Crossing The Lion Part 13

"Thanks," I said. Offering her an apologetic smile, I added, "Sorry that I'm making you work overtime."

"Me?" She shrugged. "I don't expect that I'll be getting much sleep tonight, either--even with the help of this." She picked up a gla.s.s that I hadn't noticed before, mainly because it was tucked behind the electric mixer. Frowning, she added, "Talking to that Lieutenant Falcone earlier today is enough to keep anybody awake nights." She raised the gla.s.s in a silent toast, then downed a good third of its contents without coming up for air.

"I'm pretty sure Anthony Falcone has that effect on just about everybody he talks to," I commented.

"He wasn't treating me like everybody," she corrected me grimly, setting her gla.s.s down firmly on the table. Her voice wavering, she added, "It's hard enough coming to grips with the fact that poor Mr. M. was murdered. But the idea that I could possibly have had anything to do with it is preposterous. n.o.body was more loyal to that man than I was!"

With agitated movements, she began to a.s.semble ingredients: milk and b.u.t.ter from the refrigerator, sugar and squares of unsweetened chocolate from the pantry. She slammed each item down on the granite counter, making it clear just how upset she was over being considered a suspect in Linus's murder.

"What do you think happened that night, Margaret?" I asked gently.

"Like I told that Falcone," she said, "I agree with the theory that the eggs Mr. M. ingested had to have been in the birthday cake. That's the only thing on the menu that could possibly have been prepared with them. We had all his favorites: lobster with melted b.u.t.ter, shrimp in a garlic-and-oil sauce, plenty of veggies ... There's no way to incorporate eggs into any of those. So it had to be the cake."

She grabbed a large knife from the block on the counter and began chopping up the chocolate with swift, angry strokes.

I was afraid to ask the obvious question but had no choice. "But didn't you make his birthday cake?"

"I made a birthday cake," she replied. Frowning, she reached into a drawer under the stove and noisily rifled through the pots and pans, finally pulling out a saucepan. "But somebody evidently subst.i.tuted one that was made with eggs without me knowing."

She turned to me, wearing an agonized expression and still grasping the metal pan in one hand. "I should have paid closer attention," she told me, her voice a near whisper.

"How could you have antic.i.p.ated that something like that would happen?" I asked. "Especially since someone clearly went to great pains to make the switch."

"Whoever it was certainly knew how things work in this house," Margaret mused.

"What exactly happened Wednesday evening?" I asked gently. "In terms of getting the cake ready for Linus's birthday?"

Margaret took a deep breath. "After I made the two chocolate cake layers, I left them on the counter. If you've ever baked a cake, you know it takes a while for it to cool down. You can't frost the layers until they're at room temperature or the frosting will slip right off. So I put the cake layers on a cooling rack and went about my business, getting other things ready and leaving the kitchen a few times to do some other errands.

"When it came time to frost the cake, I thought I noticed they looked a little different," she went on. "But I was in a hurry, and my mind was in a hundred different places ... My theory is that while I was away from the kitchen, somebody sneaked inside and subst.i.tuted two chocolate layers that they'd gotten somewhere else. I went ahead and frosted the cake, then served it to the entire family."

I blinked, not sure whether to believe her version of what had happened. After all, she was the one who had control over the kitchen, spending more time here than anyone else. It wasn't impossible that someone had sneaked in and switched the cakes, of course. But it was at least as likely that she had put eggs in the cake herself.

Still, for the sake of questioning her, I intended to act as if I accepted her explanation without question.

"Who knew that you were making a chocolate cake for Linus's birthday," I asked, "and that you'd be making two layers that were that particular size?"

"Just about everyone who's familiar with this household," she replied matter-of-factly. "It's a Merrywood family tradition to serve a two-layer cake at everyone's birthday celebration. I always make two nine-inch layers, in whatever flavor the person likes best. That's a pretty standard size." Shrugging, she added, "As for the flavor, Mr. M. loved chocolate. So anyone who knew we were gearing up for a birthday celebration would have known it was guaranteed to include a chocolate birthday cake."

I hesitated for a few seconds before asking the next question that came to mind. "Margaret, who do you think might have subst.i.tuted their cake for yours?"

She didn't look at me, instead pretending to be absorbed in dropping chunks of chocolate into the milk she was heating on the stove.

"I'm not one to go around making accusations," she said evenly, her eyes still fixed on the saucepan, "especially when it involves something this important. But I've observed some things that not everybody in this house may know about."

My heartbeat quickened and my ears p.r.i.c.ked up like Max's whenever he hears the refrigerator door open. "Like what?"

She cast me a wary look. "Like the fact that there was somebody in the house that night who I suspect had been trying to come between Mr. M. and his wife."

My eyebrows shot up as she continued, "Maybe that person finally got fed up that her plan wasn't going the way she wanted. Or maybe there was something else going on between the two of them."

I remained silent, mentally going through the list of people who were at the party the night before last. Aside from Linus's daughter and his wife, the only females in the house were Scarlett and Gwennie.

Margaret clearly thought one of them was pursuing Linus, motivated by a desire for either his love or his money. But, frankly, I found it difficult to picture either of them engaging in a flirtation with Linus, no matter what their motivation. Scarlett Sandowsky was as prim as they come. Repression appeared to be her middle name. As for Gwennie--well, it was difficult to imagine her in any role aside from an extra in Mary Poppins.

"Not that I blame her, of course," Margaret went on, still staring intently into the saucepan and steadily stirring the delicious-smelling chocolate mixture. "After all, what woman in her right mind wouldn't develop a strong affection for Mr. M., once she got to know him? The man was a prince. He was intelligent, sensitive, as polished as all get-out ... I mean, how many men who'd achieved as much as he did would still care so much about using his fortune to help so many others?"

A sudden realization hit me like a lightning bolt.

Oh, my gosh! I thought. Margaret was in love with him!

I tried to wrap my mind around the fact that the family's loyal longtime employee obviously had feelings for Linus. Given that revelation, it was no wonder she was convinced, rightly or wrongly, that another woman in the household had also set her sights on him.

As she continued singing Linus's praises, meanwhile stirring more and more forcefully, my mind drifted to the two possibilities, Scarlett and Gwennie. If one of them did, indeed, have feelings for Linus, she could have become frustrated by his lack of interest in returning her affections and murdered him. Or, if money was her motivation, it was possible that she'd managed to get him to write her into his will, and she saw a quick inheritance as the next best thing to replacing Charlotte in the role of Mrs. Merrywood.

Either way, all the secrets cloistered within the walls of this creaky old mansion made this puzzle much more difficult to solve than one in a board game.

I didn't know how I'd ever fall asleep that night, even though I'd have the comfort of Nick beside me. There were too many thoughts whirling around inside my brain.

Still, it was late, the house was quiet, and the rooms were getting colder. It was definitely time to go to bed. With a pan of freshly made, foil-wrapped fudge in hand, I opened the bedroom door quietly, encountering darkness and hearing low, even breathing that told me Nick was already asleep. Darkness and his low, even breathing.

Enough light filtered in from the hallway that I could see he was sharing the mattress with Max and Lou. Both of my doggies woke up long enough to wag their tails--in Max's case, the stub on his b.u.t.t--and gaze up at me adoringly through bleary eyes. After stashing the fudge in a drawer in case Alvira decided to pay another midnight call, I petted each of them for a minute or two before squeezing into the limited s.p.a.ce that remained. I was glad that at least I now had Nick and the dogs to help ward off the chilly air that held the entire house in its grip after night fell.

But I'd been right about how elusive restfulness was going to be. As I stared up at the ceiling, one scenario after another played in my head. They were like a series of movie trailers, each with a different star: Brock, Tag, Cook, and just about everyone else in the household. In addition, the jumble of random clips never quite told a satisfying story.

They certainly didn't give any clues about what the ending would be.

I lay in the dark, trying to think up a good way of questioning Scarlett, Townie, Harry, and the two servants from across the pond without appearing to be interrogating them. But I froze when I suddenly heard a loud squeak. It sounded like one of the wooden floorboards out in the hallway--one that was right outside my room.

You're imagining things, I told myself, turning over on my side and resolutely closing my eyes.

Sque-e-eak!

This time there was no mistaking what I'd heard. Where it had come from, either.

Someone is out there, I thought with alarm. And since the only other person who had a room in this part of the house was Harry, it wasn't exactly a high-traffic area.

My heart had already gone into its jackhammer mode, and I could feel the adrenaline shooting through every nerve of my body.

It's probably nothing, I insisted to myself. Just someone going to the bathroom--or down to the kitchen because they smelled Cook's fudge.

Instinctively, I glanced over my shoulder at Nick. But he was sleeping so soundly that I couldn't bring myself to wake him. Certainly not over something like this, since the logical part of me knew it would most likely turn out to be nothing. My two "watchdogs" didn't even bat an eyelash.

Then again, there was something about this house that wasn't like anyplace I'd ever been before. A noise in the dark of night that I a.s.sumed was nothing could turn out to be anything.

Sque-e-e-e-ak! I heard it again, this time a little farther away.

By this point, I knew there was no way I'd ever get to sleep without checking it out. So even though the room was icy cold, and even though I knew the floor was going to feel like a glacier beneath my bare feet, I pulled back the covers, climbed out of bed, and tiptoed over to the door. I opened it gently, sure it would turn out to be nothing more onerous than someone moving innocently through the house.

So I was unprepared for the sight of something white and diaphanous floating at the other end of the hallway. As I stared at it, blinking, a gust of cold air hit me, sending a horrible chill through my bones.

A ghost!

My chest was doing that telltale-heart thing again. I tried to find relief in the fact that, whatever it was, it appeared to be moving away from me.

Wait a minute, I suddenly thought. You don't believe in ghosts! You're just imagining things--all because of this creepy house with its hidden staircases and eerie portraits and all this thunder and lightning ... As for that blast of cold air, it was probably a draft from an open window somewhere.

By that point, the ghost, or whatever it was, had disappeared. And I was feeling like an idiot.

I ordered myself back to bed, talking to myself as if I were a naughty child suffering from the aftereffects of too much sugar.

Just because this house is creepy doesn't mean you have to start believing every horror movie you've ever seen, I scolded myself. I got back into bed, marveling over how quickly the sheets on my side had gone from toasty warm to freezing cold.

I was just beginning to warm up again when I heard a low moan.

A moan that sounded exactly like the kind of noise a ghost would make.

But there is no ghost! I reminded myself. Not here or anywhere else!

"Oh-h-h!" I heard again.

Okay, something was definitely going on. Either there was a ghost up here--or someone was trying to make me believe there was a ghost up here.

Either way, I decided it was time to get to the bottom of this.

Once again, I threw back the covers and was immediately a.s.saulted by cold air. Cursing myself for not having thought to pack a bathrobe, I grabbed my Polarfleece jacket, the next best thing. Even though my feet felt like two giant ice cubes, I didn't put on my shoes. Maybe ghosts aren't sensitive to noise, but real live people are. And I was growing increasingly convinced that that was what I was dealing with.

I opened the bedroom door again, moving cautiously since I still wasn't certain what I'd find waiting for me on the other side. I was almost disappointed that this time there was absolutely nothing there--not even any Casper-like apparitions waving around.

I crept down the hallway, trying to be as quiet as possible--not only so whoever or whatever was making that noise wouldn't hear me, but also so I could get a better idea of where it was coming from.

"Oh-h-h!"

There it was again--and this time I was nearly certain the low moaning sound was coming from the other end of the hall.

The same place where I'd seen the wavy white apparition.

I was back to wondering what to believe. I moved across the cold wooden floor as stealthily as a member of a SWAT team, albeit one dressed in a pair of flannel pajamas, a coat, and bare feet. With no weapon, either, aside from my overactive imagination--which, I had to admit, in the past had generally done more harm to me than to anyone else.

The low moaning had stopped, but I'd almost reached the end of the hall when I heard another sound. It was a soft rustling I couldn't quite identify.

And it seemed to be coming from behind a closed door. The one that led to the bedroom I was pretty sure Harry Foss was staying in.

I went over to the door and stood outside it, hoping that whatever was on the other side couldn't hear my heart pounding as if it were demanding to be let in.

And then I heard something I was instantly able to identify: a giggle.

"Harry, stop that!" a shrill female voice insisted, her tone indicating she didn't really want him to stop at all.

I knew that voice. And it didn't belong to any ghost.

It belonged to Missy, a woman who in less enlightened times would have been referred to as Mrs. Townsend Whitford III. The same woman who'd acted as if she put her husband on a pedestal so high, she practically needed a crane to kiss him good night.

Yet if my ears didn't deceive me, she was rustling around in the sheets with her father's business partner, no doubt after removing that diaphanous white nightgown she'd been wearing only minutes before.

As for the moaning I'd heard, that wasn't the least bit mysterious. It turned out to have more to do with pa.s.sion than poltergeists.

So Missy and Harry are having a secret fling, I thought as I stole back to my room. I slid into bed, so amazed at what I'd discovered that I felt as if I would burst.

I'd barely had a chance to pull the covers up to my chin before I heard Nick mumble, "Jess?"

"Go back to sleep," I insisted.

"I'm trying," he replied sleepily, "but you seem to be running a relay race over there."

"I'm sorry," I told him. "Please, ignore me."

He let out a loud sigh. "I'm awake. So tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Why you keep getting out of bed."

I took a deep breath. "Nick, you're not going to believe this. I just found out that Missy and Harry are having an affair!"

"Wow!" Nick cried, sitting up abruptly. From the looks of things, he was now as awake as I was. "Talk about juicy! Are you sure? How did you find out?"

I glanced at him warily across the pillows. "Don't ask. Let's say it falls into the too-much-information category. But I'm wondering if you might have time to do me a favor."

"Now?"

"Tomorrow is fine," I a.s.sured him. "Whenever you've gotten far enough along in your studying that you feel you can take off your law-student hat and put on your sleuth hat."

He sighed. "Sure. The Fourth Amendment is pretty interesting, but even I can get tired of everything you ever wanted to know about search and seizure."

"In that case," I said, "your mission is to find out whatever you can about what Missy and Harry's secret liaison might mean--especially if there was anything about Linus's death that might have made it more convenient for the two of them."

"One obvious possibility is that Linus wouldn't have approved," Nick mused.

"And another is that they wanted his money--and his business," I observed. Teasingly, I added, "Figuring all this out sounds like the perfect job for someone with a law degree."

"I don't have one of those yet," he reminded me.

"No, but you have something even better."