The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

“Do you mind if we record our conversation?” Tom said.

Conversation sounds so much better than interrogation, I thought.

“Why, of course I don’t mind.” She folded her hands on the table in front of her. She wore a large emerald ring on her right hand and a diamond pinkie ring on her left.

Tom pressed the RECORD button and looked at me.

My cue to begin. I said, “Unlike the questions the police might have already asked about your alibi and other matters that I’m not familiar with, I’m interested in one thing in particular. Why would someone want Ritaestelle to look bad in the community?”

“Oh my. Is that what’s happening?” She sounded so naive . . . and so fake.

“I believe you know that’s what’s happening. Bet after all the shoplifting and the talk about her not being quite right in the head, they even suspect her of murder.” I took a sip of my tea—probably the best sweet tea I’d ever tasted.

“I suppose you cannot keep people from talking,” Augusta said. Nothing like a little Southern-style evasiveness.

But we have that in Texas, too, and she wasn’t wiggling off the hook. “Do you think the accusations swirling around Ritaestelle made her kill Evie?”

“No. Oh, absolutely no. She is incapable. Simply incapable.” Augusta licked at her lips and began rubbing the arthritic-looking knuckles on her left hand.

“We know you said you were sleeping the night Ritaestelle left the house,” I said. “But from what I saw when I was here the other day, you seemed to be her caretaker. Was she upset the evening she left? Different in any way?”

Augusta closed her eyes briefly and then fluttered her lashes at Tom. She leaned toward him and in a low voice said, “Did she seem upset? Hmm. Perhaps you could say so, but in the quiet way I am familiar with. Ritaestelle is never one to lose her temper—unlike some folks in this house.”

I wanted to pursue that statement, but Tom said, “How did you know she was upset?”

“She’d muttered over the last several days about being drugged and that she didn’t know why someone would do that to her. She never accused me, mind you. She knows I would never do anything like that. Then she started pouring her tea out. I watched her do it that very night. But I never did anything to her food or drink. Do I seem like that sort of person, sir?”

Tom offered Augusta a sardonic smile. “You seem like the kind of person who knows a lot more than she’s saying.”

Augusta leaned back in her chair, considering this.

“You weren’t drugging her, Augusta?” I asked.

“Why would I do such a thing?” she said.

Tom said, “That was a yes-or-no question.”

“No. Absolutely not,” she said, offering a wintery smile.

“Did you brew her tea?” I said.

“That is not one of my responsibilities,” she said.

“Whose responsibility is it?” I asked.

“Why, Hildie, of course,” Augusta said. “Then George would carry the tray upstairs and leave it on that table at the end of the hall. I would carry it in when Ritaestelle was ready. It became necessary for Ritaestelle to take her meals in her room after she became so unsteady on her feet. She was embarrassed, I believe. Wanted to keep to herself as much as possible.”

“Embarrassed about what?” The perfume was giving me a major headache, and I rubbed the spot between my eyebrows to ease the pain.

“All right, I’ll admit there was talk about her competence. And I’ll answer your next question before you ask. Who was talking? Just about everyone in this house and in town.” Augusta stared beyond Tom, her hands still now.

“Did everyone also know that Ritaestelle’s meal trays were set in the hallway that led to her room?” I said.

Augusta turned to me, head tilted. “I suppose everyone might know, though only Muriel and I have rooms on the same floor. We’ve all lived here together for decades. And we all knew about her tea as well. Twice a day with the tea, always taken in her room. Justine and Farley are up one story. There’s an elevator you can take from the kitchen, and they usually use that, rather than climb all those stairs. I’ll admit I tend to use it more and more of late.”

“You spent a lot of time with Ritaestelle,” I said. “Did you ever once catch her stealing anything?”

“Never. Not once. She is not a thief. And she’s not a drug addict, even if they did find that bottle of pills in her room yesterday.”

Uh-oh. That wasn’t in Candace’s notes. “What kind of pills?” I asked.

“Tranquilizers. I heard that police chief tell that little girl policewoman that they were prescribed for Ritaestelle.” Augusta smiled with satisfaction. “Muriel’s going a little deaf in one ear, but not me. No, I can still hear a pin drop.”

I sat back, not sure what to think about this. Ritaestelle insisted she was being drugged, and yet she had a prescription for tranquilizers and never mentioned it.

Tom must have realized I was a little stunned—yup, I’d completely lost my train of thought. He wrapped up with Augusta by standing and saying, “Where were you last night?”

“Why, here, of course. Where else would I be?” she said.

“Thanks for your time. You’ve been a big help,” Tom said.

“It’s been my sincere pleasure,” Augusta said before she bustled out of the room.

Between the lingering smell of the perfume and the news about the pills, I needed to clear my brain. I took the notebook I’d not written a word on and waved it at the spot where Augusta had been sitting.

Tom said, “Why don’t we move to the other end of the table? Mr. Robertson will be sending in Muriel next.”

“Good idea,” I said. “I thought I might suffocate if Augusta stayed any longer.”

Once we were settled in “fresher” spots, I said, “What about these pills? Ritaestelle never said anything about medication.”

“Did you ask her directly?” Tom said.

“No. Guess I’m not very good at being direct, huh?”

“You did a fantastic job with Augusta. Look at what we learned in a few short minutes.” His reassuring smile made me feel a little more confident.

But I was up again with Muriel. Would things go as well?

Mr. Robertson brought her in a minute later. He walked in behind her and was carrying a large tray.

Muriel, in her bright green silk dress and heels that I feared might land her in the hospital after a fall, chose to sit next to me. But she left a chair between us. She was keeping her distance. The red hair and the green dress had me thinking about Christmas.

Mr. Robertson set the tray down on the table. “Miss Hildie insists you eat. Doesn’t want anyone hungry in this house.”

It was past lunchtime, but I’d been too nervous about playing detective to pay attention to my stomach. One plate held triangle sandwiches, some filled with pimento cheese and others with what looked like chicken salad. There was a bowl of frosty red grapes and a platter of broccoli, carrots, celery sticks and cherry tomatoes surrounding a bowl of creamy dressing. What really caught my eye was the sliced apple strudel sitting on a small silver tray and dusted with confectioner’s sugar. Suddenly I was very hungry.

Mr. Robertson left, and I took a napkin from the pile of folded white linen at one end of the tray and laid it across my lap. I’d start with the sandwiches, but I couldn’t take my eye off that strudel.

“How are you—may I call you Muriel?” Tom said.

“That is my name, so most certainly,” she said.

Mr. Robertson returned carrying another tray. This one held three pitchers—ice water, sweet tea and iced coffee. Fresh glasses surrounded the pitchers, and there was also a bowl with sliced lemons. Mr. Robertson left without a word, my “thank you” echoing after him through the gigantic room.