Crossing The Lion Part 15

This bit of bling hinted at a totally different level of generosity.

And then Scarlett brushed back a strand of hair that had swooped down into her eyes. As she pushed it behind one ear, she revealed more shininess. This time, it was in the form of a diamond stud the size of a dime.

Cook's a.s.sertion that one of the other females in the household had been more than a loyal employee was starting to ring true. In fact, suddenly all the jokes about Miss Scarlet and the lead pipe in the conservatory didn't seem quite so amusing.

Just because Scarlett turns out to be stunningly s.e.xy doesn't mean she was up to no good, I reminded myself. You can't a.s.sume that every woman who's drop-dead gorgeous uses her looks for devious purposes.

Still, I couldn't help thinking that Scarlett's attractiveness probably wouldn't go unnoticed by any man, even one like Linus, who had practically been elevated to sainthood by almost everyone who knew him.

As for her expensive baubles, it was possible that she came from money--or that she had an indulgent boyfriend who was closer to her own age, not to mention unmarried. Or maybe she was simply good at handling her own finances, which enabled her to splurge on a piece of jewelry every now and then. I decided to hold off on judging her.

"The funeral will probably be pretty tough," I commented, "but hopefully it will help give everyone a sense of closure."

Scarlett nodded. "Even so, I think it's going to take all of us quite some time to get over this."

"I'm sure," I agreed. "I know you're all going to miss Linus. I've really been struck by how well loved he was." Studying her carefully, I added, "It's hard to believe that anyone could have possibly intended to kill him."

Scarlett lowered herself onto the couch opposite me, sitting down gingerly as if she was taking care not to muss up her outfit.

Extending one long leg, made even longer by her S&M-style footwear, she said, "I'd be inclined to believe it was an accident if it wasn't for the fact that everyone--and I mean absolutely everyone--knew how dangerous it was for poor Mr. Merrywood to go anywhere near an egg."

I nodded. "Lieutenant Falcone talked to Cook, and the conclusion seems to be that someone stole into the kitchen and subst.i.tuted a chocolate cake made with eggs for the one she'd made without any." Still watching her carefully, I added, "The question is, who?"

"I know one thing that might help the police figure that out," she said with a strange smile.

"What?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Linus's will."

Exactly what I was itching to learn about.

"Do you know anything about who's inheriting what?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "After all, you were his personal a.s.sistant."

Scarlett eyed me warily. As our gazes locked, I got the feeling she was debating whether or not to tell me what she knew.

Or maybe she was telling the truth when she replied, "I honestly don't know a thing about it. It's true I was involved in much of what went on in Linus's life, but that didn't include whatever plans he made for after his death."

Her response got me wondering again about Scarlett's true role in her employer's life. Had she been more than just his a.s.sistant? And if she was, did she truly care for him or was she simply seeking a way to walk away with a piece of the Merrywood pie?

But before I had a chance to ask her any more questions, Charlotte bustled into the room. As usual, she looked as if she deserved to be on the cover of a magazine, even if it happened to be the one the AARP put out. Like Scarlett, she was dressed in black. But her dress exuded dignity and good taste, with clean lines and a modest length and neckline. Her jewelry was similarly understated, even though it still managed to scream wealth: a string of pearls, a diamond-studded bangle bracelet on one wrist, a simple gold Cartier watch on the other.

"There you are, Scarlett," she said, smiling at her husband's former a.s.sistant. "You look very nice."

"Thank you," Scarlett replied, smiling back. "I decided to dress up in Mr. Merrywood's honor. I wore this dress to his birthday party. He seemed to like it."

"He was very fond of you, my dear," Charlotte said.

My eyebrows shot up. Was Charlotte, the trusting wife, really so naive?

Or was I the one who was reading into things?

"I think everyone is ready," Charlotte said. She went over to Scarlett and put her arm around her, almost as if they were mother and daughter. "I'm glad we're all going over together. It will make this easier for everyone."

Turning to me, she added, "Thank you, Jessica, for agreeing to watch the house while we're gone. I just don't feel comfortable leaving it unattended with all those horrid reporters and photographers lurking across the bay."

"I'm glad there's something I can do to help," I replied.

But as I watched the two women amble toward the front door, where the others were gathering, it occurred to me that I'd try to do even more to help while they were gone. If things turned out the way I hoped, by the time they returned I'd be that much closer to figuring out who had killed Linus.

I stayed in my seat until the front door slammed shut. But the banging sound was still echoing through the hollow hallways of the house as I jumped out of my chair and ran up to my bedroom, taking the steps two at a time.

I found Nick stretched out on the bed. Surrounding him were Max and Lou, a laptop, a pad of yellow legal-size paper, a bunch of highlighter pens, and several textbooks so hefty they made Alvira's dumbbells look like toys.

"Detective Popper," he greeted me, flinging his legal pad across the bed. "What insightful little tidbits have you uncovered this morning?"

I filled him in on the details he'd missed at breakfast with Missy, Townie, and Harry, marveling over how good the illicit lovers were at pretending they were nothing more than friends. Then I told him about my latest theory, that Scarlett might have been more than simply Linus's a.s.sistant--and that not all her compensation for her duties may have come from a paycheck.

"The plot is definitely thickening," he observed once I'd finished. "It'll be interesting to find out what's in the old man's will."

"My thoughts exactly," I said. "Maybe that information will help me figure out once and for all what all the intrigues in this household add up to."

Suddenly I had an idea. "Hey, you're in the process of becoming a lawyer. Do you have any secret ways of finding out what's in Linus's will?"

"Afraid not," he replied. "All you can do is wait, just like everyone else in the family. But for now, my beauty," he leered, doing a really bad Dracula imitation, "at last vee are alone." Patting the bed next to him, he added, "Come into my lair and I vill trans-por-r-rt you to another world."

I grinned to show him that even though he wasn't quite ready for Sat.u.r.day Night Live, I still appreciated his efforts. "But we both have so much to do in this world."

He sighed. "Rejected! I'm telling you, I'm beginning to wonder if I ever should have agreed to walk down that aisle."

Playfully, I punched him in the arm. "Wait a minute! You were the one who wanted to get married so badly!"

"I know," he said, turning serious. "And I must say, I haven't regretted it for a minute. Now, go chase that killer--and I'll do everything I can to learn about that pesky Fourth Amendment."

"I will," I told him. "I'm even going equipped with bait." To demonstrate, I reached into a dresser drawer and pulled out the pan of fudge Margaret had sent me upstairs with after our chat. "Actually, it's more like a bribe."

"Whatever works," he said.

Pulling Frankenstein off the shelf, I added, "Now, watch this."

I turned so I could see Nick's face as the entire unit moved to one side, revealing the hidden door.

His reaction didn't disappoint me. "Wow!" he cried. "A secret pa.s.sageway?"

"Remember that hidden staircase I mentioned?" I threw open the door, then swept my hand through the air like a model showing off a prize on a game show.

"That is totally awesome!" Nick exclaimed. "We have to get one of those!"

"Sure," I agreed amiably. "As soon as we have a crazy aunt of our own to lock in the attic."

With that, I bounded up the stairs, carefully holding on to the fudge.

"Knock, knock," I called when I reached the top, opening the door and peering inside. "Anybody home?"

The cats certainly were. All five of them this time, sprawled across the furniture like some exotic collection of throw pillows. The Maine c.o.o.n seemed to have s.n.a.t.c.hed the best spot, a soft cushion on top of the already soft couch. The black cat was close by, choosing to curl up just a few inches away. The one with the luxurious coat of long white fur lay on top of the couch with his tail hanging down over the cushions, while the gray-and-black tabby, Madeira, Alvira's favorite, had staked out one of the arms. Even m.u.f.fin was among this coterie of cats, although she lay on the floor, keeping herself slightly apart from the others.

A second later, Alvira emerged from the room behind the living area. She broke into a smile as soon as she saw me. "You came back!"

"I promised I would," I said. "And I brought what you asked for."

Alvira's face lit up like the nighttime sky on the Fourth of July. "Fudge!" she cried, eagerly reaching toward the foil-covered pan in my hand.

"Not so fast," I insisted, pulling it away. "First, you have something I want."

She looked puzzled, but only for a few seconds. "Oh. Information, right?"

"That's right."

I sat down on the couch, placing the coveted fudge in my lap so that it was in clear view.

"I'm anxious to hear about that clue you mentioned yesterday." With a little shrug, I said, "No clue, no fudge."

"They weren't supposed to be related," Alvira said crossly. "I asked you to get me some of that fudge as a favor. I'm planning to tell you my theory no matter what."

Ah, I thought. So Alvira's closely guarded piece of information had been demoted from an actual clue to a mere theory.

I decided to remain a tough negotiator. For all I knew, her craving for fudge would quickly be replaced by a yearning for some other treat--and her determination to have me visit her regularly would cause her to delay telling what she knew even further. "In that case, let's hear it."

Alvira plopped down next to me. "If you ask me," she said with a quick nod, "the answer to the question of who killed Linus and why is in Linus's notebooks."

"What notebooks?" I asked. Yet I remained wary. While Alvira had impressed me as someone who knew plenty, I hadn't forgotten Winston's claim that her own brother had characterized her as less than reliable. I realized that I'd be wise to take whatever she said with a grain of salt.

"Linus was a fanatic about his notebooks," she said, so caught up in what she was saying that she seemed to have forgotten all about her chocolate payoff. "Journals, I suppose you'd call 'em. Or diaries. They weren't something he told most people about, since when he first got started, he thought keeping a diary was kind of a girl thing. But even as an adult he wrote in them religiously."

I had to admit that what she was saying sounded pretty plausible. "Did he write personal information?" I asked. "Or just notes about the day-to-day workings of his business?"

"Y'got me there," Alvira admitted. "All I know is that ever since he was a kid, Linus recorded everything. I suppose his scribblings started out like any other kid's diary. He'd write about where he went that day, who he went with, what exams he had coming up, what girl he had a crush on--"

"If you don't mind me asking," I interrupted, "how do you know so much about what your brother wrote in his diary when you were both children?"

She shrugged. "How d'you think? Like any self-respecting little sister, I figured out where he hid it--under the mattress--and peeked at it every chance I got!"

I didn't doubt that part for an instant. "But keeping a diary as a child is one thing," I pointed out. "How do you know it was a practice he continued into adulthood?"

"Because I used to tease him about it," Alvira explained. "I'd say, 'Still keeping those diaries, Linus? Do you really think one day somebody's going to want to sit down and read your years' and years' worth of jottings?' And he'd always say the same thing: 'They're not for other people, Alvira. They're for me. It's what I do to keep my head straight. You could say it's my form of therapy.'"

"I see," I said. Still wary, I added, "But it sounds as if you never actually saw them. Once the two of you grew up, I mean."

"Nope. That's why I don't know if he was writing about his personal life or his business dealings. But either way," she added, her eyes narrowing, "I wouldn't be surprised if he wrote something in 'em that would help the police figure out who killed him. Maybe he was blackmailing somebody--or somebody was blackmailing him. Maybe he had a secret life none of us knew about. Maybe he was even doing something shady with the business. I'd find it hard to believe, given what I know about my brother. But when you come right down to it, who knows what other people are capable of--even people they're close to?"

Her reference to individuals who were close made me shiver. After all, those were the exact words Linus had used in his final telephone call to Winston.

That coincidence aside, I knew Alvira was right. If Linus had kept a diary, chances were good that someone who took the time to read it would find a clue to who might have wanted him dead.

I was ready to take on the task.

"Where does he keep them?" I asked. I tried to sound as if I had a casual interest--instead of letting on that it was all I could do to keep myself from racing down the stairs, grabbing the latest volume, and reading every single word.

Alvira didn't answer right away. Instead, her eyes traveled downward. "Maybe some of that fudge would help me remember."

I decided that handing over the goods at this point wouldn't hurt. She'd already told me the most important part of what she knew. I felt pretty confident that she'd spill the rest as soon as she had a little sugar in her bloodstream.

I waited in silence while she tore open the foil, acting as if she hadn't eaten for days. Just as speedily she broke off a chunk of fudge and stuffed it in her mouth. I wasn't even offended that she didn't offer me any.

I gave her about thirty seconds to chew and swallow before asking, "So is the fudge helping you remember where Linus kept his diaries?"

"Y'got me," Alvira replied with a shrug. "Like I said, he was always pretty secretive about them. That's why he stashed 'em in a place he thought n.o.body would look. I don't know what he did with them once he moved out of our parents' house. If you're going to look for them, you have your work cut out for you."

Glancing around the room, she added, "But I bet he brought 'em with him when he started spending more time out here. Especially the current one. And they shouldn't be that hard to find, since in a place this big, he probably figured he didn't have to hide 'em anywhere as mysterious as under his mattress. In fact, I'd bet the rest of this fudge that, as the old saying goes, they're hidden in plain sight."

As I tromped back down the stairs, I mulled over Alvira's story about Linus's diaries. While I was still ambivalent about whether or not to believe whatever she told me, the idea of her brother keeping records of what went on in his life certainly sounded plausible.

And because I was eager to get as much information as I could, I decided to accept what she'd told me as the truth. After all, the worst that was likely to happen was that I'd waste some time looking for something that didn't exist.

But until proven otherwise, I was willing to a.s.sume that they did exist--and to hope Alvira was correct about Linus not necessarily hiding whatever journals or records he kept. Once he grew up and moved away from a little sister with prying eyes, he might not have felt the need to be quite so secretive. However, there were also plenty of places to store them here in this sprawling mansion, which was so big that something as simple as a diary wouldn't stand out.

Unless, of course, someone with a great deal of determination went searching for it.

"Did you find what you needed?" Nick asked as I closed the door, picked up Frankenstein, and slipped it back onto the shelf.

As the gigantic bookcase slid into place, I replied, "Not yet. But I'm hoping I can still accomplish that before everybody gets back."

Especially since that person with determination happened to be me.

Chapter 10.

"When spider webs unite, they can tie up a lion."

--Ethiopian Proverb Perching on the edge of the bed, I told Nick about Alvira's claim that Linus had been as addicted to journaling as he'd been to making money. I also filled him in on Winston's take on the woman's grasp on reality.