Silly thing just sat there and looked up at me, as helpless as, well . . . a kitten. I gently reached under her and lifted her up and out of her tiny prison. How had she ever managed to get in there in the first place?
I held her close, which she didn’t seem to mind at all. I left the basket and my tools on the floor, picked up my phone and off we went for the reunion. I was betting Isis would be more than ecstatic to see her “mom” after this latest experience.
But when I got to the living room, Isis purring away in my arms, the chair where Ritaestelle had been sitting was empty. Then my protector cat Merlot let out one of his loud, deep-throated meows—the ones I rarely hear. He was in the kitchen.
Had Ritaestelle gone for more water and fallen again? If so, I sure couldn’t see her in there. I rushed around the counter, and the smell of the humid night air greeted me at once.
The back door was open.
Merlot and Syrah were sitting on the stoop, and Syrah’s ears were twitching like crazy. That was always a sign that something was wrong.
“Ritaestelle?” I called, joining my two cats at the back door.
From somewhere down near the lake I heard her call, “Here. I am down here. We need help.”
I heard the panic in her voice, but I couldn’t see anything except the giant black silhouettes of the huge trees on my sloping back lawn.
I turned on the lights and saw her then.
What was she doing on the dock? What was she holding?
I got a taste of my own heart about then. Chablis wasn’t here with the other cats. Had she gone down to the lake? And why was the back door open in the first place?
I had enough sense to shut the door before I set Isis down. I didn’t want her racing off to find another highway. After making sure she and my two boys didn’t get outside, I slipped out into the night.
I keep a pair of Crocs on the back deck and put them on before I ran down toward the water to the sound of Ritaestelle’s pleas for me to hurry.
But I ran a little too fast. The pine needles were damp with dew, and I fell on my rear. I hadn’t realized I was still clinging to my phone, but it went flying out of my hand somewhere to my right. I scrambled to my feet and made it to the dock. Ritaestelle’s face was so pale in the moonlight, so fraught with terror, that I swallowed hard. Especially when I realized she had Chablis under one arm. And it looked like she held a rock in her other hand.
“Help us. Help her,” Ritaestelle said. She looked down into the water.
I followed her gaze.
The lake lapped against the riprap, a sound I’d always found soothing. But the sight of the woman facedown in the water, her lifeless body swaying with each small wave, was anything but soothing.
Ten
I scrambled to the shore, climbed over the low metal corrugated retaining wall, and carefully stepped on the stones that led to the water. I squatted and reached out for the woman’s outstretched arms. I could touch only her hands, but they were still warm.
She might be alive.
“Hurry, Jillian. Hurry,” I muttered as my heart pounded wildly.
I waded into the tepid water, and as I fought to turn the woman over, I looked up at Ritaestelle. “My phone. I lost it up there somewhere. Please find it.” I turned my head in the direction she should go.
“Oh, dear sweet Jesus. I will try my best.” Ritaestelle must have dropped the rock she’d been holding because I heard something hit the dock and plunk into the water.
I struggled with the woman’s slippery and surprisingly heavy body. She was such a small person, and yet turning her over seemed almost impossible. But I finally flipped her face up. Then I positioned myself at her head, grasped her beneath her armpits and began to drag her out of the water. I glimpsed at Ritaestelle, who was slowly making her way down from the dock and up onto the lawn.
I hauled the woman onto the riprap, worrying about tearing up her back on the rocks. Then I pressed two fingers to her neck and felt for a pulse. Nothing.
I smoothed sopping hair away from her face.
And stared into the wide eyes of Evie Preston.
Those eyes and her slack jaw confirmed what I feared. I was probably too late.
I fought back tears, thinking that I couldn’t give up. I turned her head to the side and emptied her mouth of water. Then I did the CPR I’d learned in a class right after John died—was I even doing it right?—until my shoulders and arms burned. But she didn’t suddenly gasp for breath like on television. Evie Preston, who couldn’t be more than thirty years old, was dead.
I shook my head sadly and stood. How I wished I’d gotten to her sooner. She might have had a chance.
Her body was secure enough on the riprap that I decided I could leave her and find my phone. Still, it felt wrong to abandon her by the lake. No one should be alone in death.
Ritaestelle was limping in circles on the pine needles, Chablis clutched to her chest. She’d never find my phone. I had to do what needed to be done, even if fear and sadness wanted to take control.
As I closed in on Ritaestelle and Chablis, I saw that Ritaestelle was crying. Out of breath after the struggle to save poor Evie, I stood heaving, my hands on my hips. I was completely soaked, and my knees stung from kneeling on the rocks. I felt like I was in shock. But there was no time for that. I had to call the police.
Chablis made eye contact with me, and then her lids slowly closed and opened again. She seemed perfectly calm amid the swirling emotions brought on by this tragic death. It was as if Chablis knew she had a job to do— comfort a woman she didn’t even know.
“Just hang on to the cat, and I’ll find the phone,” I said after I caught my breath enough to speak. I squinted in the dim light cast by my deck and back-door lights, searching for the spot where I’d fallen on the way down to the lake. Sure enough, the place where I’d skidded was evident in the pine needles just a few feet ahead. I got down on all fours and felt around where I thought the phone had probably landed. Seconds later, I picked up my cell and dialed 911.
I had to stay on the line until the police arrived, but in the meantime, I helped Ritaestelle up the slope while she protested the whole time that we had to help Evie, that Evie shouldn’t be left alone. We stopped at the stairs that led up to my deck, and I told Ritaestelle to stay put. Then I dragged a lawn chair down from the deck and helped her sit.
Ritaestelle looked up at me, terror evident in her eyes. “Did I drown her?”
I pressed the phone against my chest so the dispatcher couldn’t hear me. “Don’t talk about what happened now. Wait for the police.”
“But I—”
I put a finger to my lips. “Shh.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. More tears escaped.
Seconds later the cavalry arrived.
Leading the charge was Candace, still dressed in the same shorts and cotton shirt she’d been wearing when she left my place not long ago. Two night-duty uniformed Mercy officers, a couple of paramedics carrying a stretcher, and Billy Cranor, a volunteer fireman, were right behind her.
I disconnected from the dispatcher and pointed toward the lake. “She’s down there on the riprap, but—”
All of them took off before I could finish, with Candace yelling, “Stay left. Avoid that path you see down the center of those pine needles.”
Candace, my wonderful evidence preserver.
Deputy Morris Ebeling, also in street clothes, came strolling around the corner of my house a few seconds later. Nothing short of the apocalypse would make Morris hurry.
“What the hell you been up to now, Jillian?” he said. “You look pretty messed up.”
I was wet, and I glanced down at my scraped knees, which were plastered with wet pine needles. They didn’t hurt. I felt numb.
