The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

“I know how to use Google. What does that have to do with anything?” But something in Farley’s expression and that evasiveness said it did have something to do with everything.

“You never passed the message on to Ritaestelle or Evie?” I asked.

“Why should I?” he answered.

Farley Longworth might be the most immature forty-year-old I’d ever met. “Because your aunt loved her cat. You had to know that Shawn calling her more than once was probably about Isis.”

I could almost see his brain working to find an angle to put this in a good light. And he found it. “See, that’s just it. Do I want my aunt, who’s obviously physically and mentally ill, to become more disturbed by the news that her cat was found dead?”

“Come on, Longworth,” Tom said. “A rescue shelter wouldn’t be calling with that news. The county animal control officer would do that job if Isis had been found dead.”

“I didn’t know why he was phoning. You know why? Because he was a smart-ass and wouldn’t say. I blew it off. So what?”

Smart-ass? I guess Shawn could come across that way. And any conversation between this man and Shawn would have gone downhill pretty fast.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a jerk?” Tom said.

“I think I’m done. Good luck.” He rose and turned to leave, but then turned back. “Oh. Tell Aunt Rita I love her, would you?”

Once he left, I took a deep breath, let it out and began shoving strudel into my face. There is nothing as comforting as dessert.

Tom stared at me for several seconds, eyes narrowed. “That guy did more than accuse you of extortion when he called the other day.”

I pointed at my mouth, indicating I couldn’t answer.

Tom waited, never taking his eyes off me.

After I’d swallowed and paid close attention to cleaning off my hands and around my mouth, I smiled. “Just Hildie to go. Better check what time that visitation is so we can pace our last interview.”

“Jillian, what did Longworth say that hurt you so much that you couldn’t tell me?”

My turn to avoid a stare. “We’ve been so involved in these interviews, I haven’t checked on my cats since we arrived—not to mention Ritaestelle and Kara.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and pulled up the cat-cam feed.

Tom placed his hand over the screen. “Jilly,” he said quietly. “Trust me.”

Another deep breath needed. Why did this still bother me so much? “Guess you won’t quit until I tell you.”

“That’s me. Persistent,” he said.

“And perceptive. That’s probably what made you a good cop and makes you a great PI.” I sighed. “When Farley called, he said people have been talking, saying that I probably murdered my husband for the house and the money.”

“What?” Tom said, incredulous.

“I knew then what Ritaestelle must feel like—what she was going through with all the whispers and stares she must have been getting recently. I wanted more than ever to help her. Because it hurts to think that—”

“No one thinks you did anything to hurt your husband.” He slid the phone away and took my hand. “You are one of the most well-liked people to have ever moved into town. Excuse the cliché, but people in these parts don’t take kindly to strangers. But you? No one has an unkind word to say.”

“You’re only saying that—”

“Because it’s true,” he said. “Besides, that lunkhead is full of hot air. He’s a middle-aged bully. Bullies attack other people because they don’t want people to look at them and see that they’re empty inside.”

I laughed. “Lunkhead?”

“One of my mom’s favorite words,” he said with a smile. “You better?”

“I am fine. Let’s see the strudel maker. I might just kiss her.”

George Robertson arrived as I was cleaning strudel remains from the table and Tom was pouring himself more iced coffee.

“Please, Mrs. Hart,” Mr. Robertson said. “I’ll take care of clearing the table. Would you like to take some strudel to Miss Ritaestelle? I’m sure she’s missing Hildie’s sweets.”

“Great idea,” I said.

“I’ll help you take the dress, her shoes and the dessert to the car when you’re ready to leave.” He began gathering empty glasses and dirtied napkins. One, I realized, was covered in Justine’s makeup. I felt awful for her. She was one miserable woman.

Once Mr. Robertson had most everything on one tray, he said, “Follow me. Hildie’s in the kitchen, and there is no way I could get her to come up here and talk to you.”

That was how we found ourselves on two of the half dozen stools that surrounded a large stainless-steel preparation area in the center of a gigantic kitchen. To my left was an entry that led to a narrow winding staircase and the elevator that apparently got plenty of use. Across from us were the sinks—four of them—and three windows that looked out on the back driveway leading to the four garages. To the right was a huge refrigerator, gas stove, stacked ovens and a three-tiered rack where fresh fruits and vegetables waited for Hildie to work her magic.

Hildie herself might as well have been an appliance in the kitchen. The chubby, graying woman with the round, ruddy face had said nothing when Mr. Robertson introduced us. She was busy peeling mangoes.

“Hildie—or would you rather I call you by your last name?” I said. “Trouble is I don’t know what it is.”

“Hildie is fine,” she said. “Everyone call me Hildie.”

She had an accent—I recalled Ritaestelle saying she was from Germany—but she’d been in this country long enough that her English was probably fine.

“Good. And please, we’re Jillian and Tom. Nothing formal down here, right?” The kitchen was about a half dozen steps lower than the rest of the house.

“No. Nothing formal,” she answered, focused on her work.

“Thank you for the great food,” Tom said. “Bet you keep the folks here well-fed.”

“Is my job,” Hildie said.

“Yes, but Ritaestelle thinks you are wonderful,” I said.

Finally she looked at me. “How is my lady? She okay?”

“She is looking forward to coming home. You can help her with that. We need to know what happened to Miss Preston and why. We need to know who might have been trying to hurt Ritaestelle’s reputation.”

“Miss Preston is bossy young woman. They didn’t like her much.” She put her paring knife down, made a mound of the mango peelings and pushed them aside.

“Who didn’t like her?” Tom said.

“The family,” she said.

Okay, I thought. This might be like pulling teeth, and we had to get home and get ready for a funeral visitation. “But Ritaestelle liked her?”

“My lady is foolish. She likes everyone,” Hildie said.

“Was it foolish to like Miss Preston, then?” Tom asked.

“She was cold like a fish.” Hildie began to cube the mangoes. “But my lady thought the family needed a person like her. They were always taking advantage. My lady is very generous. Too generous.”

“Did you like Miss Preston?” I said.

Hildie stopped cutting and looked at me. “What does this matter?”

Good question, I thought. “I suppose it doesn’t. Was there any one person in the family who disliked her enough to kill her?”

She considered this for a few seconds. “If love and hate are close, then I would say Mr. Farley. I could tell about him. How he wanted her. But she didn’t like him. Not at all.”

“He had a thing for her?” Tom said.

Hildie smiled for the first time. “Yes. A thing. She had no thing for him. Who would?”

I was beginning to like Hildie. “The night Ritaestelle left here, did you see or hear anything?”