The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

Nine

The surprise must have still been evident on my face when I opened the door, because Ritaestelle Longworth said, “You weren’t expecting me?” She smiled amiably.

Then I realized she wore a white chenille bathrobe with her initials in scrolled gold embroidery on the left pocket. She also had a red Velcro hair roller in her silver bangs and a honey-colored Coach handbag over her arm.

“I—I . . . Please come inside.” I opened the door wider and then immediately thought about Isis. My three cats had raced after me to the foyer to see what was up, but not Isis. Had she gotten a whiff of her owner—a cat’s sense of smell is hundreds of times more keen than a human’s—and decided not to greet the person who’d thrown her out? Probably.

After Miss Longworth stepped inside, I shut the door after her, still too confused by her arrival to think of anything to say.

She erased the awkward silence by starting right in with, “Since you came to see me yesterday and we did not converse, I thought I would come your way and say hello. I looked up your address and that wonderful little GPS device in my car made the journey quite trouble-free. See, I knew I recognized you—from that article they ran in the newspaper a while back. How you solved that murder and helped all those poor cats find homes. You are such a hero, Ms. Hart.”

Here she was, dressed in her nightclothes, a roller in her hair, talking in her restrained, polite, Old South manner like she’d been invited for tea. Was this really happening?

“Um, thank you, Miss Longworth. What can I do for you?” I would have checked my watch had I been wearing one. Did she realize how late it was? Perhaps not. This woman was obviously troubled—and yet she was as smiley as a Cheshire cat.

“Please call me Ritaestelle. Now, I am most certain you are completely bewildered by my sudden appearance in your charming little town. Do you mind if we sit down? As you were witness to, I had a fall yesterday, and my hip is a smidgeon intolerant of me standing.”

“Of course. Please come into the living room. Can I help you to the sofa?” I said.

“No, no, I can make it. Oh, and look at your lovely cats leading the way. How precious.”

No mention of Isis. Did she even remember her own cat? This all seemed a little surreal.

We made our way to the living room, her limp obvious, and I wondered if she’d been seen by a doctor.

She eased herself into one of the overstuffed chairs and sighed as she sank into the cushions. “What a comfy, splendid chair.” She glanced around. “And I do imagine you have a lovely view of the lake in the daytime, what with all your windows.”

“I do. But, if I can ask again, why are you here and—” I couldn’t seem to get the rest of the sentence out—the part about her being dressed for bed.

“Before we get into an explanation, my dear young woman—and you have every right to be inquiring—I could certainly use a drink of water. I left my house in rather a rush, as I am sure you have already determined.” She smiled that odd and oh, so gracious smile again.

“Um, sure. Ice?”

“That would be wonderful.” She reached down and patted Chablis on the head. My cat was sniffing at Ritaestelle’s chenille slippers. Yes, the lady was even wearing slippers that matched her robe. Syrah had taken his regal sitting position at the foyer entrance, and Merlot paced in front of the windows. Moths and flies must be fluttering around out there.

I went to the kitchen, wondering if I should bring up the subject of Isis, wait for Ritaestelle to say something or forget about her cat for the time being. Isis seemed to want the latter, considering she hadn’t shown her face. Yes, that seemed the best option for now.

After I handed Ritaestelle her water, she thanked me profusely and then said, “Now, as to my attire. I do not normally leave the house dressed like this. But I had a chance to escape and I took it.”

I blinked. Escape? Should I add paranoia to her list of recent problems? I tried to keep my voice even when I said, “You escaped? That sounds serious.”

“It is seriously shameful when you are forced to leave your home in such an unpleasant fashion.”

“It is.” I nodded in agreement, feeling downright foolish. Perhaps I should have been a tad frightened by this visit, but it all seemed so innocent and, well, silly. Ritaestelle was probably in need of a doctor for more than her hip—and perhaps simply someone to talk to. I could do that much for her. “Can you tell me about what happened tonight?”

Ritaestelle sipped at her water and then carefully set her glass on a coaster on the end table beside her. “Certainly. I do owe you an explanation after you have so kindly invited me into your home. Let me begin by saying I know what you do—make those darling quilts for cats, help at the Mercy Animal Sanctuary. But you also assist with crime investigations. As I mentioned, that is how I recognized you—from your photograph in the newspaper. Your abilities in crime investigation are what interest me the most. You see, I think I have been a victim of sabotage.”

“Sabotage? That’s a strong word.” Merlot loped across the room and leaped onto the sofa next to me. Then, strangely enough, all twenty pounds of him climbed into my lap. What was bothering him? He can be a big old fraidy cat, but this woman seemed harmless enough.

“That is the biggest, most handsome cat I have ever seen.” She glanced down and then around the room. “But what happened to your other friends?”

Indeed, Syrah and Chablis had disappeared. And once again, though the focus was on cats, she still hadn’t mentioned Isis. Maybe she had amnesia. Maybe that explained her other problems. “Merlot’s a Maine coon, and this breed is often large. But forgive me if I’m a little confused about the mention of sabotage. What do you mean by that?”

“The sabotage. Yes, that is why I came. I am still a little unclear about certain events, probably because of the drugs someone has been spiking my tea with. I do so enjoy my tea. But perhaps sabotage is not quite the word I was searching for.”

“You’ve been drugged?” This time I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. That sure might clarify a few things.

“Yes, and I sincerely wish I knew why. And I wish I knew who was doing such a thing. I have two cousins living with me, along with my late brother’s wife and her son. Then there’s the staff: a cook, my assistant, my wonderful butler. We are a full house.”

“That woman I saw you with—the one named Augusta. Who’s she?”

“My cousin. But I cannot believe she would ever hurt me. After I heard the doorbell when you arrived, I so wanted to see who had come to call, as is my custom. But when I made it out to the hallway, I slipped and fell. What you witnessed was Augusta and Evie trying to help.” Ritaestelle shook her head sadly and then met my gaze. “Why would someone want to harm me?”

“You mean drug you?” I asked, stroking Merlot. But he wasn’t purring. He was in protection mode, I decided. So why wasn’t I afraid? This visit simply seemed odd and somehow sad.

“Yes, why drug me? I am a very generous person in my community. I believed, perhaps wrongly, that I am well liked by the town folk and by the people in my home. And yet this happened. I even called my friend Nancy, who is now the chief of police. She came over, was quite concerned, and yet she seems to have doubts about whether I was even sedated. She said at times, as we age, we have to manage the world differently. We become forgetful and a tad clumsy.”

“Did that upset you?” I said.

Ritaestelle said, “What bothered me most was that though Nancy can be quite abrupt, that day she was oversolicitous. She is never that kind, so I was, shall we say, confused—or more confused than those drugs were making me. She offered me the name of a doctor. I already have a doctor, and she knew as much.”

Today, in the park, I had seen Nancy Shelton’s concern for her friend firsthand. “Maybe she thought you weren’t getting the best care,” I said.

“I did not need a doctor visit or any more caretakers. I was feeling absolutely fine before someone put drugs in my tea.” Ritaestelle glanced toward the ceiling briefly. “Is sabotage the correct word? Perhaps subversion is better.”

I took a deep breath, making sure not to look at her outfit, but rather kept my gaze on the amazingly flawless skin on her face. The wealthy certainly can afford the best skin care. And like Scarlett O’Hara, she’d probably protected herself all her life from the damaging summer sun. “I hate to be forward,” I said, “but have you been seen by your doctor, Miss Longworth?”

She smiled again. “Please call me Ritaestelle, remember? I see you have your doubts about me as well. Your lovely green eyes tell me as much. Are they green . . . or gray?”

“Depends on what I’m wearing,” I said with a smile.

“To answer your question, yes. Burton, my personal physician for more than thirty years, came to the house about three weeks ago. He said he thought I might be suffering from a virus, wanted me to come to the office for laboratory tests and perhaps go to the hospital for an MRI of my brain. I was having none of that, let me tell you. I am as healthy as a horse.”

“But you could have a medical problem,” I said.

Her shoulders stiffened. “Nonsense. I am being drugged, and I want you to help me prove it.”

That shut me up for a few seconds. Then I said, “Why me?”

“If an old friend who happens to be a police officer refuses to assist me, who am I to turn to? Besides, you, my dear, are trustworthy. A heroine. And I suspect you know where my cat is. You came to my house to talk about Isis, of that much I am sure. Her disappearance is a major concern—that and the sabotage. I do not understand where she has gone. She would never leave me willingly.”

No, not willingly, I thought. Being shoved out the door couldn’t have been something Isis liked one bit. Until I learned more, I decided Ritaestelle shouldn’t know that her cat was hiding somewhere in my house. Cats understand when they are in trouble. And they are smart enough to trust their instincts and hide from that trouble. The fact that Isis had not made an appearance told me a little something about Ritaestelle. Still, if the poor woman had been drugged as she claimed, that might explain why she’d thrown her cat outside; maybe she’d been in a state of confusion. But did it explain the shoplifting? Ritaestelle hadn’t spoken about that.

I said, “I confess that I am aware your cat is missing. However—”

A loud and mournful meow echoed down the hall behind us.

“What was that?” Ritaestelle rose from her chair, groaning with the effort. She turned in the direction of the hallway. “Is she here? Is my Isis here? Because that most certainly sounded like her.” She turned back to me, her calm facade gone. “Why did you keep this from me?”

There was no getting around Isis’s presence now. Ritaestelle’s Southern charm had evaporated like so much steam. She was angry—and I didn’t blame her. Isis didn’t come out to greet her mistress because she was probably trapped somewhere.

Was she stuck in the sewing cabinet again? Or had she gotten caught in a bureau drawer? These were unfamiliar surroundings, so she could definitely be trapped. “I’m sorry for not telling you about Isis right away. But I can explain,” I said. “Can you wait here for a second while I find her?”

“You do have her, then? Oh, good gracious, thank the Lord.” Her anger melted away, and all that I now saw in her body language was relief. “Show me where she is.” She stepped toward the hallway and in the direction of the now insistent meows.

“Please. You’re having trouble with your hip. Let me bring her to you.”

“I respect the privacy of your home, so I will wait here, but do please bring her to me,” she said.

I hurried past her toward the other part of the house. Ritaestelle may have been troubled, but she obviously loved her cat. Nothing heals a soul better than a furry friend. And she could definitely use some healing.

I stopped in the quilting room first, Merlot on my heels. No Isis. And no Chablis or Syrah either. I understood then that if I found my two cats, I’d find Isis.

Another pitiful meow came from my bedroom. Ah. That was where they were. I hurried down the hall and found Syrah and Chablis sitting outside my closet. I’d closed the door—and unknowingly closed in Isis. But the bawling had stopped, and when I opened the door, Isis didn’t come streaking out as I’d expected.

I flipped on the light. My closet is a large walk-in, and L shaped. Now I heard a pitiful mewl coming from around the corner where I’d stored extra cat quilts and several boxes of John’s things—photos and a few personal items I would never part with.

“Come here, Isis,” I said softly. “I promise I won’t tap you on the nose or squirt you with coffee.” Oh, I was definitely feeling guilty now.

I walked slowly toward her soft meows. But when I found her, I had to cover my mouth to keep from breaking into laughter. The goddess was surely embarrassed by her predicament, and I didn’t want to make her feel worse.

Isis had climbed into a basket—one that had come with a floral arrangement, I’m sure. It was dark-colored wicker with a handle—and much too small for her. And yet she’d managed to squeeze into it and now obviously couldn’t get out.

I knelt and realized at once that she’d squirmed so much, she’d managed to wedge herself into that basket. I couldn’t even get my hands around her body to get her out. This would require a dismantling of the basket.

“Wait right here, oh brilliant one.” Like she was actually able to move anywhere. I do like to offer hope in these situations, however; this was the kind of problem my own cats had made me familiar with.

I hurried back down the hall to my quilting room, where there were plenty of tools to be found. I called out to Ritaestelle that I would be right with her, Isis in tow, and then gathered a small needle-nose pliers (excellent for pulling stuck needles through layers of a quilt), my large sheers and a seam ripper.

Taking my arsenal with me, I allowed myself a laugh and even picked up my phone from my nightstand. I had to get a picture of this first.

With all this going on, I’d have thought my own three cats would be following the action, but they must have decided Ritaestelle needed company. After I snapped a photo of Isis in all her glory, I worked away at one handle of the less than top quality basket. I used the pliers to pull away some of the wicker that attached the handle to the basket. I realized the sheers were too big for the job and ended up using the seam ripper to tear away the wicker strips. After maybe five minutes, I lifted one side of the handle toward Isis’s back and then up and away.

Silly thing just sat there and looked up at me, as helpless as, well . . . a kitten. I gently reached under her and lifted her up and out of her tiny prison. How had she ever managed to get in there in the first place?

I held her close, which she didn’t seem to mind at all. I left the basket and my tools on the floor, picked up my phone and off we went for the reunion. I was betting Isis would be more than ecstatic to see her “mom” after this latest experience.

But when I got to the living room, Isis purring away in my arms, the chair where Ritaestelle had been sitting was empty. Then my protector cat Merlot let out one of his loud, deep-throated meows—the ones I rarely hear. He was in the kitchen.

Had Ritaestelle gone for more water and fallen again? If so, I sure couldn’t see her in there. I rushed around the counter, and the smell of the humid night air greeted me at once.

The back door was open.

Merlot and Syrah were sitting on the stoop, and Syrah’s ears were twitching like crazy. That was always a sign that something was wrong.

“Ritaestelle?” I called, joining my two cats at the back door.

From somewhere down near the lake I heard her call, “Here. I am down here. We need help.”

I heard the panic in her voice, but I couldn’t see anything except the giant black silhouettes of the huge trees on my sloping back lawn.

I turned on the lights and saw her then.

What was she doing on the dock? What was she holding?

I got a taste of my own heart about then. Chablis wasn’t here with the other cats. Had she gone down to the lake? And why was the back door open in the first place?

I had enough sense to shut the door before I set Isis down. I didn’t want her racing off to find another highway. After making sure she and my two boys didn’t get outside, I slipped out into the night.

I keep a pair of Crocs on the back deck and put them on before I ran down toward the water to the sound of Ritaestelle’s pleas for me to hurry.

But I ran a little too fast. The pine needles were damp with dew, and I fell on my rear. I hadn’t realized I was still clinging to my phone, but it went flying out of my hand somewhere to my right. I scrambled to my feet and made it to the dock. Ritaestelle’s face was so pale in the moonlight, so fraught with terror, that I swallowed hard. Especially when I realized she had Chablis under one arm. And it looked like she held a rock in her other hand.

“Help us. Help her,” Ritaestelle said. She looked down into the water.

I followed her gaze.

The lake lapped against the riprap, a sound I’d always found soothing. But the sight of the woman facedown in the water, her lifeless body swaying with each small wave, was anything but soothing.