The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

fires for Miss Ritaestelle. Every time we turned around, something silly turned up in Miss Ritaestelle’s room. One time it was a big old bag of rubber bands. With Isis wanting to eat any rubber band she ever saw, Miss Ritaestelle would never bring something like that into her room.”

Tom said, “What does that have to do with Miss Preston putting out fires?”

“People in town was saying Miss Ritaestelle stole all these things,” he answered. “The police chief and Miss Preston did their best to cover it up by returning whatever Hildie or Muriel or Augusta would turn up, but word was out that Miss Ritaestelle was losing her mind. Miss Preston’s job was to make sure she maintained the Longworth reputation.”

“You didn’t think Ritaestelle was losing her mind?” I said.

“Like I told that young lady yesterday, the one who took my fingerprints—”

“You were printed?” Tom said.

“We all was,” Mr. Robertson said.

There had been nothing in Candace’s notes about fingerprints—but her kit was in the evidence bag. I was betting that was where the print cards were. That blow to the head sure muddled Candace’s brain. She considered herself a fingerprint expert—took several classes on the Mercy PD dime—so for her to forget about that was a major memory loss.

Tom’s brows came together, and he seemed confused. “Did Chief Baca have a search warrant for this house? Because if he printed everyone, then—”

“He did,” Mr. Robertson said.

“I thought Ritaestelle gave permission for the house to be searched and no warrant was needed,” I said.

“Fingerprinting an entire household is a Fourth Amendment thing. South Carolina’s pretty lenient about fingerprinting anyone and anything, but knowing Baca, he’d want a warrant,” Tom said.

There was a knock on the door, but before George Robertson got halfway across the room to answer, Nancy Shelton entered.

“There you are, George,” she said. Then her eyes widened when she saw us sitting by the fireplace. “Is something wrong with Ritaestelle?” She sounded worried.

Tom rose. “No. She hired me to investigate the crimes, both large and small, that have occurred over the last few months. Miss Longworth has insisted I do that with Jillian’s help. As you know, Ritaestelle is awfully fond of Jillian.”

“Great. More people from Mercy thinking they know what to do here,” Shelton said. “I have a handle on this, Mr. Stewart. Woodcrest is my town, after all.”

“Apparently there was probable cause for a search warrant,” Tom said.

“That was Mike Baca’s doing,” Shelton said. “I didn’t know he got a warrant until I came to talk to the family today.”

Tom was standing, I assumed, because Shelton had been looking down on him. Knowing Tom and his old cop ways, he’d want to be at eye level with her.

“Here’s the thing I don’t understand, Chief,” he said. “Why did Candace fingerprint everyone in the house? And did she print anything else?”

“Do you see anyone telling me anything?” Color rose on Shelton’s cheeks.

From the corner of my eye, I saw George Robertson stiffen.

I sympathized with him, because I’d seen Chief Shelton’s anger before. Not pretty, but I understood her frustration. This was her town.

She went on, saying, “All I know is the family is upset that Ritaestelle won’t come home and that she suspects them of drugging her—and who knows what else.”

“We came to talk to those people,” Tom said. “If you want to help clear up this mess, ask these folks to cooperate with us.”

But Nancy Shelton’s red face indicated that she was livid now. “I will do nothing of the sort. This should have been my investigation from the beginning. I consider these people friends of mine. But now we’ve got foreign police and a private investigator invading the house.”

“But Ritaestelle asked for our help.” I’d kept my tone soft and even. Nancy Shelton looked ready to have a stroke, and maybe I could smooth things over.

“I don’t believe you coming here is really Ritaestelle’s wish. No, ma’am. This is all your doing.” She stabbed a finger in my direction. “She loves that cat of hers, and you wormed your way into her affections by using Isis and—oh, never mind. Seeing as how I was on my way out, I’ll leave you to do whatever you want.”

She stormed past Mr. Robertson and out of the room.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I sure hoped the upcoming interviews were less explosive, because I again felt like running out the front door. I’d probably get pulled over by the chief again, though.

Mr. Robertson brought me back to the moment, saying, “How would you like to handle your talks with the family?”

“Not here. Maybe the dining room?” Tom said. “Plenty of room to spread out there. And by the way, was everyone home last night?”

George seemed confused by the question. “They all go up to their rooms or watch the television, so I couldn’t say.”

I knew why Tom was asking. Mike Baca may have checked alibis for the night of Evie’s murder, but so far, he probably hadn’t had time to figure out where all these people were when Candace was hit over the head.

Twenty-Seven

Though Tom and I had already decided to do the interviewing together, we’d agreed that he would take the lead with Farley and his mother, while I would handle Augusta and Muriel. I already had a feel for the cousins after their visit to my house. As for the housekeeper? We’d have to play that by ear. Ritaestelle had told us she was only happy when she was in the kitchen, and we’d decided that was where we’d go when we were done with the family.

Once we were set up in the dining room and Mr. Robertson left to get Augusta, I said, “You want to see what chair they pick, don’t you?” I smiled. “We might have to end up shouting out questions, if that’s the case.”

The mahogany dining table was huge. There were six tapestry-covered chairs on each side and armchairs at each end. Tom pulled out an armchair for me, and I discovered it was much more comfortable than the wing chair in the study. The buffet to my right looked like an antique with the top covered by a cream lace cloth that was obviously made to fit the piece. Large candles sat in crystal holders in the middle. In the corner, a tea cart held a silver service surrounded by four bone china cups. This place reminded me of a museum— gorgeous, yes, but I was almost afraid to touch anything.

I took out the brand-new notebook from my purse that Tom had bought for me. Meanwhile, he placed the tape recorder on the table right next to him. That thing was intimidating even to me. As for a notebook? I wasn’t even good in college at taking notes. For me, writing interrupted the listening.

Augusta bustled in first, all smiles and full of Southern hospitality. But the cloud of perfume surrounding her almost made me sneeze.

“Why, heavens, you don’t have a beverage?” she said immediately.

I started to say “Mr. Robertson already—” but the man arrived before I finished. He carried a tray with sweet tea for me and iced coffee for Tom.

Augusta said, “I’m fine, George,” when Mr. Robertson looked at her. I was betting no one had to say a word around him; he was that quick to anticipate.

He quietly left, and Augusta took the chair right next to me and across from Tom. How would I endure the overpowering scent with her this close? I scooted my chair back a little and opened the notebook.

“I understand,” Augusta said, “that my dear cousin wants all of our help in solving these problems and—” Her gaze landed on the recorder. “Oh my. You are serious about all this.”