The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

He noticed Ritaestelle then, still weeping, still clinging to my cat. He sighed heavily and took a small notebook from his shirt pocket. “Who we got here? The owner of the Caddy or the owner of the Ford?”

Must be like a parking lot out there now, I thought. When Ritaestelle said nothing, I decided to tell Morris what he wanted to know. But I only got out, “This is—” before he interrupted.

“What? She can’t talk?” Morris eyed me like a stern father. He had to be twenty years older than me, so he was old enough to my father.

“Yes, sir, I can most certainly talk,” Ritaestelle said quietly. She was hanging on to Chablis for dear life. “The Cadillac is mine, and I am Ritaestelle Longworth of Woodcrest. This tragedy, however, has nothing to do with this kind lady.”

“Well, I’m Mercy police deputy Morris Ebeling. And seeing as how everyone’s hoverin’ over a body down by the water in Jillian Hart’s backyard, I disagree that this here has nothin’ to do with her. Are you that Ritaestelle Longworth from Woodcrest who lives in a house big enough to be a church?”

Ritaestelle nodded.

“I knew your brother before he passed on,” Morris said. “He done right by me at a bad time in my life, so I guess I’ll return the favor by doing right by you.” Morris squatted so he was at eye level with Ritaestelle. In the gentlest voice—one I never knew he even could find—he said, “You want to tell me how you got that blood on your hands?”

My eyes widened when I saw what he had noticed and I had not. She did have blood on her hands, and Chablis had blood on her champagne fur. Guess fear and desperation blur such details. The smears of rusty red made my stomach turn over.

“B-but she drowned,” I said. “I never saw any blood on—”

Morris glared at me, bushy eyebrows raised. I got the message.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Thank you, Jillian,” Morris said through tight lips. “You’ll get your turn, and I cannot wait to hear what you have to say.”

He turned his attention back to Ritaestelle. “You want to tell me about the blood?”

Ritaestelle lifted her chin. “If you knew my brother, then you know what Farley is whispering in my ear right now. He’s telling me not to say a word.”

“Yeah. Lawyers are like that.” Morris offered up a small, genial laugh. “Don’t say nothing to nobody. That’s their deal. But see, Miss Longworth, that’s not always best. You tell me what happened, and I promise, I’ll help you.”

Why did I want to scream at her not to say anything? A young woman was dead, Ritaestelle had blood on her hands and yet something put me squarely on Ritaestelle’s side. Was that because she’d come to me for help? No . . . it was something about me I’d learned to respect in the last year: my intuition. I sensed that this lady had done nothing worse than leave her house in her bathrobe.

“I do appreciate your concern, Officer, and your sincere wish to assist me in this most difficult time, but I would appreciate a few moments to consider these events. A young woman who was in my employ has died in a most tragic fashion. I am very troubled, very saddened.”

“Can you at least get over your grief long enough to tell me her name?” The old Morris was back and in familiar irritable form. He poised a small pencil over a notebook page.

“Evie Preston.” Ritaestelle’s lower lip began to tremble, and tears again slid down her cheeks. She turned to me. “What will I ever tell her mother?”

“I believe the police will notify her family,” I said.

“But she worked for me. I am responsible for her,” Ritaestelle said.

“Be responsible enough to tell me what happened if you care that much,” Morris said, his tone downright nasty now. “And since you seem worried about talking without a lawyer, you don’t have to tell me nothin’ and you can have a mouthpiece sittin’ next to you if that’s what you want. I won’t go into that crap about if you can’t afford a lawyer,’cause we know that ain’t the case.”

Wow. Was that an actual Miranda warning? One that would stand up in court? And why did Morris have to sound so cold, so mean?

“You are absolutely right, Officer,” Ritaestelle said. “I need to quit sniffling like a crybaby and take responsibility here—so you can get on with the awful business of telling Evie’s mother what happened. I am quite willing to enlighten you about what I know, and I do not require a lawyer.”

I was a little confused by this turnaround on Ritaestelle’s part but didn’t have to time to consider it for long because Candace joined us.

“That’s great you want to cooperate, but first of all, we need to collect evidence,” Candace said. Everyone knew Candace was obsessed with evidence.

Morris stood. He closed his eyes and moved his head from side to side in disgust. “Aw, for crying out loud, Candy.”

Candace looked at me. “Will you get my evidence kit from my car? We’ll need photos before we take her robe. That is a robe you’re wearing, right?”

Ritaestelle looked down toward her chest. “Why, yes. But I can explain. It is not as odd as you might think.”

Oh, yes, it is, I wanted to say.

“By the way, I am Deputy Candace Carson, Mercy PD. Didn’t have time to grab my badge when I heard about all this on the scanner, but believe me, I am a peace officer. I’ve spoken with my chief, and he’s asked me to take the lead on this.” Candace glanced at Morris briefly, and I’m sure she caught his unhappy expression before he looked at the ground.

Seemed like a good time for me to leave. I took off for Candace’s car for the requested evidence kit. I’d calmed down enough that questions seemed to ricochet off the inside of my skull. Why had Ritaestelle come outside? And considering her condition, how had she made it down to the dock? What was Evie Preston doing here? And what exactly happened in the relatively short time it took me to release Isis from the mess she’d gotten herself into?

When I returned to the backyard, I handed Candace her evidence satchel. I saw that Morris was now down by the lake. Bet he was plenty miffed that Police Chief Mike Baca had handed this investigation over to Candace so quickly. But then I realized that once she’d discerned that Evie Preston had been the victim of foul play, she’d called up Mike and asked for the assignment—even though she was supposed to be on vacation.

Candace took her camera from the evidence kit first. “Please hand the cat to Jillian and stand up, Miss Longworth.”

Ritaestelle blinked several times, as if processing these directions. Then she said, “Why, certainly.”

I took Chablis from her arms. Ritaestelle struggled to get out of the lawn chair, and Candace finally had to help her stand.

Candace said, “Just put your arms out and let me photograph the bloodstains.”

Again Ritaestelle looked down at her robe, her expression puzzled. But now her eyes widened in what sure seemed like horror. “On, my sweet Jesus. I cradled Evie’s head and—”

“Miss Longworth,” Candace interrupted. “Deputy Ebeling informed me before he left us that you invoked your right to counsel and then changed your mind. Let’s be clear that you realize anything you say may be used against you in a court of law.”

“I am completely aware. I simply mentioned that my late brother would have told me not to say anything. That does not mean I intend to follow any advice Farley might offer from the grave.” Ritaestelle lifted her chin, her lips tight. “I will tell you anything to assist you in unearthing what happened to Evie. It is the least I can do for her now.”

Candace said, “Then will you sign a document that you have waived your rights?”

“Certainly. Your name is Deputy Carson, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Maybe we could go inside for the pictures?” I suggested. “Better lighting . . . and better footing.” I’d noticed that Ritaestelle’s slippers were gone. She needed to get inside before the fire ants found her.

Candace said, “Good idea. The deputy coroner is on her way, and we don’t want to be a distraction.” Candace eyed me.