Crossing the Lion: A Reigning Cats & Dogs Mystery

by Cynthia Baxter

  After breakfast, Nick headed back up to our room to immerse himself in the principles of law. Max and Lou trotted after him happily. I, meanwhile, went into the sitting room that was closest to the front door to wait for everyone to leave. Since I figured I should at least try to look as if I had a reason for being there, I grabbed one of the thick volumes off the shelf. Fortunately, the gesture didn’t set any shelving units or other pieces of furniture into motion.

  I plopped into an overstuffed chair and opened the heavy book in my lap. But I was much more interested in the sounds of the Merrywoods and the rest of their household getting ready to travel across the bay together for the funeral.

  When someone walked into the room, I automatically looked over to see who it was—then immediately did a double take.

  At first glance I’d thought it was Scarlett, but I had to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.

  I was, but this was a whole new Scarlett. The other one could best be described as prim. This one, on the other hand, could best be described as va-va-voom.

  Instead of wearing her hair pulled back in a severe bun, today she had a lush mane cascading over her shoulders. Before it had looked like a respectable dark brown. Now, however, I could see that it was a deep shade of espresso, interlaced with strands of gold that might or might not have been natural.

  Her conservative business suit had been replaced by a tight-fitting dress with a short jacket made of the same fine wool. It was black, of course, since she was on her way to a funeral. But the dress skimmed her frame in an extremely flattering manner, hugging curves that had been impossible to discern beneath a straight skirt and tailored blazer. The neckline was low, perhaps even too low for an occasion like this one, since it revealed an abundant amount of cleavage that once again was new to me.

  No sensible shoes today, either. Scarlett wore black heels that were so spiky, any self-respecting dominatrix would have been proud to own them.

  And while I’d never seen her wearing any makeup before, that, too, had changed. The shade of lipstick she wore was a deep brownish-red that complemented her skin tones. She’d apparently substituted contact lenses for glasses, and I noticed for the first time that her eyes were dark brown. The same tone was mirrored in her eye shadow, mascara, and eyeliner, all expertly applied.

  To use an old-fashioned phrase, she looked like a scarlet woman.

  “Hello, Jessie,” she said casually. “I didn’t realize anyone was in here.”

  “I was looking for a good spot to read,” I said, holding up the book I’d grabbed off the shelf. “Missy asked me to stay behind while everybody else goes to the funeral. I figured I’d stay here on the main floor so I could keep an eye on the place, but it’s hard to find a decent reading light anywhere in this house.”

  “I know what you mean,” she agreed, rolling her eyes. “I constantly nagged Linus about it, telling him over and over again how bad it was for his eyes. But he always had his own way of doing things.”

  A heavy silence followed, no doubt the result of both of us contemplating the fact that Linus’s days of doing things his own way were over.

  “What are you reading?” Scarlett finally asked, craning her neck.

  Good question, I thought.

  I held up the book, allegedly to show her the cover but really to let me see it.

  “Uh, Understanding the Basic Principles of Accounting,” I said, as surprised as she probably was. Thinking fast and speaking even faster, I added, “Part of being a veterinarian means running my own business. I have a terrific assistant, but I need to learn more about the day-to-day stuff myself.”

  “I see,” she replied, not sounding entirely convinced.

  Wanting to move away from that topic in case she decided to ask me something technical, I observed, “You certainly look … as if you’re ready to go.” I’d caught myself at the last second, realizing that complimenting her appearance, even as a matter of politeness, wouldn’t have been appropriate.

  “We’re all planning to go over together,” she said. “The service starts at noon, and since it’s still pouring, it might take us awhile to get there. I hope everyone else is running on schedule.”

  She flicked her sleeve and glanced at her watch. It looked as if it was made of pure gold. But something else also made it glint: Both the band and the oval-shaped face were studded with diamonds. Not those pitiful specks that I could afford, either. These were king-sized diamonds that had undoubtedly come with a king-sized price tag.

  It wasn’t exactly the kind of accessory I’d expect someone to be able to afford on a personal assistant’s salary, even if the person she personally assisted was known for his generosity.

  This bit of bling hinted at a totally different level of generosity.

  And then Scarlett brushed back a strand of hair that had swooped down into her eyes. As she pushed it behind one ear, she revealed more shininess. This time, it was in the form of a diamond stud the size of a dime.

  Cook’s assertion that one of the other females in the household had been more than a loyal employee was starting to ring true. In fact, suddenly all the jokes about Miss Scarlet and the lead pipe in the conservatory didn’t seem quite so amusing.

  Just because Scarlett turns out to be stunningly sexy doesn’t mean she was up to no good, I reminded myself. You can’t assume that every woman who’s drop-dead gorgeous uses her looks for devious purposes.

  Still, I couldn’t help thinking that Scarlett’s attractiveness probably wouldn’t go unnoticed by any man, even one like Linus, who had practically been elevated to sainthood by almost everyone who knew him.

  As for her expensive baubles, it was possible that she came from money—or that she had an indulgent boyfriend who was closer to her own age, not to mention unmarried. Or maybe she was simply good at handling her own finances, which enabled her to splurge on a piece of jewelry every now and then. I decided to hold off on judging her.

  “The funeral will probably be pretty tough,” I commented, “but hopefully it will help give everyone a sense of closure.”

  Scarlett nodded. “Even so, I think it’s going to take all of us quite some time to get over this.”

  “I’m sure,” I agreed. “I know you’re all going to miss Linus. I’ve really been struck by how well loved he was.” Studying her carefully, I added, “It’s hard to believe that anyone could have possibly intended to kill him.”

  Scarlett lowered herself onto the couch opposite me, sitting down gingerly as if she was taking care not to muss up her outfit.

  Extending one long leg, made even longer by her S&M-style footwear, she said, “I’d be inclined to believe it was an accident if it wasn’t for the fact that everyone—and I mean absolutely everyone—knew how dangerous it was for poor Mr. Merrywood to go anywhere near an egg.”

  I nodded. “Lieutenant Falcone talked to Cook, and the conclusion seems to be that someone stole into the kitchen and substituted a chocolate cake made with eggs for the one she’d made without any.” Still watching her carefully, I added, “The question is, who?”

  “I know one thing that might help the police figure that out,” she said with a strange smile.

  “What?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  “Linus’s will.”

  Exactly what I was itching to learn about.

  “Do you know anything about who’s inheriting what?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “After all, you were his personal assistant.”

  Scarlett eyed me warily. As our gazes locked, I got the feeling she was debating whether or not to tell me what she knew.

  Or maybe she was telling the truth when she replied, “I honestly don’t know a thing about it. It’s true I was involved in much of what went on in Linus’s life, but that didn’t include whatever plans he made for after his death.”

  Her response got me wondering again about Scarlett’s true role in her employer’s life. Had she been more than just his assistant? And if she was, did she truly car
e for him or was she simply seeking a way to walk away with a piece of the Merrywood pie?

  But before I had a chance to ask her any more questions, Charlotte bustled into the room. As usual, she looked as if she deserved to be on the cover of a magazine, even if it happened to be the one the AARP put out. Like Scarlett, she was dressed in black. But her dress exuded dignity and good taste, with clean lines and a modest length and neckline. Her jewelry was similarly understated, even though it still managed to scream wealth: a string of pearls, a diamond-studded bangle bracelet on one wrist, a simple gold Cartier watch on the other.

  “There you are, Scarlett,” she said, smiling at her husband’s former assistant. “You look very nice.”

  “Thank you,” Scarlett replied, smiling back. “I decided to dress up in Mr. Merrywood’s honor. I wore this dress to his birthday party. He seemed to like it.”

  “He was very fond of you, my dear,” Charlotte said.

  My eyebrows shot up. Was Charlotte, the trusting wife, really so naïve?

  Or was I the one who was reading into things?

  “I think everyone is ready,” Charlotte said. She went over to Scarlett and put her arm around her, almost as if they were mother and daughter. “I’m glad we’re all going over together. It will make this easier for everyone.”

  Turning to me, she added, “Thank you, Jessica, for agreeing to watch the house while we’re gone. I just don’t feel comfortable leaving it unattended with all those horrid reporters and photographers lurking across the bay.”

  “I’m glad there’s something I can do to help,” I replied.

  But as I watched the two women amble toward the front door, where the others were gathering, it occurred to me that I’d try to do even more to help while they were gone. If things turned out the way I hoped, by the time they returned I’d be that much closer to figuring out who had killed Linus.

  • • •

  I stayed in my seat until the front door slammed shut. But the banging sound was still echoing through the hollow hallways of the house as I jumped out of my chair and ran up to my bedroom, taking the steps two at a time.

  I found Nick stretched out on the bed. Surrounding him were Max and Lou, a laptop, a pad of yellow legal-size paper, a bunch of highlighter pens, and several textbooks so hefty they made Alvira’s dumbbells look like toys.

  “Detective Popper,” he greeted me, flinging his legal pad across the bed. “What insightful little tidbits have you uncovered this morning?”

  I filled him in on the details he’d missed at breakfast with Missy, Townie, and Harry, marveling over how good the illicit lovers were at pretending they were nothing more than friends. Then I told him about my latest theory, that Scarlett might have been more than simply Linus’s assistant—and that not all her compensation for her duties may have come from a paycheck.

  “The plot is definitely thickening,” he observed once I’d finished. “It’ll be interesting to find out what’s in the old man’s will.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” I said. “Maybe that information will help me figure out once and for all what all the intrigues in this household add up to.”

  Suddenly I had an idea. “Hey, you’re in the process of becoming a lawyer. Do you have any secret ways of finding out what’s in Linus’s will?”

  “Afraid not,” he replied. “All you can do is wait, just like everyone else in the family. But for now, my beauty,” he leered, doing a really bad Dracula imitation, “at last vee are alone.” Patting the bed next to him, he added, “Come into my lair and I vill trans-por-r-rt you to another world.”

  I grinned to show him that even though he wasn’t quite ready for Saturday Night Live, I still appreciated his efforts. “But we both have so much to do in this world.”

  He sighed. “Rejected! I’m telling you, I’m beginning to wonder if I ever should have agreed to walk down that aisle.”

  Playfully, I punched him in the arm. “Wait a minute! You were the one who wanted to get married so badly!”

  “I know,” he said, turning serious. “And I must say, I haven’t regretted it for a minute. Now, go chase that killer—and I’ll do everything I can to learn about that pesky Fourth Amendment.”

  “I will,” I told him. “I’m even going equipped with bait.” To demonstrate, I reached into a dresser drawer and pulled out the pan of fudge Margaret had sent me upstairs with after our chat. “Actually, it’s more like a bribe.”

  “Whatever works,” he said.

  Pulling Frankenstein off the shelf, I added, “Now, watch this.”

  I turned so I could see Nick’s face as the entire unit moved to one side, revealing the hidden door.

  His reaction didn’t disappoint me. “Wow!” he cried. “A secret passageway?”

  “Remember that hidden staircase I mentioned?” I threw open the door, then swept my hand through the air like a model showing off a prize on a game show.

  “That is totally awesome!” Nick exclaimed. “We have to get one of those!”

  “Sure,” I agreed amiably. “As soon as we have a crazy aunt of our own to lock in the attic.”

  With that, I bounded up the stairs, carefully holding on to the fudge.

  “Knock, knock,” I called when I reached the top, opening the door and peering inside. “Anybody home?”

  The cats certainly were. All five of them this time, sprawled across the furniture like some exotic collection of throw pillows. The Maine coon seemed to have snatched the best spot, a soft cushion on top of the already soft couch. The black cat was close by, choosing to curl up just a few inches away. The one with the luxurious coat of long white fur lay on top of the couch with his tail hanging down over the cushions, while the gray-and-black tabby, Madeira, Alvira’s favorite, had staked out one of the arms. Even Muffin was among this coterie of cats, although she lay on the floor, keeping herself slightly apart from the others.

  A second later, Alvira emerged from the room behind the living area. She broke into a smile as soon as she saw me. “You came back!”

  “I promised I would,” I said. “And I brought what you asked for.”

  Alvira’s face lit up like the nighttime sky on the Fourth of July. “Fudge!” she cried, eagerly reaching toward the foil-covered pan in my hand.

  “Not so fast,” I insisted, pulling it away. “First, you have something I want.”

  She looked puzzled, but only for a few seconds. “Oh. Information, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  I sat down on the couch, placing the coveted fudge in my lap so that it was in clear view.

  “I’m anxious to hear about that clue you mentioned yesterday.” With a little shrug, I said, “No clue, no fudge.”

  “They weren’t supposed to be related,” Alvira said crossly. “I asked you to get me some of that fudge as a favor. I’m planning to tell you my theory no matter what.”

  Ah, I thought. So Alvira’s closely guarded piece of information had been demoted from an actual clue to a mere theory.

  I decided to remain a tough negotiator. For all I knew, her craving for fudge would quickly be replaced by a yearning for some other treat—and her determination to have me visit her regularly would cause her to delay telling what she knew even further. “In that case, let’s hear it.”

  Alvira plopped down next to me. “If you ask me,” she said with a quick nod, “the answer to the question of who killed Linus and why is in Linus’s notebooks.”

  “What notebooks?” I asked. Yet I remained wary. While Alvira had impressed me as someone who knew plenty, I hadn’t forgotten Winston’s claim that her own brother had characterized her as less than reliable. I realized that I’d be wise to take whatever she said with a grain of salt.

  “Linus was a fanatic about his notebooks,” she said, so caught up in what she was saying that she seemed to have forgotten all about her chocolate payoff. “Journals, I suppose you’d call ’em. Or diaries. They weren’t something he told most people about, since when he first go
t started, he thought keeping a diary was kind of a girl thing. But even as an adult he wrote in them religiously.”

  I had to admit that what she was saying sounded pretty plausible. “Did he write personal information?” I asked. “Or just notes about the day-to-day workings of his business?”

  “Y’got me there,” Alvira admitted. “All I know is that ever since he was a kid, Linus recorded everything. I suppose his scribblings started out like any other kid’s diary. He’d write about where he went that day, who he went with, what exams he had coming up, what girl he had a crush on—”

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” I interrupted, “how do you know so much about what your brother wrote in his diary when you were both children?”

  She shrugged. “How d’you think? Like any self-respecting little sister, I figured out where he hid it—under the mattress—and peeked at it every chance I got!”

  I didn’t doubt that part for an instant. “But keeping a diary as a child is one thing,” I pointed out. “How do you know it was a practice he continued into adulthood?”

  “Because I used to tease him about it,” Alvira explained. “I’d say, ‘Still keeping those diaries, Linus? Do you really think one day somebody’s going to want to sit down and read your years’ and years’ worth of jottings?’ And he’d always say the same thing: ‘They’re not for other people, Alvira. They’re for me. It’s what I do to keep my head straight. You could say it’s my form of therapy.’”

  “I see,” I said. Still wary, I added, “But it sounds as if you never actually saw them. Once the two of you grew up, I mean.”

  “Nope. That’s why I don’t know if he was writing about his personal life or his business dealings. But either way,” she added, her eyes narrowing, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he wrote something in ’em that would help the police figure out who killed him. Maybe he was blackmailing somebody—or somebody was blackmailing him. Maybe he had a secret life none of us knew about. Maybe he was even doing something shady with the business. I’d find it hard to believe, given what I know about my brother. But when you come right down to it, who knows what other people are capable of—even people they’re close to?”