Crossing The Lion Part 2

"Not at all!" I a.s.sured her.

"Jessica's a veterinarian," Betty informed her, her voice bursting with pride. "She loves animals--and they love her."

"A veterinarian!" Charlotte exclaimed. "How fascinating. And how rewarding it must be to work with animals. Where is your office?"

"I have a mobile-services unit," I told her. "In other words, a clinic-on-wheels. I treat animals all over Long Island."

"She takes care of dogs, cats, even horses," Winston added proudly.

"In that case," Charlotte said, with a warm smile, "I can see why Admiral and Corky already adore you."

Returning her smile, I said, "They both seem like great dogs."

"They belonged to Linus." Suddenly Charlotte's face sagged, and all the light went out of her eyes, as if someone had flipped off a switch. "They were completely devoted to him. In fact, the two of them keep looking at me, as if they're asking where he is ..."

Her voice trailed off, but not before I heard the beginnings of a sob. It was almost a relief that at that moment a booming clap of thunder set the entire house to shaking.

"My, this storm is turning out to be quite powerful," Charlotte commented, quickly regaining her composure. Glancing out the velvet-framed windows, she added, "I do hope we don't lose our electricity."

That's all I need, I thought morosely, being stuck in a haunted house on a remote island with no lights, no heat, and--worst of all--no coffeepot.

"Aw righty, that's done." A brash female voice, as abrasive as the screeching of a microphone, suddenly cut into the room. "Yer rooms are all ready for the loikes o' you. Even got fires burning, warmin' things oop a bit."

A wiry woman about my age had come rushing in, bearing an elegant silver tray piled high with cheese, crackers, and fruit. She was dressed in a dowdy dark dress that looked as if it had been designed by the same person who'd clothed the sour-faced souls hanging in the hallway. She wore a starched white ap.r.o.n over it, and on her large, pigeon-toed feet were boxy shoes with thick rubber soles. Her bright red-orange hair was pulled up into a loose topknot, with plenty of tendrils spilling over her face and neck. But her hairstyle looked haphazard, as if she simply couldn't be bothered to fuss with it--as opposed to going for a carefully calculated bed-head look.

The woman walked quickly and kept her head down, as if she was one of those people who's continually in a hurry. As she neared the sofa, I noticed a smudge on her cheek. At first I thought it was coal dust. At second glance, however, I decided it looked more like eyeliner gone awry.

"Blimey, the bunch o' you are wet as all get out!" she cried, setting the tray down on a table. She looked us up and down, meanwhile wiping her hands on a linen dish towel she'd pulled out of her ap.r.o.n pocket. "You'll catch yer death, every last one o' you. You'd be wise to do what that gentleman over there is doing, standing by the fire and warming 'is 'ands."

Eliza Doolittle, is that you? I thought, blinking.

"What a marvelous suggestion for combating the rawness of this chilly evening," Charlotte said kindly, even though none of us budged. "Thank you so much for your concern, Gwennie."

Ah, I thought. So this is the famous Gwennie, the maid who spends her free time hauling suitcases and posing for steroid ads.

"Come on, now, 'elp yerselves," Gwennie said, bustling around as she distributed forks and napkins. "Everybody 'oo comes off that ferry is always 'ungry. Shattered, too. Something about being out on the open seas makes everyone knackered. Sometimes even a bit d.i.c.ky."

I deposited Frederick on the carpet, then stepped over to the tray the thoughtful Gwennie had brought and smeared a water cracker with Brie. She was right: I was famished. As for being a bit d.i.c.ky, I couldn't say.

"Are the children back yet, Gwennie?" Charlotte asked.

"Not yet, Missus," Gwennie replied. "But I'm sure they'll be 'ome soon." Glancing toward the window, she added, "Cold, dark night like this--n.o.body in their roight mind should be out and about. Still, it's not as if they didn't have good reason."

Turning to us, Charlotte said, "I'm sorry my children aren't here to greet you. My two youngest went to the funeral home early today to make arrangements for Sat.u.r.day and they're not back yet. I've decided to let them make all the difficult decisions, since at this point it's more than I can cope with."

Smiling wanly, she added, "Missy and Brock are taking such a load off my shoulders by dealing with all those details. As for my oldest, Taggart, he had some business to attend to in the city today, but he'll be back shortly." With a tired sigh, she added, "There's been so much to do, ever since ..."

Once again, she let her voice trail off. It didn't matter, since we all knew exactly how she would have finished her sentence if she'd had the strength.

"The children were all at the house last night, weren't they?" Winston asked gently.

"That's right," Charlotte said. "We were all here together, celebrating Linus's seventy-fifth birthday." Her voice thickening, she added, "That's the one good thing, I suppose. That poor Linus had one last night with his entire family around him, I mean. His business partner, Harry, too. He's in the city at the moment, but we expect him tomorrow. And his a.s.sistant, of course. She was totally devoted to him--"

"Excuse me, Mrs. Merrywood," Jives interrupted, stepping into the room abruptly. I'd forgotten about him, mainly because he'd disappeared as soon as he supplied everyone with a gla.s.s of that high-octane sherry. Since I hadn't heard him approaching, he seemed to materialize out of thin air. "Miss Scarlet has arrived."

I blinked. Miss Scarlet? Don't tell me, I thought. She's the killer--and she did it in the kitchen with the candlestick.

"Wonderful," Charlotte said. "Please show her in, Jives."

I braced myself for a pretty but flashy young woman, someone with too much makeup and platinum-blond hair worn in a 1930s style--a wavy perm, maybe. And a startlingly bright red dress, of course.

But while the woman who strode into the room a couple of seconds later was indeed young, little else about her bore any resemblance to my imagined version. In fact, she seemed determined to present herself as far from flashy as possible, even venturing into the realm of prudishness.

She didn't appear to be wearing any makeup at all, although her thick tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses made it difficult to get a good look at her eyes. She wore her dark-brown hair pulled back into a tight chignon, a style that struck me as strangely severe. It was consistent with her surprisingly stiff posture. She carried herself as if she wasn't quite comfortable in her own body. As for her outfit, it also seemed unusually prim for someone in her mid-twenties, consisting of a conservative black suit with a tailored jacket and a slim, hip-hugging skirt.

True, she wore a red scarf, but it was a tasteful shade of burgundy. In one hand she clutched a leather portfolio of the same color, which made her look efficient--and important.

"Miss Scarlet," Jives announced with great ceremony.

I couldn't help noticing that as he said her name, his lips curled disdainfully.

O-kay, I thought. So there's no love lost there.

But I turned my attention to the new arrival.

"h.e.l.lo, Miss Scarlet," I greeted her. "I'm Jessica Popper."

She looked startled, then laughed. "Oh, heavens. That's just Jives's idea of a joke. My name is actually Miss Sandowsky. Scarlett Sandowsky--with two Ts, like Scarlett O'Hara."

That's a relief, I thought as I shook her hand. So I'm not living in a board game, after all.

Still, I couldn't help wondering how long it would be before Professor Plum and Colonel Mustard joined us in the conservatory.

"Scarlett, I'd also like you to meet Winston and Betty Farnsworth," Charlotte said. "Winston and Linus were good friends. They knew each other from the club."

"h.e.l.lo," she said politely, shaking their hands, as well. "I am--I was--Mr. Merrywood's personal a.s.sistant."

My eyebrows shot up. Why would a man in his seventies need a personal a.s.sistant who was so young? I wondered. Not to mention one who was so pretty, once you got past her attempts at concealing that fact.

I couldn't decide if I was being s.e.xist or simply suspicious, the way a good investigator should be. I decided to hold off on forming any opinions until I got to know Miss Scarlet--uh, Scarlett--a little better. In the meantime, I headed back to that Brie.

"Scarlett is practically a member of the family," Charlotte commented. "She's been so helpful to Linus over the past two or three years."

Smiling shyly, Scarlett added, "I was so grateful to Mr. Merrywood for hiring me right out of college. I can't imagine working for anyone nicer."

"Scarlett was an economics major at Va.s.sar," Charlotte explained.

"And I knew I could learn more working for Linus than anywhere else," she commented. Her forehead creased as she said, "But I interrupted you. I'm so sorry. Please go on with whatever you were saying."

"Where was I?" Charlotte asked, sounding distracted.

"You were telling us about Linus's birthday party," Betty reminded her. "And how nice it was that he had his whole family with him."

"That's right," Charlotte said breathlessly. "It was a lovely party. A real celebration. And the thought that's kept me going ever since is that at least Linus had a chance to see everyone one last time. It was an absolutely perfect evening and a wonderful dinner. Cook made it all herself, from soup to nuts."

Peeking over from the linen napkins she was folding, Gwennie added, "Quoite a spread, it was. All 'is favorite foods--including the ones that were bad for 'im."

She shook her head disapprovingly. "Lobster with melted b.u.t.ter, shrimp smothered in garlic and oil, even a fancy chocolate birthday cake almost as tall as I am. Imagine, a man 'is age, eating foods loike that."

"Now, Gwennie, none of that matters, does it?" Scarlett piped up. "Mr. Merrywood enjoyed his last meal, and that's what matters."

"Y'ask me, it was all that nasty saturated fat wot did 'im in," Gwennie grumbled.

As I sat back down, I glanced over at Charlotte, wondering how Linus's grieving widow felt about an argument on this particular subject. I was relieved that Gwennie's hands flew up in the air, as if she'd just noticed that something was missing, and she rushed out of the room to remedy the situation.

The sound of voices out in the hallway caught everyone's attention.

"Of course Mummy wouldn't start dinner without us," a woman exclaimed. "I wouldn't be surprised if she was doing something civilized right now like enjoying c.o.c.ktail hour, the same way she would have if Daddy were still here--see, Townie? I was right! Some things never change, thank goodness!"

A woman in her mid-thirties strode into the room a few paces ahead of a man about the same age, pausing as she glanced at the tray of snacks and the gla.s.ses of sherry that everyone held. A look of satisfaction crossed her face.

"I'm sorry we're so late, Mummy," she said, leaning over to kiss Charlotte's cheek. As she nestled onto the couch next to me, all three dogs--Frederick, Corky, and Admiral--converged on her, wagging their tails and demanding attention.

"It's positively ghastly out there!" she moaned, reaching down to pat each of the dogs distractedly. "But at least we managed to accomplish what we set out to do, thanks largely to Townie. He's ever so organized!"

Ever so organized? I thought with amus.e.m.e.nt. I was beginning to think I'd truly been transported into a 1930s black-and-white movie.

I studied the woman I surmised was Charlotte and Linus's only daughter, Missy. Her glossy chestnut-brown hair, just long enough to brush her shoulders, was held in place by a brown-and-black-plaid headband. I recognized it immediately as the signature fabric of Saint Burberry, the patron of preppies.

But her choice in headgear wasn't the only thing about her that screamed preppie. Missy Merrywood wore a beige blazer with a pair of tailored wool pants that looked as if they had been custom-made to show off her fit figure. Tucked loosely around her neck was a patterned brown scarf I thought might be Hermes. Hanging from her shoulder was a quilted black purse on a gold chain. Even I recognized it as Chanel, thanks to the shiny gold logo on its front flap.

Next I checked out her husband. I thought I'd heard her call him Townie, but I figured I had to be mistaken.

He struck me as considerably more staid than his bubbly wife. And it wasn't just his conservative clothing--a dark sports jacket worn with gray slacks--or his closely cropped light-brown hair. It was more the way he held himself slightly apart, not only in the vibes he gave off but also physically. Rather than sitting with the women or standing at the fireplace with Winston, he chose to stand off to the side. It was almost as if he was watching rather than partic.i.p.ating.

Charlotte would have none of it. "Townie, come sit with us," she insisted. "I must introduce you to our friends. Betty and Winston Farnsworth ..."

Once again, the lady of the house made sure all her guests were properly introduced. When it was my turn, Townie stepped over and held out his hand.

As soon as I reached out, he seized my hand enthusiastically, clamping on to it with the tightest grip I'd ever experienced in the name of meeting someone new. I squeezed back as hard as I could, not wanting him to think I was a featherweight.

"Townsend Whitford the Third," he said through a clenched jaw. In fact, it looked as if his top teeth had been cemented to the bottom row with Krazy Glue. "But call me Townie. Everyone does."

"Jessica Popper the First," I said. "But call me Jessie. Same reason."

"Aha!" Townie chortled, still doing an impressive job of making sure his teeth remained pressed against one another. "So this one has a sense of humor! I like that in a woman!"

His open approval of moi, the only real outsider in the room, appeared to arouse some feelings of jealousy on wifey's part. Missy immediately stood up and rushed over to his side. She grabbed his arm as if an earthquake had suddenly begun rocking the room. She practically sent the man sprawling across the floor.

"Come sit with me, sweetie!" she cooed. "Over here, on the love seat. Don't you just adore love seats? It's the absolutely perfect name for a piece of furniture that's built for two, don't you think?"

Once Mr. and Mrs. Whitford had staked out their own part of the room, Townie pulled a carved wooden pipe out of his pocket.

"No one minds if I smoke, do you?" he drawled.

"Of course no one minds!" Missy exclaimed. "Goodness, Townie, it's not as if you smoke those nasty cigarettes. Your pipe has a delicious aroma. Cherries--like the ones we used to pick at our summerhouse on Nantucket. Remember, cupcake? At least, that's what the smell always reminds me of. There's something ever so romantic about it. Not that you and I need any more romance, angel pie, do we?"

Even though Townie looked as if he was basking in his wife's adoration, once again Missy grabbed his arm. She clutched it so fervently that I wondered if she feared he was about to bolt. I was curious to see how the poor man was going to manage to light that pipe of his, given the fact that he now had the use of only one of his hands.

Addressing the rest of us breathlessly, Missy said, "I think just about everything this man does is simply amazing. Don't I, sweet pea? As a matter of fact, I consider myself the luckiest woman in the world. If I ever sat down and made a list of all the qualities I wanted in a mate, I'd be able to put a big red checkmark next to every single one. Not that I've ever done that, of course. Why should I, when I already know I managed to find the one man on this planet who was custom-made for me ...?"

Missy's endless gushing was making my stomach turn even worse than the roiling waves of Peconic Bay had. I was zoning out when I noticed something moving near the door. A young man was lurking in the hallway, right outside the door. He kept glancing into the room furtively, as if he hadn't yet decided if he really wanted to come in.

"Oh, good," Charlotte said, interrupting her daughter's oration about the wonders of Townsend Whitford III. "Brock is here."

She rose from her seat and floated across the room. By the time she reached the doorway, the lurker had stepped in, probably having realized he no longer had any choice now that he'd been spotted.

"h.e.l.lo, Mother," he greeted her. His expression softened as he kissed her lightly on the cheek, which told me that she wasn't the one he was ambivalent about.

Now that he was inside and I got a better look at him, I saw that Charlotte and Linus Merrywood's youngest offspring was tall, slightly built, and lean to the point of being bony. Brockton Merrywood, who looked as if he'd barely made it into his thirties, wore his dark-brown hair in a s.h.a.ggy style that was more Yippie than yuppie. Perched at the end of his slender, almost delicate nose was a pair of wire-rimmed gla.s.ses similar in style to the ones John Lennon favored.

Given Brock's taste in eyewear, it wasn't surprising that his duds consisted of jeans that bordered on scruffy and a white tunic-style shirt embellished with tiny white beads and elaborate embroidery. And even though the calendar read November, his toes peeked out from the ends of a pair of well-worn Birkenstock sandals.

Charlotte beamed as she said, "Everyone, I'd like you to meet my baby--that is, my youngest. Brock, this is Winston Farnsworth and his wife, Betty ..."

Once all the introductions were done, Brock lowered himself onto an ottoman. But it was Townie who got the conversation moving once again.

"Brock recently launched a new enterprise," he said, addressing Betty and me. "He just went into the bead business."

"It's a jewelry business, actually," Brock replied coldly.

"Yes, but it's beaded jewelry, right?" Missy countered. In a strained voice, she added, "My baby brother is one of those artsy-craftsy people. You know, the kind who like to make things."

"At least I work," Brock shot back.

"I don't have time to have a job!" Missy insisted. "I'm too busy with all my charity work, which I can a.s.sure you adds up to more hours than most people put in at their office!"

"What Missy meant to say is that Brock has always been extremely artistic," Charlotte explained, ignoring her children's bickering. There was pride in her voice as she added, "Brockton was never interested in the family business. He always found it so cold and dry. There's nothing the least bit creative about all those bits of metal being turned into such practical things, and Brock thrives on creativity."

"Much to Linus's dismay," Townie commented in a voice so soft I wondered if anyone besides Missy was meant to hear him.

"Poor Daddy," Missy said with a loud sigh. "We'll all miss him so much."

"Everyone misses him already," Townie added. "Not only was he phenomenally successful, he was also universally loved. Now, that's a pairing you don't see every day."

A silence fell over the room as all of us remembered why we were here. But I was already learning that silence was as rare in this house as a dust-free surface. Once again, Gwennie's brash voice cut through the room like the proverbial fingernails on a chalkboard.

"'Scuse me," she said, bustling into the room. "If y' don't moind, dinner is served. 'At's wot Cook told me to say."