Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

“Why, it’s simply a figure of speech, Augusta.” Muriel clasped her hands in her lap, looking insulted.

“I believe this is Ritaestelle’s business,” Augusta said. “Though I suppose there is a concern that she will be that much closer to the police officers investigating poor Evie’s death. Being here in Mercy provides such easy access, while if we were at home, we could protect her while she’s healing.” She tilted her head and focused her deep brown eyes on Ritaestelle. “Does that bother you, Ritaestelle? The hovering police presence?”

Smart lady, I thought. And the way Augusta talked, she could have been Ritaestelle’s twin—not just in her manner of speech, but even the tone of her voice.

Ritaestelle was stroking a purring Isis. “Since I firmly believe someone in my circle of friends and family drugged me, where do you think I feel more protected, Augusta?”

“Are you accusing me—or us—of doing you harm?” Augusta’s turn to sound offended.

“Yes, are you, Ritaestelle? Because that’s an awful thing to say,” Muriel chimed in.

I was sitting on the couch between Kara and Ritaestelle, and when I started to speak, Kara tapped my foot with hers. I’d hoped to interrupt this argument with some sort of distraction, but Kara obviously wanted their spat to play out. Maybe that was best, but it sure made the muscles at the back of my neck tighten. I set down my glass of tea, leaned back and kept my mouth shut.

“What I believe about the two of you, whether you have involved yourselves in nefarious behavior or not, is of no consequence until I am apprised of the facts,” Ritaestelle said. “And the facts will come out, ladies. You can trust me on that, because this woman here”—she patted the space between us—“will find the answers.”

Muriel and Augusta looked at me like I was a twoheaded snake. But perhaps it was the other way around. Maybe they were the two-head snake. I stared at them and blinked, much as one of my cats might have done.

Kara leaned around me and spoke to Ritaestelle. “You seem to have great faith in Jillian. Why is that?”

“Excellent question, Kara,” Ritaestelle said. “May I ask you a question that might provide an answer? Did your stepmother prove to be heroic in extricating you from a difficult situation in the past?”

Kara nodded. “She did.”

“Is she a kind, generous woman who believes in the truth?” Ritaestelle went on.

Kara said, “Yes, but—”

“I believe you have your answer,” she said with a smile. This was said in an extra-polite way, and yet I had no doubt that Ritaestelle knew exactly what she wanted and no one would obstruct her path. Her idea to stay with me was all part of the plan. I sure hoped she would let me in on her reasoning when we were alone.

Muriel and Augusta left after thirty minutes of squabbling about everything from the weather to the need for Hildie, their housekeeper, to polish the wood floors back at the “estate.” Both of them had to use “the ladies’ ” as they called it, so that took at least fifteen more minutes before I could usher them out.

I felt tired when I closed the door after them. And a little sad. They’d mentioned Evie once, and only when Ritaestelle asked if they knew when the services would be. They didn’t. Probably hadn’t even thought about it.

But if I was tired, Ritaestelle had definitely perked up. She said, “I cannot tell you how sorely I have needed a respite from those two. If only I could have come here under better circumstances. When this is over, I intend to take a vacation with Desmond—as far away from Woodcrest as I can get.”

“Desmond?” Kara said. She’d moved over to her father’s recliner, where Muriel had been seated.

“Desmond Holloway,” Ritaestelle said. “He is a dear friend, has been for many years. I am so glad he has returned to his roots.”

“His roots?” I asked.

“Yes. He came to Woodcrest when he was a young man. He was a Realtor and came to know everyone in town,” Ritaestelle said.

“But he never went to school with you—like Nancy Shelton and Ed Duffy did, for instance?” I said.

“Are you curious or suspicious, Jillian? Because I can assure you that Desmond is harmless. When he left town to ‘see the world,’ he was missed. He can be a very entertaining gentleman.”

She cared about him—more than she cared about her own relatives. Somehow that seemed sad. “Would you like more tea?” I asked, glancing back and forth between Kara and Ritaestelle. I could tell Kara wasn’t asking about Desmond just to be polite. She wanted a story. Maybe—hopefully—I’d interrupted her, at least for a while. After all, Ritaestelle had just gotten out of the darn hospital.

“My dear Jillian, if I drank anything more, I might float away as if I were riding a wave on your beautiful lake,” Ritaestelle said. “But if the offer for a snack still stands, I would appreciate one.”

“Cheese and crackers?” I rose.

She nodded. “Anything, dear.”

“Tell me about Desmond,” Kara said. “I saw a sparkle in your eye when you spoke about him.”

I went into the kitchen, with three cats on my heels. Isis remained in Ritaestelle’s lap. I should have known it was futile to stand between Kara and a story.

“You are discerning, Miss Kara. Just like your stepmother. But Desmond is simply a friend these days. Years ago, it might have been a different story. We might have married, had children, but he was a bit of a philanderer.” Ritaestelle’s voice quavered a little. “He returned only two months ago.”

I wondered if Desmond was the reason she’d never married. Had he been the love of her life? Had she turned Ed away for Desmond?

As I sliced cheddar on a cheese board, I heard Kara say, “But you want to go on vacation with this philanderer ?”

“Why not?” she said. “He’s without adequate funds—same as he was back in the day—so he needs a friend like me to take him around the world. And I am foolish enough to enjoy his company, even knowing his character is not completely stellar.”

Kara laughed. “You seem to know exactly what you want.”

“I suppose that’s true to a point. But why are all my relatives still living with me? Because that is not truly what I want. Obligation gets in the way of want too much, I fear.”

I added a row of crackers to the cheese board and carried it out to the living room. I set the dish on the coffee table in front of Ritaestelle. I gave both her and Kara napkins thinking that this conversation was getting interesting, and maybe Kara’s questions weren’t all simply because she wanted a story. Maybe she did want to get to know Ritaestelle better.

But the doorbell interrupted any further questions. I saw Lydia Monk through the peephole and stifled a groan. Not her again. At least Tom wasn’t here this time.

I opened the door and said, “Hi, Lydia. The police have all left, so—”

She pushed by me and came inside. “I didn’t see his car. Where is he?” Her burnt orange T-shirt had beading and pearls around the V-neck. She wore white capris and strappy wedge-style sandals. Lots of cleavage showing today, so she must have dressed expecting to find Tom here.

“Who are you talking about?” Playing innocent with her was about the only way to deal with her delusions.

“Never mind. I heard that woman is staying with you. What’s with that?” she said.

“I offered to help Ritaestelle out until she feels better,” I said.

“I came to talk to her.” Lydia strode past me into the living room. But Kara drew her attention first, and she pointed at her. “You. Out of here. I need to talk to the, um . . . witness without you hanging around.”