Cat Got Your Tongue (The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series Book 3)

by Louise Clark

  She's flirting with you guys! My aunt, in front of me!

  Trevor turned beet red and Roy tossed down the contents of his glass. He poured himself more brandy.

  Ellen continued. "The second group would be invited friends. I put Bernie and Emily Oshall in this category, as well as Jahlina, Graham's girlfriend, and the former band mate, Sydney Haynes. What do we know about them?"

  Roy rubbed his nose. "The Oshalls are okay. After the concert Bernie left the suite to find a washroom. Emily said he was gone for awhile."

  Trevor's gaze sharpened. "Kyle Gowdy did the same thing. Why?"

  "Ladies are slower than gentlemen," Ellen said. She made a note beside Bernie's name with a bright orange fountain pen that was filled with a neon orange ink. "He may have been doing exactly what he said. Or he may not. Obviously, Emily and Jahlina are not suspects, so that leaves us with Sydney Haynes."

  "He's overcome some serious issues since he became a drug addict in the early days of SledgeHammer," Trevor said. "He was quiet all evening and I didn't see him saying or doing anything disrespectful to Chelsea Sawatzky when she was in the suite." He turned to Roy. "Didn't you tell me that Bernie Oshall saw her slap Mitch Crosier at one point?"

  "We'll get to the Crosiers in good time, gentlemen. Right now we're assembling data on the Oshalls and Sydney Haynes."

  Rules, rules, rules! It's always rules. Can't you go with the flow, Aunt Ellen?

  "Yes, ma'am," Trevor said.

  Ellen smiled at him. "What did Mr. Haynes do after the concert was over?"

  "He didn't go down to the meet and greet. Quinn said he had a skewed view of the past," Roy said. "Not surprising, I suppose. People always see themselves as the hero—or antihero—of their own lives."

  "Another one with no alibi," Ellen said, making a bright orange note. "Why don't we move on to the professionals now. Vince Nunez, Mitchell and Kim Crosier, and those two musicians whose names I can't remember. The ones who are managed by Mr. Nunez."

  "The musicians beat us backstage. They were there when we arrived." As he said 'us' Trevor made a sweeping gesture to indicate the people in the room.

  "Good," Ellen said. She capped the orange pen filled with the orange ink and picked up a white one adorned with sky blue swirls. The ink inside was a lovely azure blue. "I'll make a note and cross them off as potential suspects," she said, doing precisely that. "Why don't we discuss Mitchell Crosier now?"

  Trevor nodded. "If the girl slapped Crosier, he was bound to be angry. He struck me as the kind of guy who'd hit back. I'm not sure, though, if he'd be angry enough to kill."

  "He's out," Roy said gloomily. "His wife has given him an alibi."

  "Pity," Trevor said.

  Ellen shook her head. "Not a nice person. I so dislike seeing men in positions of power taking advantage of a woman, particularly a young girl like Chelsea. Her grandmother told me that she was having similar problems with a Mr. Freeman, the manager of the arena. He propositioned her, as well as other employees, and was not above making suggestive touches." She shook her head. "I have put him into the professional category, as an extra, even though he wasn't at our suite."

  Roy was shaking his head before she finished speaking. "Mitch and Kim met up with Freeman in his office. Seems Mitch bored the poor sod with the same pitch he made to me. They can all provide alibis for each other."

  Ellen fiddled with her pen. "That is disappointing."

  "What about Vince?" Roy asked.

  "He went straight down to the meet and greet. Patterson told me he was seen backstage before the murder took place, and was there long after the body was found," Trevor said.

  "That leaves us with Hammer's family. His parents, and his brother and sister-in-law," Ellen said. She raised her brows and looked from one man to the other. "Thoughts?"

  "The parents are clear. They went backstage with Vince. Kyle?" Trevor shook his head. "Like Bernie Oshall, he exited the suite looking for a washroom. He has no alibi for the time of the murder."

  "Which is why Patterson is looking at him," Roy said. "What I don't get is why she isn't more interested in Bernie Oshall, who was also missing around the same time."

  "Kyle Gowdy has a juvenile record," Trevor said.

  Roy frowned. "Still..."

  Trevor shook his head. "It counts."

  "What about DNA?" Ellen asked. She hesitated, then said, "Wouldn't there be some if she was raped?"

  Roy raised his brows. "Good question." He looked at Trevor. "Patterson say anything about that, Three?"

  Trevor shook his head. "If they retrieved any DNA, they haven't processed it yet. I do know Kyle hasn't been asked to give a sample, but then he hasn't actually been charged, so Patterson may not want to tip her hand."

  That was disappointing. Ellen looked at her list. "We don't have a lot of suspects, do we? Just Bernie Oshall and Kyle Gowdy. What if poor Chelsea was murdered by a stranger? Someone who had a seat in the stands and who hid until it was quiet after the concert, then attacked her? Maybe the goal was the rape, and her death was an unfortunate accident."

  Interesting thought, Aunt Ellen. I'm surprised.

  "You could be right," Roy said. He glared at the cat.

  Trevor nodded. "The size of the potential suspect pool is probably the only reason Kyle Gowdy isn't in a jail cell right now." His expression was grim. "A random act of violence is the hardest crime to solve. If that's what happened, the police may not be able to lay charges against anyone. It's possible Kyle will always have the shadow of suspicion hanging over him."

  Chapter 16

  "Catch me, Mommy!" Noelle shrieked, at the same time as she leapt off the side of the hotel pool.

  Christy wrapped her hands around her daughter's waist just before she hit the water and allowed Noelle's weight to topple her backwards, so they both submerged. Quinn dove beneath them like a seal, and hauled them to the surface. They all came up spluttering and laughing, Noelle most of all.

  It was the end of their second day at the theme park. As with the previous day, they'd had dinner at the park, then came back to the hotel afterward. Last night they stayed for the fireworks. Tonight they switched up their plans and came back early so they could make use of the pool before bed.

  Bed, Christy thought, as Quinn dove beneath Noelle and came back up with her on his shoulders. The water sluiced off him, making his skin gleam. The muscles in his arms flexed as he lifted Noelle high and tossed her back into the water. She shrieked, then came up giggling. Quinn grinned, then dove again.

  Their first night in L.A. Noelle had been so excited about their vacation Christy couldn't get her to settle. She had planned to spend some time with Quinn in the suite's living room—and maybe beyond—after Noelle went to sleep, but it was not to be. At least not that night. She finally had to say good night to Quinn and settle into her own bed before Noelle would quiet.

  Last night Noelle slept fitfully, exhausted from a long day full of experience overload, but still excited by the prospect of a second day at the park. That day—today—had been as full as the first one, but Christy was hoping that some of the glamour of the first couple of days had worn off and Noelle would sleep through the night. Because she had plans. This wasn't just Noelle's holiday; it was hers too.

  Noelle paddled in her direction, then shouted, "Look, Mommy! Look what Quinn taught me!" She proceeded to dive down and kick up her legs in an attempt to do an underwater handstand. Her legs flailed, water splashed, and she came down on her back, doing something that looked more like an underwater somersault.

  Christy looked at Quinn. He was watching Noelle with an affectionate, almost tender, expression that made Christy's stomach knot. He must have felt her gaze on him, because he looked over at her. A smile quirked his lips and he headed toward her. Christy wanted to reach out to him, to run her fingers through his wet hair, and ruffle it until it was no longer plastered to his skull, then pull him to her so their lips could meet in a kiss.

  She couldn't do that, of co
urse, but she could look, she could imagine, and she could hope that he would guess what she was thinking.

  He was standing beside her when Noelle came up for air. She was pouting, probably because the handstand had failed so spectacularly. Quinn held up his hand for a high five. "Aced the somersault, kiddo."

  Noelle frowned. "I did a somersault underwater? Really?" She didn't sound too sure, but she high-fived Quinn anyway.

  "Really," Christy said. "I was impressed."

  "I'll try again!" She ducked into the water, this time doing a better handstand than a somersault.

  Quinn took advantage of the moment of public privacy to slip his arm around Christy's waist and lean in close to whisper in her ear, "Is she always this energetic?"

  Christy laughed at the amazement in his voice. "Always," she said as Noelle surfaced again.

  They played in the pool for another half hour. While they were in the water Noelle's energy levels continued at full blast, but by the time they were in the elevator and on their way to the suite, she was beginning to flag. Back in their room, Christy made her take a shower, then blow dried her hair. Noelle was yawning before Christy was even half finished. Once in bed, she curled on her side as Christy opened the book to read to her.

  She was asleep before Christy finished the first page.

  Christy continued to read to her for another five minutes before she closed the book. Her heart was pounding. Out in the living room she could hear Quinn moving around, then the low tones of the television. This, then, was it. Decision time. Commitment time. Very carefully, she put the book on the bedside table, then she went into the bathroom to do a quick check. Her hair was still damp, so she flicked on the blow dryer and risked waking Noelle. Well, not a risk really. If she woke up from the sound of the dryer, she wasn't asleep enough for her mom to go out into the living room and meet her lover.

  Her lover. Saying the word, even in her own mind, made her feel guilty and aroused at the same time.

  She switched off the dryer and listened. Not a sound from the bedroom. She took a deep breath, then went to her suitcase and pulled out the nightgown she'd bought right after Quinn suggested they come down to L.A. It wasn't a garment meant to be slept in, but one designed to be taken off. A rich, emerald green, it was silk with diaphanous lace inserts in some very strategic places. It had fueled her fantasies from the moment she tried it on in the store, but now, as she held it up before her, she had to swallow hard as she looked at it.

  Was she reading Quinn right? Did he want to take the next step as much as she did? Or would he think she was coming on too strong? She took another deep breath. She could fold this beautiful garment up, then hide here in her bedroom and never know what might be.

  Or she could put the gown on and take a step into her future.

  She stared at the shimmering fabric for a long moment, then pulled it over her head and draped it down her body. She went over to the bed and kissed Noelle tenderly on the cheek. Her child didn't stir, even though Christy watched her for a minute, just in case.

  She opened the door to the living room.

  Quinn was sprawled on the sofa, watching a hockey game on TV. At the sound of the opening door, he looked up and the expression on his face told Christy everything she needed to know. He was on his feet in an instant. She closed the door quietly and stood as he came toward her, her hand still on the knob. With his every step her heart pounded harder, until she couldn't have spoken even if she wanted to.

  As it was, she didn't know what to say to him when he reached her. She wanted to tell him how often she thought about this moment. The number of times she had played this scene out in her mind. She could see approval in his eyes and a wicked, dangerous look that called out to her. He threaded his fingers through her hair and bent his head, capturing her mouth at the same time as he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her against him.

  She gave herself into the pleasure of the kiss, of the strength of his body against hers. He lifted her and she let go of the doorknob to grab his shoulders for balance. When he put her down again, he released her mouth and she realized they were halfway across the living room.

  His teeth grazed her earlobe. Her breath caught and she tilted her head as he nibbled. "I went to the doctor," she said.

  His head shot up and his gaze sharpened. "Are you okay?"

  She was still clinging to his shoulders because right now her body felt boneless. She nodded. "I mentioned it because—I wanted to tell you. I..."

  He continued to watch her, but he was frowning now.

  "I'm on birth control again," she burst out, feeling like an idiot and cursing herself for ruining the mood.

  His expression cleared and that lazy, devilish look warmed his eyes again. "Good to know," he said. His voice was husky and she thought there was more than a hint of laughter in it. "Now I can seduce you properly and not worry about the consequences." His hand drifted down her side, lingering on those lace inserts to tease and tempt. "Because one daughter," he said, his voice rough with affection, "is about all I can handle just now." Then he kissed her again.

  Christy lost herself in his touch and when he scooped her up to carry her into his bedroom with its king-sized bed, she was more than ready.

  Chapter 17

  Sprawled on a sofa in Sledge's roomy great room, Roy took a puff of the joint Sledge had supplied as part of his party consumables. Roy was more than a little stoned as he contemplated the smoke rising from the glowing tip, his mind drifting lazily. The end of tour party was in full swing. People were everywhere, including the kitchen, though Chef Rita, who was catering the party, kept chasing them out. Even the bedroom wing seemed to have become part of the venue. Roy suspected that each of Sledge's four bedrooms was currently occupied with couples who were not discussing the weather.

  He hadn't been to such a rocking party as this for a very long time, since his hippy radical days, pre-Vivien, in fact. It took him back, made him nostalgic. Though that might be the weed, come to think of it. Still, there was no getting around it. He wasn't twenty any more. He wouldn't want to do this on a regular basis, but occasionally... He grinned at nothing and no one. Letting go once in a while had a lot to recommend it.

  He took another puff and breathed deep, exhaling slowly. The cushions moved as Stormy leapt up onto the couch. With typical feline disregard for anyone's comfort but his own, he hopped onto Roy's lap and walked up his chest so that his nose was close enough to the joint for Frank to enjoy some of the smoke. Roy stroked Stormy's head absently, and the cat began to purr and knead with pleasure.

  Awesome. Damn, but Sledge gives a good party. I can't believe some of the people who are here.

  Frank was right. Half of Vancouver's music scene was here tonight. They'd drift in, jam with Sledge and Hammer, then drift out again. Or maybe they'd just disappeared into one of the bedrooms. Trevor had told him that the end of tour party was a tradition for SledgeHammer. A time for the road crew, the band, the backup singers, and everyone else involved—including their accountant—to get together to mourn the end of the tour and celebrate its success.

  The murder after the last concert had put a crimp into tradition, though. No one wanted to plan a celebration when a girl had died, so they'd compromised and made the party in honor of Homeless Help, Syd Haynes's charity. Everyone had been asked to donate. Sledge had announced earlier, just before Syd left, that they'd raised nearly a hundred thousand dollars.

  Trevor needs to lay off my aunt.

  That roused Roy out of his happy stupor. "What are you talking about?"

  They're out on the deck. Huddled together. It's creepy.

  There was something surreal about the way Stormy purred and kneaded lazily while Frank bitched about Ellen's behavior. If he hadn't already been aware of it, this alone would have told him that there were two different creatures living in the cat's body. "Are they necking?" He didn't want to think that Trevor and Ellen might be waiting for a spot in one of the bedrooms. Best not to
go there.

  They're talking! Get your mind out of the gutter, Armstrong.

  Roy resisted the urge to point out that he wasn't the one who had brought up the subject. Instead, he took another puff and hoped the residual smoke would turn Frank's thoughts elsewhere and stop him ruining the vibe with his disapproval.

  "Go to hell, Vince!" The angry voice belonged to Hammer and from the expression on his face as he stomped through the glass doors that opened onto the deck, he was furious. Stormy stopped purring and kneading, then hopped off Roy's chest to perch on the back of the sofa for a view of the action.

  "Be realistic, Hammer. He's a liability."

  That was Vince as he trailed into the great room behind the angry Hammer. Roy noticed that Sledge was just behind, a frown on his forehead.

  "He's my brother, damn it! I'm not going to dump him so I can give the band better optics."

  The conversation in the great room died off as the angry voice of Hammer and the milder, but still loud, one belonging to Vince, dominated.

  "He's got a record, Hammer. Mitch told me his company is going to—"

  "Mitch Crosier doesn't care about anyone but himself," Sledge said. His tone was even, carefully controlled, but Roy thought he could hear anger simmering below the surface. "The band sticks together."

  "Since the media got hold of the info that Kyle was a suspect in the murder of a decent kid from a good family—and that he has a history of violence against women—our record sales have tanked! Do you know what that means?"

  "I don't give a f—"

  "I won't be a billionaire before I'm forty?" Sledge asked, raising an eyebrow. His tone was ironic, his expression amused as he broke in on Hammer. If he was trying to defuse the situation, though, it wasn't working.

  "Get serious!" Vince said, his tone scathing. "It means no radio play. And no radio play means no sales. And no sales means no recording contract. And no recording contract means no tour. And no touring means no SledgeHammer!"