The Cat, the Lady and the Liar (10 page)

Isis had climbed into a basket—one that had come with a floral arrangement, I’m sure. It was dark-colored wicker with a handle—and much too small for her. And yet she’d managed to squeeze into it and now obviously couldn’t get out.

I knelt and realized at once that she’d squirmed so much, she’d managed to wedge herself into that basket. I couldn’t even get my hands around her body to get her out. This would require a dismantling of the basket.

“Wait right here, oh brilliant one.” Like she was actually able to move anywhere. I do like to offer hope in these situations, however; this was the kind of problem my own cats had made me familiar with.

I hurried back down the hall to my quilting room, where there were plenty of tools to be found. I called out to Ritaestelle that I would be right with her, Isis in tow, and then gathered a small needle-nose pliers (excellent for pulling stuck needles through layers of a quilt), my large sheers and a seam ripper.

Taking my arsenal with me, I allowed myself a laugh and even picked up my phone from my nightstand. I had to get a picture of this first.

With all this going on, I’d have thought my own three cats would be following the action, but they must have decided Ritaestelle needed company. After I snapped a photo of Isis in all her glory, I worked away at one handle of the less than top quality basket. I used the pliers to pull away some of the wicker that attached the handle to the basket. I realized the sheers were too big for the job and ended up using the seam ripper to tear away the wicker strips. After maybe five minutes, I lifted one side of the handle toward Isis’s back and then up and away.

Silly thing just sat there and looked up at me, as helpless as, well . . . a kitten. I gently reached under her and lifted her up and out of her tiny prison. How had she ever managed to get in there in the first place?

I held her close, which she didn’t seem to mind at all. I left the basket and my tools on the floor, picked up my phone and off we went for the reunion. I was betting Isis would be more than ecstatic to see her “mom” after this latest experience.

But when I got to the living room, Isis purring away in my arms, the chair where Ritaestelle had been sitting was empty. Then my protector cat Merlot let out one of his loud, deep-throated meows—the ones I rarely hear. He was in the kitchen.

Had Ritaestelle gone for more water and fallen again? If so, I sure couldn’t see her in there. I rushed around the counter, and the smell of the humid night air greeted me at once.

The back door was open.

Merlot and Syrah were sitting on the stoop, and Syrah’s ears were twitching like crazy. That was always a sign that something was wrong.

“Ritaestelle?” I called, joining my two cats at the back door.

From somewhere down near the lake I heard her call, “Here. I am down here. We need help.”

I heard the panic in her voice, but I couldn’t see anything except the giant black silhouettes of the huge trees on my sloping back lawn.

I turned on the lights and saw her then.

What was she doing on the dock? What was she holding?

I got a taste of my own heart about then. Chablis wasn’t here with the other cats. Had she gone down to the lake? And why was the back door open in the first place?

I had enough sense to shut the door before I set Isis down. I didn’t want her racing off to find another highway. After making sure she and my two boys didn’t get outside, I slipped out into the night.

I keep a pair of Crocs on the back deck and put them on before I ran down toward the water to the sound of Ritaestelle’s pleas for me to hurry.

But I ran a little too fast. The pine needles were damp with dew, and I fell on my rear. I hadn’t realized I was still clinging to my phone, but it went flying out of my hand somewhere to my right. I scrambled to my feet and made it to the dock. Ritaestelle’s face was so pale in the moonlight, so fraught with terror, that I swallowed hard. Especially when I realized she had Chablis under one arm. And it looked like she held a rock in her other hand.

“Help us. Help her,” Ritaestelle said. She looked down into the water.

I followed her gaze.

The lake lapped against the riprap, a sound I’d always found soothing. But the sight of the woman facedown in the water, her lifeless body swaying with each small wave, was anything but soothing.

I
scrambled to the shore, climbed over the low metal corrugated retaining wall, and carefully stepped on the stones that led to the water. I squatted and reached out for the woman’s outstretched arms. I could touch only her hands, but they were still warm.

She might be alive.

“Hurry, Jillian. Hurry,” I muttered as my heart pounded wildly.

I waded into the tepid water, and as I fought to turn the woman over, I looked up at Ritaestelle. “My phone. I lost it up there somewhere. Please find it.” I turned my head in the direction she should go.

“Oh, dear sweet Jesus. I will try my best.” Ritaestelle must have dropped the rock she’d been holding because I heard something hit the dock and plunk into the water.

I struggled with the woman’s slippery and surprisingly heavy body. She was such a small person, and yet turning her over seemed almost impossible. But I finally flipped her face up. Then I positioned myself at her head, grasped her beneath her armpits and began to drag her out of the water. I glimpsed at Ritaestelle, who was slowly making her way down from the dock and up onto the lawn.

I hauled the woman onto the riprap, worrying about tearing up her back on the rocks. Then I pressed two fingers to her neck and felt for a pulse. Nothing.

I smoothed sopping hair away from her face.

And stared into the wide eyes of Evie Preston.

Those eyes and her slack jaw confirmed what I feared. I was probably too late.

I fought back tears, thinking that I couldn’t give up. I turned her head to the side and emptied her mouth of water. Then I did the CPR I’d learned in a class right after John died—was I even doing it right?—until my shoulders and arms burned. But she didn’t suddenly gasp for breath like on television. Evie Preston, who couldn’t be more than thirty years old, was dead.

I shook my head sadly and stood. How I wished I’d gotten to her sooner. She might have had a chance.

Her body was secure enough on the riprap that I decided I could leave her and find my phone. Still, it felt wrong to abandon her by the lake. No one should be alone in death.

Ritaestelle was limping in circles on the pine needles, Chablis clutched to her chest. She’d never find my phone. I had to do what needed to be done, even if fear and sadness wanted to take control.

As I closed in on Ritaestelle and Chablis, I saw that Ritaestelle was crying. Out of breath after the struggle to save poor Evie, I stood heaving, my hands on my hips. I was completely soaked, and my knees stung from kneeling on the rocks. I felt like I was in shock. But there was no time for that. I had to call the police.

Chablis made eye contact with me, and then her lids slowly closed and opened again. She seemed perfectly calm amid the swirling emotions brought on by this tragic death. It was as if Chablis knew she had a job to do—comfort a woman she didn’t even know.

“Just hang on to the cat, and I’ll find the phone,” I said after I caught my breath enough to speak. I squinted in the dim light cast by my deck and back-door lights, searching for the spot where I’d fallen on the way down to the lake. Sure enough, the place where I’d skidded was evident in the pine needles just a few feet ahead. I got down on all fours and felt around where I thought the phone had probably landed. Seconds later, I picked up my cell and dialed 911.

I had to stay on the line until the police arrived, but in the meantime, I helped Ritaestelle up the slope while she protested the whole time that we had to help Evie, that Evie shouldn’t be left alone. We stopped at the stairs that led up to my deck, and I told Ritaestelle to stay put. Then I dragged a lawn chair down from the deck and helped her sit.

Ritaestelle looked up at me, terror evident in her eyes. “Did I drown her?”

I pressed the phone against my chest so the dispatcher couldn’t hear me. “Don’t talk about what happened now. Wait for the police.”

“But I—”

I put a finger to my lips. “Shh.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. More tears escaped.

Seconds later the cavalry arrived.

Leading the charge was Candace, still dressed in the same shorts and cotton shirt she’d been wearing when she left my place not long ago. Two night-duty uniformed Mercy officers, a couple of paramedics carrying a stretcher, and Billy Cranor, a volunteer fireman, were right behind her.

I disconnected from the dispatcher and pointed toward the lake. “She’s down there on the riprap, but—”

All of them took off before I could finish, with Candace yelling, “Stay left. Avoid that path you see down the center of those pine needles.”

Candace, my wonderful evidence preserver.

Deputy Morris Ebeling, also in street clothes, came strolling around the corner of my house a few seconds later. Nothing short of the apocalypse would make Morris hurry.

“What the hell you been up to now, Jillian?” he said. “You look pretty messed up.”

I was wet, and I glanced down at my scraped knees, which were plastered with wet pine needles. They didn’t hurt. I felt numb.

He noticed Ritaestelle then, still weeping, still clinging to my cat. He sighed heavily and took a small notebook from his shirt pocket. “Who we got here? The owner of the Caddy or the owner of the Ford?”

Must be like a parking lot out there now,
I thought. When Ritaestelle said nothing, I decided to tell Morris what he wanted to know. But I only got out, “This is—” before he interrupted.

“What? She can’t talk?” Morris eyed me like a stern father. He had to be twenty years older than me, so he was old enough to my father.

“Yes, sir, I can most certainly talk,” Ritaestelle said quietly. She was hanging on to Chablis for dear life. “The Cadillac is mine, and I am Ritaestelle Longworth of Woodcrest. This tragedy, however, has nothing to do with this kind lady.”

“Well, I’m Mercy police deputy Morris Ebeling. And seeing as how everyone’s hoverin’ over a body down by the water in Jillian Hart’s backyard, I disagree that this here has nothin’ to do with her. Are you that Ritaestelle Longworth from Woodcrest who lives in a house big enough to be a church?”

Ritaestelle nodded.

“I knew your brother before he passed on,” Morris said. “He done right by me at a bad time in my life, so I guess I’ll return the favor by doing right by you.” Morris squatted so he was at eye level with Ritaestelle. In the gentlest voice—one I never knew he even could find—he said, “You want to tell me how you got that blood on your hands?”

My eyes widened when I saw what he had noticed and I had not. She
did
have blood on her hands, and Chablis had blood on her champagne fur. Guess fear and desperation blur such details. The smears of rusty red made my stomach turn over.

“B-but she drowned,” I said. “I never saw any blood on—”

Morris glared at me, bushy eyebrows raised. I got the message.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Thank you, Jillian,” Morris said through tight lips. “You’ll get your turn, and I cannot
wait
to hear what you have to say.”

He turned his attention back to Ritaestelle. “You want to tell me about the blood?”

Ritaestelle lifted her chin. “If you knew my brother, then you know what Farley is whispering in my ear right now. He’s telling me not to say a word.”

“Yeah. Lawyers are like that.” Morris offered up a small, genial laugh. “Don’t say nothing to nobody. That’s their deal. But see, Miss Longworth, that’s not always best. You tell me what happened, and I promise, I’ll help you.”

Why did I want to scream at her not to say anything? A young woman was dead, Ritaestelle had blood on her hands and yet something put me squarely on Ritaestelle’s side. Was that because she’d come to me for help? No . . . it was something about me I’d learned to respect in the last year: my intuition. I sensed that this lady had done nothing worse than leave her house in her bathrobe.

“I do appreciate your concern, Officer, and your sincere wish to assist me in this most difficult time, but I would appreciate a few moments to consider these events. A young woman who was in my employ has died in a most tragic fashion. I am very troubled, very saddened.”

“Can you at least get over your grief long enough to tell me her name?” The old Morris was back and in familiar irritable form. He poised a small pencil over a notebook page.

“Evie Preston.” Ritaestelle’s lower lip began to tremble, and tears again slid down her cheeks. She turned to me. “What will I ever tell her mother?”

“I believe the police will notify her family,” I said.

“But she worked for me. I am responsible for her,” Ritaestelle said.

“Be responsible enough to tell me what happened if you care that much,” Morris said, his tone downright nasty now. “And since you seem worried about talking without a lawyer, you don’t have to tell me nothin’ and you can have a mouthpiece sittin’ next to you if that’s what you want. I won’t go into that crap about if you can’t afford a lawyer,’cause we know that ain’t the case.”

Wow. Was that an actual Miranda warning? One that would stand up in court? And why did Morris have to sound so cold, so mean?

“You are absolutely right, Officer,” Ritaestelle said. “I need to quit sniffling like a crybaby and take responsibility here—so you can get on with the awful business of telling Evie’s mother what happened. I am quite willing to enlighten you about what I know, and I do not require a lawyer.”

I was a little confused by this turnaround on Ritaestelle’s part but didn’t have to time to consider it for long because Candace joined us.