The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

Kara had offered me this tip, and she’d been right. Cameras can truly open doors. The butler gentleman held up a hand. “Please, ma’am. Before you take any more pictures, why not step into the foyer? I’ll talk to Miss Longworth’s assistant. I’m sure Miss Ritaestelle would like to see her home in a magazine, but you don’t want no pictures of me. She can help you better with that kinda thing.”

“Thank you,” I said, trying to hide my grin. One hurdle down. But how many more to go?

He stepped aside so I could enter, and the rich smell of polished wood met me at once. The foyer was smaller than I expected because a massive staircase took up most of the space. Rich honey-colored paneling graced the wall and followed the polished stairs upward. A ninety-degree left turn after the first few steps blocked my view of the rest of the stairs, but in a house with four stories, they probably made plenty of twists on the way up. Then my eyes widened in appreciation at probably the most stunning grandfather clock I’d ever seen. It stood directly in front of me and was made of black walnut burl wood with arches at the top and a large golden pendulum behind its leaded glass door.

I’d managed to keep my jaw from dropping at the sight of this foyer. On the wall to my left was a small, inlaid glass-covered table. An art deco-looking vase of clear red glass sat on the table, and an oil painting of a wagon and horse traveling on a country road hung on the wall above it.

A brocade-covered bench stood against the wall to my right, and the gentleman gestured for me to have a seat. “Let me check with Miss Preston.”

I assumed she was the assistant. “Thank you so much, but I didn’t get your name.” I smiled.

“It’s George. George Robertson.

“Thank you, Mr. Robertson.”

He nodded, walked away down the splendid paneled hallway and disappeared.

What I hadn’t noticed when I first arrived—perhaps because I kept marveling at this place—was that this house was seriously chilly. More than air-conditioned chilly, even for July. Maybe old-house chilly. Yes. That was what it was. Definitely drafty.

Thankful for the three-quarter-length sleeves of my jacket, I clutched my purse in my lap—the handbag that held the notebook I hoped I would be putting to good use soon. I’m not a fan of bags or dress-up, but this visit required both. Who knew that lies needed to be properly attired? But I was glad I’d taken Kara’s advice when she’d emphasized that I couldn’t wear capri pants and a T-shirt for this assignment. I’d been planning on a sundress, but she said that wouldn’t do either. Still, I was uncomfortable in this linen suit, and the high heels were seriously tight and hurting something awful. But the outfit had probably helped get me in the door. And even if I didn’t learn the information I came for, I felt privileged to simply be sitting in a house that reminded me of a museum.

I thought about kitty Isis and took out my phone to sneak a peek at the picture I’d taken of her. Since she’d had an encounter with a mud puddle after getting lost, she’d been bathed and groomed—probably by Allison, Shawn’s wife. Allison is so sweet, she could convince a Bengal tiger to let her bathe him. And the tiger would enjoy every minute.

Isis’s diamond-studded collar glittered, and her green eyes stared straight into the lens. My bet was that this cat had posed for plenty of pictures. I told Shawn the diamond collar was probably the best clue that Isis had not been abandoned and was simply lost. But he wasn’t about to agree with me. There had to be a meet and greet with the owner. A face-to-face assessment. He’d been burned too many times.

“Miss Preston will see you now.” It was Mr. Robertson. He stood at the edge of the foyer near the hallway, hands behind his back.

My heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice. Thank goodness I was holding my phone at an angle so that he couldn’t see what I was looking at. I stood and slipped the phone back into my pocket. What was I thinking pulling up that photo? I could have ruined everything, but I’d assumed I would be kept waiting as long as possible. I’d taken Mr. Robertson and Miss Preston by surprise, after all. But as my cop buddy Candace would say, never assume. Never.

“Follow me, please,” Mr. Robertson said.

He led me down the hall past a series of closed doors—tall doors a shade darker than the paneling. We walked all the way to the end and into a two-story library that smelled of must beneath more lemon oil. No doubt the thousands of books were the source of the musty smell. But it was a nice and comforting odor—old leather and aging paper.

Behind the desk, a young woman rose. She had ginger hair a shade lighter than my own, and by her looks, I guessed she spent time in the gym. Her bare arms were toned and tan. The sleeveless coral dress she wore was belted low on her slim hips and probably cost as much as five kitty quilts—the ones I hand quilted and sold for a hundred dollars each.

Mr. Robertson said, “Miss Preston, this is Miss Jillian Hart.”

The woman smiled, and in a thick Carolina accent said, “So very nice of you to call on us, Miss Hart.” She looked at Mr. Robertson, her smile growing even warmer. “Thanks, George. Perhaps you could bring us iced tea? It’s quite a warm day.”

He nodded and backed away, closing the door after him.

Two gold velvet wing chairs faced the desk, and the woman made a sweeping gesture at them. “Please join me.”

I crossed over an oval oriental rug toward her, cursing my high heels the entire way. The trip down the long hall had taken its toll, and my feet were screaming. I’d worn these shoes only once before, and I decided it had been a mistake to stuff my feet into them today.

The chair on the right offered a better view of the gardens beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, so that was where I sat. I’d been so awed by the house and now this room that I hadn’t noticed the laptop computer to Miss Preston’s right. Until now.

She pushed it away, folded her hands on the desk and leaned toward me. “I don’t seem to be able to find anything on the Internet about a journalist named Jillian Hart, but there is certainly a good deal about a woman by that name who takes a great interest in cats. Have you come about Isis?”

Two

So much for lying. I attempted to feign surprise. “Isis?” I asked. But my mouth had gone dry and I realized I’d now earned the title Dumbest Fake Journalist Ever. What to do? I couldn’t stick to the lie . . . but perhaps I could dodge the question. “Is Miss Longworth here? I had hoped to talk to her.”

“I’m sure you did.” She smiled. “Have you seen Isis? Is she at that shelter where you volunteer, perhaps?”

“Seems you know a lot more about me than I do about you. What’s your first name, Miss Preston?” I said. Buy some time; hope for one brilliant idea to get out of this mess.

“Evie. We can converse as Evie and Jillian if you’d like. I have no problem with that. Especially since you have a reputation as a kind and generous animal lover. But if you found Isis, she needs to come home.”

Ah, a tiny opening to accomplish my goal. To find out if Isis should come home. “I don’t have her.” Technically not a lie. “Does Miss Longworth miss her cat?”

“Of course she does. Quit hedging. I don’t imagine you want money. You’re not the type. But—”

The sound of a scuffle accompanied by a muffled cry came from somewhere above us. Evie’s gaze went to the ceiling, and her clasped hands clenched tighter.

“That didn’t sound good,” I said. “Is someone hurt . . . or sick?”

“That is none of your business.” Evie’s tone had gone frosty, and she looked as if she was hanging on to her composure by a quilting thread. She’d moved her hands to the arms of her desk chair and tilted her head, apparently trying to hear better.

“If you’re needed upstairs, I can leave. We can—”

The thud that interrupted me made us both jump. We stood, but though I was frozen, Evie raced past me, muttering, “Oh no. Oh no.”

Seemed I’d become invisible. But like my cats, I felt that mysterious and ominous noises must be investigated. So I gave her a few seconds and followed.