The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

Two

So much for lying. I attempted to feign surprise. “Isis?” I asked. But my mouth had gone dry and I realized I’d now earned the title Dumbest Fake Journalist Ever. What to do? I couldn’t stick to the lie . . . but perhaps I could dodge the question. “Is Miss Longworth here? I had hoped to talk to her.”

“I’m sure you did.” She smiled. “Have you seen Isis? Is she at that shelter where you volunteer, perhaps?”

“Seems you know a lot more about me than I do about you. What’s your first name, Miss Preston?” I said. Buy some time; hope for one brilliant idea to get out of this mess.

“Evie. We can converse as Evie and Jillian if you’d like. I have no problem with that. Especially since you have a reputation as a kind and generous animal lover. But if you found Isis, she needs to come home.”

Ah, a tiny opening to accomplish my goal. To find out if Isis should come home. “I don’t have her.” Technically not a lie. “Does Miss Longworth miss her cat?”

“Of course she does. Quit hedging. I don’t imagine you want money. You’re not the type. But—”

The sound of a scuffle accompanied by a muffled cry came from somewhere above us. Evie’s gaze went to the ceiling, and her clasped hands clenched tighter.

“That didn’t sound good,” I said. “Is someone hurt . . . or sick?”

“That is none of your business.” Evie’s tone had gone frosty, and she looked as if she was hanging on to her composure by a quilting thread. She’d moved her hands to the arms of her desk chair and tilted her head, apparently trying to hear better.

“If you’re needed upstairs, I can leave. We can—”

The thud that interrupted me made us both jump. We stood, but though I was frozen, Evie raced past me, muttering, “Oh no. Oh no.”

Seemed I’d become invisible. But like my cats, I felt that mysterious and ominous noises must be investigated. So I gave her a few seconds and followed.

Once I was back in the foyer, I caught a glimpse of a coral blur at the top of the stairs. Before I tackled the steps, the shoes had to go. I might already have developed blisters on both heels anyway.

Cursed shoes in hand, I took the stairs two at time as quietly as possible, making that first ninety-degree turn and then climbing about ten more steps to the first landing. But when I saw several people, including Evie, at the end of the hall to my right, I stepped back onto the step so I wouldn’t be spotted. Peeking past the wall, I saw a silver-haired woman in a blue chenille bathrobe sitting on the floor. Evie knelt by the woman’s side, holding her hand, and an older lady in gray slacks and a white pleated shirt stood above them.

I heard the one with the slacks say, “She was trying to get downstairs.”

Evie looked up at the speaker. “How did that happen, Augusta? You’re supposed to stay with her.”

“And when I am supposed to use the ladies’?” Augusta said.

But Evie didn’t seem to be listening. She was murmuring something I couldn’t make out to the woman on the floor—the woman I recognized from photos I’d seen on the Internet: Ritaestelle Longworth.

“I’m fine, Evie. But I’m not deaf. I heard the doorbell, heard George talking to someone in the foyer. I want to go downstairs and—” She turned her gaze from Evie and looked straight at me.

I ducked back behind the wall, but too late.

“There she is,” I heard Miss Longworth say.

Should I run down the stairs? Get the heck out of here? But then I remembered that my handbag was sitting on the floor next to that yellow velvet chair. I stepped out from hiding. “Yes. I came to talk to you, Miss Longworth. But first, are you okay?”

She squinted and pointed at me. “I know you. Where do I know you from?”

“I don’t think you know me. Can I help them get you on your feet?” I started down the hall toward them.

But Evie put up the traffic-cop signal for stop. “You need to turn around and go back downstairs.”

Miss Longworth was struggling to rise, and Augusta and Evie turned their attention to her.

Bad decisions, I’m told, make for good stories. But I had the feeling this bad decision wouldn’t sound like a good story to Shawn. I’d failed at this assignment and had been caught snooping around where I shouldn’t have been. Time to leave while everyone was occupied. I hurried down the stairs and was met at the bottom by Mr. Robertson. A silver tray with two glasses of iced tea sat on a small telephone table in the hallway.

George was holding my handbag. “You need this, ma’am?”

“Yes, thanks.” I was breathless from hurrying down the steep stairs.

“I suggest you go quick. I’m guessing Miss Preston isn’t too pleased about now.” He stepped aside and let me pass.

“Thanks, Mr. Robertson,” I said.

He nodded solemnly, but I caught a twinkle in his eye as I left the house with my shoes in one hand and my purse in the other.

Minivans aren’t exactly the fastest vehicles, so my getaway wasn’t all that quick. Once I made it out of the long driveway and onto the county road, I hit fifty-five miles an hour, my max. My heart was still pounding, and I vowed never to do anything like that again. Shawn would have to deal with this problem himself. Maybe he’d be visiting Miss Longworth in the hospital. I mean, her hip or her leg could have been broken after that fall.

I heard the sound of a siren and checked the rearview mirror. Dark car with flashing lights on the dash. Not your regular squad car. Must be an unmarked. Up ahead I saw a speed limit sign: forty-five. Wouldn’t you know? I had no reason to be speeding in the first place. It wasn’t like anyone at the house would get in their car and chase me.

As I pulled over, I realized I’d been running from the lies I’d told. It was impossible to run from yourself, of course, and now my pocketbook would take a hit. Perhaps the officer would cut me a break.

I watched in the side mirror as a woman in a navy suit—definitely not your usual police uniform—got out of the police car. She was tall and broad shouldered, with steel gray hair curled tightly to her head. I noted she wasn’t carrying the typical police “speeding ticket” pad. But I did see a gold badge glint on her lapel.

I rolled down my window and she offered me a thin smile. Her eyes said it all: You are in trouble.

But the first words out of her mouth weren’t, “Do you know how fast you were going?” as I’d expected. Instead, she said, “Jillian Hart?”

“Uh, yes, ma’am.” She was definitely a ma’am.

“I understand you were visiting the Longworth Estate. Is that correct?”

The word ye-es came out as two syllables, conveying my confusion. Was telling a small lie and sneaking up the stairs cause for an arrest in Woodcrest? But someone in that house—Evie Preston, no doubt—had wasted no time calling the police.

The woman said, “I don’t know your business in coming to town, Ms. Hart, but I suggest you stay away from Miss Longworth.” Her tone was stern, her pearl gray eyes filled with a lot more than a suggestion.

“Um, Officer—Sorry. I didn’t get your name.” Maybe I overstepped in coming here, but I hadn’t done anything to be warned away, and in a manner that made it seem as if she was reading from an old Bonanza script.

“It’s Chief. Police Chief Shelton. And they don’t want you coming round to the house. Is that clear?” she said.

“Clear as can be. But who are they?” I said.

“I don’t need to tell you that,” she said tersely. “I advise you to keep away from the estate and out of Woodcrest.”

“I’m not trying to cause trouble,” I said, using my best conciliatory tone. But this woman was definitely getting under my skin. All I cared about was a cat who either needed to go back home or needed to be sent to a place where she would be loved and protected. Seemed like such a simple task. But apparently not.

Chief Shelton’s eyes softened. “I never said you were causing trouble. Miss Longworth is not strong enough to be bothered by strangers right now. Can you understand that?”

“Oh, you’re her friend, then.” That had to be the explanation for her pulling me over to give me this message in person. “I didn’t intend to bother her. It’s just that—”

“Good. Then we’re clear.” She started to walk away but stopped and looked at me again. “No ticket this time, but watch your speed, Ms. Hart.”

She waited for me to pull out onto the highway and then followed me to the sign that stated, MERCY—3 MILES. I watched in my mirror as she made a U-turn and drove back the way she’d come—going a lot faster than the posted speed limit.