the back door—I swear he understands every word I say. Merlot began to purr. He’s too big for me to carry around on any regular basis, so he was especially enjoying this trip up to the house. I again tried to avoid the more worn path, but Billy hadn’t even bothered. This race and chase probably hadn’t helped Candace’s evidence collection efforts any either.
Before I made it back to the house, Morris Ebeling marched past me, his strides amazingly energetic. “Candy radioed for a Miranda waiver form and an evidence sack. Do I look like her errand boy?”
I knew better than to offer a reply, even a sympathetic one. I climbed the deck steps and opened the door carefully, in case Isis was free and decided to take off again. Syrah, who had been patiently waiting, slipped into the house first and scampered inside to who knows where. I’m sure he hoped to avoid the scolding I’d been giving Merlot.
Billy stood in the kitchen, still holding Isis. She was staring up at him with a look that I’ve seen on Candace’s face before: complete adoration. Did almost every female—even the nonhuman kind—find this guy irresistible?
“Thanks, Billy,” I said, setting my big cat down. Merlot decided to pretend nothing had happened and meandered over to his food dish.
“No problem. Better get back outside.” Billy offered Isis to me, but I shook my head. I wanted nothing to do with that little troublemaker right now. He put her on the floor, and she dashed off in the direction Syrah had gone. Billy went back outside, anxious no doubt, to return to the action now that he was relieved of cat duty.
Ritaestelle and Candace were seated at the dining room table, and Isis’s owner apparently didn’t see that black blur race through my living room.
I wasn’t sure if I should listen in on this interview, but with my open floor plan—the kitchen blending into the dining room and the dining room into the living room—how could I avoid hearing what they were saying? A gloved Candace solved my dilemma by waving me over.
She was clipping Ritaestelle’s fingernails. A tiny rusty pile had accumulated on a white paper towel beneath the hand Candace held. Blood still stained Ritaestelle’s hands.
“Do you have something Miss Longworth can wear?” Candace said. “Deputy Ebeling is bringing me an evidence bag large enough to hold her robe.”
“I’ll find something,” I said.
“You are such a kind person,” Ritaestelle said. “Both of you are, and I am so grateful for your assistance. You, Jillian, seem to have saved my cat yet again. But where did she go? That handsome fireman was holding her, and now they both seem to be gone.” Ritaestelle’s voice cracked, and she reached up to her forehead with her free hand—and found the curler still in her hair. She yanked it from her bangs, muttering, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. No wonder everyone believes I am as crazy as a loon.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy at all,” I said. “And Isis will come around soon. She’s a little frisky tonight, that’s all. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back with something for you to wear.”
I hurried toward the hall thinking that maybe I could corral Isis and bring her to Ritaestelle. But then I remembered that Candace would not want more cat hairs all over her evidence. Chablis had most certainly deposited a fair amount already. No, this reunion between Ritaestelle and Isis would have to wait.
I stopped at the entrance to the long hall that leads to my bedroom. Syrah and Isis were engaged in button hockey on the wood floor. The slippery surface made for a great game of paw and slide in pursuit.
Obviously the cats had no interest in murder, but I surely did. Doing CPR on a dead woman isn’t exactly something you easily forget. I shuddered as I remembered Evie’s eyes. No one deserved to die like that, and the thought of someone so young—about the same age as my stepdaughter—meeting such an end made my stomach clench.
Evie must have followed Ritaestelle here; otherwise, how had she found my house? Or was it the other way around? What if . . . ? No. I needed to put the questions aside for now.
I didn’t have much clothing that I thought would fit Ritaestelle. She wasn’t a large woman, but she definitely had more up top than me. I finally came back in the living room with one of John’s Houston Astros T-shirts, a pair of khakis that hung a little loose on me and a pair of slippers. Morris arrived with the evidence bag just as Ritaestelle finished signing the Miranda waiver.
I held up the clothes. “Best I could do.”
Ritaestelle looked up, glanced at Morris and then at Candace. “Is there somewhere a little more private where I could offer you this awful bathrobe? And you may have it, dear. I never want to see it again.”
Candace took the bag from Morris and helped Ritaestelle rise. They started slowly toward the hall and the powder room.
But I held up a hand before they could pass me. “Cats are in the hall. I’m sure you don’t want hair all over that robe, so let me close them off first.”
Ritaestelle turned a pleading gaze on Candace. “Can I hold my Isis after I change?”
“I suppose that would be all right.” Candace looked at me. “Can you hurry? I feel like I’m moving in slow motion on this case. Before the deputy coroner shows up, I want to gather as much information as possible.”
But as I herded what turned out to be all four cats into the closest room—my quilting room—I heard Lydia Monk’s voice coming from the living room. “Oh boy,” I m
uttered. I tossed the buttons they’d been playing with toward them and shut the door.
Candace must have heard the door close, because she and Ritaestelle were already heading my way. Ritaestelle’s limp was even more pronounced, and she might not want to see a doctor, but she sure needed to.
“Could you keep the deputy coroner company while Miss Longworth changes?” Candace’s tone was polite as she offered me an entreating stare.
I guessed that her words—to keep Lydia company—meant that Candace wanted me to make small talk until she and Ritaestelle returned. That wouldn’t be easy. Hello and good-bye was about all I wanted to say to Lydia. Of course, she’d want to check the house to see if Tom was hiding somewhere before she got down to the business of solving a murder.
I took a deep breath and reentered my living room. Lydia was standing near the dining room table talking with Morris. The outfit was typical for Lydia: clingy low-cut purple shirt, black skinny jeans and feather earrings that reminded me of cat toys. She had a pair of tennis shoes in her hand but still wore her black patent stiletto heels. Sheesh. Could someone grab her and do a makeover?
I cleared my throat, and she and Morris turned my way.
“Good evening, Lydia,” I said.
She smiled. Could she look any more smug? “Ah, Jillian. Here we are again investigating a murder close to you. This time in your own backyard. Sometimes I wonder about you. You just seem to attract trouble.”
“This has been a very difficult night,” I said. “Have you seen that poor young woman’s body yet? I mean, that is why you’re here.” I knew darn well she hadn’t been down to the lake yet because the tennis shoes were clean and dry.
“I know what my job is—thank you very much.” Her tone was scathing this time. “Tom around to help you wiggle out of your troubles tonight?”
There it was, as suspected. The reason she’d come inside.
“He’s not here,” I said, trying to keep my tone civil. How I wanted to remind her to get busy with what was important—investigating Evie Preston’s murder, not questioning me about Tom.
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