The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

What an awful man, I thought, reaching back to scratch Syrah’s head. And who could I talk to about this? Who could possibly understand how wounded I felt? I wasn’t even sure if Kara would identify with these emotions.

As my heartbeat slowed and the tears dried, I thought more about the other things Farley Longworth had said and what he had not said. Did he know that Ritaestelle expected him to get his act together? Was that why he felt I was some sort of threat to any future money he hoped to inherit?

Seemed like I’d landed smack in the middle of a family feud. And now I was about to pick up the person at the center of all this. Maybe Candace was right. Asking Ritaestelle to stay with me might have been a huge mistake.

Eighteen

Since my minivan was blocked in by Ritaestelle’s Cadillac, I called Tom to see if he could drive me to the hospital to pick up Ritaestelle—that is, after he’d finished his security system consult.

But after I asked the question, he said, “What’s wrong? You sound upset.”

“A woman died in my backyard, Tom,” I said.

“I know, but something else is going on. Come on. Spill it.”

I sighed, and though I appreciated how perceptive he was, I wasn’t ready to tell him what that awful person had to say about John’s death. Instead, I gave an abbreviated version. “I received a call from Farley Longworth. He isn’t too happy about Ritaestelle staying at my house while she recovers.”

“Because . . . ?”

“He believes the day I went to see Ritaestelle I wanted to trade Isis for a wad of cash.”

“That’s plain stupid,” Tom said. “I’ll check up on this guy, maybe see if he’s the one who needs money.”

“It’s not that big a deal, and—”

“Jillian, you don’t sound like yourself, so this is a big deal. I’m a PI. I check up on people every day. In fact, I think I’ll start digging up anything I can find on all those people you said were visiting Ritaestelle. Now, as for picking her up, I have another job after this one. But Kara could help. She’s just finished the paperwork for my client and she’s right here. Let me put her on.”

I talked to Kara and she agreed to drive me to the hospital. Tom would drop her at my place in a few minutes and we’d take her car—currently parked out front.

I patted several kitties good-bye and waited outside. The sun felt good on my skin. Candace, gloved and ready with her little hand vacuum, was standing by the Caddy. Apparently Mike Baca was on his way with the keys.

I walked toward her but stopped when she held up a hand.

“Don’t get too close,” she said.

I smiled. “I promise not to touch the car. Will the GPS system tell you exactly where Ritaestelle was before she came here?”

“Yes, if she didn’t delete her last trip. GPS systems are quickly becoming a cop’s best friend.” A thin sheen of sweat covered Candace’s forehead. Those cop uniforms must be brutal in the summer, even though Candace told me she had both summer and winter uniforms.

I turned, hearing a car pull into my driveway. Not Kara. It was Mike in his police SUV.

Candace’s eyes glittered with anticipation, and after he greeted me, he and Candace got to work. Tom dropped Kara off a minute later, and I called to Mike and Candace that we were going to the hospital and that the house was locked up. Neither replied. They were too busy tearing that car apart looking for evidence.

When we arrived at the hospital, we found that Ritaestelle was checked out and waiting in her room. But she wasn’t alone. Muriel and Augusta were with her. Seems she’d told her cousins that they could follow us to my house. I wanted to say they could have saved us a trip by bringing the patient to me.

But when Kara had to drive twenty miles an hour as they puttered along behind us in their big, ancient Lincoln—we wouldn’t want to lose them, after all—I began to believe those two might need more help than Ritaestelle did.

I was sure Kara was chomping at the bit to ask our passenger questions, but before she could get out even one sentence, I asked her if we could have a peaceful ride home. I’d not had much peace of late, and neither had Ritaestelle. Thank goodness Kara reluctantly agreed. That phone call from Farley was still bothering me, but I willed those thoughts to the back of my mind and enjoyed the landscape of South Carolina in summer: wildflowers, trees greener than green and lush fields lined the road. I concentrated on that.

When we returned to my house, the police presence and the Cadillac were gone. For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours my property wasn’t the center of an investigation.

The hospital had provided Ritaestelle with a walker, which she adamantly refused to allow Kara to remove from the car.

She said, “If I can make it down to a lake in the dark, I do not need hospital equipment.”

We’d parked near my front door, where there were no stairs to maneuver. Ritaestelle limped ahead of us. She was wearing a sea foam green terry-cloth warm-up suit. Muriel and Augusta trailed behind, with Augusta carrying a tapestry satchel that I assumed held more of Ritaestelle’s clothes.

All four cats sat waiting in the foyer. Isis shocked both Kara and me by taking a running leap into Ritaestelle’s outstretched arms. She immediately nuzzled close to her owner’s face.

Kara’s eyes were wide with surprise when she glanced my way. Once Muriel and Augusta joined us, I closed the door behind them and shut out the summer heat.

Muriel perused the foyer and peered beyond into the living room. “Why, this is so much nicer than I thought. You’ll do quite nicely here, Ritaestelle.”

“Muriel seems to have left her manners at home,” Ritaestelle said. “I suppose she believed you were taking me to some hovel out in the country.”

“Why, I never—” started Muriel.

Augusta pinched Muriel’s elbow. “Oh yes, you did. Always with the double entendres. Do you think we don’t know you and your ways?”

Oh boy. This ought to be fun, I thought.

Aloud I said, “Ritaestelle needs to get off her feet. Let’s all settle in the living room.”

My three cats had already left the foyer, anticipating a human gathering. There were five women, after all, and they knew that meant there would be talking.

Turned out Muriel was diabetic, so she opted for water while the rest of us had sweet tea. I offered a late- afternoon snack—cheese and crackers was about the best I could do—but everyone turned it down. Ritaestelle said she was still recovering from the “revolting” hospital food. Muriel had to have her special diet and said she and Augusta would be leaving soon, anyway.

“We did want to see Ritaestelle get here safely,” Muriel said. She’d taken John’s recliner.

“That was your idea,” Augusta said.

She was sitting in the overstuffed chair with a sleepylooking Chablis on her lap. Syrah and Merlot had chosen to lurk under the coffee table.

“And safely?” Augusta went on. “What is that supposed to mean, Muriel? Did you think they were going to drive their automobile into a ditch or something?”

“Why, it’s simply a figure of speech, Augusta.” Muriel clasped her hands in her lap, looking insulted.

“I believe this is Ritaestelle’s business,” Augusta said. “Though I suppose there is a concern that she will be that much closer to the police officers investigating poor Evie’s death. Being here in Mercy provides such easy access, while if we were at home, we could protect her while she’s healing.” She tilted her head and focused her deep brown eyes on Ritaestelle. “Does that bother you, Ritaestelle? The hovering police presence?”

Smart lady, I thought. And the way Augusta talked, she could have been Ritaestelle’s twin—not just in her manner of speech, but even the tone of her voice.

Ritaestelle was stroking a purring Isis. “Since I firmly believe someone in my circle of friends and family drugged me, where do you think I feel more protected, Augusta?”