Crossing the Lion: A Reigning Cats & Dogs Mystery

by Cynthia Baxter

  I pushed it open, reassured that I’d found the right room when I spotted my suitcase on the floor. Go, Gwennie, I thought, as I held the candelabra up higher to get a better look.

  The good-size room was outfitted with the same heavy, dust-covered antiques used to furnish the rest of the house. In here were a four-poster bed, an armoire, and a tall dresser covered with a lace doily. A fireplace still glowed with the last remaining embers of what had probably once been a decent fire but at this point didn’t do a thing to make the room any warmer—either temperature-wise or ambience-wise.

  The thick drapes had already been drawn so that they concealed the windows from view. The thick velvet fabric was a subdued shade of blue that in the dim light looked gray.

  The wallpaper appeared to be the same color. At first, its busy pattern looked like an abstract design of squiggles and other odd shapes. But after staring at it for a few seconds, I realized that scattered across every few feet were two circles positioned side by side, with a dot in the middle of each.

  They looked an awful lot like pairs of eyes.

  That design seemed vaguely familiar. I racked my brain, snapping my fingers when I finally remembered where I’d seen it before.

  The Haunting, a classic film made in the early 1960s and based on a scary novel by Shirley Jackson called The Haunting of Hill House. The wallpaper in one of the characters’ bedrooms looked a lot like this, and at night those circles turned into glowing eyes accompanied by the sound of a child crying—

  It was only a movie! I reminded myself. Still, I wished that when it came to watching DVDs, I’d stuck to comedies and romances.

  I carefully placed the candelabra on the dresser, sat down on the bed, and began pulling off my shoes.

  You’re really letting your imagination run away with you, I scolded myself. This is just an ordinary bedroom, one that happens to be in a big, old house that needs an interior designer almost as much as it needs a good cleaning service.

  But by that point I’d begun to wonder if the rundown look of the Merrywoods’ mansion was simply the result of the family’s affinity for shabby chic, a decorating style that was a favorite with the well-to-do. It was especially popular with “old money.” It clearly stated, “Sure, I can afford whatever I want. But nothing I could buy would come close to these cherished old things that have been part of my family forever.” In other words, “We’ve been rich for generations.”

  I glanced around one more time, testing my theory. It was then that I noticed the wooden bookshelf in one corner. It was tall, reaching nearly to the ceiling. I padded over to it in my socks, grabbing the candelabra off the dresser as I crossed the room.

  I scanned the titles on the spines of the thick, dusty volumes, many of them bound in leather. They were classics, mostly—plays by the ancient Greeks Aeschylus and Sophocles, the works of Shakespeare, novels by Milton and Melville and the Brontë sisters.

  Then I spotted a copy of Frankenstein, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. I couldn’t resist reaching for it, thinking it might be appropriate to skim through the first few pages before going to sleep.

  As soon as I pulled it off the shelf, I heard a low, rumbling sound.

  Earthquake? I thought with alarm.

  Almost immediately, I realized where the noise was coming from. The entire bookshelf was moving to one side.

  “Oh, my!” I cried out loud. “What have I done?”

  My clouded brain assumed that somehow I had caused one of the walls to fall apart simply by removing a single book. But after only a few seconds, the noise stopped.

  I blinked a few times, trying to decide if I was really seeing what I thought.

  I was. The bookshelf had shifted a distance of five or six feet, revealing a door that up until now had been completely concealed.

  My heart pounded violently as I stepped over to the door, wondering if I dared try to open it.

  I couldn’t resist.

  The palm of my hand was moist as I grabbed the cold metal doorknob and tried to turn it.

  It turned with surprising ease.

  By this point, my heart felt as if it were getting ready to explode in my chest. But I wasn’t about to let that stop me.

  I pushed, holding the candelabra up so I could see what was on the other side.

  The door wouldn’t give.

  Huh? I thought, not sure if I was relieved or dismayed.

  It took me about three seconds to realize what the problem was.

  Pull, don’t push, an exasperated voice inside my head instructed.

  I did. And it opened.

  Once again, I thrust out the candelabra, blinking as I struggled to see in the dark and hoping my heart would hold out just a little longer before it broke into a thousand pieces. And then I saw what was on the other side.

  A staircase. A hidden staircase.

  Yikes!

  I seemed to recall that somewhere along the line, Nancy Drew, one of my childhood idols, had encountered a hidden staircase.

  But Nancy was a lot braver than I was.

  In fact, now that I knew what was behind the door, I decided that that was enough. It was true that part of me was intrigued. But another part of me recognized that venturing up those stairs would be a foolhardy proposition at any time—and that doing it in the dark of night, without the aid of either electricity or a decent flashlight, was likely to be downright dangerous.

  I could trip and fall! I told myself. Or encounter bats or rats or—or even crazy Aunt Alvira!

  With all those solid rationalizations in mind, I closed the door firmly, hoping that whatever was at the top of the hidden staircase would stay put. After all, this wasn’t exactly a hotel in which I could request a room with a better view—or fewer features from ghost stories and horror movies. I was a guest in the home of a woman who had just suffered a terrible loss, and the last thing she needed was one of her houseguests complaining about the accommodations.

  I pushed Frankenstein back into place on the shelf. As I’d expected, the magic bookcase began to rumble again, this time moving in the opposite direction and settling itself with what sounded like a sigh of relief.

  It was definitely time to go to bed. It had been a long day, one that included nutty aunts locked away in the attic, business associates named after characters in a board game, butlers who looked like walking cadavers, stuffed ravens and antique suits of armor covered in dust—and now this, a hidden staircase right in my bedroom.

  I quickly changed into my flannel pj’s and slid between the sheets. I expected to lie awake for hours, worrying about Aunt Alvira and conjuring up visions of ghosts and ghouls and who knew what else. I decided to give it five minutes. Then, if I was too overcome with the heebie-jeebies to fall asleep, I’d go ask Betty and Winston if I could sleep at the foot of their bed. Instead, in what seemed like mere seconds after my head hit the pillow, I was out, no doubt the result of having consumed both sherry and wine in the very same evening.

  The last thing I remembered was listening to the sound of the rain pounding on the roof, hoping it would drown out any screams, organ music, or other assorted noises that threatened to keep me awake.

  • • •

  When I woke up the next morning, I lay in bed without moving, relishing the feeling of snuggling up in a warm, soft, surprisingly comfortable bed with my eyes closed. I listened for the sound of rain on the roof. When I couldn’t hear any, I hoped that meant the sun had come out.

  I finally opened my eyes, expecting to see bright sunlight streaming in. No such luck. Instead, my bedroom was shrouded in shadows. Pale shadows, but shadows nonetheless.

  So much for a sunny day, I thought, groaning inwardly. I glanced at the windows and saw that hovering right outside was more of that dreadful fog and the endless rain.

  And then a shock wave jolted through me, banishing any traces of sleepiness that still remained.

  I can see the windows, I thought with alarm. But when I went to sleep last night, the drapes we
re completely drawn.

  Which could mean only one of two things.

  One was that I had walked in my sleep—something I’d never done in my life—and taken advantage of my mobility to do a little redecorating.

  The other was that someone had come into my room in the middle of the night while I was in a deep sleep.

  Impossible! I thought, instinctively pulling the covers up to my chin.

  My eyes darted over to the bedroom door. It was closed, exactly the way I’d left it.

  That didn’t mean someone couldn’t have opened it.

  Gwennie? I thought. Could she have gone traipsing through the house last night or early this morning, quietly opening the drapes in each room so the guests would wake up to views of this fine day?

  While it wasn’t a great explanation, I decided it was the one I’d stick with.

  I rolled over, figuring now that I’d solved that puzzle, I’d check my travel alarm clock to see if it was time to get up.

  I was surprised to see it was later than I’d thought—almost nine. But the shock of the glowing red numbers was nothing compared to what else I saw on the night table beside me.

  Someone had left me a present.

  I reached for it, not sure what it was.

  It wasn’t until I held it close that I saw it was a little doll made out of yarn. It had yellow hair, cut about the same length as mine. And its clothes, fashioned from bits of fabric loosely sewn together with uneven stitches, were the same color as the ones I’d worn yesterday.

  In other words, from the looks of things it was supposed to be me.

  And around her neck, pulled tight, was a piece of cord made of black leather.

  Chapter 4

  “I know when it is necessary, how to leave the skin of lion to take one of fox.”

  —Napoleon Bonaparte

  Voodoo? I wondered, dropping the doll on my pillow like the proverbial hot potato.

  And if someone is attempting to cast an evil spell on me, who is it?

  I jumped out of bed, scarcely noticing how icy the wooden floor felt beneath my bare feet. I was suddenly extremely motivated to figure out if Linus Merrywood really had been murdered—and, if so, who was guilty.

  I was equally interested in finding out if the killer was the same person who had left me this souvenir.

  Tentatively I switched on the lamp next to my bed, curious about whether the electricity had come back on during the night. Fortunately, it had. I dressed quickly, tucking the voodoo doll into my pants pocket, where it was out of sight but not out of mind.

  While a shower would have been refreshing, I wasn’t in the mood to wrestle with a plumbing system that I suspected would turn out to be as unreliable as the electricity. I was also desperate for coffee. While the little gift I’d found on my night table had done wonders to wake me up, I wasn’t in the habit of facing a new day without the assistance of caffeine. Contemplating the idea of a morning without that all-powerful cup of coffee was a horror show all its own, one more reason I was ecstatic that the electricity had come to its senses.

  In fact, it was the intoxicating smell of freshly brewed java that led me to the right spot. Breakfast was being served in the dining room, the same place in which we’d all had dinner the night before.

  I thought daylight might make the dining room look cheerier, despite the relentless rain. It didn’t. The grayness outside made for a gray atmosphere inside. Even in the light of day, the dour-faced men and women in the oil paintings stared down at me as if they were waiting around for something fun like another slew of witch trials.

  However, I was much more interested in the food. Cook had set out quite a spread. Several silver chafing dishes, containing bacon, sausage, and hash browns, were lined up on a sideboard. Fresh croissants and bagels were piled high on a platter, while a fruit salad provided at least some color in the otherwise dreary room.

  Yet despite the abundance of breakfast goodies there for the taking, only one other person was in the room.

  Someone new.

  The man appeared to be in his mid- to late forties, his dark hair flecked with silver and his forehead creased. His facial features were attractive enough, if not particularly memorable: hazel eyes, a straight nose, thin lips. He boasted a tan, as if he’d recently returned from someplace warm and sunny. He was also strikingly fit, with broad shoulders and a lean torso that were complemented by his well-cut suit jacket. I decided he was one of those incredibly self-disciplined individuals who, like Tag, routinely spent time at the gym.

  Harry Foss, I guessed. Linus Merrywood’s right-hand man.

  “Goodness, are we the first ones up?” I asked, casting him a friendly smile as I made a beeline for the pair of matching silver urns on the sideboard, one for coffee and one for tea.

  “More like the last ones,” the man replied, sounding amused. “At least you are. As for me, I drove out from the city early this morning and was just delivered here by boat.”

  “In that case, I’m glad there’s still food left,” I said. “Quite a bit of it, too.”

  “I’d go for the croissants, if I were you,” he suggested.

  I followed his advice, then joined him at the table.

  “Charlotte isn’t here to make sure we’re properly introduced,” I told him, “so I’d better do the honors myself. I’m Jessie Popper.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said politely. “I’m Harry Foss. I’m the CFO at Merrywood Industries. Linus’s close friend, and as chief financial officer his number two man.”

  “I’m here visiting with friends of Linus and Charlotte,” I explained. “Betty and Winston Farnsworth.”

  “Farnsworth, huh?” he repeated. “That name sounds familiar.”

  “Winston and Linus belonged to the same club in New York.”

  “Ah. That explains it,” he said with a nod.

  Noticing the folded copy of The Wall Street Journal on the table next to him, I commented, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading. Please feel free to go right ahead.”

  “Nothing but bad news,” he said with a wry smile. “I’d much rather converse.”

  I paused to sip my coffee, then took a moment to relish the miraculous sensation of that first swallow of the magic potion slipping down my throat.

  “How are the employees at Merrywood Industries handling Linus’s death?” I finally asked, sincerely curious.

  Harry frowned. “Everyone is in shock, naturally. Even though the company is huge, Linus was unusually hands-on. Just about everyone knew him personally. Liked him, too. He was the type of person who made you feel as if you were the most important person in the room, even if you were only a waiter who worked for the caterer. He always had a smile and kind word for everyone.

  “He also had an unbelievable memory for names,” he continued, his admiration reflected in his tone of voice. “Once Linus met someone, he remembered that person’s name forever. Whenever I walked through the corridors with him, he’d greet every employee we passed by name. He’d remember something about their lives, too, so he’d say, ‘Good morning, Mary, how’s the baby?’ or ‘Hey, Chuck, still enjoying that new Beemer?’ The man was simply amazing.”

  “Linus certainly sounds like he was well loved by everyone who met him.” I stared into my coffee cup, thinking, Unless he was murdered—which means someone is out there who didn’t share the love.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Harry insisted, as if he’d guessed what I was thinking. “Linus had his share of enemies. No one can become that powerful without making quite a few of those along the way.”

  I quickly swallowed the sip of coffee I’d just taken. But before I had a chance to ask him to elaborate, he said, “You know, it’s kind of strange that everybody is acting so surprised by Linus’s death—especially that they’re all saying the man was in such good health.”

  He glanced around, as if making sure we really were alone. Then, in a softer voice, he said, “I worked with the man day in and day out, and
believe me, he was definitely showing signs of aging. After all, he’d just turned seventy-five.”

  Thoughtfully, I commented, “Seventy-five seems to be an age at which some people still seem young while others—well, not so much. I suppose it depends on genetics, as well as an individual’s lifestyle and general health.”

  I was thinking of Betty. Winston, too. They were both around Linus’s age, yet they seemed as sharp and as energetic as other people I knew who were in their fifties or even younger.

  But, according to Harry, that wasn’t the case with Linus.

  “Was his performance at work starting to reflect his age?” I asked.

  Harry frowned. “Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly helping.”

  The sound of someone clearing his throat prompted me to turn. Winston was standing in the doorway, the wet splatters on the shoulders of his bright yellow slicker telling me he’d returned to Solitude Island from the early-morning appointment on Long Island he’d mentioned after dinner.

  Frankly, I would have liked another five minutes alone with Harry. But now that Winston had joined us, I looked up at him and smiled.

  “Good morning, Winston,” I greeted him. “Pull up a chair and—”

  It was only then that I noticed his troubled expression.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked, my smile fading.

  “I wish it were,” he replied.

  Harry frowned. “What’s going on?”

  “I think I’d better talk to the entire family at once,” Winston said somberly. Nodding toward Harry, he added, “You and Scarlett, as well.”

  “What’s all this about?” Harry asked.

  Winston took a deep breath before replying, “I just got back from that meeting with the medical examiner’s office in Riverton. There have been some important developments surrounding Linus’s death.”

  • • •

  While Harry volunteered to find Scarlett, I took it upon myself to track down everyone else. Assembling the entire Merrywood clan in one room turned out to require nearly twenty minutes, since the members of the family were scattered all over the house.