Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

“My shorthand. Keep reading,” Candace said.

“There’s not much left . . . just a few words, but—” I raised my fingers to my lips but couldn’t stifle my “Oh boy.”

“What?” Candace said insistently.

“You wrote: Justine claims jewelry hidden behind a dresser in Ritaestelle’s bedroom is hers .”

My time with Candace was up, and I had to be escorted out of the ICU, perhaps not so much because of the time limit, but because Candace got cranky when she was told I had to leave. The person who took my arm and led me to the double doors said Candace’s blood pressure had jumped during our conversation and maybe I shouldn’t come back. Guess they were monitoring her the whole time I was talking to her. I certainly didn’t want to cause her harm or have anything delay her release from the hospital. Nope, I didn’t mind leaving.

As I left, I wondered how many other things that didn’t belong to Ritaestelle had been found in her room. Would Mike tell me? Probably not. But I had a feeling Muriel would be more than happy to fill Tom and me in when we visited the mansion for our own interviews.

After I said good-bye to Belinda, Tom and I left for the Longworth Estate. We arrived thirty minutes later. Tom whistled in awe at the magnificent landscape and majestic house after we parked.

“I see Nancy Shelton is here,” I said as we walked up to those huge front doors.

“How do you know?” Tom used the brass door knocker to announce our presence.

I gestured at the car parked on the curving drive. “That’s her unmarked police car. I’d recognize it anywhere.”

“That you would, you minivan speed demon,” Tom said with a smile.

George Robertson admitted us a few seconds later. I didn’t have to talk my way inside this time, because Ritaestelle had called ahead and told George to allow us “full access” to her home.

Mr. Robertson said he’d assemble the family, that they were all at home and talking with Chief Shelton.

“We’d like to talk to you, first, Mr. Robertson, and then each family member in this order.” Tom handed the man a list he’d pulled from the pocket of his khakis. “Is there someplace private?”

“Of course, and I am happy to help any way I can, but first, though, is Miss Ritaestelle doing okay? I miss her.”

“Her hip seems to be healing well,” I said. “She’s hardly limping anymore.”

“Good news. Come this way.” Mr. Robertson waved a thin hand as he walked ahead of us down that blockpaneled hallway. As we followed, he said, “How is—well, it’s probably none of my business—but how’s her mind? I’ve been worried.”

“Her mind is sharp. Sharp as a between,” I said.

“A between?” Tom said.

“Sorry. Sharp as a quilting needle,” I said. “Those little needles that make tiny stitches are called ‘betweens.’ ”

“Ah. I understand. She is sharp—that’s for sure.” Mr. Robertson stopped at a polished door with an ornate shiny knob and opened it so we could enter.

This room did not have a view of the big gardens like the library, where I’d met with Evie, did. In fact, there was only one window to the left that looked out on a small circular patch of brilliant-colored pansies. What drew me the most, however, was a stone fireplace with bronze life-size cat sculptures on either side of the hearth.

Two burgundy leather wing chairs faced each other in front of the fireplace. An inlaid round oak table sat between the two chairs. On the other side of the room was a Victorian sofa upholstered in gold and cream brocade stripes. Bookshelves lined the walls, and Renaissance-type artwork that was probably very pricey hung on the walls.

Though the room was elegant and tasteful, I felt uncomfortable. The atmosphere was almost sterile. But then I imagined Ritaestelle sitting in front of that fireplace, perhaps reading a book, and I began to relax. She was the heart of this house and no doubt brought the warmth. She needed to come back—and we had to make that possible.

Mr. Robertson pointed to the wing chairs. “Have a seat, if you like.”

We did, and Tom pulled a small recorder from his pocket. “Do you mind if I tape our conversation?”

“I don’t mind. You might not get the okay from all the folks who live here, though.” Mr. Robertson stood to our left, hands behind his back. He apparently did not intend to drag a chair from another room and sit down for a friendly chat.

“I understand you were here yesterday when the Mercy police officers came,” Tom said.

“I’m always here,” he said, “unless Miss Ritaestelle sends me on an errand. Since she’s staying with you, Mrs. Hart, my responsibility is to keep the household running.”

“Because the folks who live here aren’t too good at that, are they?” I said.

Mr. Robertson hung his head. “They don’t know how. Never tried to learn, neither.” He looked up, and I saw that his eyes were moist with tears. “That’s been hard on Miss Ritaestelle. Carrying the load all these years. She won’t mind me saying that. She told me to be honest, to not keep secrets. Miss Ritaestelle fears for her life, and that’s got to end.”

“She said she fears for her life?” Tom asked.

“Not in so many words, but I saw it in her eyes those last few days she was here,” he said. “That’s why she took off the other night. Someone in this house is doing harm by spreading lies. Pity after all she’s done for them.”

“Have you been keeping secrets?” I said.

“I guess I have. Mostly about the way Miss Ritaestelle changed these last few months,” he said. “She wouldn’t want people to know how she’s been stumbling around in the night. How she lost her cat after she fell asleep. She loves that cat with all her heart, and I don’t care what anyone in this house says, she’d never, not never , throw Isis outside.”

I shifted in the less than comfortable chair. “I’d heard that’s what happened. But you don’t believe it?”

“No, ma’am. Could have been Miss Justine who said it. But when I asked her, Miss Justine didn’t have no answers. She spends way too much time playing solitaire in her room to know much of any goings-on in this house. That’s why I think she’s not being honest.”

“My friend Shawn Cuddahee says he called several times trying to talk to Ritaestelle about Isis,” I said. “No one returned his calls. It seemed to him as if no one cared.”

“No one cared but Miss Ritaestelle—that’s for sure. One thing I don’t do is answer the telephone,” Mr. Robertson said. “But if I’d known someone found that cat, I’d have gone right out and brought her back here. Miss Ritaestelle was so upset and crying over her Isis, and not one of these people here tried to help. Not until you showed up, Mrs. Hart.”

“Not even Evie?” Tom asked.

Mr. Robertson looked at him. “Miss Preston was caught up in her work. She called it putting out fires for Miss Ritaestelle. Every time we turned around, something silly turned up in Miss Ritaestelle’s room. One time it was a big old bag of rubber bands. With Isis wanting to eat any rubber band she ever saw, Miss Ritaestelle would never bring something like that into her room.”

Tom said, “What does that have to do with Miss Preston putting out fires ?”

“People in town was saying Miss Ritaestelle stole all these things,” he answered. “The police chief and Miss Preston did their best to cover it up by returning whatever Hildie or Muriel or Augusta would turn up, but word was out that Miss Ritaestelle was losing her mind. Miss Preston’s job was to make sure she maintained the Longworth reputation.”