Crossing The Lion Part 7

"So it seems," I replied.

"You're the last person I woulda expected to find here," he went on. "Then again, maybe I should have antic.i.p.ated this, since it's not the first time you b.u.t.ted your nose into somebody else's business. What's your excuse this time?"

As always, it didn't take more than ten seconds in the man's presence to get my blood boiling.

And, as always, I did my best not to show it.

"Linus Merrywood was a close friend of Winston Farnsworth's," I said evenly. "And Winston is the husband of one of my closest friends, Betty Vandervoort. I'm keeping the two of them company while they pay a condolence call to Linus's widow."

"Uh-huh." Falcone knit his bushy black eyebrows together in a way that implied he wasn't sure whether or not to buy my story.

"What about you?" I asked him. "Are you here by yourself?"

"Not quite. I got a coupla uniformed cops outside, lookin' around."

"But why you?" I persisted. "Couldn't someone else from homicide conduct this investigation?"

He cast me a look of surprise. "Do you have any idea how big this is? A guy as important--not to mention rich--as Linus Merrywood, the victim of what looks like murder?"

He shook his head slowly. "I guess you've been outta the loop, stuck out here on this island and all. But believe me, this case has graduated to major news. Now that word is out that Linus Merrywood was murdered, the press is all over this. I'm talkin' the national press. Those vultures descended faster than you could say the word 'headline.' In fact, I got a buncha guys guarding the sh.o.r.eline to keep the reporters and photographers who are suddenly swarming the area from comin' over here in a canoe or a raft or whatever they can get hold of. Fuhget about this stormy weather. Even as we speak there are guys standing out there twenty-four seven with telephoto lenses, hopin' to get a shot of one of the family members."

With a sly grin, he added, "I spotted your buddy from Newsday out there, Forrester Sloan. But even he doesn't have the connections to get onto this crazy island."

Just as well, I thought.

Forrester and I had what could be characterized as a love-hate relationship--meaning he fancied himself in love with me while I hated being anywhere near him. At least that was how I liked to think about our a.s.sociation, which from the start had been complicated by the sparks that flew whenever we were together.

Having Falcone on this island was bad enough.

Distractedly, he smoothed his shiny, greased blue-black hair, adding, "To keep 'em happy and away from the Merrywood family, I scheduled a press conference for this afternoon. Everybody's gonna be there--CNN, CNBC, Court TV, you name it."

Oh, boy! I thought. Another chance for Anthony Falcone to get his name--and his picture--splashed across TV screens and in newspapers all over the country. No wonder he broke out the Matrix Men styling gel this morning.

"But are you even sure it's murder?" I asked. "After all, people die of allergic reactions all the time."

He eyed me suspiciously. "Surely Mr. Farnsworth told you about the phone call, since the two of you are so close and all."

My mouth dropped open. So Winston had finally told the police about Linus's a.s.sertion that someone was trying to kill him. And I was certain that, while he was at it, he'd mentioned that Linus had claimed it was someone close to him.

"I figured you knew about that," Falcone continued, obviously reading my reaction. "Mr. Farnsworth told me about the phone call at our meeting with the medical examiner this morning."

"Winston didn't mention that you were there, too," I observed.

"I was," Falcone said with a nod. "And the phone call came up while we were discussing the results of the autopsy. Needless to say, the information we have makes Mr. Merrywood's death suspicious enough that we're considering it a homicide."

Glancing around, he added in a much lower voice, "However, the call from the deceased is something we intend to keep from the family and everybody else in the household at the moment, if you catch my meaning."

"Got it," I a.s.sured him.

A hundred questions about what Falcone and the rest of his team had uncovered so far whirled around inside my head. But before I had a chance to wrest any more information from him, he stepped over to the ceramic urn and ran a finger along the surface.

"So what is it with the dust in this place?" he asked, glancing at his darkened finger with a scowl. "I feel like I'm in a tomb."

"I think the Merrywoods have had problems finding top-notch cleaning people," I replied. I couldn't resist adding, "You know how hard it is to find good help these days."

I was about to try to steer the conversation back to Linus's murder when Charlotte came bustling into the hallway.

"You must be Detective Falcone," she greeted him.

"That's Lieutenant Falcone," he corrected her. "And you are ..."

"Charlotte Merrywood. Linus's wife." Smiling as warmly as if she was hosting a dinner party instead of an investigation, she extended her hand. "I'm so pleased to meet you."

As they shook hands, Falcone said, "Sorry about your loss, Mrs. Merrywood. I can promise you that the Norfolk County Homicide Department is doin' everything in our power to find whoever committed this heinous crime."

That's hay-nous, I thought irritably. Not hee-nous.

Beyond his embarra.s.sing misp.r.o.nunciation, I got the feeling his little speech was something he'd been told to say, rather than a reflection of some innate sensitivity I'd never witnessed before. And when he'd memorized it, it was probably in writing.

Yet I couldn't help noticing that, even as he expressed his condolences, he was eyeing Charlotte suspiciously. No doubt he was taking in her expensive jewelry, her well-made designer clothes, and her patrician demeanor. He also looked closely into her eyes, trying to read whatever he could in them.

"I'd like to speak to everyone who was in the house the night Mr. Merrywood pa.s.sed away, one at a time," he told her, suddenly all business. "According to the medical examiner's report, the victim died from an allergic reaction to a food substance he ingested a few hours earlier, most likely at dinner. It's possible that it was an accident, of course, but right now we're actin' on the presumption that it wasn't. What can you tell me about the last meal Mr. Merrywood consumed?"

"Wednesday was his birthday," Charlotte replied sadly. "His seventy-fifth. The whole family was here. We'd also invited two business a.s.sociates who were close to him. And the servants, of course ..."

As Charlotte filled Falcone in on the details of that evening, he jotted down names and other pertinent information. I stood by quietly, hoping no one would notice me hovering behind the two of them and ask what I was doing there. Fortunately, they both seemed too wrapped up in their own conversation to bother with me.

Falcone finally clicked his pen closed. "Give me a few minutes to get organized here, Mrs. Merrywood. Then I'd like to speak to each of these individuals, someplace private. And for now, at least, I'd like everybody to stay here on the island."

"Of course," she agreed with a curt nod. "I'll go tell them all what to expect."

When she was gone, Falcone turned to me and said, "So whaddya think?"

I blinked. "What do I think?"

"That's right. After all, you've already been here awhile, right?"

"I only got here last night," I explained, "so I haven't really--"

"Yeah, but I know you, Docta Poppa," he interrupted. "And I'd bet the farm you already got the low-down on each one of these people." His mouth stretched into a grin that actually bordered on playful as he added, "So d'you think the butler did it?"

Before I had a chance to reply, he laughed. "Y'know, I always wanted to say that. But this is the first chance I ever got."

"Actually, it's possible the butler did do it," I said.

"Really?" He looked pleased. "Tell me more."

For a second or two, I was too shocked to speak. Was it possible that Lieutenant Falcone was asking my opinion? I was tempted to look out a window to see if pigs had started to fly.

But that impulse pa.s.sed as I realized I did have a lot to say. Even though I had, indeed, been on Solitude Island for less than twenty-four hours, I'd already learned quite a bit about the intrigues of the Merrywood household. Falcone added to his notes as I filled him in on what I'd observed so far: Missy and Tag's disdain for their little brother, Charlotte's protectiveness of Brock and her general role of peacemaker, Tag's reputation as a playboy, Missy's over-the-top adoration of her husband, Scarlett's devotion to her boss, Harry's concern that Linus had begun showing signs of aging, even the quirks of the hired help.

I didn't say a word about Aunt Alvira. I was so intrigued by the notion of a crazy aunt locked in the attic that I wanted to explore it on my own before I sicced the chief of homicide on her.

When I'd finished, Falcone actually looked impressed. Grateful, too.

"Thanks, Docta Poppa," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll talk to every one of those people myself." Checking his notebook, he added, "Starting with the cook."

"That's Cook," I corrected him, "not the cook."

"Whatever." He waved his hand in the air dismissively. "She's the one who made all the food around here, right? Including that last dinner the victim ate Wednesday night? She was also perfectly aware that Mr. Merrywood had a serious allergy to eggs. So if anybody tampered with the cuisine that night, it was most likely her."

He was right; she was the most obvious suspect. Which was precisely why I would have bet my farm that she wasn't the guilty party.

But I wasn't the one in charge.

"Maybe you can point me in the direction of the kitchen so I can get started," Falcone said. Glancing around, he muttered, "Jeez, ya practically need a map to get around in this place!"

"Go down this hallway and turn left," I advised. "And I'll be around after you've finished, if you need me."

Even though I was doing my best to act nonchalant, I was dying to know what Falcone found out during his interviews with Cook, the other two servants, Harry, Scarlett, and of course the entire Merrywood clan. I spent the next couple of hours in the front sitting room, pretending I was catching up on back issues of Town & Country. In reality, I was doing little besides watching the clock.

I also did plenty of fidgeting, squirming around in a comfortable upholstered chair. From my behavior, you would have thought I was a dog whose owner had tied his leash to a parking meter while he dashed into Starbucks. In fact, I did more wiggling around than did Corky and Admiral, who were lying on the floor next to me, as still as a pair of bookends.

When I finally spotted Falcone again, he was making a beeline for the front door. I jumped out of my chair, sending a cloud of dust flying. The two dogs looked up in surprise but were apparently too comfortable to budge.

"Well?" I demanded as I dashed into the front hallway.

"Well, what?" Falcone countered. He seemed to have forgotten all about his initial interest in my a.s.sessment of the situation. Instead, he was back to looking irritated, as if he found my mere existence on the planet a source of distress.

"Did you talk to everyone?" I asked anxiously. "What did you find out? Did the butler do it? Or Linus's pretty young a.s.sistant? How about one of his children?"

He cast me a stony look. "I'm still workin' on it."

"What about Cook?" I demanded, just in case the most obvious suspect did turn out to be the killer. "She knew as well as anybody that Linus was allergic to eggs, and as you pointed out she's the one who made the meal--"

Falcone shook his head. "First of all, it turns out the cook has a real name: Margaret Reilly. Second of all, she doesn't appear to be the perp." With a smirk, he explained, "And that's mainly because one important ingredient is missing."

I wasn't nearly as impressed by his cleverness as he was. "What's that?" I demanded.

"A motive." Frowning, Falcone added, "From the looksa things, she thought the worlda the guy. She worked for him and the rest of this family for almost forty years. She even followed them back and forth between this horror show of a weekend house and their place in the city while the kids were growing up and goin' to school in Manhattan. Then she moved out here full time when Linus and Charlotte started spendin' most of their time on the island. Not that I won't be keepin' an eye on her. But at the moment I got nothin' solid on her or anybody else.

"Speaking of horror shows," he continued, glancing around, "this place really creeps me out. What about you?"

"Actually," I said with a little shrug, "I've kind of gotten used to it."

His face flushed. "Not only do I have a problem with this freakin' house, I also don't like the fact that it's on an island. See, I also have, uh, kind of a problem with, uh, seasickness."

He looked around as if he wanted to make sure we were still alone before adding, "Comin' over here on that boat, I thought I was gonna hurl."

"How awful!" I said, doing my best to sound sympathetic without admitting that I'd had a similar experience myself.

Suddenly a strange smile crossed his face. "Y'know, I just had an idea."

"Really?" I said, fighting the temptation to express my surprise over something that I suspected was a pretty rare event.

"Maybe you could do me a favor."

"Ye-e-e-s?" I asked suspiciously.

"This is not a case I'm gonna solve instantaneously," he said. "Since you're gonna be spending the next couple days here anyway, I'm thinkin' maybe you could keep your eyes and ears open. Both of us know that b.u.t.tin' your nose into other people's business is something you're pretty good at. So maybe you could see if you pick up on any information that could turn out to be relevant."

In other words, conduct an investigation.

I was floored by Falcone's request--even though it was couched in an extremely backhanded compliment. After all, up to this point, all I'd ever gotten from him concerning my interest in poking around murders was complaints. So I didn't know whether to throw his offer back in his face like an unwanted gift--or run with it.

I chose option B.

"Sure," I replied casually. "I could do that."

"Good." He shrugged his shoulders a couple of times, meanwhile straightening his tie. "This'll help cut down on the amount of time I gotta spend here. Bein' stranded on this island is startin' to make me claustrophobic. Even if these people are richer than creases."

Uh, I believe that's richer than Croesus, I was tempted to say. I also found it hard to resist explaining that, despite the similar p.r.o.nunciations, the expression he was attempting to use referred to an ancient Greek whose wealth became legendary--not a dry cleaner who wasn't very good with a steam iron.

But I was too taken aback by Falcone's invitation to worry about the man's tendency to mangle the English language--as well as the Greek language. Not only was I astonished by what he'd just asked of me, I was positively tickled.

Even though the main reason Betty and Winston had brought me here had been to look into who might have wanted Linus dead, my role as an ad hoc investigator in the case of Linus Merrywood's murder was now official.

I stood at one of the narrow stained-gla.s.s windows that framed the front door, watching Falcone's silhouette disappear into the fog, still marveling over what had just transpired. But the sound of someone clearing his throat behind me caused me to turn.

I saw that Winston had wandered into the front hallway, probably not noticing me because of the dim light. He had stopped in front of one of the portraits hanging on the wall at the back of the house--one of a somber-faced woman who looked physically incapable of cracking a smile. From the expression on his face, his thoughts were a million miles away.

"Are you all right, Winston?" I asked, going over to him and linking my arm in his.

"I suppose I am, all things considered," he replied, patting my arm and forcing a smile. "Having to address the entire household this morning, delivering such bad news, was a disquieting experience. I never expected that I'd be forced to tell anyone something so terrible. Especially with respect to a man who's been such a close friend for so many years, not to mention a member of such a distinguished family."

His eyes returned to the woman in the picture. "The Merrywoods go way back," he said. "They've been prominent in this area for nearly four hundred years." With a sigh, he added, "How very sad that one of them met with such a tragic end."

"It is sad," I agreed. "I'm sure everyone who knew Linus feels that way and is anxious for the truth about what happened to come out."

"Hopefully Lieutenant Falcone's involvement will help make that happen," he said.

Lowering my voice, I said, "As a matter of fact, I just talked to him. He's already questioned everyone who was here the night Linus died." I hesitated before adding, "But I plan to do the same, since it's the best way for me to figure out who might be the culprit."

Winston frowned. "Is it still necessary for you to worry about any of this, Jessica? When Betty and I asked you to accompany us here to see what you could find out about Linus's death, we were motivated by nothing more than mere suspicion. But it no longer seems necessary for you to be involved now that the police have launched a full-scale investigation."