Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

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?”