“Next pictures,” Candace said.
This photo was of the open glove box. A small red velvet box was visible. The next shot showed the box open and holding a diamond engagement ring. The stone was small and the setting looked less than modern.
“That belongs to my cousin Muriel,” Ritaestelle said. “How in the world did that—how did any of this—end up in my car?”
“Good question,” Candace said. “Seems we found only one print—beneath the glove box. I’ll be comparing it to yours, but I should have found dozens of prints, and I didn’t.”
“I am sure Muriel went into a hysterical episode once you showed this to her. I certainly do not blame her. She adored the man who gave her that ring.”
“She was a little upset when I asked her if she gave it to you,” Candace said.
“Muriel was married to Belle’s cousin once,” I said to Candace.
“Belle Lowry?” Candace said.
“Yes,” Ritaestelle said. “Of course, I assume living here in Mercy you both know Belle. How is the dear woman?”
“She’s fine. Everyone loves her coffee shop. But back to the matter at hand,” Candace said. “You’re certain you have no idea how these items ended up in your car?”
“This is more of the same, Deputy Carson. It has been going on for weeks. Have I not been forthright about everything?”
“You have, but it still doesn’t explain this,” Candace said.
“Someone must dislike me very much to do this sort of thing.” Ritaestelle shook her head, and though her color had returned, her eyes were filled with misery. “Someone in my family, I am assuming. Who else had access to my car?”
“I don’t know,” Candace said. “The absence of fingerprints is suspicious. Someone wiped it down.”
“You’ve decided there’s no evidence that Ritaestelle took those things?” I said.
“That’s right. Pardon me, Miss Longworth, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t. I just don’t have any proof. Tomorrow I’ll try to find out where these items came from.” Candace leveled a gaze at Ritaestelle. “Am I gonna find you on some security camera footage from a store stealing things, Miss Longworth?”
Ritaestelle’s lips tightened into a thin line. She hesitated before looking at me. “Your friend, Mr. Stewart? I understood someone to say he was private detective of sorts. Is that correct?”
“He is, but—”
“Could I impose on you to bring me your telephone, Miss Jillian?” Ritaestelle said. “I would like to hire Mr. Stewart. I want him to find evidence that will prove that I am telling the truth.”
“You understand I have to follow the evidence, don’t you, Miss Longworth?” Candace said.
“I completely understand. But I hope you understand that it is time I took action to protect myself from the lies some terrible person is trying to spread across the entire county.”
Twenty-One
The next morning, I awoke with Isis sitting on my chest staring at me. Must be time for breakfast. I checked the alarm clock and saw that it was eight—late for me—and realized I hadn’t stirred all night. I’d sure needed a good night’s sleep.
But why was Isis in my room and not with Ritaestelle? I got up, put on my cotton robe and slipped my feet into the handiest shoes—a pair of flip-flops.
My own cats were not in my room. Another mystery—as if I didn’t have enough of those.
Last night, after deciding she’d needed a private investigator to help clear her name, Ritaestelle had refused to speak about anything else to Candace. Candace had left, saying she was only trying to be as open as she could concerning the investigation. I had the feeling she was beginning to think Ritaestelle was innocent after all.
Still, I felt caught between Candace and Ritaestelle, between Kara and Candace, even between Isis and my own cats at times. Plus, I’d started out by agreeing to be the middle person between Shawn and Ritaestelle. Maybe hiring Tom was the best thing for Ritaestelle. Still, since she was obviously a suspect, I wondered why she wasn’t calling her lawyer rather than Tom.
I passed the guest room as I walked down the hall and saw that Ritaestelle’s door was open and her bed neatly made.
No Ritaestelle to be seen in the living room or in the kitchen. But my three cats were all sitting like little statues, their faces intent on the back door. My heart skipped. Was something wrong? Did Ritaestelle attempt another trip to the dock?
I shooed all the felines away from the back door and went outside. I saw Ritaestelle sitting in the wicker rocking chair staring out at the glassy lake. The morning sun spread its golden warmth across the water and gleamed on the backs of five ducks gliding their way to shore. There were times I wished I were an artist so I could capture this morning beauty, something I was treated to so often.
“Pretty, huh?” I said.
“Absolutely lovely. And so soothing,” Ritaestelle said, not taking her eyes off the lake.
Though the chair did have a floral cushion, I wondered how comfortable it was for someone with a bruised hip. “Can I get you a pillow? Wicker isn’t always friendly when you’re sore.”
She looked at me and smiled. “No, thank you, dear. I am feeling simply fine, good enough to take those ballroom lessons I always intended on doing. I do not suppose they offer those in prison.”
“You aren’t going to prison.” I dragged a lawn chair over next to her and sat. “Tom will make sure of that. But couldn’t you use a lawyer, too?”
“I am putting my faith in you and in Mr. Stewart, as well as the Lord. My brother may have been a lawyer, but he did not much care for his colleagues who specialized in criminal law. Said they were a different breed. The only lawyer I trust is our family attorney. He specializes in estates and trusts. I do not believe he would be much help in this situation.”
“I suppose not. But he, or even Tom might know someone—”
Ritaestelle held up a heavily veined hand. “If I need to go down that road, I will seek counsel. For now, as I said, you and Mr. Stewart will continue to be my guides through this terrible journey. That is, if you are willing to put up with me a bit longer.”
“Of course we are,” I said.
She looked at me for the first time since I’d come out on the deck. “Since I would like a visit with Belle, I took the liberty of calling Mr. Stewart and asking if he could meet us at her place of business. Would you very much mind driving me there?”
“Why Belle?” I asked.
“Because she was part of my family once,” Ritaestelle said, “and I was very preoccupied with my charities and the socializing involved at the time. Perhaps I was not as welcoming as I should have been to her cousin or to her. I want to apologize. She might also have a perspective on relatives who I saw in a different light back then, but who have for the most part been quite cold and uncaring in recent years.”
We arrived at Belle’s Beans about an hour later, and though I didn’t think Ritaestelle was ready for ballroom dancing, she did seem less hobbled by her injury.
Tom waved at us from one of the larger tables he’d nabbed in the far corner.
“What would you like?” I asked. “Coffee, latte, cappuccino?”
“I am quite fond of cappuccino. Does Belle take credit cards? Because I do not have a red cent with me,” Ritaestelle said.
“You can pay me back. Join Tom, and I’ll be right with you.” I literally put my hands on her shoulders and turned her in Tom’s direction before she could protest. See, I’d spotted a problem. Waiting in line was none other than Morris Ebeling, who I swore spent all his free time here. This ought to be fun.
I was hoping he would get his coffee, leave and not notice me—or Ritaestelle. But though Morris is
