Crossing the Lion: A Reigning Cats & Dogs Mystery

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Is it?” Tag asked, his eyes glinting as he cocked his head provocatively. “In fact, we can’t leave Harry and Scarlett off the list of people who stood to benefit from the old man’s death, either.”

  Scarlett gasped. At the same time, Harry said through gritted teeth, “I think you’d better watch yourself, Tag.”

  “My feelings exactly!” Missy seconded, her cheeks turning pink. “Besides, poor Scarlett had something to lose! Daddy’s death means she’s now out of a job.”

  “That’s true,” Tag agreed. Pointedly ignoring Scarlett, even though she was only a few feet away, he added, “But there could have been some other reason she wanted him dead.”

  “Like what?” Missy challenged, wrapping her arm around Scarlett protectively.

  “Revenge, anger—who knows? It’s even possible he was about to fire her, and none of us was aware of it.” Tag’s overly blue eyes narrowed as he added, “Or maybe the two of them had a relationship that went beyond employer and employee, and she was losing patience because he refused to leave Mom—”

  Scarlett let out a cry. “That’s ridiculous! You have no idea what you’re saying!”

  “Taggart Merrywood, you have an evil mind!” Missy cried.

  She’d barely gotten the words out before Charlotte interjected, “That’s enough, Taggart. If you weren’t my son, I’d order you out of my house right now for saying such horrid things.”

  “But what I’m saying is true,” he insisted, glancing around the room. “And you all know it. Let’s face it, our father was an extremely powerful man. He could have made an enemy of any one of us. Any one of us could have killed the old man—and for a hundred different reasons, from getting revenge to silencing him.”

  Don’t forget money, I was tempted to say, for the first time wondering about the provisions of Linus’s will.

  For the next few seconds, the room remained eerily silent. The only sound was the rain slapping against the windows and the wind whipping tree branches around outside. It was as if everyone was starting to grasp the magnitude of what they had just learned.

  It was Charlotte who finally spoke.

  “I don’t care what the medical examiner’s office says,” she said, her voice low and controlled. One by one, she looked at Tag, Missy, and Brock. “I find it impossible to believe that one of you was responsible for Linus’s death. You three are his children, and I know you all loved him. There’s absolutely no way any of you could have wanted something bad to happen to your own father.

  “The same goes for Scarlett and Harry,” she continued, glancing at them. “You both thought the world of Linus. Even if you sometimes had differences of opinion about the way he ran the business, I’m convinced that neither of you would have ever wanted to hurt him.

  “I also believe that Cook, Gwennie, and Jives are innocent,” Charlotte added. “Brock is right about the fact that Cook has spent nearly her entire life working for us, and she’s practically a member of our family. I can’t imagine a more dedicated employee. As for Gwennie and Jives, even though they came to us only recently, I never ever questioned their loyalty to the man.”

  “You left out one person,” Tag commented.

  Charlotte frowned. “But Winston and Betty—and of course Jessica—weren’t even here the night of Linus’s birthday party.”

  “No, but you were,” he replied simply.

  “Taggart!” Missy cried. “Now you’ve really gone too far!”

  He shrugged. “I’m just making an observation. If somebody poisoned the old man the night of his birthday, we have to consider every single person who was in the house.”

  “You’re despicable,” Missy seethed.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Brock seconded.

  “I hate seeing my children argue,” Charlotte said, shaking her head tiredly, “and I hate having any of you suspect such a terrible thing of family members. Taggart, I’m going to do everything I can to forgive you for what you just said.” She sighed before adding, “If it were up to me, I’d put all these horrible accusations behind us so we could do our best to move on.”

  “Unfortunately, that probably won’t be possible,” Winston said.

  “For goodness’ sake, why not?” Charlotte asked.

  “Because Linus’s death has now become a criminal matter,” Winston replied somberly. “In fact, we should all brace ourselves for a visit from a homicide detective.”

  Missy gasped. “A homicide detective?”

  “That’s right,” Winston said with a nod. “I was told that the Norfolk County Chief of Homicide, Lieutenant Anthony Falcone, will be paying us a visit shortly.”

  While every member of the Merrywood household seemed horrified, their reaction didn’t come close to mine. I’d dealt with this particular individual once or twice before.

  Great, I thought. It’s not bad enough that I’m stuck on a creepy island. Now I’m going to have to deal with a genuine creep.

  Chapter 5

  “An army of asses led by a lion is better than an army of lions led by an ass.”

  —George Washington

  The Merrywoods had barely had a chance to digest the fact that a real live homicide detective would be paying them a visit before Jives appeared in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he drawled in his thick English accent, “but a visitor has arrived. A Lieutenant Anthony Falcone.”

  As the members of the family exchanged looks of alarm, I jumped from my seat.

  “I’ll bring him inside,” I offered. By way of explanation, I added, “He and I already know each other.”

  “Thank you, Jessie,” Charlotte said, sounding grateful. “I think we all need a moment to compose ourselves.”

  I was already rushing out of the room and into the hallway. I immediately spotted Falcone standing in the foyer, his black raincoat dripping water all over the marble floor. His sopping wet coat, combined with his small stature, reminded me of a little black dog someone had left outside during a rainstorm. One of those yappy dogs that drive even me crazy. In fact, I half-expected him to shake himself, splattering the dour old crones in the oil paintings so that they ended up looking as if they had tears streaming down their cheeks.

  Instead, his beady dark-brown eyes darted around as he took in his new surroundings.

  “Madon’!” he muttered. “This place looks like the haunted house at Disney World! And didn’t anybody around here ever hear of dusting?”

  His eyes drifted over to me. A shocked look passed over his face, but only for a second. Then his tight lips relaxed into a sardonic smile.

  “Docta Poppa. We meet again.”

  Thanks to Falcone’s classic New York accent, the man acted as if the letter R was silent, like the H in rhapsody—or the K in knucklehead.

  “So it seems,” I replied.

  “You’re the last person I woulda expected to find here,” he went on. “Then again, maybe I should have anticipated this, since it’s not the first time you butted your nose into somebody else’s business. What’s your excuse this time?”

  As always, it didn’t take more than ten seconds in the man’s presence to get my blood boiling.

  And, as always, I did my best not to show it.

  “Linus Merrywood was a close friend of Winston Farnsworth’s,” I said evenly. “And Winston is the husband of one of my closest friends, Betty Vandervoort. I’m keeping the two of them company while they pay a condolence call to Linus’s widow.”

  “Uh-huh.” Falcone knit his bushy black eyebrows together in a way that implied he wasn’t sure whether or not to buy my story.

  “What about you?” I asked him. “Are you here by yourself?”

  “Not quite. I got a coupla uniformed cops outside, lookin’ around.”

  “But why you?” I persisted. “Couldn’t someone else from homicide conduct this investigation?”

  He cast me a look of surprise. “Do you have any idea how big this is? A guy as important—not to mention ri
ch—as Linus Merrywood, the victim of what looks like murder?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I guess you’ve been outta the loop, stuck out here on this island and all. But believe me, this case has graduated to major news. Now that word is out that Linus Merrywood was murdered, the press is all over this. I’m talkin’ the national press. Those vultures descended faster than you could say the word ‘headline.’ In fact, I got a buncha guys guarding the shoreline to keep the reporters and photographers who are suddenly swarming the area from comin’ over here in a canoe or a raft or whatever they can get hold of. Fuhget about this stormy weather. Even as we speak there are guys standing out there twenty-four seven with telephoto lenses, hopin’ to get a shot of one of the family members.”

  With a sly grin, he added, “I spotted your buddy from Newsday out there, Forrester Sloan. But even he doesn’t have the connections to get onto this crazy island.”

  Just as well, I thought.

  Forrester and I had what could be characterized as a love–hate relationship—meaning he fancied himself in love with me while I hated being anywhere near him. At least that was how I liked to think about our association, which from the start had been complicated by the sparks that flew whenever we were together.

  Having Falcone on this island was bad enough.

  Distractedly, he smoothed his shiny, greased blue-black hair, adding, “To keep ’em happy and away from the Merrywood family, I scheduled a press conference for this afternoon. Everybody’s gonna be there—CNN, CNBC, Court TV, you name it.”

  Oh, boy! I thought. Another chance for Anthony Falcone to get his name—and his picture—splashed across TV screens and in newspapers all over the country. No wonder he broke out the Matrix Men styling gel this morning.

  “But are you even sure it’s murder?” I asked. “After all, people die of allergic reactions all the time.”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “Surely Mr. Farnsworth told you about the phone call, since the two of you are so close and all.”

  My mouth dropped open. So Winston had finally told the police about Linus’s assertion that someone was trying to kill him. And I was certain that, while he was at it, he’d mentioned that Linus had claimed it was someone close to him.

  “I figured you knew about that,” Falcone continued, obviously reading my reaction. “Mr. Farnsworth told me about the phone call at our meeting with the medical examiner this morning.”

  “Winston didn’t mention that you were there, too,” I observed.

  “I was,” Falcone said with a nod. “And the phone call came up while we were discussing the results of the autopsy. Needless to say, the information we have makes Mr. Merrywood’s death suspicious enough that we’re considering it a homicide.”

  Glancing around, he added in a much lower voice, “However, the call from the deceased is something we intend to keep from the family and everybody else in the household at the moment, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Got it,” I assured him.

  A hundred questions about what Falcone and the rest of his team had uncovered so far whirled around inside my head. But before I had a chance to wrest any more information from him, he stepped over to the ceramic urn and ran a finger along the surface.

  “So what is it with the dust in this place?” he asked, glancing at his darkened finger with a scowl. “I feel like I’m in a tomb.”

  “I think the Merrywoods have had problems finding top-notch cleaning people,” I replied. I couldn’t resist adding, “You know how hard it is to find good help these days.”

  I was about to try to steer the conversation back to Linus’s murder when Charlotte came bustling into the hallway.

  “You must be Detective Falcone,” she greeted him.

  “That’s Lieutenant Falcone,” he corrected her. “And you are …”

  “Charlotte Merrywood. Linus’s wife.” Smiling as warmly as if she was hosting a dinner party instead of an investigation, she extended her hand. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  As they shook hands, Falcone said, “Sorry about your loss, Mrs. Merrywood. I can promise you that the Norfolk County Homicide Department is doin’ everything in our power to find whoever committed this heinous crime.”

  That’s hay-nous, I thought irritably. Not hee-nous.

  Beyond his embarrassing mispronunciation, I got the feeling his little speech was something he’d been told to say, rather than a reflection of some innate sensitivity I’d never witnessed before. And when he’d memorized it, it was probably in writing.

  Yet I couldn’t help noticing that, even as he expressed his condolences, he was eyeing Charlotte suspiciously. No doubt he was taking in her expensive jewelry, her well-made designer clothes, and her patrician demeanor. He also looked closely into her eyes, trying to read whatever he could in them.

  “I’d like to speak to everyone who was in the house the night Mr. Merrywood passed away, one at a time,” he told her, suddenly all business. “According to the medical examiner’s report, the victim died from an allergic reaction to a food substance he ingested a few hours earlier, most likely at dinner. It’s possible that it was an accident, of course, but right now we’re actin’ on the presumption that it wasn’t. What can you tell me about the last meal Mr. Merrywood consumed?”

  “Wednesday was his birthday,” Charlotte replied sadly. “His seventy-fifth. The whole family was here. We’d also invited two business associates who were close to him. And the servants, of course …”

  As Charlotte filled Falcone in on the details of that evening, he jotted down names and other pertinent information. I stood by quietly, hoping no one would notice me hovering behind the two of them and ask what I was doing there. Fortunately, they both seemed too wrapped up in their own conversation to bother with me.

  Falcone finally clicked his pen closed. “Give me a few minutes to get organized here, Mrs. Merrywood. Then I’d like to speak to each of these individuals, someplace private. And for now, at least, I’d like everybody to stay here on the island.”

  “Of course,” she agreed with a curt nod. “I’ll go tell them all what to expect.”

  When she was gone, Falcone turned to me and said, “So whaddya think?”

  I blinked. “What do I think?”

  “That’s right. After all, you’ve already been here awhile, right?”

  “I only got here last night,” I explained, “so I haven’t really—”

  “Yeah, but I know you, Docta Poppa,” he interrupted. “And I’d bet the farm you already got the low-down on each one of these people.” His mouth stretched into a grin that actually bordered on playful as he added, “So d’you think the butler did it?”

  Before I had a chance to reply, he laughed. “Y’know, I always wanted to say that. But this is the first chance I ever got.”

  “Actually, it’s possible the butler did do it,” I said.

  “Really?” He looked pleased. “Tell me more.”

  For a second or two, I was too shocked to speak. Was it possible that Lieutenant Falcone was asking my opinion? I was tempted to look out a window to see if pigs had started to fly.

  But that impulse passed as I realized I did have a lot to say. Even though I had, indeed, been on Solitude Island for less than twenty-four hours, I’d already learned quite a bit about the intrigues of the Merrywood household. Falcone added to his notes as I filled him in on what I’d observed so far: Missy and Tag’s disdain for their little brother, Charlotte’s protectiveness of Brock and her general role of peacemaker, Tag’s reputation as a playboy, Missy’s over-the-top adoration of her husband, Scarlett’s devotion to her boss, Harry’s concern that Linus had begun showing signs of aging, even the quirks of the hired help.

  I didn’t say a word about Aunt Alvira. I was so intrigued by the notion of a crazy aunt locked in the attic that I wanted to explore it on my own before I sicced the chief of homicide on her.

  When I’d finished, Falcone actually looked impressed. Grateful, too.

  “T
hanks, Docta Poppa,” he said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll talk to every one of those people myself.” Checking his notebook, he added, “Starting with the cook.”

  “That’s Cook,” I corrected him, “not the cook.”

  “Whatever.” He waved his hand in the air dismissively. “She’s the one who made all the food around here, right? Including that last dinner the victim ate Wednesday night? She was also perfectly aware that Mr. Merrywood had a serious allergy to eggs. So if anybody tampered with the cuisine that night, it was most likely her.”

  He was right; she was the most obvious suspect. Which was precisely why I would have bet my farm that she wasn’t the guilty party.

  But I wasn’t the one in charge.

  “Maybe you can point me in the direction of the kitchen so I can get started,” Falcone said. Glancing around, he muttered, “Jeez, ya practically need a map to get around in this place!”

  “Go down this hallway and turn left,” I advised. “And I’ll be around after you’ve finished, if you need me.”

  • • •

  Even though I was doing my best to act nonchalant, I was dying to know what Falcone found out during his interviews with Cook, the other two servants, Harry, Scarlett, and of course the entire Merrywood clan. I spent the next couple of hours in the front sitting room, pretending I was catching up on back issues of Town & Country. In reality, I was doing little besides watching the clock.

  I also did plenty of fidgeting, squirming around in a comfortable upholstered chair. From my behavior, you would have thought I was a dog whose owner had tied his leash to a parking meter while he dashed into Starbucks. In fact, I did more wiggling around than did Corky and Admiral, who were lying on the floor next to me, as still as a pair of bookends.

  When I finally spotted Falcone again, he was making a beeline for the front door. I jumped out of my chair, sending a cloud of dust flying. The two dogs looked up in surprise but were apparently too comfortable to budge.

  “Well?” I demanded as I dashed into the front hallway.