Crossing the Lion (a Reigning Cats and Dog) (2010) (29 page)

“You don’t know Jessie as well as I do,” Nick told him with pride. “Somebody telling her in no uncertain terms that they’d prefer it if she left is exactly the type of thing that makes her even more determined to stay—and to accomplish what she came here to accomplish.”

He squeezed my hand. “And the fact that she won’t let anyone bully her is only one of the ten million reasons I love this woman.”

I smiled wanly. Not that I didn’t appreciate Nick’s loyalty. It was just that at the moment, I wasn’t completely sure that opting to stay on Solitude Island was the right decision.

To be honest, if Lieutenant Falcone hadn’t charged me with doing my own murder investigation, I might have taken this warning written in blood-red ketchup as my cue to leave.

But for the first time ever, he’d invited me to prove to him just how good I was at solving crimes, and that changed everything. In fact, his belief in me—or perhaps his determination to show me once and for all that I wasn’t the sleuth I thought I was—made me unwilling to back down.

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 mentioned 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.