The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

“I’m with-it enough to know that the chief is gonna shut me down. So I want you to read them. My banged- up brain won’t let me remember.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I hate that.”

“Your brain will be fine and you’ll solve this case. For now—”

“He’ll put me on stupid sick leave. But you can help me stay connected. You and Tom. Yeah. We should get Tom on the case.” She giggled. “Yup. All hands on deck.”

She’d obviously forgotten that Tom was already on the case. If Candace was in her right mind—and she sure wasn’t—she wouldn’t want me reading her notes.

Candace reached through the bars on the side of the bed and gripped my arm. “Bring me the book tomorrow and read it to me. You and Tom want to help old lady Longworth. You believed her when I didn’t. You should know what I know. Or what I don’t know. Or—Jeez, I sound stupid, don’t I?”

“Not at all. I’ll get your notes. I promise.”

But would I give them to Mike or bring them here?

Twenty-Five

Candace’s mother had been happy to give me the keys to her daughter’s RAV4. “If that’s what my baby wants, then you can have them.”

Tom and I drove to the apartment complex parking lot, now cleared of any police presence. But when Tom opened her vehicle with the remote and the headlights flashed, Mercy police deputy Jerry Raymond jumped from behind a row of shrubs, weapon drawn.

He shouted, “Mercy PD. Hands in the air.” He held his flashlight and gun together, pointed right at our faces. The light was blinding.

We both did as we were told, and Tom said, “Jerry, it’s me and Jillian. Candace wanted to make sure her stuff was safe. See the keys in my hand?” Tom jangled them.

“You scared the living crap out of me, Stewart,” Jerry said.

We lowered our arms.

“Candy’s talking?” Jerry said. “That is some major good news, man.”

“She’s awake and she’ll be fine,” I said. “But she was worried about her evidence kit, stuff like that.”

“Just like her,” Jerry said. “Always worried about some evidence goin’ missin’. But I’ve been watching her RAV like a hawk. Ain’t nobody stealin’ nothin’ from our Candy.”

“She asked me to keep her things at my house until she’s released tomorrow. Would that be all right?” I said.

“I can take her stuff. Drop it at the station when I clock out in the mornin’,” he said.

“She wants Jillian’s eyes on this,” Tom said. “You know how she is.”

“Do I? Guess it would be all right, ’cause, man, I do not want to be on Candy’s bad side. Not never. But that evidence kit is police property. I gotta take care of that or the chief will be all up in my— sorry, Miss Jillian. I almost cussed. Anyways, take her personal stuff just to say you did what she asked. I’ll take her evidence kit to the station.”

And that was how we ended up with Candace’s notebook. It was on the front floorboard along with her baton, a flashlight and an umbrella. For some reason I’d expected the notes to be in her evidence kit, where I’d seen them before. I took the time to clean out the RAV of empty coffee cups and fast-food wrappers. I also collected several sweaters that had probably been in Candace’s backseat since last winter. She might not recognize her car when she got out of the hospital.

Tom and I returned to my place at about two in the morning. True to her word, Nancy Shelton was parked on the road outside my house. She got out of her car when we pulled into the driveway, told us that everything was fine and that she hadn’t even bothered Ritaestelle. The tiredlooking police chief went back to her car and drove off.

Ritaestelle, still dressed, was asleep on the sofa surrounded by cats.

Tom whispered, “Read through the notes if you’re not too tired. I’ll see you in the morning.” He kissed me lightly on the lips and left quietly.

Read through the notes? I had a problem with that.

I turned to see Syrah stretch his legs before approaching me. He had such lovely long legs and stretched so gracefully. I heard once from a breeder that cats live into their teens or twenties because they stretch all the time. The activity apparently activates their lymph system. Maybe I should take up yoga so my fur friends wouldn’t outlive me.

Syrah sat at my feet, and I knelt to scratch him behind the ears. Pretty soon I had all four cats looking for a little middle-of-the-night affection. Deciding I should wake Ritaestelle up and tell her about Candace, then make sure she slept in a bed, I walked over to the couch. I gently touched her shoulder.

Her eyes opened so quickly, I almost jumped backward. She was probably so anxious after all that had gone on that she was only half asleep.

“Oh my good gracious, you have come home.” She sat up, and I heard a few bones creak. “By your expression I am willing to wager that your friend will recover?”

“You’d win that bet,” I said. “She’s groggy and acting a little wacky, but the doctor said she’ll recover completely. She’ll probably be released tomorrow. But getting her to rest up will be a chore I do not envy her mother.”

Isis jumped in Ritaestelle’s lap as she said, “Deputy Carson is a very dedicated police officer. I cannot imagine her remaining on the sidelines for long.”

“I can’t either. Come on. It’s late. We both need a pillow and a quilt.” I picked up Isis, much to the cat’s chagrin—and earned a hiss for doing that. Then I helped Ritaestelle to her feet. All this maneuvering was done with the notebook tucked under my left arm. Maybe I was a good candidate for yoga.

Ten minutes later, after I’d washed my face and brushed my teeth, I settled into bed, the notebook on my bedside table. I couldn’t bring myself to open it, and yet I didn’t turn out the light. Syrah showed great interest in me just lying there, eyes on the ceiling. Merlot and Chablis cared only about sleeping. I’d put three kitty quilts at the foot of the bed, mostly to collect the summer shedding, but Syrah and Merlot rarely slept on theirs. That left Chablis to enjoy all three at various times. But tonight, Merlot curled up on the one at my feet, a nine-patch with a wild- goose-chase border in blues and whites. I wondered if he was feeling insecure because of having both cat and human houseguests, not to mention so many people coming in and out. He is a sensitive soul and used to routine. We’d had anything but routine in the last few days.

Try as I might, I couldn’t get the notebook out of my head. What if I only checked out what Candace had observed about the family and staff at the Longworth Estate?

Okay. But that was all I’d look at.

Propped up by several pillows, I opened the small spiral and immediately realized reading her notes would be easier said than done. I was aware that she always transferred these scribblings—and that was what they were, messy scribblings—to her computer as soon as she was able. She had grumbled about this chore on more than one occasion.

The first page had a giant red check mark through the writing, and I guessed that was her way of indicating she’d done the computer work. The first phrase was, “Morris keeping murder book.”

Murder book? What the heck was that? If I couldn’t even understand the first sentence, how would any of this make sense? The next words weren’t what I wanted to read: “Female, white, deceased.”

I skipped over pages until I found what she’d wanted me to read to her tomorrow—her interview notes. There was a semblance of order here. I saw the full name of the first person she’d talked to—the butler, George Robertson. He’d given her the names of everyone who resided in the house—and even knew their middle initials. Smart to talk to him first, I thought.

But that was the last thought I had for hours. I woke up to Chablis, paws tucked, sitting on my chest on top of Candace’s notebook. She was purring. Because I was half sitting, my neck had a serious crick and the sunlight sneaking through the wood blinds seemed way too bright. What time was it, anyway?

I glanced over at the clock and saw that it was eight thirty. I never slept until eight thirty. I carefully removed