The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

Chablis from the notebook, closed it up and headed for the shower.

After I dressed and tried to do something with my uncooperative hair, I left the bedroom, only to see buttons littering the hallway. Where were they getting all these darn buttons? I gathered up about a dozen and dropped them off in my quilting room on the way to the kitchen. I smelled coffee and was a little amazed that Ritaestelle could even make coffee. After all, she did have people who did everything for her.

She and Tom were sitting in my living room. Huge muffins and three large coffees from Belle’s Beans sat on the coffee table. But Ritaestelle held a cup and saucer in front of her.

“Good morning, dear. Mr. Stewart brought us breakfast,” she said. “I did make a feeble attempt at making coffee myself. My George makes me the most wonderful morning coffee. I do miss him, but I can say I most sincerely do not miss the rest of my family.”

Isis, who was sharing the window seat with Merlot, raised her head and meowed after Ritaestelle spoke. I wonder if she knew the word family. Bet it was tossed around a lot at the Longworth house.

Tom picked up one of the to-go cups and brought it to me. “We all need some of this today.”

“I’m eyeing those muffins,” I said.

“How about taking one with us?” he said.

“Where are we going?” I asked, my mind still muddled by too little sleep.

“To the hospital,” Tom said. “After you help Candace remember what happened when she interviewed Miss Longworth’s household, we’re headed to the estate.”

“But should we leave Ritaestelle alone? Last time the chief watched the house,” I said.

“That’s why I’m here,” came a voice from the kitchen.

The pantry door was open and had blocked me from seeing Kara. She emerged from behind the door holding a box of granola. “Check out the paper.” She nodded toward the counter before opening the cabinet where I keep the dishes.

I sipped my latte—Tom had fixed it perfectly with the right amount of sugar and nutmeg—as I walked over and picked up today’s Mercy Messenger.

The large, bold headline read, OFFICER ATTACKED.

I felt scared all over again just seeing those huge, dark words. But Candace would be fine. Fine if she’d rest. But I wasn’t sure anyone, even Belinda, could make that happen.

Kara said, “I’m hoping the story will bring in leads. Maybe someone who hasn’t already come forward and saw what happened in the parking lot will call the police. Liam thinks it’s a good idea to give this as much publicity as possible.”

“Liam Brennan? The district attorney? When did you talk to him?” I said.

“I called him from the hospital last night. This has to be connected to the murder, so—”

Tom held up a hand. “Let me play Candace for a minute. There’s no evidence connecting the two attacks. Both women were struck over the head, but that’s about it.”

Kara filled a bowl with granola. “Two people hit over the head in a similar fashion in a town this small? And you don’t think the events are connected?”

“What I think and what the evidence shows are two different things,” he said. “You know that, Kara.”

“But I’m a journalist, not a cop. What I write, though factual, does allow for speculation. I like to plant seeds. It might help solve both attacks.”

“She’s right,” I said. “Now that Candace is down and out, we need all the help we can get to find out what happened.” What I’d just said gave me pause. “Candace is down and out,” I repeated. “What if she got too close to the truth at Ritaestelle’s house yesterday? What if that’s the reason she was knocked unconscious?”

“Exactly,” Kara said as she poured milk over her cereal.

Ritaestelle set her cup and saucer on the coffee table. “This sounds as if the terrible person who killed dear Evie is willing to stop at nothing to conceal himself.”

“Or herself,” I said. “Assuming one of your relatives is guilty, that is.” But could Muriel or Augusta or Justine wield enough strength to knock not one, but two people out? I couldn’t imagine any of them doing that. But anger is a powerful thing. Tom was right. We needed to get a handle on these relatives, see what they were capable of. First stop, though—the hospital.

Although the person at the desk guarding the ICU was a now a man with an unsympathetic and suspicious expression, Belinda Carson assured him that I was Candace’s sister. Tom and I sat down beside Belinda to await my five-minute visit. Would that be enough time to go over the notebook entries?

“Did you stay all night?” I asked Belinda, even though I knew the answer. Her hair was a mess, worse than mine, and her wrinkled clothes told the tale.

“Leave?” Belinda said. “Never. Not until I walk out the door with my girl this evening. That’s when she’ll be released if the scan or whatever test they’re doing today is normal.”

I patted her arm. “You are a good mom. I’m only beginning to learn how to be a mom—to a grown woman who once thought I was stealing her father away.”

“Kara thought you’d want to cut her off from her father? Oh, but she was a teenager then. Teenagers aren’t hooked up right yet. They do think such things, I suppose.”

“She was in college, actually,” I said. “But you could be right about adolescents.”

“Oh, I’m right,” Belinda said. “I am sure that Candace was abducted by aliens when she turned fourteen. They kept her and returned her to me as a completely different girl. She gave me fits for the next six years.”

The young man at the desk, who really didn’t look like he wanted to be there, said, “Jillian Hart? You can visit now.”

I started toward the doors, my bag holding the notebook slung over my shoulder.

“Hand your purse over to one of them.” He nodded toward Tom and Belinda.

“But last night—” I started.

“Purses are filthy. You really want to bring something into our ICU that’s been sitting on a public restroom floor?” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

I couldn’t argue with his reasoning. I walked over to Tom and handed him my purse. As quick as any pickpocket, he pulled the notebook out of my bag and stuck it in my waistband.

“Thank you for holding this, Tom,” I said. I mouthed, “It’s okay,” to Belinda.

One obstacle hurdled, I was soon sitting beside Candace.

Her first words were, “Did you bring it? Because I have been awake all friggin’ night trying to remember what I talked about with those people. Who could sleep here anyway? I’ll bet if I’d lain on a New York City sidewalk I would have gotten more rest.”

I offered her the notebook, but she shook her head. “This whole room is as blurry as the sun behind a morning fog. Read me what I wrote. Quick, too.”

Thus the challenge began. I flipped to her most recent entries and started summarizing. “You spoke with George Robertson first. He told you Muriel and Augusta would bicker so much you’d be lucky to get them to give their names. He said Farley would pout like he used to when he was twelve and that his mother would want to be in on the interview with him.”

“He said all that?” Candace said.

“That’s what you wrote—I’m sort of filling in the words you omitted. This is pretty sketchy.”

Candace’s expression changed, and she said, “Now I remember. The chief took on Justine and Farley. I interviewed the cousins and that housekeeper—what’s her name again?”

“Hildie.”

“That’s right. What did I say about the cousins?”

“By Augusta’s name you wrote: Alibi—asleep. Hates Farley. Dislikes Muriel. Says Justine acts like princess. Loves Ritaestelle.” I turned a page. “Refuses to discuss shoplifting. Thought Evie loyal and smart.” I looked at her. “That’s it for her.”

“What about Muriel?” Candace said.

“Alibi—asleep. Says Ritaestelle is strong. Could hurt someone. Evie treated badly by Ritaestelle. Pressed her. Wouldn’t elaborate but agrees never saw Ritaestelle violent. Says Augusta would help Ritaestelle do anything.” I looked up at Candace in surprise. “She thinks Ritaestelle killed Evie.”

“I may be fuzzy about all this, but doesn’t that sound more like sour grapes?” Candace looked up at the