Crossing The Lion Part 23

"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 blase 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 blase 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 hara.s.sing 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 b.u.t.ter, 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 m.u.f.fin. The Maine c.o.o.n 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 n.o.body 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 particular 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?"

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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 something 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 s.h.i.+ny 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.