I slid from behind the wheel, and the next thing that caught my eye was a restored and gleaming black carriage positioned near the side of the house.
What a stage setter,
I thought. Then I made my way between the majestic columns and up the broad steps toward double, lacquered black doors. I’d learned that this house had been built in 1844 and the Longworths sat atop the social crowd in Woodcrest, a class system typical in small Southern towns. And yet Ritaestelle, the seventy-year-old head of household, couldn’t seem to take care of a cat.
That thought saddened me, and as I rang the doorbell, I used my other hand to take my phone from the pocket of my linen skirt. I pulled up the cat-cam feed and tapped a screen icon for my living room video. I saw my three cats, Syrah, Merlot and Chablis, fast asleep—two on the sofa and one on the overstuffed armchair. I realized that my heart rate had picked up—I was worried about telling tall tales—but the sight of these cats, my three best friends, calmed me instantly. I replaced my phone and waited for someone to answer the bell I’d heard chime inside.
When the door opened, a thin black man in what I could only call butler attire answered the door. I felt like I’d been transported back 150 years.
He said, “How may I help you, ma’am?”
His face was unreadable—no smile, no frown. I imagined he’d spoken those words a thousand times before. He had close-cropped silver hair, but I couldn’t tell if he was sixty, seventy, perhaps even eighty? Definitely older than my forty-three years.
Sound confident,
I told myself before I spoke. “My name is Jillian Hart. I’d like to speak with Miss Longworth, please.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Miss Longworth is indisposed. If you’d like to leave your phone number, her assistant will call you.”
Since Shawn’s calls had never been returned, the same thing would probably happen to me. But I smiled and said, “That doesn’t exactly work for me. I’m a journalist, and I—”
“You’re a reporter?” he said. “There’s nothing much to report on here.”
“I’m doing a piece for my magazine on the grand homes of the South. I understand this house is seeking historical status. Is that true?” I
knew
this was true since I’d done my research, so I hoped it was my ticket inside.
He hesitated, and I quickly dug into my shoulder bag and pulled out my slim silver digital camera.
I smiled. “I’ve already gotten some lovely shots of this wonderful estate. May I take your picture?”
Kara had offered me this tip, and she’d been right. Cameras can truly open doors. The butler gentleman held up a hand. “Please, ma’am. Before you take any more pictures, why not step into the foyer? I’ll talk to Miss Longworth’s assistant. I’m sure Miss Ritaestelle would like to see her home in a magazine, but you don’t want no pictures of me. She can help you better with that kinda thing.”
“Thank you,” I said, trying to hide my grin. One hurdle down. But how many more to go?
He stepped aside so I could enter, and the rich smell of polished wood met me at once. The foyer was smaller than I expected because a massive staircase took up most of the space. Rich honey-colored paneling graced the wall and followed the polished stairs upward. A ninety-degree left turn after the first few steps blocked my view of the rest of the stairs, but in a house with four stories, they probably made plenty of twists on the way up. Then my eyes widened in appreciation at probably the most stunning grandfather clock I’d ever seen. It stood directly in front of me and was made of black walnut burl wood with arches at the top and a large golden pendulum behind its leaded glass door.
I’d managed to keep my jaw from dropping at the sight of this foyer. On the wall to my left was a small, inlaid glass-covered table. An art deco-looking vase of clear red glass sat on the table, and an oil painting of a wagon and horse traveling on a country road hung on the wall above it.
A brocade-covered bench stood against the wall to my right, and the gentleman gestured for me to have a seat. “Let me check with Miss Preston.”
I assumed she was the assistant. “Thank you so much, but I didn’t get your name.” I smiled.
“It’s George. George Robertson.
“Thank you, Mr. Robertson.”
He nodded, walked away down the splendid paneled hallway and disappeared.
What I hadn’t noticed when I first arrived—perhaps because I kept marveling at this place—was that this house was seriously chilly. More than air-conditioned chilly, even for July. Maybe old-house chilly. Yes. That was what it was. Definitely drafty.
Thankful for the three-quarter-length sleeves of my jacket, I clutched my purse in my lap—the handbag that held the notebook I hoped I would be putting to good use soon. I’m not a fan of bags or dress-up, but this visit required both. Who knew that lies needed to be properly attired? But I was glad I’d taken Kara’s advice when she’d emphasized that I couldn’t wear capri pants and a T-shirt for this assignment. I’d been planning on a sundress, but she said that wouldn’t do either. Still, I was uncomfortable in this linen suit, and the high heels were seriously tight and hurting something awful. But the outfit had probably helped get me in the door. And even if I didn’t learn the information I came for, I felt privileged to simply be sitting in a house that reminded me of a museum.
I thought about kitty Isis and took out my phone to sneak a peek at the picture I’d taken of her. Since she’d had an encounter with a mud puddle after getting lost, she’d been bathed and groomed—probably by Allison, Shawn’s wife. Allison is so sweet, she could convince a Bengal tiger to let her bathe him. And the tiger would enjoy every minute.
Isis’s diamond-studded collar glittered, and her green eyes stared straight into the lens. My bet was that this cat had posed for plenty of pictures. I told Shawn the diamond collar was probably the best clue that Isis had not been abandoned and was simply lost. But he wasn’t about to agree with me. There had to be a meet and greet with the owner. A face-to-face assessment. He’d been burned too many times.
“Miss Preston will see you now.” It was Mr. Robertson. He stood at the edge of the foyer near the hallway, hands behind his back.
My heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice. Thank goodness I was holding my phone at an angle so that he couldn’t see what I was looking at. I stood and slipped the phone back into my pocket. What was I thinking pulling up that photo? I could have ruined everything, but I’d assumed I would be kept waiting as long as possible. I’d taken Mr. Robertson and Miss Preston by surprise, after all. But as my cop buddy Candace would say, never assume.
Never.
“Follow me, please,” Mr. Robertson said.
He led me down the hall past a series of closed doors—tall doors a shade darker than the paneling. We walked all the way to the end and into a two-story library that smelled of must beneath more lemon oil. No doubt the thousands of books were the source of the musty smell. But it was a nice and comforting odor—old leather and aging paper.
Behind the desk, a young woman rose. She had ginger hair a shade lighter than my own, and by her looks, I guessed she spent time in the gym. Her bare arms were toned and tan. The sleeveless coral dress she wore was belted low on her slim hips and probably cost as much as five kitty quilts—the ones I hand quilted and sold for a hundred dollars each.
Mr. Robertson said, “Miss Preston, this is Miss Jillian Hart.”
The woman smiled, and in a thick Carolina accent said, “So very nice of you to call on us, Miss Hart.” She looked at Mr. Robertson, her smile growing even warmer. “Thanks, George. Perhaps you could bring us iced tea? It’s quite a warm day.”
He nodded and backed away, closing the door after him.
Two gold velvet wing chairs faced the desk, and the woman made a sweeping gesture at them. “Please join me.”
I crossed over an oval oriental rug toward her, cursing my high heels the entire way. The trip down the long hall had taken its toll, and my feet were screaming. I’d worn these shoes only once before, and I decided it had been a mistake to stuff my feet into them today.
The chair on the right offered a better view of the gardens beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, so that was where I sat. I’d been so awed by the house and now this room that I hadn’t noticed the laptop computer to Miss Preston’s right. Until now.
She pushed it away, folded her hands on the desk and leaned toward me. “I don’t seem to be able to find anything on the Internet about a journalist named Jillian Hart, but there is certainly a good deal about a woman by that name who takes a great interest in cats. Have you come about Isis?”
Two
S
o much for lying. I attempted to feign surprise. “Isis?” I asked. But my mouth had gone dry and I realized I’d now earned the title Dumbest Fake Journalist Ever. What to do? I couldn’t stick to the lie . . . but perhaps I could dodge the question. “Is Miss Longworth here? I had hoped to talk to her.”
“I’m sure you did.” She smiled. “Have you seen Isis? Is she at that shelter where you volunteer, perhaps?”
“Seems you know a lot more about me than I do about you. What’s your first name, Miss Preston?” I said.
Buy some time; hope for one brilliant idea to get out of this mess.
“Evie. We can converse as Evie and Jillian if you’d like. I have no problem with that. Especially since you have a reputation as a kind and generous animal lover. But if you found Isis, she needs to come home.”
Ah, a tiny opening to accomplish my goal. To find out if Isis
should
come home. “I don’t have her.” Technically not a lie. “Does Miss Longworth miss her cat?”
“Of course she does. Quit hedging. I don’t imagine you want money. You’re not the type. But—”
The sound of a scuffle accompanied by a muffled cry came from somewhere above us. Evie’s gaze went to the ceiling, and her clasped hands clenched tighter.
“That didn’t sound good,” I said. “Is someone hurt . . . or sick?”
“That is
none
of your business.” Evie’s tone had gone frosty, and she looked as if she was hanging on to her composure by a quilting thread. She’d moved her hands to the arms of her desk chair and tilted her head, apparently trying to hear better.
“If you’re needed upstairs, I can leave. We can—”
The thud that interrupted me made us both jump. We stood, but though I was frozen, Evie raced past me, muttering, “Oh no. Oh no.”
Seemed I’d become invisible. But like my cats, I felt that mysterious and ominous noises must be investigated. So I gave her a few seconds and followed.
Once I was back in the foyer, I caught a glimpse of a coral blur at the top of the stairs. Before I tackled the steps, the shoes had to go. I might already have developed blisters on both heels anyway.
Cursed shoes in hand, I took the stairs two at time as quietly as possible, making that first ninety-degree turn and then climbing about ten more steps to the first landing. But when I saw several people, including Evie, at the end of the hall to my right, I stepped back onto the step so I wouldn’t be spotted. Peeking past the wall, I saw a silver-haired woman in a blue chenille bathrobe sitting on the floor. Evie knelt by the woman’s side, holding her hand, and an older lady in gray slacks and a white pleated shirt stood above them.
I heard the one with the slacks say, “She was trying to get downstairs.”
Evie looked up at the speaker. “How did that happen, Augusta? You’re supposed to stay with her.”
“And when I am supposed to use the ladies’?” Augusta said.
But Evie didn’t seem to be listening. She was murmuring something I couldn’t make out to the woman on the floor—the woman I recognized from photos I’d seen on the Internet: Ritaestelle Longworth.
“I’m fine, Evie. But I’m not deaf. I heard the doorbell, heard George talking to someone in the foyer. I want to go downstairs and—” She turned her gaze from Evie and looked straight at me.
I ducked back behind the wall, but too late.
“There she is,” I heard Miss Longworth say.
Should I run down the stairs? Get the heck out of here? But then I remembered that my handbag was sitting on the floor next to that yellow velvet chair. I stepped out from hiding. “Yes. I came to talk to you, Miss Longworth. But first, are you okay?”
She squinted and pointed at me. “I know you. Where do I know you from?”
“I don’t think you know me. Can I help them get you on your feet?” I started down the hall toward them.
But Evie put up the traffic-cop signal for stop. “You need to turn around and go back downstairs.”
Miss Longworth was struggling to rise, and Augusta and Evie turned their attention to her.
Bad decisions, I’m told, make for good stories. But I had the feeling this bad decision wouldn’t sound like a good story to Shawn. I’d failed at this assignment and had been caught snooping around where I shouldn’t have been. Time to leave while everyone was occupied. I hurried down the stairs and was met at the bottom by Mr. Robertson. A silver tray with two glasses of iced tea sat on a small telephone table in the hallway.
George was holding my handbag. “You need this, ma’am?”
“Yes, thanks.” I was breathless from hurrying down the steep stairs.
“I suggest you go quick. I’m guessing Miss Preston isn’t too pleased about now.” He stepped aside and let me pass.
“Thanks, Mr. Robertson,” I said.
He nodded solemnly, but I caught a twinkle in his eye as I left the house with my shoes in one hand and my purse in the other.
Minivans aren’t exactly the fastest vehicles, so my getaway wasn’t all that quick. Once I made it out of the long driveway and onto the county road, I hit fifty-five miles an hour, my max. My heart was still pounding, and I vowed never to do anything like that again. Shawn would have to deal with this problem himself. Maybe he’d be visiting Miss Longworth in the hospital. I mean, her hip or her leg could have been broken after that fall.