The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

Thirty-Three

A week later, my cats had finally settled back into their normal routine. Isis, according to Ritaestelle, was happy to be home, but she was considering adopting a kitten as her playmate. Farley still hadn’t turned up, but Ritaestelle said that when he ran out of money, she expected he’d return. And she promised that she would not take him in, that she would tell him to get a job.

Meanwhile, I’d managed to collect almost all those buttons. The one that belonged to Nancy Shelton, however, was in an evidence envelope somewhere. If Shelton hadn’t popped another button, if she hadn’t feared that I’d find the one she lost in her struggle with Evie, things might have turned out differently. Yes, my cats had once again helped me figure things out—and Merlot, Candace told me, was good at sounding the call for help.

“Merlot’s never talked to me on the phone before, never made those sounds I was hearing that night,” Candace said. She and Kara and I were sitting in the kitchen nook. “I knew something was wrong when I heard him so clearly and Jillian sounded so far away.”

My wonderful hero, Merlot. He and Chablis were both asleep on the window seat, and I smiled at how peaceful they looked. Syrah was probably on the hunt for buttons I hoped he wouldn’t find—at least for a while.

“So Merlot is why you knew Jillian was in trouble when she managed to do a redial that night?” Kara asked before sipping her sweet tea.

“Yes,” Candace said. “He might as well have been talking.” I looked past them out at the dark blue lake, thinking about a young woman who didn’t have to die.

“You’re sure quiet,” Candace said.

I turned to her. “Sorry. It all seems so senseless. If those people would have talked out their problems, if they would have been straight with Ritaestelle, and she with them. If—”

“There are always what-ifs when it comes to murder,” Candace said. “Here’s one for you. What if you hadn’t decided Ritaestelle was truly in need of help? If you hadn’t followed your heart, Nancy Shelton might have gotten away with murder.”

“I doubt that,” I said. “The evidence you and Mike collected would have pointed to her eventually.”

“But she might have killed Ritaestelle or herself before that happened,” Kara said. She tore off a piece of the apple strudel we’d been enjoying, one of two that Ritaestelle had George deliver to me this morning.

“You sure showed up late to get your story when everything imploded at the estate last week,” I said to Kara.

“Yeah,” she said around a mouthful of pastry. “I was kinda busy, had my scanner turned off.”

“You know, I don’t think that was your shirt you were wearing when I saw you outside the Longworth house once we finally came out. Looked like, oh, maybe something a lawyer would wear.” I smiled at her.

“Yup. Maybe an Irish lawyer,” Candace added.

We all laughed, but Kara wasn’t about to give away anything about her and Liam Brennan. Not yet, anyway.

“Shawn called me this morning,” I said. “He got some great news.”

“So tell us,” Candace said, eyeing the strudel.

“A big anonymous donation. He said he can buy enough food and cat litter for years,” I said.

“Bet I know where that came from,” Kara said.

“We all do. But I liked the card that came with it.” My turn to take another bite of Ritaestelle’s gift. Pure heaven.

“What did the card say?” Candace asked.

“ ‘Thank you for helping cats in trouble,’” I said, just as Syrah leaped into my lap to have a sniff at what was on the table.

I rested a hand on his warm back—he’d been sunbathing somewhere—feeling so grateful that all of us, cats included, were safe.