Crossing the Lion: A Reigning Cats & Dogs Mystery

by Cynthia Baxter

  Alvira sighed. “I’m afraid I’m starting to sound like a broken record—if somebody like you who grew up with CDs even knows what that means. His employees loved him. He ran Merrywood Industries like one of those old-fashioned paternalistic companies. You know, the kind that gives every employee a turkey at Thanksgiving? Only he gave his employees something even better: stock. Even the people at the very bottom owned a piece of the company, however small.

  “He didn’t have to do it that way, of course,” she added. “But my brother was always idealistic. In some ways, he was the least likely of all the family members who were in the running to take over the business. But he rose to the top, like the cream. He managed to run a successful company and do it without compromising his convictions.”

  “I believe everything you’re telling me,” I told her, “but somewhere along the line, Linus made an enemy. Do you have any idea at all who that might have been?”

  “Nope.” With a little shrug, Alvira said, “That’s why I was hoping you’d be able to get hold of his diaries. I thought if something was going on that Linus never told any of us about, at least he would have written about it. Still no luck, huh?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Keep searching,” Alvira said. “I’m convinced that if you’re going to find the answer, it’ll be in those notebooks.”

  As with everything else, I couldn’t help but believe that Linus’s sister knew what she was talking about. But that only made my inability to find the most recent journals—the ones that were likely to provide me with some insights into who might have wanted to kill Linus—all the more frustrating.

  Which made me all the more determined to keep on looking.

  Chapter 15

  “Only in art will the lion lie down with the lamb, and the rose grow without thorn.”

  —Martin Amis

  Even though Saturday night is supposed to be party time, all the members of the household were unusually somber for the rest of the evening. Funny how finding a note written in fake blood can take the fun out of family time.

  Charlotte, Betty, and Winston gathered in the sitting room near the front door for coffee and brandy, while Townie and the three Merrywood siblings retreated to the small parlor in back to play Scrabble. Nick and I, meanwhile, decided to make ourselves at home in the front parlor.

  I relished the feeling of the two of us having this corner of the house to ourselves as we curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace, with Max and Corky lying next to me and Lou and Admiral on the floor in front of us. I wished Frederick were there, too, but he’d chosen to stay with Betty and Winston.

  “This is cozy, isn’t it?” Nick commented. “Or at least it would be if there wasn’t a murderer in the house.”

  “I’m still convinced that everybody who’s here is a suspect,” I said. “Aside from us, of course, plus Betty and Winston.”

  Nick nodded. “I hate to say it, but from what you’ve told me, it sounds as if any one of Linus’s kids could be guilty.”

  Thoughtfully, I said, “Of the three of them, Tag strikes me as the most desperate. After all, he’s the one who’s got the loan sharks after him. There’s no doubt in my mind that those guys can be pretty scary. Tag thought so, too, so much that he hid in a dusty old tower. That gives him a strong motivation for doing whatever he thought was necessary to get his hands on some cash—fast.”

  “True,” Nick agreed. “But his baby brother was desperate for money, too, because he wanted the chance to live out his dream—not to mention to finally show everyone in his family that he wasn’t the screwup they all thought he was.”

  Nick frowned. “One person I keep coming back to is Harry Foss,” he said. “He certainly had a strong motive, since now that Linus is gone, he’s going to step up to the number one spot at Merrywood Industries.”

  “And he can bring his lady love, Missy, along with him,” I added. “A woman who just happens to be Linus’s daughter.”

  “Which makes her a suspect, too,” Nick said. “After all, she could have taken on the task of getting rid of Daddy to pave the way for her lover boy.”

  “Which brings us to Townie,” I said. “Maybe he thought he could make big bucks off Brock’s new venture. But unless Brock could find a way to come up with the cash they both needed to get it off the ground, it wasn’t going to happen.”

  “What about Miss Scarlett?” Nick asked. “The other woman?”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” I reminded him. Still, I was as suspicious as he was that their relationship went beyond simply employer and employee.

  “Then there’s Charlotte,” I said. “After all, she’s the one who inherited the bulk of Linus’s estate.”

  “True, but I don’t think her lifestyle is going to change much, now that her husband is gone,” Nick said. “It certainly won’t be any better. I get the feeling she really loved the old man. Out of all of them, I think she’s the one who’s taking this the hardest.”

  “Except possibly Cook,” I added ruefully. “Margaret seems to have had strong feelings for Linus.”

  “She also inherited a lot of money from the guy,” Nick observed. “I know Falcone didn’t consider her a suspect, at least not at first. But then we all found out what was in Linus’s will. It seems to me that inheriting two hundred thousand dollars and being able to retire after decades of cooking and cleaning up would give anybody a pretty strong motive.”

  “Jives—or Jonathan, his real name—and his sidekick, Gwennie, were also looking for a payday,” I commented. “And for all we know, the reason they left England was that Scotland Yard was after them.”

  “Good point,” Nick agreed. “They could have a long history of doing this. Pretending to be a butler and a maid in order to get jobs with a wealthy family, ingratiating themselves with the person who controls the money, and then once they’re sure they’ve been written into the will, moving things along a little faster than nature intended.”

  I sighed. “Goodness, that’s a long list. Have we left anybody out?”

  “Alvira,” Nick replied. “We can’t discount her as a suspect.”

  I was silent as I thought about how convinced I was that she hadn’t had anything to do with Linus’s death. Despite her quirkiness, or maybe because of it, she struck me as a good example of what you see is what you get. I couldn’t imagine her wishing ill of her brother.

  Besides, she didn’t appear to have anything to gain from his death. Though most people wouldn’t be satisfied with her lifestyle, she seemed perfectly content.

  She had also gone out of her way to help me with my investigation by volunteering information about Linus’s diaries. While his most recent journals had yet to appear, I couldn’t imagine why she’d bring them up if there was even a chance they contained something that incriminated her.

  Then again, I’d been wrong about such things before. Maybe she was simply trying to deflect suspicion. In fact, she could have been the one who hid the volumes Linus wrote over the last few years.

  With a deep, pensive sigh, I said, “We should probably go to bed. But first I’m going to see if I can rustle up something warm. Herb tea or hot chocolate, maybe. Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thanks,” Nick said amiably. He stood up and stretched. “I’m wiped out. I can’t even promise that I’ll manage to wait up for you.”

  “After only five months of marriage?” I teased. “I guess the honeymoon is over.”

  • • •

  Since arriving on Solitude Island two days before, I’d learned that Cook was in the habit of leaving food out for the family pretty much around the clock. As soon as she and Gwennie cleared away the breakfast things, she’d fill the urn that was kept on the sideboard with fresh coffee in case anyone needed another caffeine hit. She did the same after lunch and dinner, as well, adding a few snacks such as fruit or freshly baked scones.

  So as soon as Nick went upstairs, I made a beeline for the dining room in search of som
ething warm and soothing that would help me fall asleep. I needed something to counteract the list of suspects Nick and I had been agonizing over, which I kept running through over and over again in my mind.

  I was still ruminating about each person who’d earned a spot on that list as I stood at the urn. While I filled a delicate china cup with hot water and then dunked a peppermint tea bag into it, I stared off into space. Or, to be more accurate, I stared at the gigantic oil painting on the wall behind the sideboard.

  Not that it was anything even close to pleasing to the eye. Like most of the other pictures that hung throughout the house, this one featured an unpleasant-looking individual who was probably a member of the Merrywood clan.

  This particular portrait was of a sour-faced woman in a dark dress with a high collar. The only relief from complete dreariness was a narrow band of lace that looked as if its main purpose was to cause a skin rash under her chin. Her black hair, as smooth and shiny as Falcone’s on a good hair day, was pulled back into a severe bun. Her lips curled downward in a frown, and her dark eyes looked cold and disapproving. The perfect complement to her dour expression were her eyebrows, so thick and dark that it looked as if a couple of caterpillars had gotten lost and ended up on her forehead.

  But it wasn’t the woman in the picture that had caught my attention. It was the narrow black line barely peeking out from the bottom left corner.

  That thin line was something I’d never noticed before. As I sipped the hot tea, I realized that the reason was that the painting was slightly askew. It could have been the result of the house shaking from all that thunder—or perhaps a miracle had occurred and Gwennie had decided to do some dusting.

  I leaned closer to get a better look and saw that there were actually two lines that formed an L. In fact, from where I stood, it almost looked as if someone had cut into the wall—and that those cuts had been carefully laid out so that they’d be hidden by the painting.

  With my free hand, I reached up to touch one of the lines. And discovered that that was exactly what had happened.

  This wall opens! I thought in amazement, pulling back my hand as if I’d just made contact with something hot. Behind this painting there’s a door!

  I guessed that it most likely opened onto a safe. That certainly made sense, given the fact that on the other side of this wall lay the bowels of the house, rather than the exterior or another room. I could picture the huge chunk of metal nestled among the pipes and electrical wires, practically bursting with the family’s treasures. Maybe jewels, maybe stocks and bonds, maybe stacks of cold, hard cash.

  Or maybe something else that Linus or someone else in the household had felt was important.

  By this point, my heart was beating as fast as if I’d been hitting the coffee urn rather than sticking with herb tea. I glanced around furtively, wondering if I dared dig a little deeper.

  It appeared that no one else was around. At least at the moment. Yet the other members of the household were just a few rooms away. I knew that if someone popped out of nowhere, I’d have a hard time coming up with a convincing reason for why I’d taken down a huge painting and was desperately trying to pry open the wall behind it.

  So I filed my discovery away in the back of my mind—but not so far back that I couldn’t retrieve it the next time an opportunity arose to do a little more poking around. In the meantime, I decided to head upstairs to see if that husband of mine was still awake. But as I left the dining room, I determined to find the earliest opportunity to test my abilities as a safecracker.

  Chapter 16

  “Some people lose all respect for the lion unless he devours them instantly. There is no pleasing some people.”

  —Will Cuppy

  By the time I crawled into bed, Nick was fast asleep, just as he’d predicted.

  So much for a romantic getaway, I thought with disappointment. I pulled the blankets up to my chin, which involved slightly displacing one half-asleep Dalmatian and one Westie who had been awake only thirty seconds yet already looked ready for an impromptu game of Slobber All Over the Tennis Ball.

  Despite the alleged soothing effects of herb tea, I expected that once again I’d have trouble falling asleep. But it turned out that investigating a murder was even more exhausting than putting in a long day treating animals. I’d barely found a comfortable spot on the pillow before I felt the pleasant sensation of being sucked into unconsciousness.

  In fact, I fell into such a deep sleep that when I finally snapped awake, I was completely disoriented. After only a second or two, I remembered where I was. But I had no idea what time it was—or what had woken me up.

  A nightmare? I wondered, puzzled by the tightness in the pit of my stomach and the disturbing feeling that something was wrong.

  I was still trying to remember what I’d been dreaming about when I heard the sound of barking dogs.

  I knew immediately that they weren’t my dogs. Max and Lou were both still lying down, but their heads were up and their ears twitched as if they, too, wondered what was going on.

  It must be Corky and Admiral, I thought.

  It sounded as if they were somewhere downstairs. And from the crazed way in which they were both barking, it seemed as if something was very wrong.

  “Nick?” I whispered without turning my head. “Do you hear that?”

  The silence that followed told me he was fast asleep. Either that or he was too frightened to speak, by something he knew and I didn’t.

  “Nick?” I cried. I looked over, anxious to see which of the two scenarios was correct.

  Neither, it turned out. He was gone.

  “Nick!” I leaped out of bed, not sure what alarmed me more: the dogs going nuts downstairs or the fact that my husband had vanished.

  As if on cue, the frantic barking started up again. Instinctively I rushed to the window, vaguely aware that the wooden floor beneath my bare feet was so cold that it felt as if I’d gone ice-skating without any skates. But I ignored the discomfort as I pulled back the drapes and peered through the fog hovering outside the windows. Dawn had started to break, providing me with enough pale gray light to see the property surrounding the house.

  My eyes quickly lit on two figures hurrying across the lawn.

  “It’s Jonathan and Gwennie!” I cried. “They’re fleeing the island!”

  I squeezed my bare feet into the sneakers I’d left by the side of the bed. Then I grabbed my Polarfleece jacket off the back of the chair and pulled it on over my flannel pj’s.

  My heart was pounding as I raced along the hallway and down the stairs. I was huffing and puffing by the time I reached the front door. While Gwennie and Jonathan had left it unlocked in their haste, my hands were shaking, which made forcing my fingers to function in even the simplest way nearly impossible.

  I finally managed to turn the knob. I threw open the door and encountered a wall of thick fog. I also realized for the first time that a light drizzle was dripping through the dismal gray clouds.

  But I wasn’t about to let a little rain get in my way. I zipped up my jacket and charged out the door.

  I immediately started jogging toward the dock—the same direction in which Gwennie and Jonathan had appeared to be headed. As I ran, I focused on the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of the rubber soles of my sneakers hitting the irregularly shaped slabs of slate, which told me I was going the right way. The cold, damp air made the insides of my nostrils tingle. I had to strain to see through the fog, so thick in some areas that I felt as if I was running through a steam room. Up above, seagulls circled, their raw screams cutting the silence.

  As I neared the edge of the island, the fog cleared enough that I could see the waves of Peconic Bay. They lurked just a few feet away, so dark and turbulent and ferocious they seemed to be daring anyone to try to get across them.

  But I wasn’t the one who was planning to leave. I scanned the shore, searching for the dock. I finally spotted it, a low rectangle jutting out into the swirling water
s with the dilapidated boathouse at the end. Gwennie and Jonathan were already trudging across the ragged planks of wood, from the looks of things making their way toward the dinghy docked next to the ferry.

  Now that I was closer, I saw that Gwennie was dragging a large suitcase behind her, its wheels bumping across the uneven wood of the dock. In the other hand she was hauling what looked like a canvas gym bag. From the way she struggled with it, it must have weighed forty or fifty pounds. In fact, both bags were so stuffed they looked ready to burst.

  As for Jonathan, he was carrying a suitcase that was even bigger than Gwennie’s. Just as full, too. But it appeared that he was also bringing along a few souvenirs of his stay on Solitude Island. A small Oriental rug was rolled up and tucked under one arm, and sticking out of the oversize tote bag slung over his shoulder was a Chinese porcelain vase that I could only assume was a valuable antique.

  The idea that they were not only running away but also stealing from Charlotte made me run even faster.

  “Hey!” I cried as I grew near enough for them to hear me. “Stop, you two!”

  Automatically they froze, looking back over their shoulders with panicked expressions. But as soon as they saw it was me—as in only me—they turned away and kept heading toward their getaway boat.

  Still, they were weighed down by their suitcases and the rest of their booty, which gave me enough time to catch up with them before they reached the dinghy.

  “Stop!” I demanded one more time. I grabbed Gwennie’s shoulder and pulled, so that she had no choice but to face me. Out of breath, I asked, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “We’re just going to Long Island for the day!” Gwennie whined. “We’ve got a bit of shopping to do.”

  I didn’t bother to point out that the only retail establishment likely to be open at this hour was 7-Eleven. Instead, I lunged toward the gym bag she was carrying.