The Cat, the Lady and the Liar (28 page)

“I see Nancy Shelton is here,” I said as we walked up to those huge front doors.

“How do you know?” Tom used the brass door knocker to announce our presence.

I gestured at the car parked on the curving drive. “That’s her unmarked police car. I’d recognize it anywhere.”

“That you would, you minivan speed demon,” Tom said with a smile.

George Robertson admitted us a few seconds later. I didn’t have to talk my way inside this time, because Ritaestelle had called ahead and told George to allow us “full access” to her home.

Mr. Robertson said he’d assemble the family, that they were all at home and talking with Chief Shelton.

“We’d like to talk to you, first, Mr. Robertson, and then each family member in this order.” Tom handed the man a list he’d pulled from the pocket of his khakis. “Is there someplace private?”

“Of course, and I am happy to help any way I can, but first, though, is Miss Ritaestelle doing okay? I miss her.”

“Her hip seems to be healing well,” I said. “She’s hardly limping anymore.”

“Good news. Come this way.” Mr. Robertson waved a thin hand as he walked ahead of us down that blockpaneled hallway. As we followed, he said, “How is—well, it’s probably none of my business—but how’s her mind? I’ve been worried.”

“Her mind is sharp. Sharp as a between,” I said.

“A between?” Tom said.

“Sorry. Sharp as a quilting needle,” I said. “Those little needles that make tiny stitches are called ‘betweens.’ ”

“Ah. I understand. She is sharp—that’s for sure.” Mr. Robertson stopped at a polished door with an ornate shiny knob and opened it so we could enter.

This room did not have a view of the big gardens like the library, where I’d met with Evie, did. In fact, there was only one window to the left that looked out on a small circular patch of brilliant-colored pansies. What drew me the most, however, was a stone fireplace with bronze life-size cat sculptures on either side of the hearth.

Two burgundy leather wing chairs faced each other in front of the fireplace. An inlaid round oak table sat between the two chairs. On the other side of the room was a Victorian sofa upholstered in gold and cream brocade stripes. Bookshelves lined the walls, and Renaissance-type artwork that was probably very pricey hung on the walls.

Though the room was elegant and tasteful, I felt uncomfortable. The atmosphere was almost sterile. But then I imagined Ritaestelle sitting in front of that fireplace, perhaps reading a book, and I began to relax. She was the heart of this house and no doubt brought the warmth. She needed to come back—and we had to make that possible.

Mr. Robertson pointed to the wing chairs. “Have a seat, if you like.”

We did, and Tom pulled a small recorder from his pocket. “Do you mind if I tape our conversation?”

“I don’t mind. You might not get the okay from all the folks who live here, though.” Mr. Robertson stood to our left, hands behind his back. He apparently did not intend to drag a chair from another room and sit down for a friendly chat.

“I understand you were here yesterday when the Mercy police officers came,” Tom said.

“I’m always here,” he said, “unless Miss Ritaestelle sends me on an errand. Since she’s staying with you, Mrs. Hart, my responsibility is to keep the household running.”

“Because the folks who live here aren’t too good at that, are they?” I said.

Mr. Robertson hung his head. “They don’t know how. Never tried to learn, neither.” He looked up, and I saw that his eyes were moist with tears. “That’s been hard on Miss Ritaestelle. Carrying the load all these years. She won’t mind me saying that. She told me to be honest, to not keep secrets. Miss Ritaestelle fears for her life, and that’s got to end.”

“She said she fears for her life?” Tom asked.

“Not in so many words, but I saw it in her eyes those last few days she was here,” he said. “That’s why she took off the other night. Someone in this house is doing harm by spreading lies. Pity after all she’s done for them.”

“Have you been keeping secrets?” I said.

“I guess I have. Mostly about the way Miss Ritaestelle changed these last few months,” he said. “She wouldn’t want people to know how she’s been stumbling around in the night. How she lost her cat after she fell asleep. She loves that cat with all her heart, and I don’t care what anyone in this house says, she’d never,
not never
, throw Isis outside.”

I shifted in the less than comfortable chair. “I’d heard that’s what happened. But you don’t believe it?”

“No, ma’am. Could have been Miss Justine who said it. But when I asked her, Miss Justine didn’t have no answers. She spends way too much time playing solitaire in her room to know much of any goings-on in this house. That’s why I think she’s not being honest.”

“My friend Shawn Cuddahee says he called several times trying to talk to Ritaestelle about Isis,” I said. “No one returned his calls. It seemed to him as if no one cared.”

“No one cared but Miss Ritaestelle—that’s for sure. One thing I don’t do is answer the telephone,” Mr. Robertson said. “But if I’d known someone found that cat, I’d have gone right out and brought her back here. Miss Ritaestelle was so upset and crying over her Isis, and not one of these people here tried to help. Not until you showed up, Mrs. Hart.”

“Not even Evie?” Tom asked.

Mr. Robertson looked at him. “Miss Preston was caught up in her work. She called it
putting out fires
for Miss Ritaestelle. Every time we turned around, something silly turned up in Miss Ritaestelle’s room. One time it was a big old bag of rubber bands. With Isis wanting to eat any rubber band she ever saw, Miss Ritaestelle would never bring something like that into her room.”

Tom said, “What does that have to do with Miss Preston
putting out fires
?”

“People in town was saying Miss Ritaestelle stole all these things,” he answered. “The police chief and Miss Preston did their best to cover it up by returning whatever Hildie or Muriel or Augusta would turn up, but word was out that Miss Ritaestelle was losing her mind. Miss Preston’s job was to make sure she maintained the Longworth reputation.”

“You didn’t think Ritaestelle was losing her mind?” I said.

“Like I told that young lady yesterday, the one who took my fingerprints—”

“You were printed?” Tom said.

“We all was,” Mr. Robertson said.

There had been nothing in Candace’s notes about fingerprints—but her kit was in the evidence bag. I was betting that was where the print cards were. That blow to the head sure muddled Candace’s brain. She considered herself a fingerprint expert—took several classes on the Mercy PD dime—so for her to forget about
that
was a major memory loss.

Tom’s brows came together, and he seemed confused. “Did Chief Baca have a search warrant for this house? Because if he printed everyone, then—”

“He did,” Mr. Robertson said.

“I thought Ritaestelle gave permission for the house to be searched and no warrant was needed,” I said.

“Fingerprinting an entire household is a Fourth Amendment thing. South Carolina’s pretty lenient about fingerprinting anyone and anything, but knowing Baca, he’d want a warrant,” Tom said.

There was a knock on the door, but before George Robertson got halfway across the room to answer, Nancy Shelton entered.

“There you are, George,” she said. Then her eyes widened when she saw us sitting by the fireplace. “Is something wrong with Ritaestelle?” She sounded worried.

Tom rose. “No. She hired me to investigate the crimes, both large and small, that have occurred over the last few months. Miss Longworth has insisted I do that with Jillian’s help. As you know, Ritaestelle is awfully fond of Jillian.”

“Great. More people from Mercy thinking they know what to do here,” Shelton said. “I have a handle on this, Mr. Stewart. Woodcrest is my town, after all.”

“Apparently there was probable cause for a search warrant,” Tom said.

“That was Mike Baca’s doing,” Shelton said. “I didn’t know he got a warrant until I came to talk to the family today.”

Tom was standing, I assumed, because Shelton had been looking down on him. Knowing Tom and his old cop ways, he’d want to be at eye level with her.

“Here’s the thing I don’t understand, Chief,” he said. “Why did Candace fingerprint everyone in the house? And did she print anything else?”

“Do you see anyone telling
me
anything?” Color rose on Shelton’s cheeks.

From the corner of my eye, I saw George Robertson stiffen.

I sympathized with him, because I’d seen Chief Shelton’s anger before. Not pretty, but I understood her frustration. This
was
her town.

She went on, saying, “All I know is the family is upset that Ritaestelle won’t come home and that she suspects them of drugging her—and who knows what else.”

“We came to talk to those people,” Tom said. “If you want to help clear up this mess, ask these folks to cooperate with us.”

But Nancy Shelton’s red face indicated that she was livid now. “I will do nothing of the sort. This should have been my investigation from the beginning. I consider these people friends of mine. But now we’ve got foreign police and a private investigator invading the house.”

“But Ritaestelle asked for our help.” I’d kept my tone soft and even. Nancy Shelton looked ready to have a stroke, and maybe I could smooth things over.

“I don’t believe you coming here is really Ritaestelle’s wish. No, ma’am. This is all
your
doing.” She stabbed a finger in my direction. “She loves that cat of hers, and you wormed your way into her affections by using Isis and—oh, never mind. Seeing as how I was on my way out, I’ll leave you to do whatever you want.”

She stormed past Mr. Robertson and out of the room.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I sure hoped the upcoming interviews were less explosive, because I again felt like running out the front door. I’d probably get pulled over by the chief again, though.

Mr. Robertson brought me back to the moment, saying, “How would you like to handle your talks with the family?”

“Not here. Maybe the dining room?” Tom said. “Plenty of room to spread out there. And by the way, was everyone home last night?”

George seemed confused by the question. “They all go up to their rooms or watch the television, so I couldn’t say.”

I knew why Tom was asking. Mike Baca may have checked alibis for the night of Evie’s murder, but so far, he probably hadn’t had time to figure out where all these people were when Candace was hit over the head.

T
hough Tom and I had already decided to do the interviewing together, we’d agreed that he would take the lead with Farley and his mother, while I would handle Augusta and Muriel. I already had a feel for the cousins after their visit to my house. As for the housekeeper? We’d have to play that by ear. Ritaestelle had told us she was only happy when she was in the kitchen, and we’d decided that was where we’d go when we were done with the family.

Once we were set up in the dining room and Mr. Robertson left to get Augusta, I said, “You want to see what chair they pick, don’t you?” I smiled. “We might have to end up shouting out questions, if that’s the case.”

The mahogany dining table
was
huge. There were six tapestry-covered chairs on each side and armchairs at each end. Tom pulled out an armchair for me, and I discovered it was much more comfortable than the wing chair in the study. The buffet to my right looked like an antique with the top covered by a cream lace cloth that was obviously made to fit the piece. Large candles sat in crystal holders in the middle. In the corner, a tea cart held a silver service surrounded by four bone china cups. This place reminded me of a museum—gorgeous, yes, but I was almost afraid to touch anything.

I took out the brand-new notebook from my purse that Tom had bought for me. Meanwhile, he placed the tape recorder on the table right next to him. That thing was intimidating even to me. As for a notebook? I wasn’t even good in college at taking notes. For me, writing interrupted the listening.

Augusta bustled in first, all smiles and full of Southern hospitality. But the cloud of perfume surrounding her almost made me sneeze.

“Why, heavens, you don’t have a beverage?” she said immediately.

I started to say “Mr. Robertson already—” but the man arrived before I finished. He carried a tray with sweet tea for me and iced coffee for Tom.

Augusta said, “I’m fine, George,” when Mr. Robertson looked at her. I was betting no one had to say a word around him; he was that quick to anticipate.

He quietly left, and Augusta took the chair right next to me and across from Tom. How would I endure the overpowering scent with her this close? I scooted my chair back a little and opened the notebook.

“I understand,” Augusta said, “that my dear cousin wants all of our help in solving these problems and—” Her gaze landed on the recorder. “Oh my. You are serious about all this.”

“Do you mind if we record our conversation?” Tom said.

Conversation sounds so much better than interrogation
, I thought.

“Why, of course I don’t mind.” She folded her hands on the table in front of her. She wore a large emerald ring on her right hand and a diamond pinkie ring on her left.

Tom pressed the RECORD button and looked at me.

My cue to begin. I said, “Unlike the questions the police might have already asked about your alibi and other matters that I’m not familiar with, I’m interested in one thing in particular. Why would someone want Ritaestelle to look bad in the community?”

“Oh my. Is that what’s happening?” She sounded so naive . . . and so fake.

“I believe you know that’s what’s happening. Bet after all the shoplifting and the talk about her not being quite right in the head, they even suspect her of murder.” I took a sip of my tea—probably the best sweet tea I’d ever tasted.