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.
Twenty-Seven
Though 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.
“I suppose you cannot keep people from talking,” Augusta said. Nothing like a little Southern-style evasiveness.
But we have that in Texas, too, and she wasn’t wiggling off the hook. “Do you think the accusations swirling around Ritaestelle made her kill Evie?”
“No. Oh, absolutely no. She is incapable. Simply incapable.” Augusta licked at her lips and began rubbing the arthritic-looking knuckles on her left hand.
“We know you said you were sleeping the night Ritaestelle left the house,” I said. “But from what I saw when I was here the other day, you seemed to be her caretaker. Was she upset the evening she left? Different in any way?”
Augusta closed her eyes briefly and then fluttered her lashes at Tom. She leaned toward him and in a low voice said, “Did she seem upset? Hmm. Perhaps you could say so, but in the quiet way I am familiar with. Ritaestelle is never one to lose her temper—unlike some folks in this house.”
I wanted to pursue that statement, but Tom said, “How did you know she was upset?”
“She’d muttered over the last several days about being drugged and that she didn’t know why someone would do that to her. She never accused me, mind you. She knows I would never do anything like that. Then she started pouring her tea out. I watched her do it that very night. But I never did anything to her food or drink. Do I seem like that sort of person, sir?”
Tom offered Augusta a sardonic smile. “You seem like the kind of person who knows a lot more than she’s saying.”
Augusta leaned back in her chair, considering this.
“You weren’t drugging her, Augusta?” I asked.
“Why would I do such a thing?” she said.
Tom said, “That was a yes-or-no question.”
“No. Absolutely not,” she said, offering a wintery smile.
“Did you brew her tea?” I said.
“That is not one of my responsibilities,” she said.
“Whose responsibility is it?” I asked.
“Why, Hildie, of course,” Augusta said. “Then George would carry the tray upstairs and leave it on that table at the end of the hall. I would carry it in when Ritaestelle was ready. It became necessary for Ritaestelle to take her meals in her room after she became so unsteady on her feet. She was embarrassed, I believe. Wanted to keep to herself as much as possible.”
“Embarrassed about what?” The perfume was giving me a major headache, and I rubbed the spot between my eyebrows to ease the pain.
“All right, I’ll admit there was talk about her competence. And I’ll answer your next question before you ask. Who was talking? Just about everyone in this house and in town.” Augusta stared beyond Tom, her hands still now.
“Did everyone also know that Ritaestelle’s meal trays were set in the hallway that led to her room?” I said.
Augusta turned to me, head tilted. “I suppose everyone might know, though only Muriel and I have rooms on the same floor. We’ve all lived here together for decades. And we all knew about her tea as well. Twice a day
with the tea, always taken in her room. Justine and Farley are up one story. There’s an elevator you can take from the kitchen, and they usually use that, rather than climb all those stairs. I’ll admit I tend to use it more and more of late.”
“You spent a lot of time with Ritaestelle,” I said. “Did you ever once catch her stealing anything?”
“Never. Not once. She is not a thief. And she’s not a drug addict, even if they did find that bottle of pills in her room yesterday.”
Uh-oh. That wasn’t in Candace’s notes. “What kind of pills?” I asked.
“Tranquilizers. I heard that police chief tell that little girl policewoman that they were prescribed for Ritaestelle.” Augusta smiled with satisfaction. “Muriel’s going a little deaf in one ear, but not me. No, I can still hear a pin drop.”
I sat back, not sure what to think about this. Ritaestelle insisted she was being drugged, and yet she had a prescription for tranquilizers and never mentioned it.
Tom must have realized I was a little stunned—yup, I’d completely lost my train of thought. He wrapped up with Augusta by standing and saying, “Where were you last night?”
“Why, here, of course. Where else would I be?” she said.
“Thanks for your time. You’ve been a big help,” Tom said.
“It’s been my sincere pleasure,” Augusta said before she bustled out of the room.
Between the lingering smell of the perfume and the news about the pills, I needed to clear my brain. I took the notebook I’d not written a word on and waved it at the spot where Augusta had been sitting.
Tom said, “Why don’t we move to the other end of the table? Mr. Robertson will be sending in Muriel next.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I thought I might suffocate if Augusta stayed any longer.”
Once we were settled in “fresher” spots, I said, “What about these pills? Ritaestelle never said anything about medication.”
“Did you ask her directly?” Tom said.
“No. Guess I’m not very good at being direct, huh?”
“You did a fantastic job with Augusta. Look at what we learned in a few short minutes.” His reassuring smile made me feel a little more confident.
But I was up again with Muriel. Would things go as well?
Mr. Robertson brought her in a minute later. He walked in behind her and was carrying a large tray.
Muriel, in her bright green silk dress and heels that I feared might land her in the hospital after a fall, chose to sit next to me. But she left a chair between us. She was keeping her distance. The red hair and the green dress had me thinking about Christmas.
Mr. Robertson set the tray down on the table. “Miss Hildie insists you eat. Doesn’t want anyone hungry in this house.”
It was past lunchtime, but I’d been too nervous about playing detective to pay attention to my stomach. One plate held triangle sandwiches, some filled with pimento cheese and others with what looked like chicken salad. There was a bowl of frosty red grapes and a platter of broccoli, carrots, celery sticks and cherry tomatoes surrounding a bowl of creamy dressing. What really caught my eye was the sliced apple strudel sitting on a small silver tray and dusted with confectioner’s sugar. Suddenly I was very hungry.
Mr. Robertson left, and I took a napkin from the pile of folded white linen at one end of the tray and laid it across my lap. I’d start with the sandwiches, but I couldn’t take my eye off that strudel.
“How are you—may I call you Muriel?” Tom said.
“That is my name, so most certainly,” she said.
Mr. Robertson returned carrying another tray. This one held three pitchers—ice water, sweet tea and iced coffee. Fresh glasses surrounded the pitchers, and there was also a bowl with sliced lemons. Mr. Robertson left without a word, my “thank you” echoing after him through the gigantic room.
I could learn to like this sort of treatment. But as I bit into the delicious chicken-salad sandwich—was that dill she’d added?—I realized that perhaps this was the reason no family member left this house and went out on their own. Being waited on hand and foot might be almost too comfortable.
“Muriel,” I said once I’d finished off my little sandwich, “do you mind if we tape our conversation?” I nodded toward the recorder sitting in front of Tom.
“Oh dear. The police didn’t even do that. Why would you ever want to record what I have to say?” She ran a thin hand through her vibrant red hair.
Tom tapped his temple. “I’m not good at remembering. Do you object?”
Ah. Object. Good word choice, I thought.
“I—I suppose not,” she finally said after some hesitation. “But I do have an appointment this afternoon, so if we could get on with this?”
Tom pressed the RECORD button.
“Did you know we have a mutual acquaintance?” I said.
“You mean aside from Ritaestelle?” Muriel replied.
“Belle Lowry. She tells me her cousin was married to you for a time.” I hadn’t wanted to start out the interview this way, but Tom had told me I should—that it would put her on her heels right from the start.
“He was. What does ancient history have to do with anything?” Suddenly Muriel’s face almost matched her hair.
Ancient, but not forgotten history, I thought. “Nothing to do with anything. Just popped into my head.”
She looked as if she wanted to literally pop me in the head. Had she done exactly that to Evie and Candace? I wondered.
“What do you want to know?” Muriel sounded icily calm. “I am very much out of the loop around here. I was sleeping when Ritaestelle took off the other night in, of all things, her bathrobe.”
“You almost sound embarrassed,” I said. “Did the shoplifting and the drug taking embarrass you, too?”
“I suppose so,” Muriel said, “though I never would have said a word to anyone had there not been a murder. I suspected Ritaestelle was taking some sort of mind-altering substance. She started slurring her words and staggering around the house, you see. But if she’d turned into a thief, which seems to be the case, well . . . I can imagine she needed something to make her forget what she’d done.”
“You believed she actually stole things she hardly needed?” I tried to keep my voice even, not sound like this was ridiculous.
“I believe it because there’s proof. When you talk to Justine, ask her. She’ll tell you,” she said.
“I will. But why do you think she would do such a thing?” I asked.
“I believed Ritaestelle was troubled and this caused her to do certain things that were entirely out of character.” Muriel examined her French manicure, picking off a strip of clear polish and rolling it between her fingers.
“Troubled by what?” I asked, catching Tom’s slight smile out of the corner of my eye. Maybe I wasn’t as bad at this job as I thought I would be.
“We all come to moments in our life when the past shows us the future. She let opportunities slip by and she was filled with regret. She never married when she had so many suitors. She never knew the joy of sharing a life with a man.” Muriel nodded, as if she were convincing herself of this.
“What about Desmond?” I said. “He seems to have brought her joy.” Though that had come to a screeching halt now that she’d learned that he’d carried on with Augusta. But if Muriel didn’t know this, I wasn’t about to tell her.
Muriel laughed, and it was such a sweet, pleasant laugh that I almost forgot that this woman seemed to have no problem telling tales about her benefactor.
“Ah, Desmond,” she said. “In and out of Ritaestelle’s life. He will leave her again, of that much I am sure. Remember what I said about the past showing us the future?” She turned to Tom then. “And here I thought you were the detective. Yet Miss Jillian is asking all the questions. Why is that?”
“You’re saying you want me to ask the questions?” Tom said this in a tone that I had never heard before. He sounded harsh—almost cruel.
Muriel
looked back to me, and I noticed a small twitch by her right eye. “What else can I help you with, Miss Jillian?”
She was trying to keep her composure. Perhaps now was the time to rattle her a little more. “I understand your engagement ring went missing.” This time the look I caught from Tom was less than approving. He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. Had I just screwed up? Given away something that Mike Baca wanted to remain a secret for now?
“Yes, but how did you know?” Muriel said.
“I’m not sure I should get into that. Let’s move on. Now—”
“I knew she took it—and apparently Ritaestelle had the gall to tell you what she’d done. She was always jealous of my marriage, and this is how she pays me back after all I’ve done for her. By stealing from me.” Muriel’s lips tightened in anger. But she didn’t flush like she had earlier. “Did she give it to you as a gift because you are her new best friend?”
Now I was flustered. How could I get this on track? Throw it right back at her, I decided. “Did you tell the police she took your ring?”
“No. That’s family business—or so I thought. Perhaps I jumped to conclusions thinking she gave the ring to you. I suppose she admitted her theft to the police officers and that’s how you found out.” She looked at Tom. “Would you be so kind as to pour me a glass of water?”
He did so and handed it across the table.
She took it with a shaky hand.
“Am I making you nervous? Because that’s not my intent.” I was beginning to feel sorry for her, something I suppose a cop would never allow herself to do. But I wasn’t a cop and I couldn’t help myself, so I added, “Ritaestelle did not give me your ring.”
“I am so sorry if you took offense. I’m the one at fault. It’s the blood sugar problem,” she said. “We get so few visitors since Ritaestelle began to act strange, and I find that rather stressful—which causes big highs and big lows in the blood sugar. And poor Evie losing her life doesn’t help. Then I discovered that my ring had disappeared. No, stress is not good for a diabetic.” She took a long sip of water.
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