Crossing the Lion: A Reigning Cats & Dogs Mystery

by Cynthia Baxter

  Wait a minute, I suddenly thought. You don’t believe in ghosts! You’re just imagining things—all because of this creepy house with its hidden staircases and eerie portraits and all this thunder and lightning … As for that blast of cold air, it was probably a draft from an open window somewhere.

  By that point, the ghost, or whatever it was, had disappeared. And I was feeling like an idiot.

  I ordered myself back to bed, talking to myself as if I were a naughty child suffering from the aftereffects of too much sugar.

  Just because this house is creepy doesn’t mean you have to start believing every horror movie you’ve ever seen, I scolded myself. I got back into bed, marveling over how quickly the sheets on my side had gone from toasty warm to freezing cold.

  I was just beginning to warm up again when I heard a low moan.

  A moan that sounded exactly like the kind of noise a ghost would make.

  But there is no ghost! I reminded myself. Not here or anywhere else!

  “Oh-h-h!” I heard again.

  Okay, something was definitely going on. Either there was a ghost up here—or someone was trying to make me believe there was a ghost up here.

  Either way, I decided it was time to get to the bottom of this.

  Once again, I threw back the covers and was immediately assaulted by cold air. Cursing myself for not having thought to pack a bathrobe, I grabbed my Polarfleece jacket, the next best thing. Even though my feet felt like two giant ice cubes, I didn’t put on my shoes. Maybe ghosts aren’t sensitive to noise, but real live people are. And I was growing increasingly convinced that that was what I was dealing with.

  I opened the bedroom door again, moving cautiously since I still wasn’t certain what I’d find waiting for me on the other side. I was almost disappointed that this time there was absolutely nothing there—not even any Casper-like apparitions waving around.

  I crept down the hallway, trying to be as quiet as possible—not only so whoever or whatever was making that noise wouldn’t hear me, but also so I could get a better idea of where it was coming from.

  “Oh-h-h!”

  There it was again—and this time I was nearly certain the low moaning sound was coming from the other end of the hall.

  The same place where I’d seen the wavy white apparition.

  I was back to wondering what to believe. I moved across the cold wooden floor as stealthily as a member of a SWAT team, albeit one dressed in a pair of flannel pajamas, a coat, and bare feet. With no weapon, either, aside from my overactive imagination—which, I had to admit, in the past had generally done more harm to me than to anyone else.

  The low moaning had stopped, but I’d almost reached the end of the hall when I heard another sound. It was a soft rustling I couldn’t quite identify.

  And it seemed to be coming from behind a closed door. The one that led to the bedroom I was pretty sure Harry Foss was staying in.

  I went over to the door and stood outside it, hoping that whatever was on the other side couldn’t hear my heart pounding as if it were demanding to be let in.

  And then I heard something I was instantly able to identify: a giggle.

  “Harry, stop that!” a shrill female voice insisted, her tone indicating she didn’t really want him to stop at all.

  I knew that voice. And it didn’t belong to any ghost.

  It belonged to Missy, a woman who in less enlightened times would have been referred to as Mrs. Townsend Whitford III. The same woman who’d acted as if she put her husband on a pedestal so high, she practically needed a crane to kiss him good night.

  Yet if my ears didn’t deceive me, she was rustling around in the sheets with her father’s business partner, no doubt after removing that diaphanous white nightgown she’d been wearing only minutes before.

  As for the moaning I’d heard, that wasn’t the least bit mysterious. It turned out to have more to do with passion than poltergeists.

  • • •

  So Missy and Harry are having a secret fling, I thought as I stole back to my room. I slid into bed, so amazed at what I’d discovered that I felt as if I would burst.

  I’d barely had a chance to pull the covers up to my chin before I heard Nick mumble, “Jess?”

  “Go back to sleep,” I insisted.

  “I’m trying,” he replied sleepily, “but you seem to be running a relay race over there.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told him. “Please, ignore me.”

  He let out a loud sigh. “I’m awake. So tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Why you keep getting out of bed.”

  I took a deep breath. “Nick, you’re not going to believe this. I just found out that Missy and Harry are having an affair!”

  “Wow!” Nick cried, sitting up abruptly. From the looks of things, he was now as awake as I was. “Talk about juicy! Are you sure? How did you find out?”

  I glanced at him warily across the pillows. “Don’t ask. Let’s say it falls into the too-much-information category. But I’m wondering if you might have time to do me a favor.”

  “Now?”

  “Tomorrow is fine,” I assured him. “Whenever you’ve gotten far enough along in your studying that you feel you can take off your law-student hat and put on your sleuth hat.”

  He sighed. “Sure. The Fourth Amendment is pretty interesting, but even I can get tired of everything you ever wanted to know about search and seizure.”

  “In that case,” I said, “your mission is to find out whatever you can about what Missy and Harry’s secret liaison might mean—especially if there was anything about Linus’s death that might have made it more convenient for the two of them.”

  “One obvious possibility is that Linus wouldn’t have approved,” Nick mused.

  “And another is that they wanted his money—and his business,” I observed. Teasingly, I added, “Figuring all this out sounds like the perfect job for someone with a law degree.”

  “I don’t have one of those yet,” he reminded me.

  “No, but you have something even better.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “The old Burby charm,” I replied, grinning. “And that’s the deadliest and most foolproof weapon of them all.”

  “You think I’m charming, huh?” Nick murmured, snuggling up closer.

  I snuggled right back. “I’d say you fit into the charming category.”

  “I think you’re pretty charming, too.”

  We forgot all about Linus and the rest of the Merrywood household as we got busy showing each other just how charming we could be.

  Chapter 9

  “The whisper of a pretty girl can be heard further than the roar of a lion.”

  —Arabian Proverb

  The next morning, I woke up to find Nick curled around me like a giant bathrobe. Lou, meanwhile, was stretched out in front of me, while Max had somehow managed to find a comfortable spot between our feet.

  I was amazed by how much less creepy the Merrywoods’ mansion felt now that I had two dogs and—even better—a living, breathing teddy bear in my bed to cuddle with. In fact, the bedroom didn’t feel the least bit haunted anymore, despite the wallpaper with eyes, the hidden staircase, and the quirky, if not actually scary, aunt living upstairs.

  Yet once I fully reached consciousness, I realized that there was still a dark cloud hanging over the day. A few seconds later I remembered why: Today was Saturday. Linus’s memorial service was being held this morning, which meant it was going to be a difficult day for everyone.

  I climbed out of bed in slow motion, taking care not to wake Nick. I managed to get dressed quietly enough that he was still asleep when I slipped out the door, with Max and Lou trotting beside me. The three of us headed downstairs, where I let them out for a quick pit stop. I stood in the front doorway, noting that there was still a nasty chill in the air and that a thick, smothering fog still hugged the entire island.

  The dogs didn’t want to stay out there an
y longer than they had to. As soon as they raced back inside, I led them to the kitchen to supply them with food and water.

  They were still lapping away thirstily as I went into the dining room. The large room was set up the same way it had been yesterday, with an elaborate eggless breakfast buffet laid out on a side table.

  Even though the ridiculously long dining-room table was set for the entire Roman army, only two people were seated. Townie was at one end of the table, with Missy sitting catty-corner to his right. At the moment, they were both sipping their coffee politely, with Missy somehow managing to keep her hands to herself.

  “Good morning,” I greeted them with a big smile. Meanwhile, I studied them, trying to pick up on any tensions or subtexts that might be lurking behind those coffee cups of theirs.

  “Good morning, Jessie,” Missy replied. “You’re up nice and early.”

  Was I just imagining things, or was some of her usual chirpiness missing?

  “How did you sleep?” she added, her cup clanging against the saucer as she put it down.

  “Not that well, actually,” I replied.

  “That’s too bad,” she said. “What was the problem?”

  How about things that go bump in the night? I thought wryly.

  Aloud, I said, “I kept hearing strange noises.” I watched her even more closely, searching for some indication of whether she’d spotted me last night—in other words, a sign that she knew that I knew.

  But her expression remained blank as she nodded. “Whatever you heard was probably the result of this horrible storm,” she commented. With a sigh, she added, “Goodness, I’m beginning to think it’s never going to let up!”

  Townie reached across the table and took his wife’s hand. “You didn’t sleep well last night, either, did you, honey?”

  A startled look crossed Missy’s face.

  “I didn’t, as a matter of fact. I even got up for a while.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “I was tossing and turning so much I was afraid I was keeping you up, cupcake. So I went into one of the other rooms for a while and lay down.”

  Such a considerate wife, I thought dryly. She can’t sleep, so rather than disturb her husband, she finds another bed. One that happens to have another man in it.

  “You’re so considerate, sweetums,” Townie said.

  I nearly gagged as I watched him lean over and plant a kiss on Missy’s cheek. If only you knew what I knew, I thought.

  But what mattered even more was the fact that Missy didn’t seem to be aware that I’d spotted her sneaking off to Harry’s room late last night. Which meant she’d have less reason to be guarded with me.

  I decided to take advantage of her ignorance by finding out more about the allegedly happy couple.

  “The two of you seem so happy,” I said casually. “How long have you been married?” I bit into a blueberry muffin. Not only was it still warm, it was moist and flavorful and just sweet enough. I instantly concluded that Cook was at least as good with baked goods as she was reputed to be with fudge.

  “Gosh, it’s been almost eight years,” Missy replied. Giggling, she added, “But it feels as if we’re still newlyweds.” She suddenly grasped Townie’s arm, not seeming to notice that it kept him from smearing onto his croissant the orange marmalade he’d scooped up.

  “I’m a newlywed myself,” I told them. “Nick and I got married in June.”

  Missy’s eyes widened. “Gee, you two really are newlyweds!”

  Yes, I thought, and our wedding vows are still fresh enough in my mind that I remember them.

  But enough about me. “How did you two meet?” I asked.

  “Believe it or not, it was at a wedding, of all places.” For some reason, Missy seemed to feel that statement warranted more giggling.

  Townie jumped in, perhaps to give her a chance to catch her breath. “That’s right,” he drawled in his usual lockjaw style. “We were both in the wedding party. I was a friend of the groom, and Missy was a friend of the bride.”

  “Binky and I went to college together,” she explained. “So of course I said yes when she asked if I wanted to be a bridesmaid. And the dresses were ever so pretty! Pale yellow, with full skirts and low necklines and ribbons and ruffles everywhere.… We even had big straw hats with long satin ribbons the exact same color!”

  The image was chilling. As an antidote, I took another bite of Cook’s blueberry muffin.

  “And I was the best man,” Townie continued. “Gates and I worked together back in the day. Our first job, right out of Harvard.”

  Oh, yes, the Harvard thing again, I thought as I chewed. It’s amazing how Harvard grads are so good at working the name of their alma mater into the conversation. Maybe the school offers a special seminar in how to do exactly that.

  “That was at Waterston Peabody,” Townie added.

  I guess my expression reflected my cluelessness, because Missy quickly explained, “Waterston Peabody is one of the most highly respected venture-capital firms in the country.”

  “And venture-capital firms do what exactly?” By this point, I figured there was no reason to try to hide my ignorance about the workings of the business world.

  “They invest,” Missy said with a dismissive little shrug.

  “In new ventures,” Townie added, patting his wife’s hand. That is, the one that wasn’t still glommed on to his arm as if the two of them were walking across a rickety bridge. “Entrepreneurs who want to start a business go to a firm like Waterston Peabody and present their business plan. If they have what sounds like a great idea, the venture capitalists invest their stockholders’ money in the new venture they’ve proposed. In other words, they give them the money to turn their idea into reality. Then, if the new company is a success, the venture capitalists—and their stockholders—get a piece of the profits.”

  “It’s kind of like buying stock, except you do it in advance, before the company has been formed,” Missy added.

  “I see.” Maybe the workings of the business world weren’t that complicated after all. “Is that what you do now, Townie?”

  He hesitated a second or two, stroking that jaw of his that he kept in such tight control. “I’m actually involved in a few different things,” he finally replied.

  “Townie is ever so clever!” Missy chirped, her eyes shining. “He’s one of those people who are incredibly creative when it comes to finding ways to make money.”

  Then maybe he should have been the next in line to run Merrywood Industries, I thought.

  While that idea had popped into my mind all by itself, I realized that I might have just stumbled upon a possible motive for Townie. Perhaps Linus and Townie had indeed been talking about the possibility of him taking over the family empire. After all, he was a member of the family—and Harry, Linus’s most obvious successor, wasn’t. And if Townie really was as good at business as Missy claimed …

  As if on cue, Linus’s right-hand man came wandering into the dining room, appearing to be only half awake. Harry’s hair was slightly mussed and his eyes were rimmed in red. He also looked as if he’d gotten dressed by pulling on the same pants and shirt he’d tossed onto a chair last night.

  “Tough night?” I couldn’t help asking the other half of the deceptive duo as he headed straight for the coffeepot.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.” After grabbing a cup and filling it to the brim, he glanced up at me. “Why, does it show?”

  “We all had a difficult night,” Missy piped up. “We were just talking about that very subject. I think it’s a combination of this awful weather and the fact that Daddy’s funeral is today.”

  “That would explain it,” Harry agreed.

  I noticed that he didn’t look at Missy—or Townie, for that matter—as he sat down at the table, as far away from his lady friend as possible. Instead, he focused on his cup, seemingly intent on ingesting as much coffee as he could.

  While both Missy and Harry were highly skilled at acting as if nothing was going on,
I wasn’t nearly as good at it. So I was relieved when Nick came bursting through the doorway, as energetic as a talk-show host who was making his entrance.

  “Good morning, everybody,” he cheerfully greeted the four of us. “Looks like we’re in for more rain.”

  Thank goodness for weather, I thought as everyone mumbled their agreement. How would any of us get through life without being able to bring it up whenever there was nothing else to say?

  “It’s going to be pretty uncomfortable, crossing the bay this morning,” Townie observed. “The water will probably be rough enough to make all of us seasick. Fortunately, it’s a short trip.”

  “Actually,” Missy said, “it occurred to me that it might be a good idea for someone to stay behind while the rest of us are at the funeral. I expect most of those dreadful reporters and photographers on the other side of the bay to follow us to the funeral, but some might stay behind to try to sneak over to the island. I can imagine them snapping pictures and peering through our windows and heaven only knows what else. If that happened, we’d need someone to alert the police.”

  “Won’t Alvira be here?” Harry asked.

  “Aunt Alvira has already made it clear that she has no intention of accompanying the rest of us anywhere,” Missy replied curtly. “True to form, she pooh-poohed the very idea of a memorial service for her brother. She intends to stay up in the attic, the way she always does.”

  Focusing on Nick and me, she added, “I wondered if the two of you would be willing to remain here at the house while the rest of us go to the service and then on to the funeral home. Since neither of you knew my father and all.”

  “Of course,” I replied immediately.

  “Whatever you want,” Nick agreed.

  Inwardly, I was rejoicing. Being asked to stay behind with Nick was more than I could have asked for. And it had nothing to do with my charming husband—but plenty to do with having just been handed the opportunity to do some high-quality snooping.

  • • •

  The first thing on the day’s agenda was paying a second visit to Alvira. Ever since she’d promised to share a tidbit of information she referred to as a clue, I’d been counting the minutes until I had the chance to find out what it was. Since I’d soon have the house practically to myself, I decided to be patient.