Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

“Miss Longworth claimed to have taken the broom outside to use as a cane, but what if she took it to use as a weapon? Have you considered that possibility?”

“Kara,” I said sharply, “she couldn’t have planned on her cat causing the delay in my getting back to the living room. Besides, the woman could hardly walk. I honestly have no idea how she made it down to the dock. And aren’t you speculating now, and not merely confirming what the police told you?”

Her features softened. “I am. Sorry. Let me ask you this. Did you get any hint when you were visiting with the woman that she was nervous, upset, that something terrible had happened before you let her in?”

“No. She was as calm as I’d expect any person who’d just fled their home in fear would be. Her robe was clean when I let her in and—wait a minute. The cars.” Morris had mentioned both a Cadillac and a Ford when he came out to the backyard and talked to us last night.

Tom said, “What are you thinking?”

“When you walked Lydia outside, where were all the cars parked? Because if Evie followed Ritaestelle here, her Ford would have been parked behind Ritaestelle’s Cadillac,” I said.

“The Caddy was in your driveway, but that’s it. I parked on the street along with everyone else. Morris was dusting a Ford Focus’s doors for prints—and it was on the side of the road. I’m assuming that car belonged to Evie Preston.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I saw that Ford Morris talked about. When I went to get Candace’s evidence kit, it was parked on the road then, too. None of the police would have moved it, would they?”

Kara said, “I doubt it, but I’ll ask.”

“Kara, please listen. I promise you that if Ritaestelle was killing Evie out on my dock before she ever knocked on my front door, my cats—well, Merlot and Syrah, anyway—would have been at that window seat. They always check out strange goings-on—even if it’s a moth fluttering around. Besides, why would that . . . that possible altercation between Evie and Ritaestelle have happened here?” But I was thinking about Merlot. About him pacing, checking out what I had assumed were insects flitting outside. But what if he’d heard something? Heard Evie Preston out there. Was that why he’d seemed so nervous?

“We might not yet understand why Evie or Ritaestelle came here, and we don’t know much about their relationship, either,” Tom said. “They could have had a nasty history. But you’re right about the cats. They may not be as good as a watchdog, but I’ve seen them pay attention to even small noises coming from outside. Of course, convincing the police that your cats’ behavior is important is a different story.”

Kara smiled. “I don’t think you can sell that one—even to Candace. Anyway, thanks for giving me some excellent questions to ask the police. If the Ford was moved, that might prove to be important.”

Tom said. “I wonder if they found Evie Preston’s cell phone. I’m sure she had one.”

“Could be underwater,” I said.

“If so, that will be a problem,” Tom said. “A little bit of water or a phone being briefly submerged can often be fixed and the data retrieved. But overnight? Nope. And phone calls these days are invaluable to the police in establishing a timeline. If Evie made any recent calls, perhaps one that came after Ritaestelle arrived here, then—”

“Funny you should be talking about her,” came a voice from behind us.

I turned and saw Mike Baca standing in the kitchen. “I’ve just spoken to the doctor, and Miss Longworth wants to see you, Jillian. Would you mind coming with us to the hospital? She says she’ll talk to us if you’re there.”

I closed my eyes. I was in this up to my eyeballs. And all because of a narcissistic black cat.

The county hospital was a half-hour drive, even though it’s only fifteen miles away. That was because only a two-lane road goes from my place to the hospital. Tom and Kara agreed to stay at the house—Kara, I’m certain, because she wanted to learn as much as she could from the assistant DA and Deputy Martinez. Morris, meanwhile, had asked Tom to go over my security-camera footage, since I have several cameras that watch over my house near the windows. Tom installed them after Syrah was catnapped last fall. Even though it was doubtful they’d find anything of use, no stone could be left unturned.

Stone. That noise out on the dock, I thought, as Police Chief Shelton, Mike and I got out of Mike’s Mercy PD SUV in the hospital parking lot. Had Ritaestelle dropped that rock into the lake last night on purpose? And if she was about to confess to murder, why did she want me present?

But I wouldn’t be asking her that question. I was told not to ask her anything, to just sit quietly. Ritaestelle apparently wanted support, and that was what I would offer. No one had to force me to do that. She needed a friend right now.

As we took the elevator up to her third-floor hospital room, I wondered if she so distrusted all those people who lived with her that she’d invited a virtual stranger for support. If so, that was as heartrending as when a person moves away and leaves his or her cat behind—something that happened all the time, according to Shawn.

We walked side by side down the corridor to Ritaestelle’s room, the disinfectant smells surrounding us making my already queasy stomach protest even more. I glanced over and saw that Mike carried an eight-by-ten leather-covered notebook, but Shelton was the one who appeared most official. Her navy suit, her stiff demeanor, everything about her seemed to say, “I’m really the one in charge.”

Mike rapped on Ritaestelle’s door and didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. Five people, three women and two men, were clustered around the bed. I recognized only Augusta—the woman who had been with Ritaestelle when she’d fallen the other day.

“I thought she wasn’t supposed to have visitors,” I heard Shelton whisper to Mike. But then she smiled and said, “Look here at all of you. How’s our patient?”

Ritaestelle’s gaze locked on me, and she held out both hands. I slid between these strangers and took her hands in mine. She squeezed, and her bony fingers were ice-cold.

“Jillian, you dear woman,” she said. “To come here after all I’ve laid on your doorstep. I want to say that I will never forget your kindness and hospitality. How is my precious Isis? Not causing too much upheaval, I hope?”

“Isis is fine,” I said, wondering why she was talking about hospitality when I’d arrived with two bigwig police officers right behind me prepared to grill her. But maybe her little speech was intended for the other people in the room.

“Let me introduce my friends and family,” Ritaestelle began. “You have seen my cousin Augusta at my home.”

Augusta nodded, her hands clasped beneath her large chest.

Ritaestelle said, “Muriel here is her sister, and—”

“I’m your cousin, too, Ritaestelle,” the woman with cherry red hair said.

“You are indeed, Muriel.” Ritaestelle gestured at a thin woman and a man about my age standing beside her. “Justine was my late brother’s wife, and this is Farley, his son.” She looked pointedly at Muriel. “My nephew.”

“Excuse me, Ritaestelle,” Shelton said. “We have a serious situation. We need your visitors to leave.” By her tone, she might as well have added, “This isn’t Sunday brunch at your estate.”

“And why must we leave?” the older gentleman who hadn’t been introduced said. He placed a hand on Ritaestelle’s shoulder.

He had thick white hair, faded blue eyes and a smile that baffled me. It seemed pleasant enough. But there was disingenuousness there. I had the feeling something else was going on between him and Chief Shelton. His body language—chin lifted and cold stare—had me thinking he was in control rather than the police.