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

by Louise Clark

  The cat finished his meal. He looked up, licking his lips. Then he sat down and took a minute to give his face and whiskers a good clean, before he strutted out of the kitchen, tail high and expression satisfied. He'd be off now to settle somewhere comfortable and have a snooze.

  On an impulse, Christy reached down as he passed and scratched his belly. "Go up and cuddle with Noelle, but don't wake her. She can use a little more sleep, and she'll stay in bed if you're there to keep her settled."

  The cat didn't pause, but Christy heard his footsteps as he galloped up the stairs.

  Chapter 26

  "What do you think?" Quinn threw a stack of paper-clipped printer paper onto the kitchen table beside Roy's laptop.

  Roy emerged from the intricacies of plotting a mystery novel and blinked at his son. Quinn was looking particularly grim this afternoon. Roy thought he knew the reason why and sympathized, but there wasn't much he could do about it. This was a something Quinn had to work out on his own.

  He picked up the paper and saw that this was an article on Mitch Crosier. "Thank you for showing me a printed copy. Gives these old eyes a rest," he said absently as he scanned the text.

  Quinn grunted. The sound came from the vicinity of the coffeemaker. "When did you make this coffee, Dad?"

  "Couple of hours ago. You've caught Crosier. But... Domestic goddess for Kim? I thought she was just a flaky bombshell."

  "That's what Crosier calls her. It's over the top, but I think it says something about the man, so I included it." There was a whoosh as the stale coffee in the pot was dumped and then the sound of running water.

  "Are you making enough for me, too?" Roy asked, without looking up. He pulled the paper clip so he could access the next page.

  Quinn laughed. There was affection, but not amusement in the sound. Roy winced inwardly. Not a lot of lightness in Quinn's life right now.

  "What do you think, Dad?" More gruff affection and the sound of pouring water.

  "I think you wouldn't dare not to." This time when Quinn laughed, there was some amusement in the sound. Roy gave himself a pat on the back and read on.

  He finished the article before the coffeemaker completed the drip cycle and looked up. "Excellent work. Well balanced and fair, but honest. Have you placed it yet?"

  Quinn leaned against the counter. He was wearing jeans and a faded sweatshirt that he'd had for years. He hadn't shaved and the second day stubble added to the grimness in his expression. He should go over and see Christy, Roy thought. She was already attracted to him. The wounded warrior look would probably be enough to tip the scales so she'd slip back to him and forget about her difficult relationship with a dead man who might or might not be living in a cat.

  "I pre-sold it to an online newsmagazine. Since Crosier is tied to Vince's death, they were all over it," Quinn said. The coffeemaker beeped. Quinn got himself a cup, and poured. He brought his mug over to the table and picked up Roy's to refill it.

  "You only mentioned Vince's death obliquely," Roy said, as Quinn put his refilled cup on the table. He picked it up and sipped, enjoying the mellowness of fresh coffee on his tongue. "Do you think Mitch is involved?"

  Quinn drank some coffee, then shook his head. "He claims he was looking for Chef Rita to see about acquiring a recipe for Kim." Roy laughed at that and Quinn smiled. "He didn't find her until after the murder, and he doesn't have anyone to give him an alibi for the actual time of death. That means he's still a suspect, but an unlikely one, I think."

  "Because of the search for Chef Rita?"

  Quinn nodded. "Yeah. He talked to a server in the kitchen, asking where Rita was. That can be checked. In fact, I've got a call into the woman now. If she confirms it, then we know where Mitch was when the argument took place. He says the server sent him to the music room to find Rita. If she confirms that, and tells me that she saw Mitch head off in that direction, it's likely he went to that part of the house. If he did, he wouldn't have time to get out the front door to confront Vince and murder him."

  Roy sipped his coffee and nodded as he listened to this. "It's possible. But, unless the server watched him closely, he could have switched directions in time to get outside and do the deed."

  "He could have," Quinn said, "though his motive is weak. With Vince dead, SledgeHammer will need to get new management. They might hire a company Crosier has a financial interest in, thereby bringing him in a new source of revenue from them. But managers are a key component in a band's career. With Vince dead, who knows what will happen to SledgeHammer. If the band breaks up Mitch stands to lose a lot more than he'll gain."

  "So he's still on the list."

  Quinn nodded. "I'd keep him there for the moment, though I wouldn't put him near the top."

  Roy sighed. "I was hoping you'd put the finger on Crosier and say you'd solved this thing. Looks like I'm still on the hook."

  "Haven't found Hank Lofti yet?"

  Roy put his cup onto the table and grimaced. "Lofti is proving elusive. His address is a post box and he doesn't answer his cell, so I've been combing bars all week and have come up with zilch. I'm frustrated."

  "Want some help?"

  It was Friday night. Quinn should be doing something with Christy, not out prowling through seedy dives with his father. He shook his head. "I'm going to give the bar search one more attempt tonight." Quinn looked gloomy. Maybe he'd already tried to set something up for tonight and been rebuffed. "If I'm not successful I'll need someone to brainstorm other ways to find him. You in?"

  "Sure." Quinn's smile was thin, his expression almost sad. He knew he'd been tossed a bone.

  Roy said hastily, "Have you had a chance to talk to that Toupin guy? The backup guitarist who was on the tour?"

  "Not yet. I arranged to meet him at his place on Monday morning."

  "Not sooner?"

  Quinn downed the last of his coffee. He pushed back his chair and stood. "I'm working on something for the weekend. I hope to be busy."

  Good news at last! Roy grinned. "Good luck with that."

  Quinn's mouth quirked up in a rueful smile. "Thanks." He scooped up his papers. "I'd better get this finished up. They want it before five this afternoon."

  "I'm available to babysit, if you need it," Roy said to Quinn's departing back. He watched his son stiffen and his step hesitated.

  Quinn didn't turn around. "Thanks. I'll let you know."

  Roy sipped coffee and watched him as he left the room. He hoped Quinn would take him up on his offer, but he wasn't confident it would happen.

  * * *

  By eleven o'clock that night Roy had had enough. He stood in front of a bar was in the Downtown East Side, not far from Homeless Help. The area was a grim reminder of businesses gone elsewhere. Boarded up storefronts and old warehouses with broken windows outnumbered the places—like the bar—still in operation.

  As with the previous nights, he had no success. He decided this would be his last stop tonight. Maybe his last attempt to find Lofti in a downtown bar. There had to be a more efficient way to locate the man. Lofti had been a jack-of-all-trades on the tour. Officially, he was part of the set up and take down crew, but he basically did what he was told by the foreman. If he wasn't working behind the scenes at rock concerts, what else might he do?

  Construction? Possible. Loading and unloading trucks or trains or boats? Also possible. Both had unionized and non-unionized components. He doubted Lofti belonged to a union, so he'd be working or looking for work on non-union sites.

  Roy was pondering how a person discovered active non-union construction sites in the greater Vancouver area as he pulled open the door to the seedy bar. Inside the lighting was dim, but he could see round tables spread throughout a large room with a worn wooden floor. The walls were painted a dull brown and in the poor light they merged with the long wooden bar. There were stools on one side of the bar and he could make out the tall handles of draft beer spouts rising from the other side. On the wall behind were shelves filled with dozen
s of varieties of hard liquor.

  A single waitress worked a room half full of people clustered at the tables. The few who hung out on the bar stools were being served by the bartender. At one end of the room was a raised stage and on it was a band that clearly needed to spend more time rehearsing. Roy winced and decided he'd take a quick look around then get the hell out.

  As his eyes adjusted to the muted lighting, he could make out faces. None of the people at the tables were Hank Lofti. Roy wasn't surprised; he knew this was a long shot. He moved deeper into the room, heading for the bar and the last few patrons he hadn't yet identified. No one paid him much attention. Those who weren't talking to a friend were deep into drink and listening to the band in a zoned out kind of way. Or maybe this was the kind of establishment where it paid to keep to yourself.

  He wandered down the bar, pretending to look for a place to sit, but really scanning faces. As usual, no luck. Then, at the very end, he saw a man sitting with his back against the wall, his eyes on the band as he chugged beer from a long-necked bottle. Hank Lofti. Was it possible? Roy moved closer. Yes, it was.

  He let his elation etch a smile on his face as he sat down on the stool next to Lofti's. "Hank," he said. "Is that you?"

  Lofti lowered his bottle with the careful movements of a man who was a long way to being drunk, and peered at Roy. "Who's asking?"

  "Roy Armstrong. We met at Sledge's party?"

  Hank stared at him, clearly not remembering. He was intoxicated enough to blurt out, "No." Or maybe he was one of those people who didn't worry about the social niceties.

  "Sure you do," Roy said. "I'm the guy with the cat."

  Hank stared in an uncomprehending way. He put the beer bottle to his mouth and drank deep. "The cat that found Vince?"

  "That's it," Roy said. "Shame about Vince."

  Hank snorted and took another swig.

  "I didn't know him well," Roy said, "but he seemed like a good guy."

  The bottle crashed down onto the bar, drawing the attention of the bartender. He came over, cast an assessing glance at Hank, then looked at Roy. "What can I get you, mister?"

  "A beer," Roy said. He cast a squinty-eyed glance at Hank's bottle, which was a well-known brand and one that was vastly overrated in Roy's opinion. "What do you have on tap?"

  Turned out the bar stocked one of Roy's favorite microbrews. He ordered a pint then directed his attention back to Hank. "You worked for him, didn't you?"

  "Who?" Hank asked. He stared at the bottle as he moved it back and forth over the bar surface.

  "Vince."

  "Bastard," said Hank and drank again.

  The bartender brought Roy his draft and Hank held up his bottle. "Another."

  "One more and you're cut off," said the bartender.

  "Yeah, yeah," said Hank. "Like I'll believe that when it happens."

  The bartender shot him an evil glance. Roy had a feeling that Hank's refill would be a long time coming. "Vince wasn't a good boss?" he said.

  Hank pulled his gaze away from the actions of the bartender and refocused on Roy. "He screwed me big time."

  Roy frowned. "How?"

  Hank's face twisted. "He told me he wouldn't hire me again and he put the word out. Now I can't even get an interview, anywhere. I'm going to end up on the skids like his old pal, Syd Haynes."

  Since the tour had ended only recently, Roy thought this was a bit extreme. "Why wouldn't he hire you again?"

  "Said I was lazy, drunk, and not dependable."

  Since he slurred the words together, indicating that he was already far gone toward intoxication, Roy thought that Vince might have had truth on his side.

  "Told me I'd never work in the music business 'gain." Hank put the bottle to his mouth and chugged. Then he lowered it to peer owlishly down the neck, as if the bottle held a secret universe inside. Evidently it didn't, because his face twisted and he slammed bottle down onto the bar. "Hey, you there. Where's my refill?"

  The bartender shot him a look and said, "Coming," then turned his back to Hank and his face to the other end of the bar.

  "Stupid idiot," Hank muttered.

  Roy sipped his beer. "That must have been upsetting," he said, watching Hank over the edge of his glass.

  Hank snorted, apparently one of his favorite ways of expressing his displeasure. "Expected it. No surprise cuz he's done it before."

  "Really? Who and how?"

  Hank glowered at the still firmly turned back of the bartender. "He screwed Syd Haynes out of a fortune. Everyone knows that down here. Told lies about Syd, same way he told lies 'bout me. Once he was done, Syd didn't have a chance."

  "Are you friends with Syd Haynes?" Roy asked. He was curious how well Hank knew the other man. The way he linked their names and fates indicated a relationship, but to Roy it didn't fit. Syd had come from a well-to-do family and had fallen on hard times before he reinvented himself. Hank, as far as he could see, was a man who had always scrambled on the edges and was now on his way down. Their trajectories didn't mesh.

  Hank shook his head, confirming Roy's suspicions. "Syd's a legend around here. Everyone knows he founded SledgeHammer. If Vince hadn't forced him out, he'd be living in a fancy house up on the hill, like Sledge."

  "Instead he's living down on the east side helping people find their way to better lives," Roy said.

  Hank glared at his empty beer bottle and completely missed the approval in Roy's voice. "Bunch of no good losers," he muttered. "Syd deserves better." He picked up the empty bottle and tipped it to his mouth again, apparently hopeful it had somehow refilled since he'd last drunk. When nothing came out, he slammed the bottle down and shoved it away from him. Then he sat up, glared at Roy and said, "That bastard Vince had it coming to him."

  Roy took another sip, then decided that was the last he'd drink of his draft, even though he had half a glass left. The brew had been fine, but Hank Lofti was curdling his stomach. He wanted to get his fact-finding mission over with and be gone. "Where were you before the cat started to howl?"

  A crafty look slipped over Hank's features. "You mean when Vince was being offed?"

  Not exactly, Roy thought, but close enough. He nodded.

  The bartender came and slapped down a fresh brew in front of Hank. "Six-fifty," he said.

  Hank stared at him myopically. Roy paid. The bartender went away.

  Hank picked up the bottle and drank deep. "What were we talking about?"

  "Vince's murder," Roy said, watching him.

  "Right." Hank contemplated the bottle. "I was in the kitchen. Pretty fancy one it was, too."

  "Why were you in the kitchen?" Roy was genuinely interested. Hank didn't seem like the kind of man who thought about cooking, especially high-end recipes. He seemed more the fast food type.

  Hank's smile was close to a leer. "I was chatting up that pretty little chef Sledge hired."

  "Chatting up. You mean talking to her in the kitchen?"

  Hank began to laugh. "Been a while, has it, old man? No. I was putting the hit on her." The smile turned into what was definitely a leer. "I wasn't doing her in the kitchen, but close enough."

  Roy thought about the chef, who was indeed an attractive young woman, and Hank Lofti striking sparks off each other. It was possible. Hank had a full head of thick dark hair and well defined pecs from the physical work that provided his income. It was also possible that Chef Rita might have flirted with him in the kitchen while she worked.

  What Roy couldn't see as possible was a woman with a thriving catering business jeopardizing it by doing anything more than flirting at an event she was working. Since Chef Rita had come up in both Crosier and Lofti's statements, someone needed to talk to her. He'd suggest Ellen give it a try. She might not be great at interviewing, but he was sure she had lots of experience in dealing with caterers. She'd speak Chef Rita's language. That was for later, though. Right now, he needed to dig deeper into Hank's Lofti's story. He moved his glass back and forth, aware that Lofti's eyes f
ollowed it. "So you were in the kitchen when the cat started to howl? Making out with Chef Rita?"

  "Yeah."

  "That's strange. Mitch Crosier says there was a server in the kitchen about then and Chef Rita wasn't around."

  Lofti's eyes darted upward. His hand tightened on the beer bottle. "Crosier lies."

  "Really?"

  "Look, old man, I said I was in the kitchen and I was." He shifted on his stool, away from Roy, and hunched protectively over his bottle. "I ain't got nothing more to say to you."

  Hank Lofti was lying about where he was when Vince died, but that didn't mean he was the killer. He could have been with Chef Rita somewhere other than the kitchen. Did that mean they were both involved in Vince's murder, or that they were making out as Lofti claimed?

  Roy couldn't see a motive for the pretty young chef, but he could see one for Hank. Bitter, angry, blaming Vince for his own failures, Hank had plenty of reasons for killing Vince.

  But did he do it?

  Roy added him to the growing list of suspects.

  Chapter 27

  Quinn ended the call from his editor and stretched. He glanced at the clock at the corner of his computer screen. Two in the afternoon. He rubbed his forehead and wondered if he should cancel the plans he'd made for this evening.

  Yesterday, when he'd talked to his father, his afternoon stretched before him, full of opportunities. He wanted to give the article on Mitch Crosier another review and polish, but he didn't expect that to take more than fifteen minutes. Then he'd send it off and he could concentrate on arranging a romantic Saturday evening for Christy.

  He finished the article, emailed it, then booked a table at Christy's favorite seafood restaurant and a room at one of the best hotels in town. She was stressing over Frank and his refusal to talk to her, or, more importantly in Christy's mind, to Noelle. He accepted that. He also guessed that living with the cat, waiting for it to speak, would be more than a little difficult. She needed time away where she didn't have to wonder, or worry.