The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

Twenty-Five

Candace’s mother had been happy to give me the keys to her daughter’s RAV4. “If that’s what my baby wants, then you can have them.”

Tom and I drove to the apartment complex parking lot, now cleared of any police presence. But when Tom opened her vehicle with the remote and the headlights flashed, Mercy police deputy Jerry Raymond jumped from behind a row of shrubs, weapon drawn.

He shouted, “Mercy PD. Hands in the air.” He held his flashlight and gun together, pointed right at our faces. The light was blinding.

We both did as we were told, and Tom said, “Jerry, it’s me and Jillian. Candace wanted to make sure her stuff was safe. See the keys in my hand?” Tom jangled them.

“You scared the living crap out of me, Stewart,” Jerry said.

We lowered our arms.

“Candy’s talking?” Jerry said. “That is some major good news, man.”

“She’s awake and she’ll be fine,” I said. “But she was worried about her evidence kit, stuff like that.”

“Just like her,” Jerry said. “Always worried about some evidence goin’ missin’. But I’ve been watching her RAV like a hawk. Ain’t nobody stealin’ nothin’ from our Candy.”

“She asked me to keep her things at my house until she’s released tomorrow. Would that be all right?” I said.

“I can take her stuff. Drop it at the station when I clock out in the mornin’,” he said.

“She wants Jillian’s eyes on this,” Tom said. “You know how she is.”

“Do I? Guess it would be all right, ’cause, man, I do not want to be on Candy’s bad side. Not never. But that evidence kit is police property. I gotta take care of that or the chief will be all up in my—sorry, Miss Jillian. I almost cussed. Anyways, take her personal stuff just to say you did what she asked. I’ll take her evidence kit to the station.”

And that was how we ended up with Candace’s notebook. It was on the front floorboard along with her baton, a flashlight and an umbrella. For some reason I’d expected the notes to be in her evidence kit, where I’d seen them before. I took the time to clean out the RAV of empty coffee cups and fast-food wrappers. I also collected several sweaters that had probably been in Candace’s backseat since last winter. She might not recognize her car when she got out of the hospital.

Tom and I returned to my place at about two in the morning. True to her word, Nancy Shelton was parked on the road outside my house. She got out of her car when we pulled into the driveway, told us that everything was fine and that she hadn’t even bothered Ritaestelle. The tiredlooking police chief went back to her car and drove off.

Ritaestelle, still dressed, was asleep on the sofa surrounded by cats.

Tom whispered, “Read through the notes if you’re not too tired. I’ll see you in the morning.” He kissed me lightly on the lips and left quietly.

Read through the notes? I had a problem with that.

I turned to see Syrah stretch his legs before approaching me. He had such lovely long legs and stretched so gracefully. I heard once from a breeder that cats live into their teens or twenties because they stretch all the time. The activity apparently activates their lymph system. Maybe I should take up yoga so my fur friends wouldn’t outlive me.

Syrah sat at my feet, and I knelt to scratch him behind the ears. Pretty soon I had all four cats looking for a little middle-of-the-night affection. Deciding I should wake Ritaestelle up and tell her about Candace, then make sure she slept in a bed, I walked over to the couch. I gently touched her shoulder.

Her eyes opened so quickly, I almost jumped backward. She was probably so anxious after all that had gone on that she was only half asleep.

“Oh my good gracious, you have come home.” She sat up, and I heard a few bones creak. “By your expression I am willing to wager that your friend will recover?”

“You’d win that bet,” I said. “She’s groggy and acting a little wacky, but the doctor said she’ll recover completely. She’ll probably be released tomorrow. But getting her to rest up will be a chore I do not envy her mother.”

Isis jumped in Ritaestelle’s lap as she said, “Deputy Carson is a very dedicated police officer. I cannot imagine her remaining on the sidelines for long.”

“I can’t either. Come on. It’s late. We both need a pillow and a quilt.” I picked up Isis, much to the cat’s chagrin—and earned a hiss for doing that. Then I helped Ritaestelle to her feet. All this maneuvering was done with the notebook tucked under my left arm. Maybe I was a good candidate for yoga.

Ten minutes later, after I’d washed my face and brushed my teeth, I settled into bed, the notebook on my bedside table. I couldn’t bring myself to open it, and yet I didn’t turn out the light. Syrah showed great interest in me just lying there, eyes on the ceiling. Merlot and Chablis cared only about sleeping. I’d put three kitty quilts at the foot of the bed, mostly to collect the summer shedding, but Syrah and Merlot rarely slept on theirs. That left Chablis to enjoy all three at various times. But tonight, Merlot curled up on the one at my feet, a nine-patch with a wild-goose-chase border in blues and whites. I wondered if he was feeling insecure because of having both cat and human houseguests, not to mention so many people coming in and out. He is a sensitive soul and used to routine. We’d had anything but routine in the last few days.

Try as I might, I couldn’t get the notebook out of my head. What if I only checked out what Candace had observed about the family and staff at the Longworth Estate?

Okay. But that was all I’d look at.

Propped up by several pillows, I opened the small spiral and immediately realized reading her notes would be easier said than done. I was aware that she always transferred these scribblings—and that was what they were, messy scribblings—to her computer as soon as she was able. She had grumbled about this chore on more than one occasion.

The first page had a giant red check mark through the writing, and I guessed that was her way of indicating she’d done the computer work. The first phrase was, “Morris keeping murder book.”

Murder book? What the heck was that? If I couldn’t even understand the first sentence, how would any of this make sense? The next words weren’t what I wanted to read: “Female, white, deceased.”

I skipped over pages until I found what she’d wanted me to read to her tomorrow—her interview notes. There was a semblance of order here. I saw the full name of the first person she’d talked to—the butler, George Robertson. He’d given her the names of everyone who resided in the house—and even knew their middle initials. Smart to talk to him first, I thought.

But that was the last thought I had for hours. I woke up to Chablis, paws tucked, sitting on my chest on top of Candace’s notebook. She was purring. Because I was half sitting, my neck had a serious crick and the sunlight sneaking through the wood blinds seemed way too bright. What time was it, anyway?

I glanced over at the clock and saw that it was eight thirty. I never slept until eight thirty. I carefully removed 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 ceiling and slowly said, “Sour grapes.” She smiled. “Yes. That’s what the chief said he heard from Justine. That everyone in the family envied Ritaestelle because she controlled the money.”

I smiled. “You remembered something. But this all fits with what I observed when I met the family while Ritaestelle was in the hospital. The way they seem, I’d almost call them incapable of planning and executing a murder.”

“Do not underestimate the criminal mind. My question is, why was I writing this stuff? This is nothing. Totally unfocused. Or they were playing me.” She motioned with her hand for me to go on.

I looked down at the notebook. “Hildie the housekeeper was next. You wrote uncooperative by her name and then, says too busy to waste time with police. Knows something or she’s ornery.” I couldn’t help but laugh at that one. “Is ornery police terminology?”

“My shorthand. Keep reading,” Candace said.

“There’s not much left . . . just a few words, but—” I raised my fingers to my lips but couldn’t stifle my “Oh boy.”

“What?” Candace said insistently.

“You wrote: Justine claims jewelry hidden behind a dresser in Ritaestelle’s bedroom is hers.”