We entered the house, and the button she’d come for was right at the junction of the hall and foyer. I picked it up, and my stomach lurched. There was indeed fabric clinging to the button—but more than I’d thought. The navy blue fabric of Nancy Shelton’s suits. This button had not fallen off—it had been ripped off. This was what Syrah had been digging for in the pine needles. And he’d carried it back inside the house the night Evie was murdered.
Shelton said, “I see you understand. I won’t be needing that button now.” Her voice was as hard as granite, her gray eyes cold.
And then she pulled a gun from beneath her jacket.
Thirty-one
“Both of you, into the living room,” Shelton said.
Ritaestelle didn’t budge. “Nancy, whatever has come over you?”
“You. You came over me a long, long time ago.” She pushed Ritaestelle’s shoulder with her free hand. “Get into the living room.”
I took Ritaestelle’s arm and tugged. “Come on. Let’s do as she says.”
The poor woman’s expression was a mixture of fear and confusion. “Certainly. Most certainly.”
Shelton followed us into the living room, where four cats were all on their feet
and
on alert. They sensed the danger, probably the minute they’d heard Shelton’s voice.
“Why did you kill her?” I said. “Did she find out what you were up to?”
Shelton smiled contemptuously. “What
was
I up to?”
“Gaslighting Ritaestelle. But why?” I said.
“It’s none of your business. It was never any of your business,” Shelton said. “Turn around.”
Goose bumps rose on my arms. “If you plan to kill me, at least explain why.”
“I don’t owe you any explanation.” She swung the gun in the direction of Merlot, whose coat was puffed out so much he looked like a lion. “If you don’t turn around, I’m taking out one of your precious cats.”
I immediately did as she commanded.
Ritaestelle sounded surprisingly calm as she said, “You do not want to do this, Nancy. I have harmed you in some serious fashion, so shoot me, not Jillian.”
“Shut up,” Shelton said. “Just stay where I can see you. And you, cat woman, put your hands behind your back.”
Seconds later I felt the cold metal on my wrists, heard the clink as the cuffs snapped closed.
“Get over to the couch and sit. Now.” Shelton’s voice sounded stressed, and all the anger she’d obviously held in check was pouring out in her words and actions.
I did as I was told, my heart pounding. Was I about to watch her kill Ritaestelle? I would be helpless to stop her, and the thought made my stomach roil.
Using one hand, Shelton lifted her jacket and removed her thin black belt. She turned to Ritaestelle and said, “If you move one inch, I will kill her. Understand?”
Ritaestelle nodded. “I understand. But we can work this out, Nancy. We have been friends for so many years and—”
“You were
never
my friend. You stole from me. You ruined the best thing that ever happened in my life.” Shelton knelt at my feet and bound my ankles together with the belt.
Though the temptation to kick her or knee her in the face was strong, that could be a huge mistake. She might manage to hold on to the gun and kill Ritaestelle or one of my cats if I did hurt her. I glanced around and noted that the cats had the sense to have slinked out of the room—or at least out of sight.
When Shelton was finished binding me, she rose and pointed her gun at Ritaestelle again. “Where’s your cat?”
“She ran away. She is frightened. I am frightened, Nancy.” But Ritaestelle sounded so composed. How did she do that?
“Good. You should be scared. Let’s find that cat. Now.”
They started looking, with Shelton holding the gun in the small of Ritaestelle’s back.
Why did she want Isis? I didn’t understand any of this. What was this
best thing that ever happened
that she’d mentioned?
Oh, but I had an idea.
I recalled Ritaestelle talking about the past, how Desmond had once been involved with Nancy Shelton. Had he dumped her for Ritaestelle? Good possibility. And the gaslighting had begun about two months ago—when Desmond came back into Ritaestelle’s life.
Would asking questions about this do any good? No. Shelton was too angry. And she obviously had a plan. The fact that she hadn’t yet used her weapon was encouraging. We might be able to talk her out of whatever she wanted to do.
But when the two returned and Shelton held Chablis, not Isis, all rational thought left me. “What are you doing?” I said, hoping to conceal the panic welling up inside.
“Couldn’t find Isis. But any cat will do.” She waved the gun in the direction of the door. “You’re driving, Ritaestelle. And if you don’t follow my directions, I will kill this cat.”
I closed my eyes, wanted to scream
no,
but I kept quiet. This woman was on the edge. She’d been pushed there by something she’d heard tonight. Maybe the encounter in the parking lot with Desmond? The two had spoken after Ritaestelle and I went into the funeral home. Right now, whatever they’d said to each other didn’t matter. What mattered was the safety of Ritaestelle and Chablis.
But before I could think of something, anything, to do, Shelton, Ritaestelle and my Chablis left.
I took a deep breath, trying to contain the terror I felt. I had to get out of these cuffs. I had to free my feet.
But how?
Slowly, tentatively, three cats ventured back into the living room. A few tears escaped when I saw them. Merlot jumped up on the couch and began to sniff me.
Syrah leaped onto the coffee table and stared at me as if to say, “What’s wrong? Get up.”
Isis joined him and they sat there together looking at me.
Syrah may have been able to open doors, but handcuffs were a different story. This was my problem.
Maybe I could get to the security alarm or the landline. I could still use my fingers, even if they were behind me. But just as I was about to get up and hop to the kitchen, I felt my phone in my back pocket.
I tried to visualize the face of the phone and remembered the phone icon was at the bottom left-hand corner. I moved my hands to the right-hand pocket, ready to at least press that icon, then visualize exactly where each number might be, but before I could do this, just moving made the phone redial the last person I’d spoken to. Pocket dialing. This had happened before with my very sensitive touchscreen phone. I never thought in a million years I would be so glad to accidentally call someone.
I heard the phone ring once, twice and then heard the faint sound of Candace’s voice.
“Hey, Jillian, how was the visitation?” I could barely hear her say. Her voice was distant and muffled by my clothing.
I shouted, “Candace, can you hear me?”
“Jillian?” she called louder. “What’s going on?”
Merlot bent his head against my hip and rubbed against me. Then he began a loud, throaty, insistent meow.
“Merlot?” I could hear Candace say.
At the top of my lungs, I yelled, “Help me.”
“Jillian? What’s wrong?” This time Candace was shouting, too.
“Come to my house. My
house
,” I yelled.
“Your house?”
“Yes.” I choked down a sob and hollered, “Yes,” louder.
“I’m on my way. Don’t hang up,” she shouted.
Hang up? I couldn’t hang up if I tried.
But I decided that trying to dial 911 was still a good idea. I stood and hopped toward the landline on the kitchen counter. I turned around and tried to pick up the receiver. And dropped it on the tile floor. I heard it break apart, and plastic pieces slid in front of me.
All three cats had followed me and now surrounded me, and Syrah pawed at the broken phone. He then looked up at me and added his own meows to Merlot’s—because Merlot had not quit.
The alarm was connected to the Mercy police station, and though I managed to get the pantry door open where the control panel was, the panic button—in fact the entire control panel—was too high for me to reach. It was about three inches too high for me to touch, even with my nose.
I needed a chair, but as I was using my knees and thighs to slowly, painstakingly push a chair toward the pantry, Candace burst through the front door, her weapon drawn.
She wore her pajamas.
“Shelton’s taken Ritaestelle and Chablis,” I said. “I don’t know where they—”
“They’re at the mansion,” Candace said as she grabbed a kitchen knife to pick the handcuffs open. “When I called Mike, he said as many officers as possible are on the way over there, that Shelton was holding everyone at gunpoint.”
“They’re still alive?” I said as she freed me.
“Far as I know,” Candace said. “I called Tom. He should be here any minute.”
I bent and removed the belt from my ankles. “We have to go there. Now.”
Thirty-two
T
he scene on the circular drive outside Ritaestelle’s mansion was pure chaos. We’d been stopped at a roadblock at the entrance to the long driveway, but when the deputy saw Candace in Tom’s car, he’d waived us through. I couldn’t count the number of police cars in front of the house, their whirling lights blurred by the steady rain.
Tom had arrived at my place only seconds after I’d removed the belt from my ankles. We made it to the Longworth estate in less than fifteen minutes. After I’d explained that Shelton had simply snapped and I wasn’t sure why, we’d said nothing else during the drive. We were all too worried about what we would find when we arrived.
Mike Baca stood on the front porch talking on his cell phone. He waved us to him when he saw us get out of Tom’s car.
“Shelton’s asking for us to bring Desmond Holloway here, but I’m not sure that’s what she really wants,” Mike said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because,” he said, “I’m talking to George Robertson on his cell phone. He says Shelton and Ritaestelle are in the study. Shelton has given Ritaestelle a gun and told her to either shoot her or Shelton will shoot your cat. Ritaestelle is trying to talk her out of this.” He spoke into the receiver then. “What’s going on, George?” He listened and then said, “Okay, good. Tell them to come out with their hands raised.”
Relief washed over me. “They’re coming out?”
“The family members, not Shelton or Ritaestelle,” he said.
My heart sank.
“You come, too, George,” Mike said. “We’ll take it from here.” Another pause. “No. You need to get out of there. A hostage negotiator is on the way.”
Just then the front door opened, and Justine, Hildie, Muriel and Augusta all filed out, hands in the air. “Where’s Farley?” I said.
“Took off with a suitcase full of stuff earlier today,” Mike said. “We’ll find out later what, if anything, he had to do with this mess.”
Uniformed Woodcrest officers grabbed the women as they came out and pulled them off the porch.
My heart was pounding, and I probably would have run into that house if not for Tom’s grip on my shoulders.
Only a second later, a gunshot sounded.
Not only could we hear it through the open door, but it sounded through Mike’s phone as well.
“Talk to me, George,” Mike shouted. And then Mike took off, yelling, “Go, go, go,” to the officers waiting with their weapons ready. Mike pointed at Candace. “See where that stupid ambulance is. It was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”
But Tom said, “I’ve got this, Candace. You two get away from the house.” He pulled out his phone. But before he completed the call, the ambulance came roaring down the drive.
I wasn’t moving. I wanted to get in there. I
had
to get in there.
Candace said, “Come on. We need to give them room to do their jobs.”
Reluctantly I followed Tom and Candace back to Tom’s Prius.
I was so stunned by the sound of that shot that I felt numb. “Do you think Ritaestelle’s dead? Did Shelton kill Chablis? What is—”
Tom pulled me to him and pushed my wet hair away from my face. “We’ll know soon. Let’s get out of this rain.”
Candace wore my raincoat and had the sense to open an umbrella so as not to allow her stitches to get wet. As for me, I no longer even felt the rain.
She climbed in, and Tom and I sat in the front seats, but we all left our doors open.
Why did someone else have to die? I thought.
Why?
The wait seemed endless. Finally, paramedics pushed a stretcher out the front door. I immediately jumped out of the car to see who was on the stretcher, to see if the body’s face was covered because someone had died.
As they pulled the stretcher to the back of the ambulance, I had my answer. It was Nancy Shelton. She was alive, her body strapped tightly down. Her head was moving from side to side, and she was shouting, “No,” over and over.
One shot. One shot. Unless something else happened that we hadn’t heard, Ritaestelle and Chablis were okay. They had to be okay.
Mike Baca emerged through those giant front doors and waved us to him.
I had never run so fast in my life. I even beat Tom to the door.
As we joined Mike, he pointed at Jerry Raymond. “The redheaded woman. Cuff her and bring her inside.” He turned to us. “And by the way, what are you doing here, Candy?”
“Long story, Chief,” she said.
“My fault,” I said. “Are they all right?”
Mike nodded. “Miss Longworth is asking for the two of you.” Mike looked at both Tom and me. “Go in, but stay away from that room on the right. We have to process the scene in there.”
We entered the house.
Meanwhile, Mike turned his attention to Candace, who stopped in the foyer. “I can’t have my best officer sick for any longer than necessary. You shouldn’t have come here.” He looked at her quizzically. “Are you wearing your pj’s?”
“I’d say I wore the appropriate outfit,” Candace said.