Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

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.

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.”

“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.