Crossing the Lion: A Reigning Cats & Dogs Mystery

by Cynthia Baxter

  Even in the face of tomato-based threats.

  I had trouble focusing on the conversation going on around me once we all sat back down to dinner. But it wasn’t the message someone had written for me in pretend blood that kept me so preoccupied.

  It was the realization that so far I’d been working pretty hard to find out all I could about other people in Linus Merrywood’s inner circle, but I hadn’t thought to find out what the man himself was really like.

  True, I’d made plenty of assumptions about him, based primarily on what other people had told me. One interesting thing was that, even though he had a lot of money, he apparently hadn’t been anxious to share it with his kids.

  Then there was his love life. He might have been having a fling with his attractive young assistant. Or—just as likely—he was a loyal, loving husband to his wife, who had clearly adored him.

  As I shoveled in spoonful after spoonful of vichyssoise—another dish Margaret had mastered—I obsessed about the kind of man Linus Merrywood really was. Aside from the way he’d conducted himself—or perhaps as a result of it—had he been the universally loved patriarch that people kept saying he was? Or had there been another side to him?

  Maybe this house was filled with secrets, deceptions, and downright lies. But there was one person I was pretty sure would tell me the truth.

  • • •

  After dinner, Nick and I walked away from the dining room in silence. I was lost in thought, plotting my strategy for confronting Alvira—and hoping she’d be able to give me some insights into Linus Merrywood.

  I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that I did a double take when I found myself face-to-face with another senior citizen. Instead of Alvira, I was looking at Betty. Winston was right behind her. It would have been difficult to decide which one of them looked more distraught.

  “I hope you’re not too upset, Jessica,” Betty said, reaching over and patting my arm comfortingly.

  “That silly message on the wall was probably nothing more than somebody’s idea of a practical joke,” Winston added, “even though it was a very bad idea.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured them. “Believe me, it takes more than a few smears of ketchup to scare me off.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Betty agreed. “But Winston and I still feel terrible that we dragged you into this.”

  “When we asked you to come to Solitude Island with us, we never dreamed that someone would threaten you,” Winston said.

  “Don’t worry, you two,” I insisted, draping my arm around Betty’s thin shoulders and giving her a squeeze. “Actually, the whole thing is pretty funny, when you think about it.”

  Neither of them looked convinced. “We appreciate your bravery—and your determination,” Betty said, hugging me back. “But, honestly, if you and Nick decide to pack up and just get the heck out of here, Winston and I would both understand—”

  The ringing of the doorbell made the four of us freeze.

  “Who could that be?” I asked, even though I already had a pretty good idea.

  The others must have, too, since we all hurried toward the front hallway. We stopped right before we reached it, preferring to do a little reconnaissance before revealing our presence.

  “Oh, dear,” Betty whispered, peering through the doorway that separated us from the front hallway. “It’s that horrid homicide detective again.”

  “Falcone,” I said, the two syllables coming out like a groan.

  Sure enough, when I did some peering of my own, I saw that Lieutenant Falcone was standing right inside the door. Even though he’d barely come into the house, he was already exhibiting his usual charm by scowling at Jives.

  “I suppose it’s a good thing that he’s working on the case so hard,” Betty commented softly.

  “I’m sure he’s doing everything he can to solve this,” I whispered back. I couldn’t resist adding, “Including calling in his experts.”

  I watched as Falcone stomped his feet loudly, all the better to splatter drops of rain over the marble floor, the walls, and even the ceramic urn. I hoped the sudden influx of moisture wouldn’t cause whatever ancient material it was made of to dissolve.

  “Sorry to bother everybody on a Saturday evening,” he told Jives, not sounding the least bit sorry. He thrust his arm out, handing over the wet raincoat he’d just peeled off.

  “We’re all glad that you and your staff are working ’round the clock,” Jives drawled. Gingerly accepting the sopping garment and holding it as far away from his body as he could, he added, “I’ll just hang this up. In a bawth-tub.”

  Glancing at the others, I said, “Let me talk to him alone.”

  “Gladly,” Betty said. She turned and skittered away, dragging Winston along with her.

  “Are you sure you don’t want some moral support?” Nick asked. “I know this guy isn’t exactly your favorite person.”

  That was certainly true enough. But tonight I had some solid information to share with him.

  “Thanks,” I told him, “but this is one time that Falcone is treating me with what could be loosely defined as respect.”

  Nick gave my shoulder a quick squeeze of encouragement, then dashed off.

  “Docta Poppa,” Falcone greeted me loudly as I stepped into the hallway. For a change, he looked genuinely pleased to see me.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” I replied. I realized that my heartbeat had suddenly sped up. While I had some information to share with him, I hoped the reason he was making a house call was to report that he’d found some important evidence of his own. Maybe even evidence that was important enough to identify Linus’s killer.

  “So what’s wit’ all this rain?” Falcone muttered, barely glancing at me as he angrily brushed a few remaining drops off the sleeves of his jacket. Not only was it a bad fit, it screamed polyester. “And what about that friggin’ ferry? You’d think people who have this much money would build themselves a bridge!”

  “Rough seas?” I asked politely, trying to hide my glee over the fact that the man had truly met his match in Mother Nature.

  His response was a glare. “If the press wasn’t still all over this, watchin’ every move we make, I woulda sent somebody else in my place.” Glancing around as if wanting to check that no one was listening, he added, “But I also wanted a chance to, y’know, check in wit’ you. Whaddya got for me, Poppa?”

  Plenty, I thought. I had a ne’er-do-well son with a couple of expensive ex-wives, a passion for overpriced toys, and a serious gambling problem, and his baby brother, who was looking for a windfall to support his current fascination with beads. I had a seemingly loyal daughter who was secretly playing footsy with Daddy’s right-hand man, trying to cover up her dalliance by lavishing undue amounts of affection on her husband.

  I also had a cook who claimed devotion to her boss but as queen of the kitchen was the person who served the birthday cake that killed him. Two other servants, as well, who were in reality actors looking to make a financial killing. I had a personal assistant who went back and forth between playing the lady and the tramp with alarming facility, and a CFO who had started to doubt the number one man’s ability to run the show.

  The only problem was, I didn’t have anything conclusive. And apparently Falcone didn’t, either.

  “I consider everyone who was in the house the night Linus died a suspect,” I told him, after giving him a quick summary of everything I’d learned since his visit the day before. “The problem is, I haven’t been able to figure out which one of them is the murderer.”

  Disappointment flashed across his face. “I was hopin’ for more, Poppa. What about evidence? Any chance you uncovered somethin’ the rest of us missed?”

  I debated whether or not to tell him about Linus’s diaries. But it took me only a second or two to decide to come clean. After all, whatever I might think of Falcone personally, he and I had the same goal: seeing Linus Merrywood’s killer brought to justice.

  “Has anyone menti
oned Aunt Alvira?” I asked.

  His puzzled look gave me my answer.

  “She’s Linus’s sister,” I explained. “She lives in the attic.”

  He stared at me. “You’re kiddin’ me, right?”

  “Nope.”

  By this point, his expression had morphed into one of annoyance. “So what you’re tellin’ me is that we got another suspect, right in this house.”

  Actually, I hadn’t even entertained the possibility that Alvira could be the killer. But while my gut told me she was innocent, I realized I couldn’t completely discount her as a suspect. After all, she was one more person who had been in the house the night of the birthday dinner.

  It dawned on me that I might have been terribly naïve in not considering the idea up until now.

  “Then I guess I got one more person to talk to,” Falcone said.

  The very idea filled me with alarm—until I realized that if there was one person who could hold her own against Anthony Falcone, it was Aunt Alvira.

  “Alvira gave me the only real clue I’ve come up with,” I noted.

  “Which is?” he prompted impatiently.

  “Apparently Linus Merrywood kept a diary throughout his life,” I explained. “Alvira thought he might have written about something that was going on that could provide some insight into who might have wanted him dead—and why.”

  “And does it?” he asked.

  “I … I don’t know,” I had to admit. “I haven’t been able to find it.”

  His beady eyes narrowed slightly. “This Alvira sounds like she might know somethin’. Maybe even more than she’s lettin’ on.”

  “Would you like me to show you to her room?” I offered.

  “I think I can probably find it,” he said scornfully. “Trackin’ down people who are hard to find is one of the things I’m good at.”

  I hesitated, debating whether or not to help him out. But, once again, I decided that there was no point in holding out on him.

  “I have a feeling this is something you haven’t encountered before,” I told him. “I’d better take you there myself.”

  • • •

  “Yer kiddin’ me, right?” Falcone muttered as he stood in the bedroom, his eyes the size of headlights as he watched the bookshelf move aside to reveal the secret door.

  Nick and I exchanged an amused look. Max and Lou, meanwhile, were completely blasé about their surroundings. The moving bookshelf might have once held their interest, but by this point it was old news.

  “Who designed this place, anyway?” Falcone demanded. “I feel like I’m in one of those old-time black-and-white horror movies.”

  “My theory is that Epinetus Merrywood, who originally built this house, was really worried about security,” I replied. “I have a feeling the reason this house is so full of spooky features is simply that he wanted to be sure he had plenty of places to hide.”

  “Sounds a little neurotic, if you ask me,” Falcone commented. “Hey, maybe there’s a system of tunnels underneath the house! You know, so he could escape if the redcoats were coming. Or even invaders from another planet.”

  He chuckled, as if he was proud of his uncharacteristic display of imagination. I ignored him, flinging open the door and gesturing toward the secret staircase.

  “Alvira’s up there,” I told him, making a sweeping gesture with one arm. “I hope you’re not allergic to cats.”

  “Madon’,” he muttered. But he started up the stairs.

  While I was acting as blasé as Max and Lou, I was actually pretty jumpy as I waited for Falcone to come back down. I sat on the edge of the bed with Nick, engaging him in mindless small talk and distractedly petting the dogs. I’d come to feel protective toward Alvira, and I didn’t want Falcone bullying her. I also hoped he’d come to the same conclusion I’d come to: that she couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with her brother’s death.

  I jumped up as soon as I heard his heavy tread on the wooden steps. “So?” I asked a few seconds later, when he emerged from the doorway. “What’s your take on her?”

  “Hard to say,” he mumbled. “In fact, even harder than the rest of them. She was his sister, and from what I can tell she had nothin’ to gain from killin’ the guy. Besides, although she was in the house the night of his death, it sounds like she pretty much stays up there in her cozy little attic all the time. If she did go downstairs, chances are somebody else in the family woulda seen her and commented on the unusual occurrence.”

  Unless she’s as good at sneaking around as she claims, I thought. She’d told me herself that she was a good spy—and, frankly, I believed her.

  But that wasn’t information I was prepared to share with Falcone, since I was concerned about him harassing a sweet old woman I was still pretty certain was innocent. So I held my tongue.

  I could hardly wait for Falcone to leave. I was anxious to get up to the attic and see for myself how Alvira had withstood his interrogation. Fortunately, he didn’t hang around for very long before offering to find his own way out. In fact, from the way he hightailed it out of there, I got the feeling that even seasickness-inducing boats had started looking better to him than haunted houses.

  As soon as I heard his footsteps on the stairs that led down to the main floor, I turned to Nick.

  “I’m going up to talk to Alvira,” I explained. “She’s a tough lady, but I want to check on her. I also have a few questions of my own.”

  “No fudge this time?” Nick joked.

  “I think Alvira is as committed to finding out who killed Linus as I am and that she’s anxious to do whatever she can to help.”

  For the third time since I’d arrived on Solitude Island, I climbed the hidden staircase.

  “You’re back!” Alvira greeted me with a huge grin. “I was hoping you’d stop by again.”

  “I told you I enjoyed spending time with you,” I said, “and I meant it.”

  “You’re my second visitor in a row,” she commented.

  “You’re a popular person.” I couldn’t resist asking, “So what did you think of Lieutenant Falcone?”

  She cast me a scathing look. “It’s people like him who make me glad I decided to lock myself away in an attic. Now, how about a nice cup of tea?”

  “Tea sounds perfect,” I said sincerely.

  I wouldn’t have minded if Aunt Alvira was in the habit of adding the same secret ingredient as Betty was: a shot of Jack Daniel’s.

  “I’ve even got cookies!” Alvira exclaimed.

  “No, thanks,” I told her. “I’m not really hungry.”

  “They’re chocolate chip!” she said.

  If there’s anybody better than Jack Daniel at soothing the soul, it’s Mrs. Fields. In fact, I decided to wait until both Alvira and I had been fortified by the butter, sugar, and caffeine food groups before popping the big question.

  Once she’d made a pot of Earl Grey—another expert at elevating people’s moods—we got settled on the couch. In front of us on the coffee table was a tray laden with delicate porcelain teacups decorated with pink-and-purple flowers, a teapot in the same pattern, and a plate of those chocolate chip cookies she’d promised. Alvira’s cats joined us, too, with the exception of the eternally shy Muffin. The Maine coon honored me by jumping up onto the couch to sit next to me, while the black cat curled up at my feet. The other two—the white longhair and the gray-and-black tabby—kept their distance, preferring to watch the action from afar.

  I jumped right in as soon as Alvira had poured the tea.

  “Alvira,” I said thoughtfully, “even though you rarely venture downstairs, you seem to know more about the people in this house than just about anybody.”

  “I think what you mean is that I’m willing to say things nobody else is willing to say,” she said, cackling. “Probably ’cause at this point I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Narrowing her eyes at me, she asked, “So what’s on your mind? I can tell there’s something—or somebody—in partic
ular you’re interested in.”

  “That’s right.” I took a deep breath. “Linus.”

  “What about him?”

  “Ever since I learned about what happened Wednesday night, I don’t think I’ve heard anyone say a single bad thing about him. Oh, his kids have their complaints, of course. Mostly about—”

  “Money, right?”

  I didn’t try to hide my surprise. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Because those three have been griping about the same thing since they were old enough to understand you can’t buy a candy bar without a handful of change,” she grumbled. “But you know what I think?”

  I had a feeling that, whether I wanted to know or not, I was about to find out. Fortunately, I couldn’t have been more eager.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That my brother did the absolute right thing,” she replied with a firm nod of her head. “Linus was trying to teach them the value of money—and especially the value of earning it for yourself rather than being handed a blank check. True, his lessons never really took hold with those kids of his. But that wasn’t his fault.

  “In fact, he was a terrific father,” Alvira continued. “Given the fact that the man ran a huge company, he could have chosen to put all his energy into work. Instead, he always made time for them. He never missed a school play or a graduation or even a meet-the-teachers night. He made sure he spent time with them every evening, except when he was traveling. Telling them bedtime stories was part of his nightly routine. Making sure they brushed their teeth, too.”

  “What about his marriage?” I asked. I didn’t want to overstep any lines. But Alvira appeared to be someone who had no qualms about speaking the truth—about anything. “Were things between Charlotte and Linus as wonderful as they seem?”

  “Better,” Alvira said without missing a beat. “Those two were made for each other. You never saw two people who were more caring or more loving or more involved with each other. They both would have done anything for the other, no questions asked.”

  “What about Linus as a businessman?” I asked. “I heard he gave lots of his money to charity. His time, too. But what about the people he worked with day in and day out?”