The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

Thirty-One

“Both of you, into the living room,” Shelton said.

Ritaestelle didn’t budge. “Nancy, whatever has come over you?”

“You. You came over me a long, long time ago.” She pushed Ritaestelle’s shoulder with her free hand. “Get into the living room.”

I took Ritaestelle’s arm and tugged. “Come on. Let’s do as she says.”

The poor woman’s expression was a mixture of fear and confusion. “Certainly. Most certainly.”

Shelton followed us into the living room, where four cats were all on their feet and on alert. They sensed the danger, probably the minute they’d heard Shelton’s voice.

“Why did you kill her?” I said. “Did she find out what you were up to?”

Shelton smiled contemptuously. “What was I up to?”

“Gaslighting Ritaestelle. But why?” I said.

“It’s none of your business. It was never any of your business,” Shelton said. “Turn around.”

Goose bumps rose on my arms. “If you plan to kill me, at least explain why.”

“I don’t owe you any explanation.” She swung the gun in the direction of Merlot, whose coat was puffed out so much he looked like a lion. “If you don’t turn around, I’m taking out one of your precious cats.”

I immediately did as she commanded.

Ritaestelle sounded surprisingly calm as she said, “You do not want to do this, Nancy. I have harmed you in some serious fashion, so shoot me, not Jillian.”

“Shut up,” Shelton said. “Just stay where I can see you. And you, cat woman, put your hands behind your back.”

Seconds later I felt the cold metal on my wrists, heard the clink as the cuffs snapped closed.

“Get over to the couch and sit. Now.” Shelton’s voice sounded stressed, and all the anger she’d obviously held in check was pouring out in her words and actions.

I did as I was told, my heart pounding. Was I about to watch her kill Ritaestelle? I would be helpless to stop her, and the thought made my stomach roil.

Using one hand, Shelton lifted her jacket and removed her thin black belt. She turned to Ritaestelle and said, “If you move one inch, I will kill her. Understand?”

Ritaestelle nodded. “I understand. But we can work this out, Nancy. We have been friends for so many years and—”

“You were never my friend. You stole from me. You ruined the best thing that ever happened in my life.” Shelton knelt at my feet and bound my ankles together with the belt.

Though the temptation to kick her or knee her in the face was strong, that could be a huge mistake. She might manage to hold on to the gun and kill Ritaestelle or one of my cats if I did hurt her. I glanced around and noted that the cats had the sense to have slinked out of the room—or at least out of sight.

When Shelton was finished binding me, she rose and pointed her gun at Ritaestelle again. “Where’s your cat?”

“She ran away. She is frightened. I am frightened, Nancy.” But Ritaestelle sounded so composed. How did she do that?

“Good. You should be scared. Let’s find that cat. Now.”

They started looking, with Shelton holding the gun in the small of Ritaestelle’s back.

Why did she want Isis? I didn’t understand any of this. What was this best thing that ever happened that she’d mentioned?

Oh, but I had an idea.

I recalled Ritaestelle talking about the past, how Desmond had once been involved with Nancy Shelton. Had he dumped her for Ritaestelle? Good possibility. And the gaslighting had begun about two months ago—when Desmond came back into Ritaestelle’s life.

Would asking questions about this do any good? No. Shelton was too angry. And she obviously had a plan. The fact that she hadn’t yet used her weapon was encouraging. We might be able to talk her out of whatever she wanted to do.

But when the two returned and Shelton held Chablis, not Isis, all rational thought left me. “What are you doing?” I said, hoping to conceal the panic welling up inside.

“Couldn’t find Isis. But any cat will do.” She waved the gun in the direction of the door. “You’re driving, Ritaestelle. And if you don’t follow my directions, I will kill this cat.”

I closed my eyes, wanted to scream no, but I kept quiet. This woman was on the edge. She’d been pushed there by something she’d heard tonight. Maybe the encounter in the parking lot with Desmond? The two had spoken after Ritaestelle and I went into the funeral home. Right now, whatever they’d said to each other didn’t matter. What mattered was the safety of Ritaestelle and Chablis.

But before I could think of something, anything, to do, Shelton, Ritaestelle and my Chablis left.

I took a deep breath, trying to contain the terror I felt. I had to get out of these cuffs. I had to free my feet.

But how?

Slowly, tentatively, three cats ventured back into the living room. A few tears escaped when I saw them. Merlot jumped up on the couch and began to sniff me.

Syrah leaped onto the coffee table and stared at me as if to say, “What’s wrong? Get up.”

Isis joined him and they sat there together looking at me.

Syrah may have been able to open doors, but handcuffs were a different story. This was my problem.

Maybe I could get to the security alarm or the landline. I could still use my fingers, even if they were behind me. But just as I was about to get up and hop to the kitchen, I felt my phone in my back pocket.

I tried to visualize the face of the phone and remembered the phone icon was at the bottom left-hand corner. I moved my hands to the right-hand pocket, ready to at least press that icon, then visualize exactly where each number might be, but before I could do this, just moving made the phone redial the last person I’d spoken to. Pocket dialing. This had happened before with my very sensitive touchscreen phone. I never thought in a million years I would be so glad to accidentally call someone.

I heard the phone ring once, twice and then heard the faint sound of Candace’s voice.

“Hey, Jillian, how was the visitation?” I could barely hear her say. Her voice was distant and muffled by my clothing.

I shouted, “Candace, can you hear me?”

“Jillian?” she called louder. “What’s going on?”

Merlot bent his head against my hip and rubbed against me. Then he began a loud, throaty, insistent meow.

“Merlot?” I could hear Candace say.

At the top of my lungs, I yelled, “Help me.”

“Jillian? What’s wrong?” This time Candace was shouting, too.

“Come to my house. My house,” I yelled.

“Your house?”

“Yes.” I choked down a sob and hollered, “Yes,” louder.

“I’m on my way. Don’t hang up,” she shouted.

Hang up? I couldn’t hang up if I tried.

But I decided that trying to dial 911 was still a good idea. I stood and hopped toward the landline on the kitchen counter. I turned around and tried to pick up the receiver. And dropped it on the tile floor. I heard it break apart, and plastic pieces slid in front of me.

All three cats had followed me and now surrounded me, and Syrah pawed at the broken phone. He then looked up at me and added his own meows to Merlot’s—because Merlot had not quit.

The alarm was connected to the Mercy police station, and though I managed to get the pantry door open where the control panel was, the panic button—in fact the entire control panel—was too high for me to reach. It was about three inches too high for me to touch, even with my nose.

I needed a chair, but as I was using my knees and thighs to slowly, painstakingly push a chair toward the pantry, Candace burst through the front door, her weapon drawn.

She wore her pajamas.

“Shelton’s taken Ritaestelle and Chablis,” I said. “I don’t know where they—”

“They’re at the mansion,” Candace said as she grabbed a kitchen knife to pick the handcuffs open. “When I called Mike, he said as many officers as possible are on the way over there, that Shelton was holding everyone at gunpoint.”

“They’re still alive?” I said as she freed me.

“Far as I know,” Candace said. “I called Tom. He should be here any minute.”

I bent and removed the belt from my ankles. “We have to go there. Now.”