Crossing the Lion (a Reigning Cats and Dog) (2010) (8 page)

•  •  •

When I woke up the next morning, I lay in bed without moving, relishing the feeling of snuggling up in a warm, soft, surprisingly comfortable bed with my eyes closed. I listened for the sound of rain on the roof. When I couldn’t hear any, I hoped that meant the sun had come out.

I finally opened my eyes, expecting to see bright sunlight streaming in. No such luck. Instead, my bedroom was shrouded in shadows. Pale shadows, but shadows nonetheless.

So much for a sunny day
, I thought, groaning inwardly. I glanced at the windows and saw that hovering
right outside was more of that dreadful fog and the endless rain.

And then a shock wave jolted through me, banishing any traces of sleepiness that still remained.

I can see the windows
, I thought with alarm.
But when I went to sleep last night, the drapes were completely drawn
.

Which could mean only one of two things.

One was that I had walked in my sleep—something I’d never done in my life—and taken advantage of my mobility to do a little redecorating.

The other was that someone had come into my room in the middle of the night while I was in a deep sleep.

Impossible!
I thought, instinctively pulling the covers up to my chin.

My eyes darted over to the bedroom door. It was closed, exactly the way I’d left it.

That didn’t mean someone couldn’t have opened it.

Gwennie?
I thought.
Could she have gone traipsing through the house last night or early this morning, quietly opening the drapes in each room so the guests would wake up to views of this fine day?

While it wasn’t a great explanation, I decided it was the one I’d stick with.

I rolled over, figuring now that I’d solved that puzzle, I’d check my travel alarm clock to see if it was time to get up.

I was surprised to see it was later than I’d thought—almost nine. But the shock of the glowing
red numbers was nothing compared to what else I saw on the night table beside me.

Someone had left me a present.

I reached for it, not sure what it was.

It wasn’t until I held it close that I saw it was a little doll made out of yarn. It had yellow hair, cut about the same length as mine. And its clothes, fashioned from bits of fabric loosely sewn together with uneven stitches, were the same color as the ones I’d worn yesterday.

In other words, from the looks of things it was supposed to be me.

And around her neck, pulled tight, was a piece of cord made of black leather.

V
oodoo?
I wondered, dropping the doll on my pillow like the proverbial hot potato.

And if someone is attempting to cast an evil spell on me, who is it?

I jumped out of bed, scarcely noticing how icy the wooden floor felt beneath my bare feet. I was suddenly extremely motivated to figure out if Linus Merrywood really had been murdered—and, if so, who was guilty.

I was equally interested in finding out if the killer was the same person who had left me this souvenir.

Tentatively I switched on the lamp next to my bed, curious about whether the electricity had come back
on during the night. Fortunately, it had. I dressed quickly, tucking the voodoo doll into my pants pocket, where it was out of sight but not out of mind.

While a shower would have been refreshing, I wasn’t in the mood to wrestle with a plumbing system that I suspected would turn out to be as unreliable as the electricity. I was also desperate for coffee. While the little gift I’d found on my night table had done wonders to wake me up, I wasn’t in the habit of facing a new day without the assistance of caffeine. Contemplating the idea of a morning without that all-powerful cup of coffee was a horror show all its own, one more reason I was ecstatic that the electricity had come to its senses.

In fact, it was the intoxicating smell of freshly brewed java that led me to the right spot. Breakfast was being served in the dining room, the same place in which we’d all had dinner the night before.

I thought daylight might make the dining room look cheerier, despite the relentless rain. It didn’t. The grayness outside made for a gray atmosphere inside. Even in the light of day, the dour-faced men and women in the oil paintings stared down at me as if they were waiting around for something fun like another slew of witch trials.

However, I was much more interested in the food. Cook had set out quite a spread. Several silver chafing dishes, containing bacon, sausage, and hash browns, were lined up on a sideboard. Fresh croissants and bagels were piled high on a platter, while a fruit salad
provided at least some color in the otherwise dreary room.

Yet despite the abundance of breakfast goodies there for the taking, only one other person was in the room.

Someone new.

The man appeared to be in his mid- to late forties, his dark hair flecked with silver and his forehead creased. His facial features were attractive enough, if not particularly memorable: hazel eyes, a straight nose, thin lips. He boasted a tan, as if he’d recently returned from someplace warm and sunny. He was also strikingly fit, with broad shoulders and a lean torso that were complemented by his well-cut suit jacket. I decided he was one of those incredibly self-disciplined individuals who, like Tag, routinely spent time at the gym.

Harry Foss, I guessed. Linus Merrywood’s right-hand man.

“Goodness, are we the first ones up?” I asked, casting him a friendly smile as I made a beeline for the pair of matching silver urns on the sideboard, one for coffee and one for tea.

“More like the last ones,” the man replied, sounding amused. “At least you are. As for me, I drove out from the city early this morning and was just delivered here by boat.”

“In that case, I’m glad there’s still food left,” I said. “Quite a bit of it, too.”

“I’d go for the croissants, if I were you,” he suggested.

I followed his advice, then joined him at the table.

“Charlotte isn’t here to make sure we’re properly introduced,” I told him, “so I’d better do the honors myself. I’m Jessie Popper.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said politely. “I’m Harry Foss. I’m the CFO at Merrywood Industries. Linus’s close friend, and as chief financial officer his number two man.”

“I’m here visiting with friends of Linus and Charlotte,” I explained. “Betty and Winston Farnsworth.”

“Farnsworth, huh?” he repeated. “That name sounds familiar.”

“Winston and Linus belonged to the same club in New York.”

“Ah. That explains it,” he said with a nod.

Noticing the folded copy of
The Wall Street Journal
on the table next to him, I commented, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading. Please feel free to go right ahead.”

“Nothing but bad news,” he said with a wry smile. “I’d much rather converse.”

I paused to sip my coffee, then took a moment to relish the miraculous sensation of that first swallow of the magic potion slipping down my throat.

“How are the employees at Merrywood Industries handling Linus’s death?” I finally asked, sincerely curious.

Harry frowned. “Everyone is in shock, naturally. Even though the company is huge, Linus was unusually hands-on. Just about everyone knew him personally.
Liked him, too. He was the type of person who made you feel as if you were the most important person in the room, even if you were only a waiter who worked for the caterer. He always had a smile and kind word for everyone.

“He also had an unbelievable memory for names,” he continued, his admiration reflected in his tone of voice. “Once Linus met someone, he remembered that person’s name forever. Whenever I walked through the corridors with him, he’d greet every employee we passed by name. He’d remember something about their lives, too, so he’d say, ‘Good morning, Mary, how’s the baby?’ or ‘Hey, Chuck, still enjoying that new Beemer?’ The man was simply amazing.”

“Linus certainly sounds like he was well loved by everyone who met him.” I stared into my coffee cup, thinking,
Unless he was murdered—which means someone is out there who didn’t share the love
.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Harry insisted, as if he’d guessed what I was thinking. “Linus had his share of enemies. No one can become that powerful without making quite a few of those along the way.”

I quickly swallowed the sip of coffee I’d just taken. But before I had a chance to ask him to elaborate, he said, “You know, it’s kind of strange that everybody is acting so surprised by Linus’s death—especially that they’re all saying the man was in such good health.”

He glanced around, as if making sure we really were alone. Then, in a softer voice, he said, “I worked with the man day in and day out, and believe me, he
was definitely showing signs of aging. After all, he’d just turned seventy-five.”

Thoughtfully, I commented, “Seventy-five seems to be an age at which some people still seem young while others—well, not so much. I suppose it depends on genetics, as well as an individual’s lifestyle and general health.”

I was thinking of Betty. Winston, too. They were both around Linus’s age, yet they seemed as sharp and as energetic as other people I knew who were in their fifties or even younger.

But, according to Harry, that wasn’t the case with Linus.

“Was his performance at work starting to reflect his age?” I asked.

Harry frowned. “Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly helping.”

The sound of someone clearing his throat prompted me to turn. Winston was standing in the doorway, the wet splatters on the shoulders of his bright yellow slicker telling me he’d returned to Solitude Island from the early-morning appointment on Long Island he’d mentioned after dinner.

Frankly, I would have liked another five minutes alone with Harry. But now that Winston had joined us, I looked up at him and smiled.

“Good morning, Winston,” I greeted him. “Pull up a chair and—”

It was only then that I noticed his troubled expression.

“Is everything all right?” I asked, my smile fading.

“I wish it were,” he replied.

Harry frowned. “What’s going on?”

“I think I’d better talk to the entire family at once,” Winston said somberly. Nodding toward Harry, he added, “You and Scarlett, as well.”

“What’s all this about?” Harry asked.

Winston took a deep breath before replying, “I just got back from that meeting with the medical examiner’s office in Riverton. There have been some important developments surrounding Linus’s death.”

•  •  •

While Harry volunteered to find Scarlett, I took it upon myself to track down everyone else. Assembling the entire Merrywood clan in one room turned out to require nearly twenty minutes, since the members of the family were scattered all over the house.

I found Charlotte in the bedroom she and Linus must have shared. Like mine, it was decorated with old-fashioned, floral-patterned wallpaper, antique furniture, and thick drapes that looked as if they’d been designed to keep out the rest of the world.

She was sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed, her expression forlorn as she gazed at an assortment of items strewn across the white bedspread. They looked as if they’d been dumped out of the wooden box pushed off to one side. While I didn’t want to seem nosy, I made a quick survey, spotting a few black-and-white photographs, a stack of yellowing letters tied together with a frayed pink satin ribbon,
and a dried rose, its flaking petals breaking up into confetti.

I hovered in the doorway, reluctant to interrupt. Instead, I watched silently as she picked up one item after another, stroking it lovingly as she examined it.

“Charlotte?” I finally said, my voice nearly a whisper.

Her head jerked up, and she blinked a few times as if she was confused.

“Jessica!” she cried after a second or two. “How nice to see you. I was just looking at some very old things.” Smiling apologetically, she added, “At least that’s how they must seem to you. To me, they’re all wonderful memories.”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but Winston is back from his meeting on Long Island. He asked me to gather everyone into the conservatory so he can talk to the whole family about something he found out.”

Alarm crossed her face. But sounding as calm as usual, she said, “Of course. I’ll be there in a minute.”

She’d already turned back to the item in her hand. From where I stood, it appeared to be a wedding photograph.

Still feeling terrible about having intruded on such a private moment, I turned and headed down the hallway, continuing my search.

Brock was also alone. He had sequestered himself in his bedroom, which from the way it was decorated looked as if no one had touched it since he was a teenager. The wallpaper in here was cheerful blue-and-white
stripes, and a shaggy throw rug that picked up the same shade of blue covered most of the floor.

A half dozen shelves were stuck up against the wall. Most were crowded with books, their bindings worn as if they’d been handled almost to the point of falling apart. A few of the shelves were cluttered with action figures and video games that looked comically out of date. From their surprisingly pristine condition, I got the feeling he hadn’t gotten much use out of them during his youth.

Brock lay stretched out on the single bed, fully clothed—including his sandals—with an open book resting on his chest. I tried to peek at the cover, but the angle at which he held it made it impossible for me to see.

Probably the ramblings of some obscure philosopher, I mused. Or maybe a book of broccoli recipes.

Then I noticed that he wasn’t completely alone. He had brought the two dogs upstairs with him. They lay next to the bed, Admiral snoring a bit as he indulged in a nap and Corky panting away as if he was waiting for someone to pull out a Frisbee. I knew how badly they were hurting now that their longtime master was suddenly gone, so I was glad they’d found someone else to keep them company.