Crossing the Lion: A Reigning Cats & Dogs Mystery

by Cynthia Baxter

  “What about you?” he asked in an accusing tone. “What brought you all the way up here?”

  Now it was my turn to do some quick thinking. My tale about getting lost en route to my bedroom wasn’t going to fly.

  “I was searching for a good place to have a picnic,” I explained, holding up the tray of food as proof.

  “By yourself?” he asked suspiciously. “That seems like an awful lot of food.”

  “I’m starving,” I said with a shrug. “It’s way past lunch. I lost track of the time, since I got involved in looking at a bump I found on Admiral’s neck. Brock and I started to talk, and—”

  “Ah, yes, Brock,” Tag said coldly. “I’ve been thinking about him myself. In fact, now that we all know that somebody did our poor father in, I’ve been thinking about little besides Brock.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew exactly what he meant.

  His unnervingly blue eyes glittering coldly, Tag said, “I’m convinced my brother is the one who did the old man in.”

  I just stared at him, too astonished to speak. “Why would he do such a thing?” I finally demanded.

  “The oldest reason in the book,” he replied with an icy smile. “Money. That is, the money he’s bound to inherit now that the old man is gone.”

  I guess my expression showed my surprise, since he added, “I know it looks as if I’m the spendthrift of the family. And it’s true that I like fine things. The Ferrari, the yacht, the houses in Cap d’Antibes and St. Bart’s …” With a boyish grin, Tag added, “Nothing wrong with living the good life, is there?”

  “Not if you can pay for it,” I muttered, wondering how he managed to do so—especially since he’d just told me his high-priced car was only the beginning. While all along I’d simply assumed that all three of Linus’s children benefited from trust funds or some other form of family money, I now knew otherwise, thanks to my conversation with Brock.

  “And Brock isn’t good with money?” I asked.

  Tag laughed. “My brother may pretend he’s a non-materialistic hippie, but don’t believe it for a second.”

  “Really? He certainly had me convinced.”

  “He doesn’t crave things like cars and nice clothes,” Tag said. “But he wants the means to support his current obsession. Sometimes it’s a cause, like saving the planet. And other times it’s something that sounds as if it could turn into an actual career. But he never follows through.”

  “Missy did make a comment about that over dinner last night,” I noted. “She mentioned that he’d expressed interest in architecture and computer graphics and some other fields at different times.”

  “Exactly,” Tag said. “He’s gone through one phase after another. He’ll find some path he’s convinced is right for him, and it’s all he talks about. A few weeks later he’s moved on to something else. Of course, he never actually does anything about pursuing his passion-of-the-month, like applying to programs in whatever he’s so focused on. He’s simply unable to stick with anything.”

  “And it sounds as if his current passion is making beaded jewelry,” I observed. “But it doesn’t seem as if you think this new business of his is going to fly.”

  “Ha!” Tag said with a snort. “I find it hard to believe Brock would ever be capable of running a business, even on a small scale. Not when he’s always been such a disaster when it comes to money.”

  Winston’s words about Linus Merrywood’s disappointment in his children’s potential for running the business that had prospered under his leadership echoed in my head.

  “And not only does Brock lack any business sense,” Tag went on. “He also lacks common sense. He’s spent his entire life trying to find some get-rich scheme that will set him up for life. Since he never had any money of his own, he was always trying to get our father to lend him money to invest.”

  “Did he?”

  Tag scoffed. “The old man was much too smart for that. So he’d turn him down, and then Brock would throw a temper tantrum. Eventually he’d find out what a bad investment it would have been anyway.” Shaking his head in disgust, he said, “You wouldn’t believe some of the crazy stuff Brock wanted to waste money on.”

  “Try me.”

  “One of my favorites was a biodegradable lunch bag some guy up in Vermont had invented,” Tag said. “The idea was to keep schoolkids from generating garbage. The problem was that its revolutionary ‘green’ material biodegraded too fast—in just a few hours. The poor kids who were testing it ended up with apples and peanut butter sandwiches flying around their backpacks about ten minutes after they got to school.”

  He laughed coldly. “Then there were the dot-com guys who claimed they were going to create the next Google.”

  “They weren’t up to it?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. After all, if a search engine that was better than Google was out there, I had a feeling I would have heard about it. Switched to it, in fact.

  “No one ever found out,” Tag said, “since they skipped the country with everyone’s money before you could hit enter.”

  “Okay, so your brother doesn’t exactly have a nose for running a business or making worthwhile investments,” I said. “That doesn’t mean he’s capable of murdering someone. Especially his own father!”

  Tag’s eyes narrowed. “There’s more to it. You don’t know Brock, so you have no way of knowing how competitive he is.”

  “Do you mean he felt competitive toward your father?” I asked.

  “No. Toward me.” Tag stood up a little straighter, as if being the object of his younger brother’s competitiveness was something to be proud of. And that was apparently the exact message he was trying to communicate, since he added, “I must admit, I’m a pretty hard act to follow. Living with the pressure of being the younger brother of Taggart Merrywood wouldn’t be easy for anyone.”

  Maybe that’s your take on the family dynamic, I thought, but according to Winston, all three of Linus’s children disappointed him—including you.

  “Brock’s spent his whole life trying to show me up,” Tag continued. “And my father had no qualms about letting him know what a disappointment he was.”

  I took a deep breath before asking the $64,000 question. “What about you?” I asked. “What do you do, Tag?”

  He froze. It took several seconds for the stricken expression on his face to soften into one that was more natural. “I … dabble,” he finally said. “Investments, real estate … I’m involved in all kinds of things.”

  O-kay, I thought.

  But before I had a chance to ask him to expand upon what “all kinds of things” might include, Tag made a big show of checking his watch. “Hey, we’re getting close to cocktail hour,” he observed. “That means it’s time for me to get out of this creepy tower.”

  At the moment, however, what interested me most about the man was not the lifestyle he apparently felt so entitled to—or even that he had tried to convince me that his baby brother had murdered their father.

  What I was more curious about was the fact that the arrival of a stranger on Solitude Island had immediately sent Tag into hiding.

  Who could he have been hiding from, I wondered, this cocky young man who didn’t seem to be afraid of anything or anyone? While he appeared committed to living a carefree lifestyle that included every manifestation of the good life on the entire planet, he clearly had something more troublesome going on.

  In fact, the more time I spent at the Merrywoods’ estate, the more convinced I became that pretty much everyone on Solitude Island had something to hide.

  • • •

  I was heading back to my room—so poor Nick could finally get something to eat—when I was waylaid again. Only this time it wasn’t by one of the Merrywoods or their entourage.

  I bumped into Betty and Winston—literally. They were strolling out of one of the sitting rooms on the main floor, and I careened around a corner, my picnic lunch sliding ar
ound on the tray. As I gently collided with Betty, I heard a yelp, which I instantly realized came from Frederick. She was carrying the cute little ball of fur in her arms—although given the wirehaired dachshund’s shape, he looked more like a baseball bat than a ball.

  “Jessica!” she cried, looking pleased to see me even though I’d nearly knocked her and her dog over.

  “Betty and I were just talking about you,” added Winston, who had deftly stepped aside in time to avoid the collision.

  She nodded. “Rumor has it that somebody else has joined us here on the island,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling. “In fact, I heard three somebodies have arrived!”

  “That’s right. Nick decided to come for the weekend,” I explained. “And Max and Lou insisted on tagging along.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Winston said warmly. “We’re so pleased they were able to join you.”

  “Especially Nick,” Betty agreed. “Newlyweds shouldn’t be apart. In fact, I thought of suggesting it myself but assumed he was too busy with law school.”

  “Busy is definitely the word,” I agreed. Gesturing toward the staircase with my tray, I noted, “He’s up in our room right now, working his butt off. The poor guy didn’t get any lunch, so I thought we could have a picnic.”

  “What a lovely idea.” Betty leaned forward and in a much softer voice said, “But before you run off, I’d love to get an idea of how things are going with … you know. Winston told me that even though that horrid Falcone person is on the case, he asked for your help.”

  “That’s right,” I said, still scarcely able to believe it myself.

  Stroking Frederick’s head, Betty glanced around to make sure no one else was listening. “Any theories yet?”

  “Not yet,” I told her. “But one thing I’m sure of is that this place is absolutely crawling with suspects!”

  I immediately regretted sharing such a harsh characterization of the Merrywood household with her—even though it was honestly what I thought. But Betty grimaced in a way that told me she knew exactly what I was talking about.

  “I know what you mean,” she replied in that same soft, conspiratorial tone. “From what I’ve seen so far, anyone in this house could have killed poor Linus. The servants, his business partner, his assistant—and, as much as I hate to say it, even his children.”

  “At least he had Charlotte,” Winston commented. “The two of them were inseparable.”

  Betty sighed. “It’s true. In fact, I don’t know how she’s going to go on without him.”

  I didn’t say anything. That was mainly because I couldn’t bring myself to tell Betty and Winston that, while I found it difficult to believe that Charlotte could be guilty, I couldn’t completely eliminate her from suspicion. But that was only because I still had so much to learn about everyone on Solitude Island—including the mistress of the house.

  Speaking of which, I remembered that there was another woman in said house about whom I was curious.

  “By the way, do either of you know Linus’s sister, Alvira?” I asked.

  The puzzled look on Betty’s face gave me her answer. As for Winston, he looked chagrined.

  “I’ve never met her, but Linus did talk to me about her,” he said. “Actually, he was quite concerned about her. It seems Alvira is a bit … off center.”

  “That sounds like a good way to describe her,” I agreed.

  For some reason, Frederick had suddenly focused on me. He was looking into my eyes and wagging his tail, as if he’d decided I wasn’t paying enough attention to him. Naturally, I reached over and petted him, running my fingers along his wonderfully silky ears.

  “Are you saying that you know Linus’s sister?” Betty asked, looking more confused than ever.

  “We’ve met,” I replied. “She lives right here in the house.” Not wanting to make Alvira sound any more eccentric, I diplomatically added, “In a fairly private room that’s located on the top floor. In fact, she’s the one we heard making those strange noises during dinner.”

  “I do remember Linus saying something about her preference for living in isolation,” Winston said thoughtfully. “She apparently chooses to have as little contact with the rest of the family as possible. When Alvira lost her husband a few years ago, Linus invited her to come live with him. She agreed, but somehow she never managed to fit in with the rest of the family.”

  “That’s been my impression, too,” I said. “But what I’m wondering about is how credible she is.”

  The muscles in Winston’s face tightened. “To be honest, from what Linus told me about her, I got the impression that she’s not particularly … stable.”

  Off center. Not particularly stable. In other words, I thought as I stroked the velvety fur on Frederick’s head, Winston’s conclusion about Alvira’s state of mind, based on her brother’s comments, was that she really was a nutty relative who kept herself hidden away in the attic.

  And here I’d been hoping that whatever clue she was planning to feed me—as soon as I supplied her with fudge—would help me wrap my head around the question of who had killed Linus. Now I was beginning to wonder if, to use a phrase inspired by Frederick, I was barking up the wrong tree.

  Chapter 8

  “It is all right for the lion and the lamb to lie down together if they are both asleep, but if one of them begins to get active, it is dangerous.”

  —Crystal Eastman

  Nick and I lingered over our picnic, which by this point was more of an afternoon snack than something that could qualify as lunch. Eagerly, we wolfed down the leftovers I’d scored in the kitchen, camping out on our soft bed. Not only was picnicking in our bedroom considerably more comfortable than sitting on the ground, we didn’t have to worry about ants.

  The rain was still tapping against the windowpanes, but we’d made the room feel extra cozy by lighting a fire in the fireplace and putting candles on the mantelpiece, the night tables, and the dresser. Max and Lou sat on the floor, watching us with eagle eyes and no doubt hoping that gravity would send a few crumbs their way.

  After we’d stuffed ourselves, Nick admitted that he still wasn’t ready to go back to work. Instead, we wandered downstairs to see if we could learn anything new.

  We were strolling down the front hallway, nearing the small parlor in the back, when we both heard several different voices trying to talk over one another. That told me the members of the Merrywood clan had gathered once again to enjoy one another’s company. Either that or Charlotte had insisted that her children come out of their rooms to spend some time together.

  “Nonsense!” I heard Missy exclaim. “I think it’s the perfect way to keep ourselves entertained on a dismal afternoon like this one. Townie, sweetie, don’t you agree?”

  I cast Nick a nervous look. What now? I wondered. Charades? Scrabble? Truth or dare?

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the electricity will go out again,” Tag muttered as Nick and I walked through the doorway.

  That takes charades and the other games out of the running, I thought, since they can all be played by candlelight.

  “What are all of you up to?” I asked, glancing around the room.

  Sure enough, the entire household was there. Harry Foss sat apart from everyone in a big overstuffed chair that had been pushed into the corner, nursing a snifter of what looked like brandy. Scarlett sat next to Missy on the couch. Even Betty and Winston were cuddling on a loveseat. The only ones missing were the three servants, who I suspected wanted to spend the few hours they had off doing anything but interacting with the Merrywoods.

  “Missy just came up with an interesting idea,” Charlotte told Nick and me. “She suggested pulling our family’s home movies out of storage and watching them together.”

  “First step, first day of kindergarten,” Brock said, sounding wistful.

  “First fistfight, first time thrown out of boarding school,” Tag added with his usual smirk.

  Missy made a point of ignoring her brothers. �
�We even have some really old ones,” she gushed. “They were originally eight-millimeter home movies, but we had them transferred to a DVD ages ago. They’re mostly of Mummy and Daddy, and they go all the way back to when they were first married.”

  I looked back at Charlotte with alarm, wondering if she, too, agreed that taking a trip down Memory Lane at this particular time was such a fun idea.

  Apparently she did, since she was smiling and a faraway look had come into her eyes. “Oh, yes!” she cried. “I’d love to see those. Brock, would you set everything up? You’re so good at that type of thing.”

  “Right,” Tag mumbled. “Turning on a DVD player with a remote is the next best thing to rocket science.”

  Getting geared up for showtime took Brock, Tag, and Townie almost ten minutes, two pieces of electronic equipment, and three remotes. So much for the convenience of modern technology.

  “Okay, we’re ready,” Townie finally announced. “We’ll start at the beginning.”

  “They’re actually not chronological,” Missy said with a frown. “Whoever put all our old videotapes and the eight-millimeter rolls onto a DVD didn’t follow our instructions about the order.”

  “They’ll be fun to look at, anyway,” Scarlett insisted, pushing her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “I’ve never seen these.”

  “I have,” Tag grumbled. “Believe me, they’re not about to replace Citizen Kane.”

  “Shhhh,” Missy scolded. “They’re starting!”

  Everyone in the room focused on the television screen as an image of three young children bearing lunch boxes and big smiles appeared.

  “My first day at West Knolls!” Brock cried. “I was five!”

  “I was starting third grade,” Missy said with a smile. “I remember that dress. I loved it. We got it at Saks. Remember, Mother?”

  “I remember,” Charlotte said, her voice a near whisper.

  I looked over and saw that she was wearing the same dreamy smile as before.