Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

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 breath 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—”

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.”