Crossing the Lion (a Reigning Cats and Dog) (2010) (12 page)

That the woman was dangerous, for example.

Now that I was contemplating paying her a visit, an image of the woman began forming in my mind. It was based on every horror movie I’d ever seen, every Grimm’s fairy tale I’d ever read, every haunted house
I’d ever visited at an amusement park. That meant that, in my head, Aunt Alvira resembled one of the three witches in
Macbeth
, complete with a crazed expression, a cackling voice, and wild gray hair that could have benefited from some of Falcone’s hair product.

You can do this
, I told myself.

And then:
Look, you
know
you’re going to do it, no matter what, so why not just get it over with?

I took a deep breath, flung open the door, and began to climb the stairs. Astonishingly, they didn’t creak. But I decided that was because the gigantic dust bunnies scattered over each one acted as soundproofing.

My heart thudded loudly in my chest as I continued up the steps. Once again I wished I’d brought a flashlight along on this trip. It was so dark that I kept both palms pressed against the walls on either side to keep from tripping and falling.

As I neared the closed door looming at the top, I imagined that on the other side I’d find a gloomy dungeon-type room with craggy gray stone walls and a couple of porthole-size windows. Maybe even some chains embedded in the wall.

It occurred to me that the door was likely to be locked, since if you were going to lock someone in an attic, that was pretty much the way it worked.

Then again, Aunt Alvira had to have a way of getting out. After all, I suspected she was the one who sneaked into my room in the middle of the night to leave the voodoo doll.

Not knowing what to expect, I tentatively put my hand on the knob. It moved easily, enabling me to push open the door gently. And while I’d been expecting more dungeonlike darkness, I was instead nearly blinded by brilliant light.

I blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the unexpected brightness. As I did, I became aware of the sound of a human voice talking softly.

A familiar voice.

A voice that sounded like … Oprah’s?

Sure enough, what I heard was the talk-show host introducing a guest who wondrously had lost fifty-five pounds by making just a few important changes to her lifestyle.

Not surprisingly, the voice was coming from a TV. A very large flat-screen TV that hung on the wall above a low wooden bookshelf I was nearly positive I’d seen in the latest Crate & Barrel catalog.

I surveyed the room, noting that this jarring juxtaposition of new over old pervaded the entire room. The off-white couch and lounge chairs looked as spanking new as the television set. By contrast, the well-worn Oriental rug looked as if it had been someone’s souvenir from the Crusades, along with that sword hanging in the front hallway. The pictures on the walls were surrounded by ornate gilt frames that screamed nineteenth century. But the artwork inside them consisted of prints of cuddly kittens and bouquets of wildflowers.

There were also a few whimsical touches, like the serious-looking bust of Beethoven that had been decorated
with a French beret. Around his neck was draped a white silk scarf that made him look a lot more debonair than the great composer was reputed to be.

Pushed against one wall was an electric organ, which accounted for at least some of the weird noises I’d heard coming from this place.

But even more startling than the décor were the cats. From where I stood, I counted four. A gray-and-black-striped tabby lounged on a small rectangular Oriental rug in front of the organ, while a white long-haired beauty stretched across a windowsill, napping. A Maine coon with thick, fluffy orange fur and amazingly expressive green eyes blinked at me from a couch. And a black cat with glowing green eyes chose that particular moment to dash across the room, right in front of me.

“Four cats!” I cried without thinking.

“Five, actually,” a scratchy female voice corrected me. “But Muffin is kind of shy. He hides most of the time, even from me.”

This voice belonged to someone other than Oprah.

A second later, the speaker emerged from behind an upholstered chair so huge that it looked as if it had formerly belonged to Papa Bear.

Yet the woman who was now standing in front of me was roughly the size of Baby Bear. The septuagenarian couldn’t have stood more than four feet ten, and she looked as if she weighed about as much as my Dalmatian, Lou. Coincidentally, the short puff of hair
that encircled her head like a giant cotton ball was the same color as the fur of my Westie, Max: snow white.

Not that her diminutive stature made her look the least bit frail. Of course, that was largely because she was clenching two hot-pink ten-pound dumbbells.

Her weights weren’t the only thing bursting with color. She wore a tracksuit the color of raspberry sherbet, and neon-orange laces crisscrossed her white Nikes, which were almost as puffy as her hair.

Just as the room at the top of the hidden staircase hadn’t turned out to be what I’d expected, neither did its occupant. Here I’d been picturing Aunt Alvira as a wild-eyed lunatic with a tangled mane of hair who was dressed in rags, flailing about the room as she ranted and raved. Instead, I was face-to-face with someone who looked like a cast member from the television show
The Golden Girls
.

“You’re Aunt Alvira?” I asked in amazement.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Who should I say is looking for her?”

“But you must be Aunt Alvira!” I exclaimed. “Who else would be locked in the attic?”

“I’m not locked in!” she replied indignantly. “I like it up here! Y’think I want to be downstairs with all those crazy relatives of mine?”

I blinked. “But aren’t you lonely up here?”

“Me? Nah.” Shrugging, she said, “I keep busy, believe me. I’ve always been a doer. Y’know, always doing something like playing cards or scrapbooking. And I used to volunteer at a senior center.” Earnestly, she added, “I’m very good with old people.”

“Then why are you up here all alone?”

She sighed. “After Billy died—he was my husband—it just wasn’t the same, living in that condo in Boca. So I came back up here from Florida to live with my brother.”

Grimacing, she added, “Seemed like a good idea at the time. That was before I realized those kids of his would be coming around all the time. A bunch of other people, too, like that floozy he called his assistant. Ha! I bet I can guess what she assisted him with. And that business partner of his, Harry Whatever. Hmph. I don’t trust that man as far as I can hit a Ping-Pong ball.

“Besides,” Aunt Alvira continued, “I like it up here. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve got everything I need: a minifridge, a microwave, satellite TV, a DVD player, Netflix … I’ve even got TiVo!”

“And it looks as if you get all the exercise you need,” I observed, gesturing toward her weights.

“Sure do. Y’get to be my age, y’start worrying about osteoporosis.” To demonstrate, she lifted one of the dumbbells and gave it a few pumps. When one of them suddenly slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor with a loud bump, I understood the source of the banging sounds I’d been hearing.

“I guess making dolls is another one of your hobbies,” I commented.

She brightened. “Did y’like it? I wanted to surprise you. I expected you to wake up, but you were sleeping pretty soundly when I came into your bedroom to leave it for you.”

I vowed then and there to keep away from that deadly sherry. Especially when I was staying in a house that was also occupied by a murderer.

“I know I got the hair right,” Alvira added, “but I’m not so good with the other details. Especially since I get a lot of my information by sneaking around the house when it’s dark so nobody will catch me. I’ve gotten pretty good at hiding in the shadows!”

So the walls in this place really did have eyes, I thought. But they weren’t in the wallpaper. They were in the nosy relatives who stole through the rooms like cat burglars.

I pulled the doll out of my pocket. “I was actually a little … confused by the black-leather, uh, accessory.”

“Y’mean the bow?” she asked, peering at it. “I thought it was kinda pretty. Don’t y’think so?”

“Uh, yes.”
Especially now that I know it was supposed to be decorative
, I thought,
and not threatening
.

In fact, I was more than a little relieved at having finally met the relative who lived in the attic. Not only did she appear harmless, but the longer I talked to her, the more charming I found her.

“Since you’re here,” Aunt Alvira said abruptly, “how about a game of cards?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, not sure I’d heard her right.

“Rummy five hundred. A penny a point.” With a sly wink, she added, “But I should warn you that I’m probably gonna beat the pants off ya.”

“Sure,” I agreed. I figured that even if I lost the whole five hundred pennies, having the opportunity to
talk to Linus’s sister for the entire length of the game was well worth it.

She switched off the TV and we sat down in the living-room area, me on the couch and Alvira on a chair opposite me. As I nestled into the soft cushions, the Maine coon, still draped across a couch cushion, glared at me, the look in his green eyes telling me he was annoyed that I’d invaded his space. But there were clearly no hard feelings on the part of the sleek black cat, who came over and began rubbing against my leg, purring loudly. I responded by reaching down to pet his silky fur.

All the movement prompted the white long-haired cat to wake up from his nap. He leaped off the windowsill and wandered over to plop down on a large flat pillow that looked as if it had been placed on the floor expressly for that purpose. I got the feeling that now that a card game was about to start, he wanted to be closer to the action.

Even Muffin came out of hiding. She was a pretty gray-and-white kitty who was so shy she hovered behind Alvira’s chair, all but hidden. She poked her head around the corner just enough to watch both of us and the rest of the cats from afar, acting like the kid nobody wanted to hang out with on the playground.

Meanwhile, the gray-and-black-striped tabby marched right past all the others and jumped into Alvira’s lap. She moved with surprising energy, given the fact that she was a bit overweight.

“Don’t tell the others, but Madeira is my favorite,” Alvira confessed, lovingly stroking the cat who had
just curled up in her lap. “She thinks she’s better than the rest of ’em. Still acts like a kitten, too. Or a puppy, to be more accurate. Loves to play, chews up everything in sight … She’s a real snuggler, too.”

“You’re lucky you have such a loving family,” I commented, gesturing toward her entourage.

“Darn right,” she agreed. “They don’t talk, either.”

Picking up the deck of the cards resting on the table, she said, “I’ll deal.” She began tossing cards at me with the adeptness of a dealer at Monte Carlo—or at least someone who’d spent a lot of time racking up pennies at the Boca Raton Senior Center.

I waited until she’d scored 312 points to my meager 108 before cutting to the chase.

“I haven’t had a chance to tell you how sorry I am about your brother’s death,” I said, watching for her reaction.

Alvira’s face crumpled. “Terrible, isn’t it?” she said, lowering her freshly dealt hand of seven cards. “The poor man went way before his time. Linus was only a couple of years older than I am. That brother of mine was the picture of health. At least, that was what I thought.”

“One consolation is that he no doubt enjoyed his last night,” I commented, “being surrounded by so many of the people he was close to. I understand his birthday dinner was a lovely event.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she mumbled. “I skipped it. Linus came up for a glass of champagne beforehand so he and I could have a little celebration all our own. There was no way I going to force myself to sit
through dinner with those insufferable relatives of mine.”

I realized with a jolt that Alvira had no idea her brother had been murdered. How could she? No one had thought to invite her when Winston revealed what he’d learned at the medical examiner’s office. And while the news was quickly becoming common knowledge to anyone who owned a television, she’d apparently been watching
Oprah
broadcasts she’d recorded with TiVo rather than the news.

Hesitantly, I said, “Alvira, what do you think of the idea that there might have been foul play involved in Linus’s death?”

She didn’t miss a beat before asking, “Y’mean the possibility that somebody bumped him off?”

Startled by her bluntness, I replied, “Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.”

“It’s possible,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe even likely.”

I was equally startled by her immediate acceptance of the idea that her brother had been murdered. “Why would you think that?”

Keeping her eyes fixed on the cards she clutched in her hands, Alvira replied, “Like I said, Linus was in pretty good health, so he wasn’t supposed to die. Not yet, anyway. But it sounds as if you know something.”

I took a deep breath, then as gently as I could told her about Linus’s phone call to Winston, the results of the autopsy, and the chief of homicide’s conclusion that her brother had been murdered.

I braced myself for her reaction, expecting rage or
tears or some other explosion of emotions. Instead, her eyes misted over and her cheeks reddened.

After a few seconds of silence, she said in a choked voice, “I guess that doesn’t surprise me. Not when there were plenty of people who had something to gain by my brother kicking the bucket.”

“Who?” I blurted out.

She raised her eyebrows but didn’t say a word as she studied me for a few seconds. Finally she cocked her head and said, “You look like a pretty smart lady. I bet you can figure that out all by yourself.”

“But you’re part of Linus’s family,” I pointed out. “You’ve known Charlotte and his children and all the other people who were close to him for years. I only met them yesterday.”

I also suspected that Alvira was someone who knew pretty much everything that went on in this house—and that she was someone I could trust to be straight with me. I made a mental note to ask Betty and Winston what they knew about Linus’s eccentric sister, the first chance I got.