The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

Seven

Tom picked me up in his Prius about eleven the next morning. No way could we take my van. I was a marked woman in Woodcrest.

As I slid into the passenger seat, I still hadn’t put the wig on. I still hated it as much as I had the day before. Shawn owed me big-time after this.

“You look tired,” Tom said as we pulled out of my driveway.

“Did you know that goddesses are screeching, awful, spoiled creatures?” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

I explained about Isis on the way to Woodcrest. Tom was sympathetic about the hours of sleep I’d lost to the noise coming from my basement, but I had volunteered to help Shawn, and no good deed goes unpunished.

As we closed in on our destination, I put on the wig and a pair of large sunglasses with square rims, then took out a tube of lipstick. Good thing the sun was shining, or I’d look silly wearing the shades. Okay, I probably looked silly anyway. I pulled down the vanity mirror and applied the bright red lip color that Kara had given me before she left yesterday. And stared at the stranger in the mirror. “Nope,” I said, whipping the wig off. “I can’t wear this.”

Tom glanced over at me and didn’t say anything for a few seconds. But finally he removed his Atlanta Braves baseball cap and handed it to me. “Try this.”

I tucked my hair behind my ears and adjusted the size of the hat after I put it on. This time I nodded when I looked in the mirror. “This will do. Even if a baseball cap doesn’t go with this sundress.” I’d taken Kara’s advice and worn one of the few dresses I own—blue cotton with wide straps.

Tom smiled. “Works for me.”

I realized I’d been holding my breath and now let out the air accompanied by a sigh. “Who knew I’m a wig-a-phobic?”

Tom laughed, and soon we were slowly driving down the main street in Woodcrest. The town bustled with activity—lots of folks sauntering on the sidewalks and window-shopping. Tourists? That wasn’t what I had in mind. I wanted to rub elbows with the locals. Tom must have read my mind because he pulled into a parking spot in front of a small pharmacy. “I’ll find out where the Woodcrest people have lunch. Be just a minute.”

He was back in less than that. He opened the passenger door and said, “Come with me. Got the necessary info.”

We walked hand in hand around the nearest corner, the summer sun hammering down on us, and soon arrived at an unassuming place called Fairchild’s. The shades were rolled down on the two big front windows. Guess the black-and-white awning wasn’t enough to protect customers inside from the sun’s glare. Unlike the many cafés I’d noticed on the main street that offered outdoor tables, Fairchild’s did not. The antiques store next to the restaurant had end tables and lamps and a small bookcase set outside. But the restaurant only had one of those chalkboard signs with the day’s specials near its front door.

Once we were inside, the smell of fried chicken and what?—barbecue sauce?—made my stomach growl. I liked what I saw, even if my view of the restaurant’s decor—or lack of decor—was dimmed by my sunglasses. Small tables were crammed within an arm’s length of each other, and a glass counter lined the far wall. A board above the counter listed lunch specials, sandwiches, salads and soups. Beneath the glass was an array of tantalizing cookies, pies and cakes.

We walked up to where a young girl in a Fairchild’s T-shirt and blue jean skirt was taking orders.

Tom looked at me. “Tell me what you want, and then grab us a table.”

I chose the Southern Salad and iced peach tea. Two men were just leaving near the center of the crowded room. While I waited for a teenager to bus the table, I exchanged the sunglasses for the half-lens reading glasses I sometimes use for hand quilting. I was already drawing stares. Just like in Mercy, the strangers are spotted immediately, and the Hollywoodesque sunglasses might have been part of the reason.

After I sat down, I licked my lips. The lipstick felt thick and . . . well . . . just wrong. Despite the warm day and the almost as warm restaurant, my hands were ice-cold. I was nervous and tried to conjure Kara’s amused grin when she’d seen me in the wig. Maybe that would relax me.

This is fun, Jillian. You’re playing a part. Just go with the flow.

By the time Tom arrived with our lunch, I’d already made eye contact with two patrons: a man in overalls at two o’clock right and a woman, maybe midsixties, next to our table on the left. Both these people stared at me like I’d stepped out of a spaceship.

Tom put my salad in front of me—a gigantic bowl with strips of fried chicken amid an array of romaine and spinach. Juicy hunks of fresh tomato and a scattering of corn kernels were almost hidden by a generous swirl of ranch dressing. Calorie Salad might have been a better name.

After Tom set down his pulled-pork barbecue sandwich, he said, “I forgot the silverware.” He took the tray and walked back to the counter.

The woman next to me eyed my salad. “Since you’re eating salad, I assume you’re saving room for dessert. Have the lemon icebox pie. Best you’ll ever eat.”

What I’d ordered didn’t land squarely in the salad category in my view, and Tom’s mother made the best lemon icebox pie I’d ever eaten, but I smiled kindly and said, “Thanks for the tip.”

I hadn’t even noticed the gentleman with her until he said, “Don’t mean she’ll like that pie just ’cause you do, Dolly.” He looked at me and grinned. “Chocolate cream is better.”

“Is not.” Dolly pouted and crossed her arms over her chest.

I smiled. “Guess you two eat here a lot. Been married a long time, haven’t you?”

This seemed to bring Dolly out of her mini-depression at once. “Forty years.”

“Wow,” I said.

The man reached across the table and took Dolly’s hand. “Forty years of bliss. Even if our taste in pie doesn’t match up.”

“Both pies are wonderful. That’s why you and your gentleman friend need to pick both,” the middle-aged man at two o’clock said.

I turned his way and smiled.

Dolly said, “Wayne over there should go into politics, don’t you think, Miss . . . ?” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

Uh-oh. Miss What? I didn’t have to be as honest as Kara did on her assignments, so I could make up something or—

“Stewart,” Tom said.

Thank goodness he’d arrived. Apparently I’m not all that quick on my feet.

He put out his hand to Dolly’s husband. “Tom Stewart. We’re looking to buy a place in a small town. City life isn’t for us, we’ve decided.” At least that last part was true.

“Then you’ve come to the right part of South Carolina. Peaceful here. And still as pretty as god made it,” he answered. “I’m Herman, by the way. And this is my Dolly.”

“I have to say, I’m impressed with this friendly town.” Tom looked at me. “Just might be what we’ve been searching for, hon.”

I cut a chicken strip in half and dabbed it in dressing. Before I took a bite of what looked and smelled delicious, I said, “We drove by this huge estate. What is that place?” I glanced at Dolly and then over at Wayne.

“The Longworth Estate,” all three of our new acquaintances said in unison.

But it was Dolly who rolled her eyes. “Sad thing when someone so upstanding falls so far.” She shook her head, looking genuinely glum—but with what? A hint of satisfaction, perhaps? She had such great facial expressions, she could have been an actress.

I chewed that glorious hunk of chicken and then said, “Oh my god. I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything this good.” I didn’t want to sound too interested in the town gossip. Not yet, anyway.

Wayne had pushed his empty plate away and was leaning back in his chair sipping coffee. “There’s plenty more good choices at this here establishment. The chicken-fried-steak sandwich is my favorite.” He looked over at Dolly. “Heard anything more about Ritaestelle? She get out of going to court?”

Herman said, “Woman’s sick in the head. She’s not going to no court. Chief Shelton’s her friend from way back, so she’ll fix it. No Longworth in their right mind needs to shoplift anything. Yup. Sick in the head.”

This was good information. I had to keep them talking. “Does the poor woman have money trouble? I mean, that house . . . that beautiful acreage . . .”

Herman looked at me and tapped his temple. “Sick in the head.”

Dolly looked about ready to burst. “You are too gullible, Herm. Always have been. I heard tell they found stuff from that new jewelry place in her purse. That man who owns that store where it came from needs that money. Disgraceful on Miss Ritaestelle’s part, you ask me. Klepto-whatevers don’t take precious things, and that man makes his own jewelry. Kleptos supposedly take silly items like . . . like ChapStick.” For some reason Dolly thought Tom was her ally in this assumption, because she looked at him. “Isn’t that right?”

Tom was in the middle of enjoying his sandwich but swallowed quickly and said, “You might be right about that.”

Dolly nodded, looking pleased.

Wayne said, “Sorry, Dolly, but I’m with Herman. Something ain’t right. Miss Ritaestelle’s got to be sick. Think of all she’s done for this town. Rather than saying—”

“Done right for this town in your minds, maybe.” Dolly crossed her arms again, her cheeks flushed.

Herman stood. “I think we best be on our way. Old business isn’t what potential homeowners in Woodcrest need to be hearing about. Come along, Dolly.”

Dolly’s lips were pressed together, and bright spots of color lingered high on her cheeks. She hoisted a large white vinyl purse over her arm and stood.

Wayne was staring into his coffee, and I saw a smile playing on his lips.

Herman shook Tom’s hand and nodded at me. “Nice to meet you folks.”

“Yes.” Dolly mustered a smile. “Forgive me for my earlier remarks. The Longworth family has a long history of generosity. I sounded downright mean about Ritaestelle’s difficulties. And that’s not the kind of person I am.”

She and Herman left the restaurant, and as soon as the door closed after them, Wayne leaned toward me. “Forty-two years ago Ritaestelle showed up at a local dance hall with Dolly’s boyfriend. Or so Dolly says. But she says lots of things.”

Tom said, “Women have amazing memories.”

Wayne laughed. “Don’t I know that.”

“Hey,” I said, “I resemble that remark.”

We all had a laugh, and then Wayne left, too.

I said, “Seems there is something wrong with Miss Longworth—but shoplifting? The poor woman fell. How could she shoplift if she needs help walking down the hall?”

“Maybe Ritaestelle is having some sort of a breakdown. She could be on medication.”

“True,” I said. “Let’s finish our lunch and head to the park. Hopefully we can find out something else.”

Tom dug his fork into a gigantic heap of coleslaw while I continued the wonderful Southern Salad experience.

I felt guilty wearing Tom’s hat as we sat on a white wrought-iron bench in the charming and well-manicured city park. He has this small bald spot on his crown that might become seriously sunburned. But I didn’t dare take the hat off, and in fact I tucked telltale strands of hair back under the cap. I felt more comfortable with the sunglasses back on, but I had this sickening feeling that Chief Nancy Shelton might be just around the corner and would recognize me even if I’d worn the wig.

This acre of flowers and lush green trees smack in the center of town couldn’t have been more lovely. The bench we’d chosen was one of four that made up a square surrounding a small fountain. The murmuring of spilling water helped to calm me as Tom and I sat in silence. Such a peaceful place.

A woman about my age—midforties, maybe—arrived twenty minutes after we’d sat down. She was assisting an elderly lady who needed a cane to help her walk.

“There you go, Mama,” the younger woman said. She handed her mother a brown paper lunch sack after they’d both sat down on the bench perpendicular to ours.

The birds and the squirrels began to arrive before the older woman tossed out the first bread crumbs. Her shriveled, arthritic hand trembled as she tossed the food to the anxious sparrows and blackbirds. Two squirrels sat up like little begging dogs, and I soon saw why. “Mama” reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out several peanuts. With a peanut in each palm, she bent toward the squirrels and held out her shaky hands. The squirrels approached quickly, grabbed their prizes and ran off behind the oak trees beyond.

“You’ve got them trained,” I said with a smile.

The younger woman spoke. “She brought me here every day when I was a kid. Now it’s my turn to make sure she gets as much joy as we shared back then.” She placed an arm around her mother and squeezed her.

The cloudy-eyed and slightly confused look the old woman gave her daughter was one I knew well. In my grandfather’s later years, he remembered only routine—and none of his family. We had become strangers.

Tears welled in my eyes at the memory, and the young woman saw this. “Ah, you understand.” Her lips quivered, and she returned to their task, assisting her mother in getting a new handful of bread crumbs from the bag.

Tom took my hand in his and said, “You come here every day?”

“Yes,” the woman said, not making eye contact. She remained focused on helping her mother. “I’ve never seen you here before. Tourists?”

“You could say that,” he said. “But tourists on a mission.”

She looked at Tom then. “What does that mean?”

“We need information about a local woman,” I said. Looking for a house, pretending we were married, wouldn’t cut it for me this time. I just couldn’t lie to this woman. I couldn’t play what suddenly seemed like a ridiculous game.

Tom turned sharply to look at me, but I avoided his gaze, removed my sunglasses and went on. “I’m Jillian, by the way.”

“I—I’m Rebecca, and this is my mother, Gertrude.” But her voice was hesitant, her look guarded.

The old woman turned to her daughter. “Gertrude, you say? That sounds so familiar.”

Rebecca patted her mother’s thigh. “That’s your name, Mama. Gertrude Hill.”

“Oh. That’s nice, isn’t it?” Gertrude went back to feeding the birds.

Rebecca took a deep breath and released it slowly.

“Do you know Miss Longworth?” I asked.

Tom sighed, and I felt his shoulder slump a little. He probably didn’t think I was doing the right thing by taking this tack.

“Are you the FBI or something?” Rebecca said. “Has it gotten that bad?”

“Why would you think that?” Tom sounded as surprised as I felt.

“Are you?” Rebecca persisted. “Because I think you’re supposed to show me a badge or something if that’s the case.”

I shook my head. “No. We’re not police or FBI or anything like that. But we do know there’s been trouble at the Longworth house. Have you heard about it?”

“Why is it any of your business?” She leaned against the hard bench’s back, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her penetrating stare was on me.

My heart sped up. Was this another mistake? Had my gut feeling about this woman been wrong? I’d sensed she’d be honest and open, but now she was suspicious—and with good reason.

“I was in the Longworth house yesterday,” I said. “I went there with some simple questions and soon discovered that Miss Longworth seems ill. Something isn’t right, and I feel obligated to find out what’s going on.”

Gertrude looked at her daughter and said, “She’s a good one, Becky.” She raised a crooked finger to one eye. “It’s right there in her eyes. What’s your name again, sweetie?”

“Jillian,” I said.

“Pretty name, just like you. And a sight better than Gertrude any day,” she replied.

Rebecca smiled and took her mother’s hand. “I should talk to her? Is that what you’re saying, Mama?”

Gertrude nodded. “That’s what I’m saying. Miss Ritaestelle made sure we got the mortgage for our first house. Told the banker we’d always be good for the payments. Did you know that, Becky?”

“No, I didn’t,” Rebecca said. The younger woman’s face had brightened; she was probably thrilled about these precious lucid moments.

“If Miss Ritaestelle is in trouble, then you need to help Jillian. Now, I need more peanuts. Did you forget to bring them again?” Gertrude said.

“They’re in your pocket, remember?” Rebecca said.

Gertrude struggled to reach into the folds of her skirt and came out with a handful of peanuts. “Well, slap me silly, who put those there?” She tossed a few over her shoulder, and the four squirrels that had now gathered scurried in that direction. Gertrude smiled broadly and turned to watch.

“Who are you people?” Rebecca said.

“We live in Mercy. I volunteer at the animal sanctuary. Shawn Cuddahee—”

“I know the place. I only briefly met Shawn, but his wife, Allison, is so, so nice. I adopted my little dog Nick from them about four years ago. But I interrupted. Go on.”

“Shawn called and tried to speak with Miss Longworth several times last week. No one returned his call. He thought I might have better luck if I just went there,” I said.

Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why would Mr. Cuddahee be calling Miss Longworth?”

“He found her cat,” I said. “But like I said, she never called Shawn back and I never got to talk to her. I’m hoping to find out why.”

“I heard she’s not returning anyone’s calls ever since they found out about the shoplifting. It’s a sad day when a strong woman like that loses her way.” Rebecca glanced at her mother, who was engrossed in her bird feeding.

Tom said, “We heard about the shoplifting. But earlier you seemed to indicate there’s more than that going on.”

“I’ll say. Everyone’s talking about it. Word is that Evie Preston—that’s Miss Longworth’s personal assistant—has made calls to big-time places like the Cleveland Clinic and Johns Hopkins. Evie thinks she’s sick or something.”

If I still lived in Houston, I would have been amazed that one person would know so much about what was going on, but this town was even smaller than Mercy. Everyone knew everything about what went on—and that was why we’d come to the park in the first place.

I glanced at Rebecca’s mother and back to her. “Is Miss Longworth being treated by a doctor here for a possible . . . medical problem?”

“You mean Alzheimer’s?” Rebecca said softly.

I nodded.

“Not that I know of, but we don’t have many specialists. I have to take my mother to Charlotte to see a doctor there. I happen to have firsthand knowledge about Miss Longworth’s recent problems. I took Mama to pick up a prescription a couple months ago. Evie was there with Miss Ritaestelle. Miss Longworth looked blank-faced, like she was almost sleepwalking. At the counter, when Miss Longworth opened her bag to pay, Evie spotted a handful of small-change items—nail polish, nail clippers, stuff like that. She took them all out and put them on the counter so she could pay for them. When Evie looked back at me, she seemed so embarrassed.” Rebecca squeezed her mother close again. “Rumor is that not long after, Evie Preston told the police chief about that incident. See the chief and Miss Longworth are friends and Chief Shelton could help before things got out of hand. As many troubles as we’ve had, I never had that kind of problem.”

Gertrude looked bewildered again. “You’ve got a problem, little lady? I know where the police officers can be found. Parked in their car outside the kolache shop on Briar Street.”

I grinned. “Thanks for the tip, Mrs. Hill.” That might prove to be useful information if word got around that I was asking questions. We would definitely avoid Briar Street.

“Mrs. Hill, you say?” Gertrude said. “Is she related to that handsome young lawyer, Peter Hill?”

Rebecca took her mother’s elbow and said, “Time to move on, Mama. We have more birds to feed near our house.”

Gertrude slowly rose with Rebecca’s help, and as they passed by, I thanked Rebecca for her help.

“You take care,” Tom offered.

Before they left, Rebecca leaned down and whispered, “Peter is my brother.”

I managed to pat Rebecca’s arm reassuringly and say, “You are so brave,” before they slowly walked away.

“That police chief will hear about this conversation, you know,” Tom said. “She’ll make sure no one talks to you after this.”

“Why? I’m only trying to help a cat and a woman who seems to be in trouble.”

“I know,” Tom said gently, “but you said yourself there’s more to this. If Chief Shelton decides no one should talk to you, then I’m betting she’ll get her way.”

“I couldn’t fool around with Rebecca and Gertrude. I can’t help but wonder after meeting them if Kara will be so completely there for me one day. Make sure my cats are fed, their litter boxes are clean. And what about poor Ritaestelle? Does she have any family to—”

“What are you doing back in Woodcrest?” came a female voice I recognized. She was standing behind me.

I turned and looked up at Chief Nancy Shelton.

Tom rose and faced her. “I insisted she come back. Tom Stewart.” He held out his hand.

The woman, once again wearing that navy blue jacket and skirt with the shiny police badge on her lapel, regarded Tom’s hand as if it were a gerbil in a petting zoo. Would it be safe to touch?

But finally she shook his hand.

“You know your friend here”—the chief nodded at me—“well, she caused quite an upset at the Longworth house yesterday.”

I so wanted to say that the “upset” had begun long before I arrived, but instead I said, “I meant no harm.”

Nancy Shelton’s stern look disappeared. “I understand. I’m not an unreasonable woman, despite what you think. I’m simply very protective of my citizens. I’ve had a day to think about my behavior yesterday, and I talked more with Miss Preston about your visit. I overreacted. You’re concerned about Isis. Isn’t that right? Mr. Cuddahee apparently found her and sent you here?”

I slouched in relief. “Yes. I want to bring Miss Longworth’s cat back to her. She seems to need her friend more than ever right now,” I said.

Chief Shelton closed her eyes, hung her head briefly. “You may want to rethink that.”

“Why’s that?” Tom said.

“Because I hate to tell you this, but the family told me that Ritaestelle tossed that cat out the door last week. I’d say Isis is lucky to be alive.”