The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

Six

The minute I told Shawn that I’d gladly keep Isis for the time being, he left my house so fast I wondered if I’d dreamed the whole visit. But Isis promptly yowled and reminded me this was all quite real. My three cats sat around her crate, their ears twitching at the whines and growls coming from our new visitor.

I’d fostered cats before, and most of the time, my three are fairly easygoing with the meet and greet. Sometimes there’s hissing and stalking, but since my cats were rescued from a shelter after Hurricane Katrina, that experience made them fairly gracious hosts to other animals. But I had the feeling that might not be the case this time.

The next step in what was becoming a very long day was spent settling Isis in her new basement home. I had a guest bedroom there. My three cats followed in excited anticipation when I carried her down. They seemed eager for me to allow this noisy feline out of her crate. But my gut told me I should wait. Neither Isis nor I needed any added stress today.

I set her up with a clean litter box, fresh water and the fanciest cat food I could find—a small can of grilled salmon. I didn’t let her out of the carrier until I’d closed out my three curious friends. I heard Merlot mewing in protest after I shut the door, but this was how it had to be for now. I sat on the floor near the crate and set Isis free.

She sauntered out and slipped by, totally ignoring me. After an inspection of the room, the litter box and the food, she came back my way. Her tail twitched in irritation after she sat down in front of me. She stared up, emerald green eyes narrowed. Her gaze didn’t waver from my face.

What did she expect from me? I was beginning to think that curtseying might be the answer. I returned her stare, and we sat like that for about twenty seconds.

Isis gave in first. I considered that a good sign. Maybe she realized I was top cat in this house. Then she stood and walked regally back to the corner she’d inspected earlier. I’d lined a cat bed with one of my little quilts. She stepped in, sat and began to groom herself. She was done with me.

I opened the door about a foot and slipped through, making sure not to allow Chablis and Merlot inside. Syrah, who I assumed was bored with this nonsense, was nowhere to be seen. I’d no sooner made it upstairs to the kitchen when my stepdaughter, Kara, used her key to come in through the back door.

“Hi, Jillian.” She smiled and set down her purse on the small table by the door.

“Hey there,” I said. “I’m so glad you showed up looking all young and peppy. I need some of what you’ve got going on.” I gave her hug.

Her skin felt warm, and a bit of late-afternoon heat had sneaked in the door and still lingered. Her mahogany-colored hair was fastened with an elastic band, and the long ponytail hung over one shoulder. The recent addition of auburn highlights made her brown eyes seem more lively and inquisitive than ever. Or maybe she was simply happier these last few months. Her move from Houston to Mercy seemed to be agreeing with her. Small-town life, even for a dedicated city girl like Kara, was apparently helping her cope better with losing her dad. We both missed John, but he would have wanted to see her exactly like this: radiant and full of life.

Syrah came around the kitchen island and rubbed his head against Kara’s calf. She reached down and scratched his head. He began to purr loudly enough to almost drown out the serious squalls coming from the basement.

Kara wrinkled her nose and glanced toward the basement door. “That doesn’t sound like one of your cats. Or is somebody sick?”

“Maybe sick and tired of hearing that noise. Let’s get farther away from the screeching and I’ll explain.”

She opened the refrigerator and took out the tea pitcher. “I need a fix first. This stuff is addicting, you know. Want some?”

I nodded and retrieved the glasses from the living room. I set Shawn’s in the sink and placed mine on the counter so she could pour my tea.

She arched her eyebrows and nodded at the sink. “Someone else was loving your sweet tea today?”

“Shawn. He delivered the houseguest. One who thinks she’s more special than your ordinary cat, I might add. She is the goddess Isis, and as you’ve heard, she’s having a regular hissy fit—pun intended.”

“Isis? The cat that started this whole cloak-and-dagger-pretend-Jillian’s-a-journalist thing?” Kara finished pouring the tea, and with Syrah on my heels, we walked into the living room.

“That’s the one. Seems there’s no room at Shawn’s inn for a spoiled-rotten rescue,” I said. “And I’m betting that’s a first for him. Though Shawn can be intolerant of humans, he usually has endless patience with animals. Until now.”

John’s recliner was Kara’s favorite spot whenever she visited, and she sank into the aging leather cushions. She drew up her legs, her knees touching one arm of the chair. “My kittens are definitely spoiled rotten. Is that noise coming from your basement something I might have to contend with in the future?”

Kara’s two kittens were four months old now. They’d been born to a rescue Shawn had me foster—a loving, sweet cat and the antithesis of Isis. Kara named her calico Mercedes and her orange tabby Ralph. Mercedes had been the name of her best friend in high school, but Kara claimed she’d never met a Ralph until I’d brought her the kittens. Some cats seem to name themselves.

“Ralph and Mercedes show no signs of the diva disease, as far as I can tell,” I said. “Before Isis leaves here, whether to return home or to head to a new family, I hope my three can convince her she’s a cat, not Egyptian royalty like her namesake.”

“Tell me how your undercover operation went today. Did you come off as a decent reporter?” Kara asked.

“Major failure.” I went on to explain what had gone down, more embarrassed than ever about being spotted as a fraud so quickly.

“Ah, the Internet betrayed you,” she said. “It’s a curse and a blessing. But it sounds like you did learn a few things this morning.”

“Not enough,” I said. “I hope Tom and I can figure out what’s happening in that house with a new ruse he and I devised—one I’ve decided I am very uncomfortable with, by the way.” I told her about Ed’s connection to Ritaestelle and what I’d brought home from his shop.

Kara laughed. “I can’t see you as a spy. But Tom? Let him take the lead tomorrow. He’s got the experience.”

“I’m worried about this disguise business. Did you ever go undercover on an assignment when you worked for the newspaper?” I said.

“Print journalists aren’t like the kind of investigative reporters you see on the TV news. We can’t go in with hidden cameras. We have to be very upfront when pursuing a story, right down to our real name.”

“That’s tough,” I said. “How did you get people to open up?”

“I tried to engage people, play straight with them, be honest. And in the end, I lost my job to the ever-shrinking hard-copy newspaper business.”

“Do you miss it?” I said.

“I did at first. I mean, I played by the rules, wrote plenty of pieces I’m proud of, and when my position disappeared, I felt a little lost. But now that’s all behind me,” she said. “I’m closing in on buying the local paper, building my house and learning plenty from Tom about stuff I never even knew I’d like. Surveillance is so cool.”

“What hints can you give me about getting people to open up?” I said.

“You’ve already been tagged as a troublemaker, and as we’ve both learned, word gets around in these small towns. You’ll have to be careful.”

“You think I do need the disguise, then?”

“To get as much information as you need, I’d say yes. Maybe I can help with the disguise. Show me what Ed gave you.”

I led her to my bedroom, and minutes later, after I’d donned the wig and showed Kara the dress, I could tell she was trying hard not to laugh. And I was more self-conscious than I could ever remember.

I shook my head, causing the stinky fake hair to offer up even more aroma. Syrah, who’d been observing me with intense curiosity, hissed and ran off when the hair on my head actually moved. I’d scared the poor guy.

“I cannot do this,” I said, whipping off the wig.

Kara attempted not to laugh, but her eyes betrayed her. “Sure you can. But the floral dress from 1950? No way. I’d just wear a pair of sunglasses and the wig. You don’t want to draw too much attention, and that dress would definitely make you look like an escapee from the funny farm.”

I smiled. “Shawn’s overly serious approach to anything remotely connected to animals has obviously rubbed off on me. I’m making this way too hard, aren’t I?”

“Have fun with this. Get people to talk by becoming an engaging character,” she said.

“Thanks for the great advice. And you know what? Since Shawn left Isis here, it’s my call whether she goes home. After tomorrow, I’ll decide what’s best for her. No more going to ridiculous lengths just because Shawn has his rules.”

“There you go.” Kara raised her palm and gave me a high five.

“Thanks for putting things in perspective. I’ve got an entitled cat that needs a home—and soon. I’ll chat up the folks in Woodcrest to please Shawn, but unless I discover that Ritaestelle Longworth is a serial killer, I know what I’ll do with that prissy cat.”

Kara said, “I was worried for a minute there. You love cats, but there is a limit to animal adoration. Wish I could go with you tomorrow because I’m betting you’ll have a blast, despite all your anxiety over this.”

“You want to go? I could tell Tom—”

She held up her hand. “I’m meeting with the architect.”

“Already?” I said.

“Now that the old farmhouse on my property has been leveled, I’m ready to get started. Can you believe it?”

“Seeing a new home come to life is so exciting,” I said. “Your dad and I enjoyed every minute of watching this house being built.”

There had been a time when Mercy was the last place on earth I thought Kara would end up. But she was here for good now. When Tom first mentioned she should use part of her inheritance to buy the local newspaper, she’d completely rejected the idea. Though big-city newspapers were going out of business left and right, the Mercy Messenger was the first thing people picked up in the morning. But it needed help to stay in business. The police blotter surely didn’t deserve an entire page. Especially when most of what was reported had to do with folks getting drunk and disorderly or smashing their cars into fire hydrants.

Kara said, “Do architects snicker when you come to a meeting bearing a stack of magazines with little Post-it notes marking hundreds of pages?”

“It might scare him. But why even worry about that? I mean, he’s working for you, right?” I said.

She cocked her head and considered this for a second, and then smiled warmly. “Yeah. Why worry?”

“See, now I want to go with you,” I said. “But . . . no. This house is your deal.”

“I wouldn’t mind, but we both have plans, and like I said, you’ll have more fun than I will. I’m a little scared. This is a big deal,” she said.

“We’ll both be anxious. Come for dinner tomorrow and we’ll talk about our day.”

But after Kara left and Chablis sat on my lap, her eardrums no doubt stinging from Isis’s noise, I pondered this situation I’d walked into voluntarily. Despite telling myself that tomorrow’s visit to Woodcrest would resolve the problem, I understood that assuming something would be simple didn’t mean it would be.