Crossing the Lion: A Reigning Cats & Dogs Mystery

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Well, what?” Falcone countered. He seemed to have forgotten all about his initial interest in my assessment of the situation. Instead, he was back to looking irritated, as if he found my mere existence on the planet a source of distress.

  “Did you talk to everyone?” I asked anxiously. “What did you find out? Did the butler do it? Or Linus’s pretty young assistant? How about one of his children?”

  He cast me a stony look. “I’m still workin’ on it.”

  “What about Cook?” I demanded, just in case the most obvious suspect did turn out to be the killer. “She knew as well as anybody that Linus was allergic to eggs, and as you pointed out she’s the one who made the meal—”

  Falcone shook his head. “First of all, it turns out the cook has a real name: Margaret Reilly. Second of all, she doesn’t appear to be the perp.” With a smirk, he explained, “And that’s mainly because one important ingredient is missing.”

  I wasn’t nearly as impressed by his cleverness as he was. “What’s that?” I demanded.

  “A motive.” Frowning, Falcone added, “From the looksa things, she thought the worlda the guy. She worked for him and the rest of this family for almost forty years. She even followed them back and forth between this horror show of a weekend house and their place in the city while the kids were growing up and goin’ to school in Manhattan. Then she moved out here full time when Linus and Charlotte started spendin’ most of their time on the island. Not that I won’t be keepin’ an eye on her. But at the moment I got nothin’ solid on her or anybody else.

  “Speaking of horror shows,” he continued, glancing around, “this place really creeps me out. What about you?”

  “Actually,” I said with a little shrug, “I’ve kind of gotten used to it.”

  His face flushed. “Not only do I have a problem with this freakin’ house, I also don’t like the fact that it’s on an island. See, I also have, uh, kind of a problem with, uh, seasickness.”

  He looked around as if he wanted to make sure we were still alone before adding, “Comin’ over here on that boat, I thought I was gonna hurl.”

  “How awful!” I said, doing my best to sound sympathetic without admitting that I’d had a similar experience myself.

  Suddenly a strange smile crossed his face. “Y’know, I just had an idea.”

  “Really?” I said, fighting the temptation to express my surprise over something that I suspected was a pretty rare event.

  “Maybe you could do me a favor.”

  “Ye-e-e-s?” I asked suspiciously.

  “This is not a case I’m gonna solve instantaneously,” he said. “Since you’re gonna be spending the next couple days here anyway, I’m thinkin’ maybe you could keep your eyes and ears open. Both of us know that buttin’ your nose into other people’s business is something you’re pretty good at. So maybe you could see if you pick up on any information that could turn out to be relevant.”

  In other words, conduct an investigation.

  I was floored by Falcone’s request—even though it was couched in an extremely backhanded compliment. After all, up to this point, all I’d ever gotten from him concerning my interest in poking around murders was complaints. So I didn’t know whether to throw his offer back in his face like an unwanted gift—or run with it.

  I chose option B.

  “Sure,” I replied casually. “I could do that.”

  “Good.” He shrugged his shoulders a couple of times, meanwhile straightening his tie. “This’ll help cut down on the amount of time I gotta spend here. Bein’ stranded on this island is startin’ to make me claustrophobic. Even if these people are richer than creases.”

  Uh, I believe that’s richer than Croesus, I was tempted to say. I also found it hard to resist explaining that, despite the similar pronunciations, the expression he was attempting to use referred to an ancient Greek whose wealth became legendary—not a dry cleaner who wasn’t very good with a steam iron.

  But I was too taken aback by Falcone’s invitation to worry about the man’s tendency to mangle the English language—as well as the Greek language. Not only was I astonished by what he’d just asked of me, I was positively tickled.

  Even though the main reason Betty and Winston had brought me here had been to look into who might have wanted Linus dead, my role as an ad hoc investigator in the case of Linus Merrywood’s murder was now official.

  • • •

  I stood at one of the narrow stained-glass windows that framed the front door, watching Falcone’s silhouette disappear into the fog, still marveling over what had just transpired. But the sound of someone clearing his throat behind me caused me to turn.

  I saw that Winston had wandered into the front hallway, probably not noticing me because of the dim light. He had stopped in front of one of the portraits hanging on the wall at the back of the house—one of a somber-faced woman who looked physically incapable of cracking a smile. From the expression on his face, his thoughts were a million miles away.

  “Are you all right, Winston?” I asked, going over to him and linking my arm in his.

  “I suppose I am, all things considered,” he replied, patting my arm and forcing a smile. “Having to address the entire household this morning, delivering such bad news, was a disquieting experience. I never expected that I’d be forced to tell anyone something so terrible. Especially with respect to a man who’s been such a close friend for so many years, not to mention a member of such a distinguished family.”

  His eyes returned to the woman in the picture. “The Merrywoods go way back,” he said. “They’ve been prominent in this area for nearly four hundred years.” With a sigh, he added, “How very sad that one of them met with such a tragic end.”

  “It is sad,” I agreed. “I’m sure everyone who knew Linus feels that way and is anxious for the truth about what happened to come out.”

  “Hopefully Lieutenant Falcone’s involvement will help make that happen,” he said.

  Lowering my voice, I said, “As a matter of fact, I just talked to him. He’s already questioned everyone who was here the night Linus died.” I hesitated before adding, “But I plan to do the same, since it’s the best way for me to figure out who might be the culprit.”

  Winston frowned. “Is it still necessary for you to worry about any of this, Jessica? When Betty and I asked you to accompany us here to see what you could find out about Linus’s death, we were motivated by nothing more than mere suspicion. But it no longer seems necessary for you to be involved now that the police have launched a full-scale investigation.”

  “Actually,” I said, glancing around to make sure no one was lurking nearby, “Lieutenant Falcone asked for my help.”

  “Really!” Winston exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up to the sky.

  From the way he reacted, I couldn’t tell if he was horrified by the idea—or simply surprised that Falcone had asked me. “Isn’t that rather … unusual?” he said.

  “I’m sure Falcone will put as much effort into this case as he would into any other,” I assured him. “But he felt that since I was staying here at the Merrywoods’ house, I might have access to some information, or even come up with some insights, that someone on the outside wouldn’t be privy to.

  “Besides,” I added, “he’s well aware that I have a bit of a track record when it comes to solving murders.”

  What I didn’t mention was how much my interest in Linus Merrywood’s murder had been piqued. Now that I’d gotten to know the members of his immediate circle, I was intrigued. I found them to be a fascinating group, not only because of their individual quirks but also because of the way they interacted with one another. In less than a day I’d become completely absorbed in the puzzle of which of them might have wanted the man dead.

  Then there was Linus himself. As the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, he was one of the wealthiest and most powerful industrialists in the nation. Yet from all accounts he had earned the respect, admiration, and even love of many of t
he people who had known him. That unlikely combination made the fact that he had been murdered all the more provocative.

  Besides, there was something about a murder occurring in a big, creepy old house that made investigating it irresistible.

  I suddenly remembered a thought that had popped into my head as I’d sat with the other members of the household, watching them react to Winston’s report.

  “Winston,” I said, lowering my voice even further, “has anyone mentioned Linus’s will?”

  He looked surprised by my question. “No. And to be perfectly honest, ever since Linus’s phone call I’ve been so dumbstruck by everything that’s happened that it hasn’t even occurred to me to think of anything that practical.”

  “Do you know anything about the provisions he made?” I asked.

  As I expected, he shook his head. “There was never any reason for him and me to discuss something like that. But I do know that the man’s personal fortune was somewhere in the millions. It’s very possible that his money played a role in all this.”

  With money generally being considered the root of all evil, that wouldn’t surprise me in the least. But given the diversity of murder suspects, along with Tag’s speculations, I had a feeling there were plenty of other possible motivations, as well.

  The challenge before me was finding out what they were.

  • • •

  Now that I’d been officially charged with conducting my own murder investigation, I knew exactly what I was going to do next—climb the hidden staircase I’d stumbled upon in my bedroom, which I suspected would lead me to the mysterious Aunt Alvira.

  It sounded like a good idea until I went into my bedroom, locked the door, and pulled Frankenstein off the shelf. As the shelf began to move, just as it had the night before, I suddenly got a bad case of the heebie-jeebies.

  Who knows what I’ll find up there? I thought nervously, staring at the door that had just emerged and picturing the shadowy staircase I now knew was on the other side. Chances were, there was a good reason why the Merrywoods kept Aunt Alvira locked away.

  That the woman was dangerous, for example.

  Now that I was contemplating paying her a visit, an image of the woman began forming in my mind. It was based on every horror movie I’d ever seen, every Grimm’s fairy tale I’d ever read, every haunted house I’d ever visited at an amusement park. That meant that, in my head, Aunt Alvira resembled one of the three witches in Macbeth, complete with a crazed expression, a cackling voice, and wild gray hair that could have benefited from some of Falcone’s hair product.

  You can do this, I told myself.

  And then: Look, you know you’re going to do it, no matter what, so why not just get it over with?

  I took a deep breath, flung open the door, and began to climb the stairs. Astonishingly, they didn’t creak. But I decided that was because the gigantic dust bunnies scattered over each one acted as soundproofing.

  My heart thudded loudly in my chest as I continued up the steps. Once again I wished I’d brought a flashlight along on this trip. It was so dark that I kept both palms pressed against the walls on either side to keep from tripping and falling.

  As I neared the closed door looming at the top, I imagined that on the other side I’d find a gloomy dungeon-type room with craggy gray stone walls and a couple of porthole-size windows. Maybe even some chains embedded in the wall.

  It occurred to me that the door was likely to be locked, since if you were going to lock someone in an attic, that was pretty much the way it worked.

  Then again, Aunt Alvira had to have a way of getting out. After all, I suspected she was the one who sneaked into my room in the middle of the night to leave the voodoo doll.

  Not knowing what to expect, I tentatively put my hand on the knob. It moved easily, enabling me to push open the door gently. And while I’d been expecting more dungeonlike darkness, I was instead nearly blinded by brilliant light.

  I blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the unexpected brightness. As I did, I became aware of the sound of a human voice talking softly.

  A familiar voice.

  A voice that sounded like … Oprah’s?

  Sure enough, what I heard was the talk-show host introducing a guest who wondrously had lost fifty-five pounds by making just a few important changes to her lifestyle.

  Not surprisingly, the voice was coming from a TV. A very large flat-screen TV that hung on the wall above a low wooden bookshelf I was nearly positive I’d seen in the latest Crate & Barrel catalog.

  I surveyed the room, noting that this jarring juxtaposition of new over old pervaded the entire room. The off-white couch and lounge chairs looked as spanking new as the television set. By contrast, the well-worn Oriental rug looked as if it had been someone’s souvenir from the Crusades, along with that sword hanging in the front hallway. The pictures on the walls were surrounded by ornate gilt frames that screamed nineteenth century. But the artwork inside them consisted of prints of cuddly kittens and bouquets of wildflowers.

  There were also a few whimsical touches, like the serious-looking bust of Beethoven that had been decorated with a French beret. Around his neck was draped a white silk scarf that made him look a lot more debonair than the great composer was reputed to be.

  Pushed against one wall was an electric organ, which accounted for at least some of the weird noises I’d heard coming from this place.

  But even more startling than the décor were the cats. From where I stood, I counted four. A gray-and-black-striped tabby lounged on a small rectangular Oriental rug in front of the organ, while a white long-haired beauty stretched across a windowsill, napping. A Maine coon with thick, fluffy orange fur and amazingly expressive green eyes blinked at me from a couch. And a black cat with glowing green eyes chose that particular moment to dash across the room, right in front of me.

  “Four cats!” I cried without thinking.

  “Five, actually,” a scratchy female voice corrected me. “But Muffin is kind of shy. He hides most of the time, even from me.”

  This voice belonged to someone other than Oprah.

  A second later, the speaker emerged from behind an upholstered chair so huge that it looked as if it had formerly belonged to Papa Bear.

  Yet the woman who was now standing in front of me was roughly the size of Baby Bear. The septuagenarian couldn’t have stood more than four feet ten, and she looked as if she weighed about as much as my Dalmatian, Lou. Coincidentally, the short puff of hair that encircled her head like a giant cotton ball was the same color as the fur of my Westie, Max: snow white.

  Not that her diminutive stature made her look the least bit frail. Of course, that was largely because she was clenching two hot-pink ten-pound dumbbells.

  Her weights weren’t the only thing bursting with color. She wore a tracksuit the color of raspberry sherbet, and neon-orange laces crisscrossed her white Nikes, which were almost as puffy as her hair.

  Just as the room at the top of the hidden staircase hadn’t turned out to be what I’d expected, neither did its occupant. Here I’d been picturing Aunt Alvira as a wild-eyed lunatic with a tangled mane of hair who was dressed in rags, flailing about the room as she ranted and raved. Instead, I was face-to-face with someone who looked like a cast member from the television show The Golden Girls.

  “You’re Aunt Alvira?” I asked in amazement.

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Who should I say is looking for her?”

  “But you must be Aunt Alvira!” I exclaimed. “Who else would be locked in the attic?”

  “I’m not locked in!” she replied indignantly. “I like it up here! Y’think I want to be downstairs with all those crazy relatives of mine?”

  I blinked. “But aren’t you lonely up here?”

  “Me? Nah.” Shrugging, she said, “I keep busy, believe me. I’ve always been a doer. Y’know, always doing something like playing cards or scrapbooking. And I used to volunteer at a senior center.” Earnestly, she adde
d, “I’m very good with old people.”

  “Then why are you up here all alone?”

  She sighed. “After Billy died—he was my husband—it just wasn’t the same, living in that condo in Boca. So I came back up here from Florida to live with my brother.”

  Grimacing, she added, “Seemed like a good idea at the time. That was before I realized those kids of his would be coming around all the time. A bunch of other people, too, like that floozy he called his assistant. Ha! I bet I can guess what she assisted him with. And that business partner of his, Harry Whatever. Hmph. I don’t trust that man as far as I can hit a Ping-Pong ball.

  “Besides,” Aunt Alvira continued, “I like it up here. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve got everything I need: a minifridge, a microwave, satellite TV, a DVD player, Netflix … I’ve even got TiVo!”

  “And it looks as if you get all the exercise you need,” I observed, gesturing toward her weights.

  “Sure do. Y’get to be my age, y’start worrying about osteoporosis.” To demonstrate, she lifted one of the dumbbells and gave it a few pumps. When one of them suddenly slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor with a loud bump, I understood the source of the banging sounds I’d been hearing.

  “I guess making dolls is another one of your hobbies,” I commented.

  She brightened. “Did y’like it? I wanted to surprise you. I expected you to wake up, but you were sleeping pretty soundly when I came into your bedroom to leave it for you.”

  I vowed then and there to keep away from that deadly sherry. Especially when I was staying in a house that was also occupied by a murderer.

  “I know I got the hair right,” Alvira added, “but I’m not so good with the other details. Especially since I get a lot of my information by sneaking around the house when it’s dark so nobody will catch me. I’ve gotten pretty good at hiding in the shadows!”

  So the walls in this place really did have eyes, I thought. But they weren’t in the wallpaper. They were in the nosy relatives who stole through the rooms like cat burglars.

  I pulled the doll out of my pocket. “I was actually a little … confused by the black-leather, uh, accessory.”