The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

with Morris. The outfit was typical for Lydia: clingy low-cut purple shirt, black skinny jeans and feather earrings that reminded me of cat toys. She had a pair of tennis shoes in her hand but still wore her black patent stiletto heels. Sheesh. Could someone grab her and do a makeover?

I cleared my throat, and she and Morris turned my way.

“Good evening, Lydia,” I said.

She smiled. Could she look any more smug? “Ah, Jillian. Here we are again investigating a murder close to you. This time in your own backyard. Sometimes I wonder about you. You just seem to attract trouble.”

“This has been a very difficult night,” I said. “Have you seen that poor young woman’s body yet? I mean, that is why you’re here.” I knew darn well she hadn’t been down to the lake yet because the tennis shoes were clean and dry.

“I know what my job is—thank you very much.” Her tone was scathing this time. “Tom around to help you wiggle out of your troubles tonight?”

There it was, as suspected. The reason she’d come inside.

“He’s not here,” I said, trying to keep my tone civil. How I wanted to remind her to get busy with what was important—investigating Evie Preston’s murder, not questioning me about Tom.

Morris must have picked up on the tension because he said, “They’re waitin’ for you down by the lake, Lydia.”

She kicked off her shoes, sat and slid her feet into the tennis shoes. “Like I said, I know why I’m here.” She picked up her high heels, tramped through the kitchen and out the back door.

“Thanks, Morris,” I said.

He nodded. “Got to keep that woman on task sometimes.”

Candace and Ritaestelle returned. Candace held the evidence bag in one hand and Ritaestelle’s elbow in the other. It seemed to take forever for them to reach us at the dining room table.

Once Ritaestelle was seated, Candace handed the tagged paper sack containing the robe to Morris. “I took pictures of the robe while she was wearing it when we first came inside, so I think we’re done with this piece of evidence for now. The nail clippings and her fingerprint card are in the envelopes on the counter. I’ll transport all this to the station when we’re done here, Deputy Ebeling.”

Morris gestured toward the counter. “I’m keeping a log right over there. Got the names of everyone who responded, even the coroner.” He began scratching at the mosquito bites on his neck. Bet the insects were having a feast down by the water.

“Great.” Candace turned her attention to Ritaestelle. “Now, if you don’t mind, please tell me, ma’am . . . why did you kill Evie Preston?”

Twelve

“You believe I meant to harm Evie?” Ritaestelle sounded incredulous. “I—I tried to save her. She was lying there. She was bleeding. She needed my help, and I—” The tears began again.

I caught Candace’s eye. “Um, do you want me to leave?”

“No. In fact, now that we’ve contacted the police in Woodcrest to talk with the victim’s mother, we can get down to business. What time did Miss Longworth show up here?” Candace raised her eyebrows questioningly.

I glanced at Ritaestelle and then back at Candace. “I’m guessing ten fifteen. I was surprised to see her, but she was frightened. She believes someone has been drugging her. And by the way, when I let her inside, her robe was spotless.”

“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Candace said. “Let’s start with this claim that Miss Longworth was drugged.” She pulled out a dining room chair and sat.

So did I.

The two-way radio Morris held at his side crackled, and then someone said, “Can you come down here to the lake? The deputy coroner is asking for you.”

Morris raised his eyes to the ceiling and muttered something about the mosquitoes before he left.

The waiver Ritaestelle had signed was still on the table, and Candace pulled her notebook toward her—the one I’d seen in her evidence bag before. She picked up the pen that rested on the waiver, poised it over the notebook and looked at Ritaestelle. “Why did you come to see Jillian Hart if you thought you were being drugged? Why not go to a hospital?”

“I have no fondness for hospitals or doctors. Besides, since I stopped drinking the tea—most of it went down the sink since yesterday—I have been feeling much better.”

“Ah,” Candace said. “You think someone drugged your tea. Did you report your suspicions to the local police?”

Good question, I thought. Except that I had a feeling Ritaestelle didn’t want anyone in Woodcrest alerted to anything else that put her in a bad light.

Ritaestelle hesitated before saying, “I am sure you understand small-town life, Deputy Carson. I do not appreciate people learning about my private life if I am not the one telling the story. There would be talk. Besides, there is already talk around town that I am a shoplifter. Which I most certainly am not.”

Candace began writing while saying, “So you decided to visit a stranger in another town? Can you see how that seems a little odd?”

“Oh, I do. But Jillian visited me first,” Ritaestelle said. “She came to my house yesterday, and because of my condition, my drugged condition, I could not meet with her. But I know of her, and thus I know of her reputation for helping others. And my Isis had been missing for days, so once I had my wits, I realized that was why she called on me.”

“Let me get this straight. You came here to reclaim your cat? And to get assistance from a stranger about these other problems?” Candace said.

“Yes. That sums it up quite well, Deputy Carson. I fear that I am being harmed—harmed by the removal of my dear Isis, harmed by these preposterous charges that I am a thief and harmed by someone who has been sedating me. Jillian Hart, from what I have read, is a kind and decent person. She will help me, so I do not regret coming here. I only regret what has happened to poor Evie.”

“But you didn’t bother to get dressed?” Candace said.

Ritaestelle raised her chin, her eyes still moist with tears. “I had to sneak out once Augusta fell asleep. She has been watching me like a hawk, and I have no idea why. I am telling you, Deputy Carson, there is something very strange going on in Woodcrest and more specifically inside my beloved home. And just so you know, I have spoken with the police chief about my situation—the shoplifting, that is. She happens to be a friend.”

“I suspect we’ll be speaking with Chief Shelton,” Candace said. “Let’s move along. Tell me everything that happened from the minute you got here.”

Ritaestelle talked in her long, rambling style, relating the events that I already knew, but my interest picked up when she got to what happened after I left her alone in my living room.

She said, “I thought I heard something outside. Voices, perhaps? But then I began to wonder if the drugs were still playing tricks on me. Still, something made me get up and go to the back door. And then I foolishly opened it. Jillian’s cat ran out into the night. I knew she would never forgive me if I was responsible for losing her cat, so I grabbed a broom to help me walk. I used it like a cane.”

Candace looked perplexed, but she sounded as tough as nails when she said, “You can hardly walk, and yet you go down to the lake after a cat? You don’t call for Jillian’s help?”

“I did call for her, but she must not have heard me. As for the rest of it, I—I cannot explain my actions.” Ritaestelle shook her head sadly. “You see, the cat ran right to poor Evie. She was lying there on the dock. She was not breathing. Her eyes were wide-open. She was . . . gone.”

Lying on the dock? But I’d found her in the water. Obviously I’d missed something.

“How’d she get in the water? Because the victim is soaking wet,” Candace said.

Candace and I were on the same wavelength, it would seem.