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.
Ten
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 t
alk?” 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.
“That’s great you want to cooperate, but first of all, we need to collect evidence,” Candace said. Everyone knew Candace was obsessed with evidence.
Morris stood. He closed his eyes and moved his head from side to side in disgust. “Aw, for crying out loud, Candy.”
Candace looked at me. “Will you get my evidence kit from my car? We’ll need photos before we take her robe. That is a robe you’re wearing, right?”
Ritaestelle looked down toward her chest. “Why, yes. But I can explain. It is not as odd as you might think.”
Oh, yes, it is, I wanted to say.
“By the way, I am Deputy Candace Carson, Mercy PD. Didn’t have time to grab my badge when I heard about all this on the scanner, but believe me, I am a peace officer. I’ve spoken with my chief, and he’s asked me to take the lead on this.” Candace glanced at Morris briefly, and I’m sure she caught his unhappy expression before he looked at the ground.
Seemed like a good time for me to leave. I took off for Candace’s car for the requested evidence kit. I’d calmed down enough that questions seemed to ricochet off the inside of my skull. Why had Ritaestelle come outside? And considering her condition, how had she made it down to the dock? What was Evie Preston doing here? And what exactly happened in the relatively short time it took me to release Isis from the mess she’d gotten herself into?
When I returned to the backyard, I handed Candace her evidence satchel. I saw that Morris was now down by the lake. Bet he was plenty miffed that Police Chief Mike Baca had handed this investigation over to Candace so quickly. But then I realized that once she’d discerned that Evie Preston had been the victim of foul play, she’d called up Mike and asked for the assignment—even though she was supposed to be on vacation.
Candace took her camera from the evidence kit first. “Please hand the cat to Jillian and stand up, Miss Longworth.”
Ritaestelle blinked several times, as if processing these directions. Then she said, “Why, certainly.”
I took Chablis from her arms. Ritaestelle struggled to get out of the lawn chair, and Candace finally had to help her stand.
Candace said, “Just put your arms out and let me photograph the bloodstains.”
Again Ritaestelle looked down at her robe, her expression puzzled. But now her eyes widened in what sure seemed like horror. “On, my sweet Jesus. I cradled Evie’s head and—”
“Miss Longworth,” Candace interrupted. “Deputy Ebeling informed me before he left us that you invoked your right to counsel and then changed your mind. Let’s be clear that you realize anything you say may be used against you in a court of law.”
“I am completely aware. I simply mentioned that my late brother would have told me not to say anything. That does not mean I intend to follow any advice Farley might offer from the grave.” Ritaestelle lifted her chin, her lips tight. “I will tell you anything to assist you in unearthing what happened to Evie. It is the least I can do for her now.”
Candace said, “Then will you sign a document that you have waived your rights?”
“Certainly. Your name is Deputy Carson, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Maybe we could go inside for the pictures?” I suggested. “Better lighting . . . and better footing.” I’d noticed that Ritaestelle’s slippers were gone. She needed to get inside before the fire ants found her.
Candace said, “Good idea. The deputy coroner is on her way, and we don’t want to be a distraction.” Candace eyed me.
Her look was a heads-up that I would be the distraction. Deputy Coroner Lydia Monk dislikes me intensely—mostly because she is obsessed with Tom Stewart. For some reason she thinks he’s her soul mate. Problem is, they’ve never even been on a date.
I helped Ritaestelle up the deck stairs and opened the back door. I should have anticipated the three cats that would be waiting there
. When Isis took off like a speed demon toward the lake, Merlot and Syrah followed.
I shoved Chablis back in Ritaestelle’s arms and shot after them.
Eleven
As I ran down the sloping lawn, I heard Candace shout, “Cats coming. Protect the evidence.”
Like you could protect anything, especially evidence, from a cat.
I saw Billy Cranor race up from the shore toward the three escapees, his fireman suspenders flapping at his waist. Isis managed to elude him and headed for a pine tree. A declawed cat—not my favorite subject, the declawing—can climb trees. But Isis apparently never practiced her technique. She made it about six feet up the trunk but couldn’t hang on. Billy grabbed her.
Meanwhile, after a futile attempt to avoid the path that Candace so desperately wanted us to stay away from, I reached the spot where my two had stopped to enjoy the outdoors before their inevitable capture. Syrah began furiously digging around in the pine needles, and I wondered if there was a mouse or chipmunk hiding under there. Merlot, knowing he was in trouble, decided to surrender by lying down and offering me his belly.
Billy said, “Can you handle those two while I take this one back to the house?”
“Indeed I can. Mine know better. The one you’ve got has never been taught the rules.” I knelt by Merlot and scratched his head. “Lying on your back, huh? What a pathetic ploy.” I scooped him up, and this got Syrah’s attention. The jealousy factor is never completely obliterated when it comes to my three, even by an adventure like this. I said, “Come on. In the house where you belong.”
Syrah raced ahead toward the back door—I swear he understands every word I say. Merlot began to purr. He’s too big for me to carry around on any regular basis, so he was especially enjoying this trip up to the house. I again tried to avoid the more worn path, but Billy hadn’t even bothered. This race and chase probably hadn’t helped Candace’s evidence collection efforts any either.
Before I made it back to the house, Morris Ebeling marched past me, his strides amazingly energetic. “Candy radioed for a Miranda waiver form and an evidence sack. Do I look like her errand boy?”
The Cat, the Lady and the Liar Page 8