“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
A
s 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?”
I knew better than to offer a reply, even a sympathetic one. I climbed the deck steps and opened the door carefully, in case Isis was free and decided to take off again. Syrah, who had been patiently waiting, slipped into the house first and scampered inside to who knows where. I’m sure he hoped to avoid the scolding I’d been giving Merlot.
Billy stood in the kitchen, still holding Isis. She was staring up at him with a look that I’ve seen on Candace’s face before: complete adoration. Did almost every female—even the nonhuman kind—find this guy irresistible?
“Thanks, Billy,” I said, setting my big cat down. Merlot decided to pretend nothing had happened and meandered over to his food dish.
“No problem. Better get back outside.” Billy offered Isis to me, but I shook my head. I wanted nothing to do with that little troublemaker right now. He put her on the floor, and she dashed off in the direction Syrah had gone. Billy went back outside, anxious no doubt, to return to the action now that he was relieved of cat duty.
Ritaestelle and Candace were seated at the dining room table, and Isis’s owner apparently didn’t see that black blur race through my living room.
I wasn’t sure if I should listen in on this interview, but with my open floor plan—the kitchen blending into the dining room and the dining room into the living room—how could I avoid hearing what they were saying? A gloved Candace solved my dilemma by waving me over.
She was clipping Ritaestelle’s fingernails. A tiny rusty pile had accumulated on a white paper towel beneath the hand Candace held. Blood still stained Ritaestelle’s hands.
“Do you have something Miss Longworth can wear?” Candace said. “Deputy Ebeling is bringing me an evidence bag large enough to hold her robe.”
“I’ll find something,” I said.
“You are such a kind person,” Ritaestelle said. “Both of you are, and I am so grateful for your assistance. You, Jillian, seem to have saved my cat yet again. But where did she go? That handsome fireman was holding her, and now they both seem to be gone.” Ritaestelle’s voice cracked, and she reached up to her forehead with her free hand—and found the curler still in her hair. She yanked it from her bangs, muttering, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. No wonder everyone believes I am as crazy as a loon.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy at all,” I said. “And Isis will come around soon. She’s a little frisky tonight, that’s all. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back with something for you to wear.”
I hurried toward the hall thinking that maybe I could corral Isis and bring her to Ritaestelle. But then I remembered that Candace would not want more cat hairs all over her evidence. Chablis had most certainly deposited a fair amount already. No, this reunion between Ritaestelle and Isis would have to wait.
I stopped at the entrance to the long hall that leads to my bedroom. Syrah and Isis were engaged in button hockey on the wood floor. The slippery surface made for a great game of paw and slide in pursuit.
Obviously the cats had no interest in murder, but I surely did. Doing CPR on a dead woman isn’t exactly something you easily forget. I shuddered as I remembered Evie’s eyes. No one deserved to die like that, and the thought of someone so young—about the same age as my stepdaughter—meeting such an end made my stomach clench.
Evie must have followed Ritaestelle here; otherwise, how had she found my house? Or was it the other way around? What if . . . ? No. I needed to put the questions aside for now.
I didn’t have much clothing that I thought would fit Ritaestelle. She wasn’t a large woman, but she definitely had more up top than me. I finally came back in the living room with one of John’s Houston Astros T-shirts, a pair of khakis that hung a little loose on me and a pair of slippers. Morris arrived with the evidence bag just as Ritaestelle finished signing the Miranda waiver.
I held up the clothes. “Best I could do.”
Ritaestelle looked up, glanced at Morris and then at Candace. “Is there somewhere a little more private where I could offer you this awful bathrobe? And you may have it, dear. I never want to see it again.”
Candace took the bag from Morris and helped Ritaestelle rise. They started slowly toward the hall and the powder room.
But I held up a hand before they could pass me. “Cats are in the hall. I’m sure you don’t want hair all over that robe, so let me close them off first.”
Ritaestelle turned a pleading gaze on Candace. “Can I hold my Isis after I change?”
“I suppose that would be all right.” Candace looked at me. “Can you hurry? I feel like I’m moving in slow motion on this case. Before the deputy coroner shows up, I want to gather as much information as possible.”
But as I herded what turned out to be all four cats into the closest room—my quilting room—I heard Lydia Monk’s voice coming from the living room. “Oh boy,” I muttered. I tossed the buttons they’d been playing with toward them and shut the door.
Candace must have heard the door close, because she and Ritaestelle were already heading my way. Ritaestelle’s limp was even more pronounced, and she might not want to see a doctor, but she sure needed to.
“Could you keep the deputy coroner company while Miss Longworth changes?” Candace’s tone was polite as she offered me an entreating stare.
I guessed that her words—to keep Lydia company—meant that Candace wanted me to make small talk until she and Ritaestelle returned. That wouldn’t be easy. Hello and good-bye was about all I wanted to say to Lydia. Of course, she’d want to check the house to see if Tom was hiding somewhere before she got down to the business of solving a murder.
I took a deep breath and reentered my living room. Lydia was standing near the dining room table talking with Morris. The outfit was typical for Lydia: clingy low-cut purple shirt, black skinny jeans and feather earrings that reminded me of cat toys. She had a pair of tennis shoes in her hand but still wore her black patent stiletto heels. Sheesh. Could someone grab her and do a makeover?
I cleared my throat, and she and Morris turned my way.
“Good evening, Lydia,” I said.
She smiled. Could she look any more smug? “Ah, Jillian. Here we are again investigating a murder close to you. This time in your own backyard. Sometimes I wonder about you. You just seem to attract trouble.”
“This has been a very difficult night,” I said. “Have you seen that poor young woman’s body yet? I mean, that is why you’re here.” I knew darn well she hadn’t been down to the lake yet because the tennis shoes were clean and dry.
“I know what my job is—thank you very much.” Her tone was scathing this time. “Tom around to help you wiggle out of your troubles tonight?”
There it was, as suspected. The reason she’d come inside.
“He’s not here,” I said, trying to keep my tone civil. How I wanted to remind her to get busy with what was important—investigating Evie Preston’s murder, not questioning me about Tom.
Morris must have picked up on the tension because he said, “They’re waitin’ for you down by the lake, Lydia.”
She kicked off her shoes, sat and slid her feet into the tennis shoes. “Like I said, I know why I’m here.” She picked up her high heels, tramped through the kitchen and out the back door.
“Thanks, Morris,” I said.
He nodded. “Got to keep that woman on task sometimes.”
Candace and Ritaestelle returned. Candace held the evidence bag in one hand and Ritaestelle’s elbow in the other. It seemed to take forever for them to reach us at the dining room table.
Once Ritaestelle was seated, Candace handed the tagged paper sack containing the robe to Morris. “I took pictures of the robe while she was wearing it when we first came inside, so I think we’re done with this piece of evidence for now. The nail clippings and her fingerprint card are in the envelopes on the counter. I’ll transport all this to the station when we’re done here, Deputy Ebeling.”