"The ninth book proves to be just the cat's meow!"
Reviewed by Sharon Galligar Chance
Posted September 19, 2010
Mystery Pet Lovers
Jessica Popper is known for her skills as a veterinarian,
but she is also pretty darn good at solving a mystery or
two. So when her landlords Betty and Winston Farnsworth ask
her to help them find out who murdered their good friend,
millionaire Linus Merrywood, Jessica just can't
say no. Although she is a newlywed, having recently
married her best friend Nick Burby, Jessica accompanies the
couple to the mysterious Solitude Island, where Merrywood
made his home. Once there, Jessica discovers a real-life game of Clue
going on-- with a butler named Jives, a secretary named
Scarlett, and a house that looks like it's straight from
the set of "The Munsters." Jessica starts searching for
clues among the twists and turns of the creepy house, only
to find that, not only do all of the suspects have good
reasons to "off" dear old Linus, but she likes most of
them! Unless she finds the right key to the puzzle,
Jessica could soon find herself the next on the killer's
hit list! In CROSSING THE LION, her ninth book in the Reigning Cats
and Dogs Mystery series, author Cynthia Baxter continues
the lively adventures of the mobile-vet, her loving
new husband, and their menagerie of pets. I have enjoyed how
Baxter progresses the story of Jessica and Nick's
relationship throughout the series, and how with each story
you can see how the young vet has matured. Baxter's use of
lion-friendly quotes at the beginning of each chapter
contributed to the continuity of a story that animal
lovers and mystery fans alike will find enjoyable.
SUMMARY
CAN A SMALL-TOWN PET DETECTIVE HUNT DOWN A BEAST OF A
KILLER IN ITS OWN LAIR?
Veterinarian Jessica
Popper is still basking in newlywedded bliss when neighbors
Betty and Winston beg her to investigate the suspicious
death of Linus Merrywood, king of the corporate jungle. On
stormy Solitude Island, the Merrywoods have enjoyed the
lion’s share of wealth for generations. But from the
suspects to the surroundings, Jess feels as if she’s walked
straight into an old-fashioned game of Clue—except here the
stakes are life and death.
There’s the butler
named Jives, a sexy assistant named Scarlett, teatime in the
conservatory, and a house with secret passageways, moving
walls, and a wailing aunt locked in the attic. With a storm
raging around the island and Jess’s least favorite police
detective assigned to the case, things are looking dire
until Jess’s lionhearted husband, Nick, braves his way to
Solitude to rescue her. Now it’s the two of them against a
family steeped in secrets—and a killer on the prowl who’s
ferociously determined to protect the biggest family secret
of all.
ExcerptChapter One
"It is better to be a lion for a day than a sheep all your
life." —Elizabeth Kenny How on earth did I get myself into this situation? I
thought miserably, zipping my jacket up to my chin and
wondering why I’d ever put so much faith in Polarfleece. On a dreary November evening like this one, I usually
preferred snuggling up in front of a fireplace with my
brand-new husband, Nick, and sipping hot chocolate, mulled
cider, or some other beverage that was really good at
adding warmth to the human body. It wouldn’t have hurt to
have my pets around me, as well, since my two dogs and two
cats happen to be pretty good at that aforementioned
snuggling. Instead, I found myself in the middle of Peconic Bay,
huddling inside the cold, damp cabin of a boat that, at the
moment, was being thrown around as if the turbulent waters
were gearing up for a replay of The Perfect Storm. Even though I didn’t remember having had a problem with
seasickness before, the churning in my stomach told me that
could be about to change. Icy rain pelted the windowpanes, through which I could see
that darkness had settled around the dense gray fog
surrounding the vessel. I was beginning to understand why
all those sailors on the HMS Bounty had decided to mutiny.
Right now, nothing sounded better than dry land. At least my traveling companions didn’t come close to the
Captain Bligh category. In fact, for what it was worth,
they looked almost as miserable as I felt. Beside me, Betty Vandervoort Farnsworth sat hunched over,
with her arms folded and her legs crossed. The oversize
parka that nearly devoured her slender frame was the same
shade as overripe limes, as if it had been designed to
scare away bears. Even less fashionable was the
multicolored wool cap she’d yanked so far down that it
nearly concealed her sapphire-blue eyes. Her hat also
covered most of her hair, although a few strands of her
usually neat white pageboy stuck out at wild angles. Her husband, Winston, looked as if he was on his way to a
Halloween party dressed as the Gloucester fisherman. He
wore a bright yellow slicker topped by one of those hats
that looks as if it’s really good at redirecting rain
toward the guy behind whoever’s wearing it. Being British,
he was doing a much better job of keeping a stiff upper
lip. The only thing that gave him away was the slightly
green tinge of his skin. Frederick looked a little green, too, although it was
harder to tell, since he was covered with tan fur. It was
also impossible to discern whether the wirehaired dachshund
tucked beneath Winston’s coat was trembling because of
seasickness or because he was simply terrified by the storm. I might have been amused by the way Betty and Winston
looked, if I wasn’t wrestling with a slew of conflicting
emotions. After all, they were the ones who’d gotten me
involved in this in the first place. It had all started a few hours earlier as I lay on the bed
in Betty’s guest room, working my way through a stack of
veterinary journals. I’d lived in the former gardener’s
cottage on her estate for years, but recent events had
rendered it uninhabitable. Since June, Nick and I had been
staying in Betty and Winston’s residence, a luxurious
nineteenth-century mansion I’d nicknamed the Big House. While Nick and I had every intention of looking for our own
place, neither of us ever seemed to find the time. After
spending a few years as a private investigator, Nick had
decided to change careers. He was plowing through his
second year of law school, which meant he spent every
waking hour studying. There’s a saying about law school:
The first year, they scare you; the second year, they work
you; the third year, they bore you. And year two was
turning out to be as demanding as it was reputed to be. As
for me, I run my own veterinary practice out of a twenty-
six-foot clinic-on-wheels. That means I routinely put in
ten- to twelve-hour days driving all over Long Island,
making house calls. Besides, people who’ve been married for only five months
can find much better ways to spend their free time than
searching for apartments on Craigslist. Just like hunting down real estate, keeping up with my
reading was one of those to-do items that was hard to
squeeze in. So I was taking advantage of a few free hours
on a gray rainy Thursday afternoon, exactly one week before
Thanksgiving, to curl up on our comfy canopy bed with the
American Journal of Veterinary Research. The fact that my dogs and cats had snuggled up with me made
the atmosphere even cozier. Max, my adorable Westie, was
pressed against one leg, his furry white head resting on my
thigh. Every few minutes he let out a sigh, although I
couldn’t tell if he was expressing joy or was simply
annoyed over having his reverie interrupted by the sound of
pages turning. Still, every time I reached over
distractedly to fondle his ears, he fixed his big brown
eyes on me and appreciatively thumped his stub of a tail—a
sad reminder of his previous owners. Catherine the Great, better known as Cat, was curled up
against my other leg. My dignified gray pussycat suffers
from arthritis, and I hoped she found the heat from my body
soothing. The other feline love of my life, Tinkerbell, was
lying on my chest. She’d first gotten into the habit of
acting like a lobster bib back when Nick brought her home
after finding her abandoned in a cardboard box, and she’d
immediately taken over as top dog—er, cat. But now she was
fully grown, big enough that I had to hold my journal high
in the air to keep her orange fur from blocking the pages. Lou, my Dalmatian, was stretched out at the end of the bed.
He happened to be doing a terrific job of keeping my feet
warm. Like Max, he bears a sad souvenir of his earlier
life: He has only one eye. At the moment, he was dozing,
making cute snorting noises that led me to suspect he was
dreaming about chasing tennis balls. The other two animals that were part of my family were
downstairs in the kitchen. I could hear Prometheus, my blue-
and-gold macaw, screeching, probably trying to bully Betty
into bringing him an afternoon snack of an apple or some
other treat. At least Leilani was quiet. Then again, most
Jackson’s chameleons aren’t very noisy, even when someone
takes them out of their tank. Usually they just stare,
lazily blinking the eyes on the sides of their heads. I couldn’t have been more content—or more relaxed. It
helped that I was dressed in sweatpants and a white T-shirt
with a picture of a Dalmatian and the words Got spots? My
straight dark-blond hair, which usually hangs around my
shoulders, was pulled back into a low ponytail. As I perused an article about the relationship between
canine hip dysplasia and body weight, I couldn’t resist
glancing up every once in a while to admire not only my
menagerie but also the room that Nick and I were sharing.
The large bedroom looked like the finished product from one
of those home- design shows on TV. The walls were painted a
serene shade of powder blue. In addition to the fairy-tale
bed, the room was outfitted with lustrous wooden antiques,
a beautifully crafted marble fireplace, and two huge
windows that overlooked the back of the estate. In fact, I was gazing out those very windows from bed,
wondering if venturing out into the gray drizzle with Max
and Lou would be exhilarating or simply uncomfortable, when
I heard a soft knock. Glancing up, I saw Betty and Winston
standing in the doorway. Ordinarily, I would have assumed they’d stopped by to
invite me for a cup of tea or a game of backgammon. But the
distressed expressions on their faces told me this was no
social call. "What’s wrong?" I asked. I picked up Tinkerbell and,
cradling her in one arm, began to extract myself from Max,
Cat, and Lou. From the serious look Betty shot Winston, I knew my first
impression was correct: It was bad news that had brought
them to my room. "Jessica, Winston and I wondered if you could possibly help
us with something," Betty said. "Of course," I assured her. "Just name it." She cast her husband another wary look before saying, "I
think I’d better sit down." An alarm sounded inside my head. I pulled myself over to
the edge of the bed, stroking the velvety fur on Tink’s
head. Betty plunked down on the opposite side, wedging
herself between Max and Lou, while Winston lowered his
lanky frame into a cream-colored upholstered chair that was
as elegant as it was comfortable. Cat was only too happy to
stretch out smack in the middle of the mattress. "Jessica, Winston and I received some terrible news a
little while ago," Betty said, her tone earnest. "The wife
of one of Winston’s friends called to tell us the poor man
died last night." "That’s terrible!" I exclaimed. "I’m so sorry. Is it
someone you were close to?" "Linus and I had been friends for years," Winston said
somberly. As always, he spoke with an English accent that
reminded me of the classic television series Upstairs
Downstairs—with him being decidedly upstairs. "He and I
belonged to the same club in New York City for . . .
goodness, it must have been several decades." Smiling sadly, he added, "I met Linus Merrywood for the
very first time during a rather heated discussion of
whether Ronald Reagan or Jimmy Carter was likely to win the
upcoming presidential election." "Linus Merrywood," I repeated, running my hand along
Tinkerbell’s back. Even though I couldn’t place him, I had
the nagging feeling there was something familiar about the
name. "The man was quite a mover and shaker in the business
world," Winston went on. "He was the president and CEO of
Merrywood Industries, which for the past few years has been
named as one of the Fortune 500. It was a family business,
which his great-grandfather founded in the late 1800s. He
started in steel—making parts used in building railroads, I
believe. But over the years the company expanded into all
kinds of metals, opening factories all over the world that
manufactured everything from aluminum cans to hubcaps. "Linus was the most successful businessman in his family’s
history, which is how he came to earn his nickname: Linus
the Lion. I’ve heard that he tripled his net worth over the
course of his lifetime." Thoughtfully, he added, "I’ve also
heard that that’s a modest estimate." "Wow," I said simply. I wondered if maybe I should start
using Nick’s subscription to The Wall Street Journal for
more than just lining the bottom of Prometheus’s birdcage. "But even though he was phenomenally successful, he never
lost his humanity," Betty interjected. "Linus was almost as
well known for his philanthropy as he was for his skill in
business. He supported so many good causes. Education,
primarily. Especially literacy. And not only with his
checkbook but also with his time." "He sounds like a wonderful man," I commented. "How did he
die?" "I’m afraid I don’t know the details yet," Winston
replied. "Charlotte was too upset to say very much." "This is all very sad," I said, "but what does any of it
have to do with me?" Betty frowned. "Just a few days ago, Winston got an
extremely troubling phone call from Linus." Winston took a deep breath before adding, "He said he
thought someone was plotting to kill him." "What?" I cried, causing both Max and Lou to raise their
heads. "But—but—did he say who? Or why?" "All he would say," Winston answered in a strained
voice, "was that it was somebody close to him." "And do you have any reason to believe him?" I asked. Winston shrugged helplessly. "To be perfectly honest,
Jessica, at this point I don’t know what to think. Which is
why Betty and I hoped you might be willing to help us." "How could I possibly be of help?" But even as I asked the
question, I had a feeling I knew what the answer was going
to be. I had a history of solving mysteries—or, as some people saw
it, butting my nose in where it didn’t belong. It turned
out I had kind of a knack for it, too. Then again, not everyone was happy with this tendency of
mine. That included Norfolk County’s chief of homicide, a
rather unsavory individual named Anthony Falcone. For some
crazy reason, he believed that the police were the only
ones who should be investigating murders. That thought led to my next question. "What do the police think happened?" I asked. "At this point," Winston said, "everyone seems to be
assuming that Linus’s death was from natural causes. We
haven’t told them about Linus’s unsettling phone call." He
frowned. "At least not yet. We didn’t want to upset his
wife, Charlotte—and we certainly don’t want to see the
family dragged into the headlines if it turns out there’s
no reason for it. We’re still hoping that Linus was simply
dramatizing some family squabble." "But Winston and I agree it’s something we have to pursue,"
Betty added, "especially since the police might not even
suspect foul play." "How old was Linus?" I asked. "He was in his mid-seventies," Winston replied. "But still going strong," Betty pointed out. "Linus was the
picture of health, as far as anyone knew. Didn’t he once
mention that his father and his grandfather both lived well
into their nineties?" she asked Winston. Turning back to
me, she added, "While Winston knew Linus for decades, I got
to know Linus and Charlotte only over the past year. The
four of us got together shortly after Winston and I became
an item, then continued to meet for brunch or dinner
whenever we could find the time. It was always a pleasure,
since they were both such lovely people." Wanting to focus on what I was hearing, I plunked Tink down
on the bed, next to Cat. The two felines eyed each other
warily, then curled up a good four or five feet apart. "What about the last time you saw him?" I asked. "Did he
mention that anything out of the ordinary was going on?" "Not that I recall," Winston replied thoughtfully. "We
haven’t seen much of Linus since spring. Wasn’t that the
last time we all had dinner in Manhattan?" Betty nodded. "You’re right, we haven’t seen the Merrywoods
in a while. But I do remember him and Charlotte talking
about the fact that they’d begun spending less time at
their apartment in the city and more and more time at the
estate they’d always thought of as their country house.
It’s on an island they own in Peconic Bay." I gasped. "Not Solitude Island!" Winston raised his eyebrows. "Yes, as a matter of fact." All of a sudden I knew why the name Linus Merrywood had
sounded familiar. Solitude Island was a valuable piece of
real estate that amazingly had been owned by the same
family for hundreds of years. It was located between the
two forks of Long Island—or, in more graphic terms, between
the two tailfins of an island that to most people looks
like a fish. Solitude Island’s original owner, back in the
1600s, was Epinetus Merrywood, one of the first colonists
who came over to Long Island from England. Not only had he
prospered wildly in the New World; for four centuries, his
descendants had expanded the family fortune even further,
maintaining their position as one of the wealthiest
families on Long Island. And from what I recalled, the Merrywoods were as well known
for their obsession with privacy as they were for their
affluence. "But how could I even get close enough to the Merrywoods to
find out what really happened to Linus?" I asked. "Charlotte asked us to come to the house for a few days to
help her get through this difficult time," Betty said. "We
thought you might be willing to join us." "It makes sense for you two to go, since Winston was
friends with Linus and Charlotte for such a long time," I
mused. "But why would the Merrywoods—especially his widow—
want a stranger like me around at a time like this?" "Because I told her that you’re like a daughter to us,"
Winston said matter-of-factly. "She said you’d be more than
welcome to come along." Betty added, "Which means the only questions that remain to
be answered are whether you’re willing to help—and whether
you’ll be able to take off a few days from work so you can
come with us to Solitude Island." My mind raced. The last thing I’d been expecting was a
request to drop everything and accompany Betty and Winston
to an isolated private island to poke around a possible
murder. Still, I’d already told the two of them that I’d
help however I could. And I had to admit that the idea of
getting a peek at the Merrywoods’ estate was pretty
enticing. Besides, the week before Thanksgiving was always pretty
quiet, work-wise. Most people were too busy with turkeys to
make other appointments. As for the few routine checkups I
already had scheduled over the next couple of days, I could
easily ask my assistant, Sunny, to rearrange them. I was
even free from my weekly television spot on local cable
television, which usually aired live on Friday mornings. In
order to give everyone a little breather right before the
holiday weekend, the producer had decided to repeat one of
my earlier shows. Before I knew it, I heard myself saying, "Of course I’ll go
to Solitude Island with you. I’ll do whatever I can to
help." "Good," Betty said with a nod. For the first time since
she’d stepped into the room, I noticed just a hint of a
twinkle in her blue eyes. "Especially since I already told
Charlotte to expect you." For the next three hours, I felt as if I was running on
fast-forward, as I threw clothes into a suitcase, called
Sunny to go over the necessary schedule changes, and sent
Nick what was possibly the longest text message in history.
I explained that Betty and Winston’s friend Linus Merrywood
had died and that they’d asked me to accompany them on a
condolence call at his weekend retreat. I didn’t see any
reason to burden Nick with the truth about my real mission,
so I left out the part about investigating the poor man’s
murder. I also asked Nick to take on the jobs of house sitter for
Betty and Winston’s place and caretaker for my pets, now
his step-pets. As much as I would miss my animals, I wasn’t
sure how welcome they’d be at the Merrywoods’ estate—
especially my two dogs, who sometimes struck me as the
canine version of Beavis and Butt-Head. As for Frederick, Winston had decided his spunky dachshund
was small enough and well behaved enough to come along with
us. After we packed him into the car with our suitcases, we
raced along Long Island’s North Fork in Winston’s cream-
colored Rolls-Royce to the Merrywoods’ private dock where
we drove onto a ferry-size boat the family also owned. Even though going to Solitude Island had sounded like a
good idea at first, I wasn’t as convinced now that I was
sitting on a roller coaster of a boat, shivering amid the
fog, rain, cold, and sadistic waves. But I forgot all about
my yearnings for both the creature comforts and the
creatures themselves the moment the cotton-candy-like fog
thinned just enough to give me my first glimpse of the
island and the enormous mansion in the middle of it. As I pressed my face against the window, the first thing
that struck me was that the Merrywood estate looked
anything but, well, merry. Looming a few hundred yards in front of me was a sprawling
building centered on the island. Thanks to the lightning
that periodically lit up the sky, I could see it was made
of rough gray stone, its shape reminiscent of a medieval
castle. A dozen irregular towers and turrets spiked into
the air, their tops disappearing into the dense fog. While
a few small windows dotted the seemingly impenetrable
façade, I could see no signs of life inside the house, from
this distance, at least. As for the land surrounding the mansion, it looked equally
uninviting. It was smothered in a dense blanket of tall
trees that looked as if they’d been free to thrive on their
own for decades or even centuries, their branches reaching
out greedily to consume as much space as they desired.
Because it was late November, the trees had already lost
their leaves, exposing a chaotic tangle of bare, gnarled
branches. Most of the island appeared to be ringed by a white-sand
beach, which was all that separated dry land from the deep,
dark waters the storm had converted into such a formidable
foe. The ragged white peaks of the waves kept lunging
toward the island. It was almost as if they were seeking
out some poor unsuspecting beachcomber they could drag into
their midst. Yet even though my new home away from home looked like a
set from The Munsters, I had to admit that the scale of the
place was pretty impressive. And it wasn’t only because the
Merrywoods’ house was big enough to be converted into a
couple dozen condos—or that it was surrounded by at least a
hundred acres of gardens and grounds. What was truly mind-
boggling was the fact that a single family could own a
private island so close to New York City and leave it
completely undeveloped, except for their not-so-humble
abode. Betty must have read my mind—as she so often does—since she
chose that moment to comment, "It doesn’t exactly
scream ‘welcome,’ does it?" "It’s certainly big," I replied diplomatically. "Have you
ever been here before?" Betty shook her head. "No. Neither has Winston, since he
mainly saw Linus at the club. And whenever we got together
with Linus and Charlotte, it was either at their apartment
on Park Avenue or at a restaurant in Manhattan." "It’s hard to believe all this belongs to just one family,"
I observed. "And I don’t think the children come out here much
anymore," Winston said, patting Frederick soothingly. The
more the boat slowed down, the more excited the dachshund
became, as if he knew he’d soon be back on dry land and
could hardly wait. "The whole family spent lots of time out
here when they were growing up, especially on weekends and
vacations. But they’re all adults now and they’ve got their
own lives. They probably find it easier to see their
parents in the city. I seem to recall that all but one of
Charlotte and Linus’s children live in New York." "How many children do they have?" I asked. "Three," Betty replied. "Two sons and a daughter. They’re
all in their thirties. Linus had just turned seventy-five,
but Charlotte is about fifteen years younger. I believe she
was right out of college when they got married." "How about Linus and Charlotte’s children?" I asked. "Are
any of them married?" Now that I fell into the lawfully
wedded category myself, I’d developed a new interest in
other people’s marital status. "Only one," Betty said. "Their daughter, Melissa—Missy.
Winston, you went to her wedding a few years ago, didn’t
you?" "That was certainly a memorable event," he agreed. "Quite
extravagant, even by our club members’ standards. Well over
five hundred guests attended. Linus wanted to hold the
reception at the club, but it just wasn’t big enough.
Instead, it took place in a tremendous ballroom in one of
New York’s finest hotels. The event had everything from
bagpipers leading the guests from the church on Park Avenue
to the hotel to a five-course dinner complete with lobster
and pastries flown in from Paris." Whoa! I thought. As someone who had recently planned a
wedding of her own—with a great deal of help from her
mother-in-law, I should add—it was hard not to compare. And
even Winston’s brief overview of the event went a long way
in helping me understand the extent of the Merrywoods’
wealth. "What about their two sons?" I asked. "I seem to remember Linus mentioning something about his
oldest boy having been divorced once or twice," Winston
replied after a bit of thought. "I also recall that
Taggart’s inability to settle into family life was
something Linus was quite upset about. As for the youngest
of the Merrywoods’ three children, Brockton, I don’t
believe he’s ever been married." He sighed, then added, "Linus was desperately hoping for
grandchildren who could one day take his place presiding
over the business. Sadly, he died before he had a chance to
see that dream come true." "What about those three children of his?" I asked,
surprised. "Why couldn’t one of them take over?" "Linus felt that none of them lived up to their potential,"
Winston explained. "His contention that not one of them
ever accomplished what he’d hoped for was a constant source
of unhappiness in his life." "Maybe he had unreasonably high expectations," I suggested. Winston cast me a wary glance. "You can make up your own
mind once you get to know them. Loving your children is one
thing. Passing on the responsibility of running a Fortune
500 company is something else entirely. "In fact," he continued, "that’s one of the reasons Linus
brought someone else into the organization as his number
two man. Harrison Foss—Harry. Linus expected that one day
he’d take over the reins." By that point, the ferry was pulling up to a dock. Given
the size of the mansion, I was surprised that the dock was
little more than a stretch of uneven, rough-hewn boards.
Jutting up at the far end was a small, dilapidated
boathouse. But as I stepped off the boat, I wasn’t think- ing about
architecture. I’d had enough of the deep blue sea—and
worrying that I was going to end up crammed in Davy Jones’s
locker like a sweaty gym suit—but I braced myself for what
lay ahead. Now that I was close to the house that up until this point
had merely loomed in the distance, I wasn’t exactly looking
forward to entering. As far as I was concerned, the place
looked downright scary. I only hoped the family inside wouldn’t turn out to be just
as frightening.
Excerpted from Crossing the Lion by Cynthia Baxter
Copyright © 2010 by Cynthia Baxter. Excerpted by permission
of Bantam Dell, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights
reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or
reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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