The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

I tried to visualize the face of the phone and remembered the phone icon was at the bottom left-hand corner. I moved my hands to the right-hand pocket, ready to at least press that icon, then visualize exactly where each number might be, but before I could do this, just moving made the phone redial the last person I’d spoken to. Pocket dialing. This had happened before with my very sensitive touchscreen phone. I never thought in a million years I would be so glad to accidentally call someone.

I heard the phone ring once, twice and then heard the faint sound of Candace’s voice.

“Hey, Jillian, how was the visitation?” I could barely hear her say. Her voice was distant and muffled by my clothing.

I shouted, “Candace, can you hear me?”

“Jillian?” she called louder. “What’s going on?”

Merlot bent his head against my hip and rubbed against me. Then he began a loud, throaty, insistent meow.

“Merlot?” I could hear Candace say.

At the top of my lungs, I yelled, “Help me.”

“Jillian? What’s wrong?” This time Candace was shouting, too.

“Come to my house. My house,” I yelled.

“Your house?”

“Yes.” I choked down a sob and hollered, “Yes,” louder.

“I’m on my way. Don’t hang up,” she shouted.

Hang up? I couldn’t hang up if I tried.

But I decided that trying to dial 911 was still a good idea. I stood and hopped toward the landline on the kitchen counter. I turned around and tried to pick up the receiver. And dropped it on the tile floor. I heard it break apart, and plastic pieces slid in front of me.

All three cats had followed me and now surrounded me, and Syrah pawed at the broken phone. He then looked up at me and added his own meows to Merlot’s—because Merlot had not quit.

The alarm was connected to the Mercy police station, and though I managed to get the pantry door open where the control panel was, the panic button—in fact the entire control panel—was too high for me to reach. It was about three inches too high for me to touch, even with my nose.

I needed a chair, but as I was using my knees and thighs to slowly, painstakingly push a chair toward the pantry, Candace burst through the front door, her weapon drawn.

She wore her pajamas.

“Shelton’s taken Ritaestelle and Chablis,” I said. “I don’t know where they—”

“They’re at the mansion,” Candace said as she grabbed a kitchen knife to pick the handcuffs open. “When I called Mike, he said as many officers as possible are on the way over there, that Shelton was holding everyone at gunpoint.”

“They’re still alive?” I said as she freed me.

“Far as I know,” Candace said. “I called Tom. He should be here any minute.”

I bent and removed the belt from my ankles. “We have to go there. Now.”

Thirty-Two

The scene on the circular drive outside Ritaestelle’s mansion was pure chaos. We’d been stopped at a roadblock at the entrance to the long driveway, but when the deputy saw Candace in Tom’s car, he’d waived us through. I couldn’t count the number of police cars in front of the house, their whirling lights blurred by the steady rain.

Tom had arrived at my place only seconds after I’d removed the belt from my ankles. We made it to the Longworth estate in less than fifteen minutes. After I’d explained that Shelton had simply snapped and I wasn’t sure why, we’d said nothing else during the drive. We were all too worried about what we would find when we arrived.

Mike Baca stood on the front porch talking on his cell phone. He waved us to him when he saw us get out of Tom’s car.

“Shelton’s asking for us to bring Desmond Holloway here, but I’m not sure that’s what she really wants,” Mike said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because,” he said, “I’m talking to George Robertson on his cell phone. He says Shelton and Ritaestelle are in the study. Shelton has given Ritaestelle a gun and told her to either shoot her or Shelton will shoot your cat. Ritaestelle is trying to talk her out of this.” He spoke into the receiver then. “What’s going on, George?” He listened and then said, “Okay, good. Tell them to come out with their hands raised.”

Relief washed over me. “They’re coming out?”

“The family members, not Shelton or Ritaestelle,” he said.

My heart sank.

“You come, too, George,” Mike said. “We’ll take it from here.” Another pause. “No. You need to get out of there. A hostage negotiator is on the way.”

Just then the front door opened, and Justine, Hildie, Muriel and Augusta all filed out, hands in the air. “Where’s Farley?” I said.

“Took off with a suitcase full of stuff earlier today,” Mike said. “We’ll find out later what, if anything, he had to do with this mess.”

Uniformed Woodcrest officers grabbed the women as they came out and pulled them off the porch.

My heart was pounding, and I probably would have run into that house if not for Tom’s grip on my shoulders.

Only a second later, a gunshot sounded.

Not only could we hear it through the open door, but it sounded through Mike’s phone as well.

“Talk to me, George,” Mike shouted. And then Mike took off, yelling, “Go, go, go,” to the officers waiting with their weapons ready. Mike pointed at Candace. “See where that stupid ambulance is. It was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”

But Tom said, “I’ve got this, Candace. You two get away from the house.” He pulled out his phone. But before he completed the call, the ambulance came roaring down the drive.

I wasn’t moving. I wanted to get in there. I had to get in there.

Candace said, “Come on. We need to give them room to do their jobs.”

Reluctantly I followed Tom and Candace back to Tom’s Prius.

I was so stunned by the sound of that shot that I felt numb. “Do you think Ritaestelle’s dead? Did Shelton kill Chablis? What is—”

Tom pulled me to him and pushed my wet hair away from my face. “We’ll know soon. Let’s get out of this rain.”

Candace wore my raincoat and had the sense to open an umbrella so as not to allow her stitches to get wet. As for me, I no longer even felt the rain.

She climbed in, and Tom and I sat in the front seats, but we all left our doors open.

Why did someone else have to die? I thought. Why?

The wait seemed endless. Finally, paramedics pushed a stretcher out the front door. I immediately jumped out of the car to see who was on the stretcher, to see if the body’s face was covered because someone had died.

As they pulled the stretcher to the back of the ambulance, I had my answer. It was Nancy Shelton. She was alive, her body strapped tightly down. Her head was moving from side to side, and she was shouting, “No,” over and over.

One shot. One shot. Unless something else happened that we hadn’t heard, Ritaestelle and Chablis were okay. They had to be okay.

Mike Baca emerged through those giant front doors and waved us to him.