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

by Louise Clark

"She was talking to the woman who catered the party. Chef Rita."

  "I hope she brings back something fabulous," Ellen said. "That woman's food was wonderful."

  Roy grunted agreement. He pulled plates out of the cupboard and handed them to Ellen.

  Once she would have stared at the dishes in amazement and not had a clue what to do with them. Now she was simply impressed how quickly she could set the table for six. It would be a squeeze, but the Armstrongs and Jamiesons did their best work crowded together around a simple kitchen table. Today they planned to discuss Vince's murder and pool their information.

  "What made your morning so crappy?" Roy asked, as he put the platter of sandwiches onto the table. "Or do you want to wait until we're all here before you tell the story?"

  "It has nothing to Mr. Nunez's murder," Ellen said. "Although that odd man Sydney Haynes was involved. Since he was also at Sledge's party, I suppose I should wait."

  Roy nodded. He had just set coffee mugs on the counter by the coffee brewer when the doorbell rang. He cocked his head. "That will be Christy."

  There was the sound of footsteps and voices. Sledge and Quinn appeared in the kitchen doorway. Sledge was dressed in his usual jeans and T-shirt. He flashed her his friendly, regular guy grin as he passed, rather than the sexy rock star smirk. Quinn merely nodded. His eyes were shadowed, and his expression unusually gloomy. He was dressed in a sweater and slacks, but he looked... rumpled. Ellen frowned, adding Quinn's appearance to the absence of Christy. Over the months she had lived in Burnaby, she had seen them moving closer and closer to each other. What was going on here?

  Perhaps Roy was wrong and the person who rang the bell wasn't Christy, but someone else. Someone... random. How unlikely was that? Very, she decided, as Christy, followed by Trevor and Stormy the Cat, entered the kitchen. "Hi everyone. Sorry I'm late."

  She was carrying a white box as well, and like Ellen she put it down on the countertop. Hers was taped closed so Roy had to slit it open. When he did, Ellen saw that it was filled with luscious looking deserts.

  "Not late," Roy said as he closed the box, clearly planning to leave it until they'd eaten the main course. "We're in no rush."

  Trevor deposited a shopping bag beside the box of pastries and began to pull out giant sized bags of chips. Roy handed him several large bowls and there was the sound of crinkling plastic as Trevor filled them up. He left two bowls on the counter, within easy reach, and put the other two on the table beside the sandwich tray.

  Roy looked around. "Okay, everyone, we're all here. Grab a plate and a chair. Coffee is ready and I've got ice tea in the fridge."

  They settled around the table with their beverages and plates and tucked into the food. Ellen noticed that Christy sat at one end of the table, with Sledge between her and Quinn. Her expression was carefully blank, while Quinn's was a dark storm cloud. As the cat hopped up onto Christy's lap, Ellen saw Quinn look away. What, she wondered, was going on?

  "Let's start with your morning, Ellen," Roy said. "You mentioned you had a run in with Sydney Haynes, I think?"

  "Nothing quite so dramatic," Ellen said. She chose a curried chicken sandwich and added sour cream chips to her plate. "I was at the inaugural meeting of the East Side Beautification Committee with a few others, including Charlotte Sawatzky. Mr. Haynes made rather a spectacle of himself, I'm afraid."

  Sledge frowned. "What did he do? Syd has always been about Syd, but he used to be able to turn on the charm when he wanted."

  "If so, he didn't want to this morning," Ellen said. She didn't sniff in disapproval, but she did raise her brows critically. "He became quite agitated and verbally attacked Charlotte. He bears a grudge, I believe, over the conversion of the Regent Hotel and the death of Reverend Wigle."

  Trevor picked up a sandwich without paying much attention to the filling. "Tate Haynes tried to get him to go into therapy when he was sixteen, but Syd wouldn't do it. He had started to say Tate wasn't his father and that Tate had abandoned him." Trevor bit into the sandwich and his eyes widened. As he chewed he peered at the contents. "I think I just ate an eggplant."

  "Roasted red pepper and eggplant," Ellen said. "I don't know what the spices are, but I love this combination."

  "Right," Trevor said, frowning. He stared at the sandwich quarter as if trying to decide if he could abandon it or if he had to finish his portion. "When Syd got into the music scene, Tate thought it was a good thing, then the drugs happened."

  "Syd's been doing pretty well since he cleaned up and started working with Homeless Help," Sledge said. His hand hovered over a sandwich with a filing that looked like the eggplant and red pepper one, then moved away. He finally zeroed in on salmon. "He was at the party, but he'd gone by the time Vince and Hammer started arguing."

  "So he's out of the picture," Quinn said. He drank coffee, but left his plate bare. "The guy I talked to this morning, Brody Toupin, is probably in the clear too. He thought Vince was going to make him a star—"

  "Brody? Really?" said Sledge, surprise in his voice.

  Quinn nodded.

  "Brody is a great guitarist, but he has zero stage presence," Sledge said.

  "Apparently, Vince felt the same way. Anyway, that gives Toupin motive, but he claims that with Vince's death he now has no manager and no future. He's feeling pretty sorry for himself."

  "Where was he when Vince was killed?" Christy asked quietly from her end of the table.

  Quinn shot her a quick look, then inspected his coffee cup. "He says he was in the bathroom. Can't be corroborated. I also talked to Mitchell Crosier. He claims he was searching for Chef Rita so he could ask her for a recipe."

  "A recipe? What kind of recipe?" Trevor asked. He sounded incredulous.

  For a moment humor lit Quinn's eyes. "The kind that your domestic goddess of a wife can have fun with."

  "Blew me away when you told me Kim Crosier is a domestic goddess," Roy said. "I thought she was just a flake." He chose the eggplant and red pepper sandwich Sledge had avoided and bit into it with gusto.

  "Apparently she's both. Mitchell didn't find the chef until later, so he has no alibi. Like Brody he claims that Vince dead causes more problems for him than Vince being alive, though he does have a motive, I think. His label has a management subsidiary he claims is independent." Quinn looked over at Sledge. "I understand you're in negotiation to have them represent you."

  Sledge nodded. "It's early days yet, but yeah, they're on the short list."

  "So," Trevor said, "he kills Vince and not only does he eliminate a hard negotiator, but he also gains a new revenue source." He drank some iced tea. "Could be."

  Christy toyed with the shrimp sandwich on her plate, then Ellen saw her pick out a shrimp and feed it to Stormy, who was still crouching on her lap. She also saw Quinn staring at Christy, a brooding expression on his face.

  Roy waved a chip. "I had the unfortunate task of tracking down Hank Lofti. Not," he said, selecting another sandwich quarter, "a pleasant experience. Lofti is a drunk and lazy with it. He considers himself one of Vince's victims. I think he's got a lot of potential, motive wise, but to get himself organized to kill?" He shook his head. "I can't see it."

  "Who are Vince's other victims?" Ellen asked.

  "Syd Haynes," Roy said. "He figures Vince deliberately pushed Syd out of SledgeHammer when Syd was the one who originated the band."

  Sledge straightened. "He didn't! Hammer and I started SledgeHammer. Syd was just along for the ride. He wasn't a bad musician, but he was unreliable. Vince tried to get him into rehab, but he wouldn't go."

  "Chef Rita said Hank was drunk the night of the party and that he came on to her. She turned him down," Christy said. She snuck another shrimp to the cat.

  "No surprise there," Quinn muttered.

  Christy shot him a frowning look, then she shook herself and said, "Rita was out loading her van just before the murder. She claimed she heard a rustling sound in the woods around the time the cats were mating. Kyle Gowdy mention
ed it too. Anyone else say anything about that?"

  "Hammer did," Ellen said. "He heard something as he left the house and started on his walk. He thought it was Stormy, because he saw the cat shortly afterward."

  "Hammer isn't guilty," Sledge said. "I checked with the neighbor he met."

  "The one walking the dog," Ellen said.

  Sledge nodded. "He confirmed the meeting and Hammer's timing. There is no way Hammer could have killed Vince and be where he was when the cat started to howl."

  "I contacted the West Van cop, Szostalo, with that information," Trevor said briskly. "He was not pleased. He believed Hammer was the perpetrator and he apparently does not have any back up suspects." He looked at Christy. "Did Chef Rita mention that she'd heard something in the woods to Szostalo?"

  Christy grimaced. "No, and she won't. She says it's bad for business." She picked up a chip, but only toyed with it. "Both Kyle Gowdy and Chef Rita thought the rustling sound was made by a wild predator. A coyote, or a bear, or maybe a cougar. Sledge, does this seem likely to you?"

  "Sure. Animals come down the mountain regularly. Bears are usually in the summer, though. I think they'd still be hibernating now. We hear coyotes at night, so I know they're around, but I can't say I've seen any recently. Cougars are rare, but not unheard of."

  Christy patted the cat. "Rita also said that she heard Vince say 'Leave it! We've been over this before,' and someone else reply, but she couldn't hear what the second person said and she didn't recognize the voice. So the rustling sound, which happened before Vince's death, could have been an animal. Or..." She looked around, still stroking Stormy and apparently not noticing. "It could have been Vince's killer."

  * * *

  "Christy."

  She stiffened at the sound of Quinn's voice behind her as she was about to follow Ellen down the Armstrongs' porch stairs. In front of her Ellen paused and looked over her shoulder, making Christy pause too, when all she wanted to do was run away from the crisis she knew was brewing.

  Ellen said, "I'll see you at home."

  "I have to pick up Noelle," Christy said, to Ellen and to Quinn, even though she wasn't looking at him.

  Ellen nodded. "Later, then," she said, leaving Christy to deal with the crisis Ellen probably didn't even know was looming.

  As Ellen trotted down the steps carrying her elegant leather binder, Christy slowly turned to look at Quinn. He'd taken the short time she'd paused to talk to Ellen to grab his leather jacket and shrug it on.

  He closed the door. As their gazes made contact, he said, "I'll walk with you."

  She wanted to say no. She wanted to put off this conversation as long as possible. She was certain it would be painful. Worse, it would lead to a set of questions she didn't know how to answer and a decision she wasn't ready to make.

  "Sure." She turned away from him and started down the front walk. Two houses away she heard her own front door close as Ellen returned to the house. She wished she was with her.

  This situation was all her fault. When Quinn suggested they go to Disneyland for Spring Break, she thought she was ready. She and Frank had fallen into old habits, bickering and sniping, sometimes laughing together, but more often finding fault with each other. It didn't help that he remained critical of Ellen most of the time, but often took his aunt's side against Christy if there was a parenting issue over Noelle. It really was her old life, except there was no Frank in the flesh, only his voice in her mind and his essence in Stormy's body.

  In this limbo her relationship with Quinn had been a quiet, stolen pleasure. The walks in the woods, evenings out for dinner, or perhaps dinner and a movie. They weren't a couple, not officially. The excuse she used for herself and everyone else, but mostly herself, she thought now, was Joan Shively. The woman continued her regular home visits, though as January drifted into February the time between visits lengthened. Christy was careful to make sure Shively had no excuse to find fault with her parenting. She was terrified that if Shively used her clout within Child Services and decided Noelle had to be removed from her home, that even the legal help of Trevor McCullagh wouldn't be enough to keep Noelle with Christy.

  But as February drifted into March and Shively became much less intrusive, Christy started to believe she was safe, that her child was safe. She let herself look forward to a time when she could focus on her own life. Her own needs.

  Quinn's suggestion they travel down to Disneyland during Spring Break caught her on this high note and gave her a boost of optimism she couldn't resist. She said yes and they started to make plans, clearing the holiday through Shively first. Planning which southern California attractions to see and how long to spend at each. Booking the hotel and plane tickets.

  Noelle had been ecstatic at the thought of going to Disneyland. Christy had monitored her reaction to the suggestion carefully. If Noelle had had any reluctance to going with Quinn she would have put a stop to the adventure immediately. But Noelle had been as delighted that Quinn was coming as she was with the idea of visiting Disneyland itself.

  Christy knew Frank didn't want her to go. He was resentful that it was Quinn who would be there with Noelle, not him. Before the trip Christy didn't have much sympathy. In life, Frank had lots of opportunity to take Noelle on a theme park holiday before he died. He didn't. His loss. She'd left Vancouver, buoyed up on a high, ready to move her life forward into one that included a much deeper relationship with Quinn.

  And she'd done it. Those days and nights with Quinn? Probably the best ones of her life. He was so good with Noelle and she had so much fun with him. At the same time, he showed Christy in big ways and small that he cared for her. She wasn't used to a man in her life who made her a priority. It had been wonderful.

  Then came Vince's murder, Frank's retreat, and a crushing burden of guilt she couldn't ignore. She hadn't been there when Frank's voice was silenced. Had he truly left Stormy? Had he deserted her and Noelle because they deserted him?

  In California, Noelle refused to believe that her daddy was gone. Even though he hadn't said anything since their return, she still believed he'd come back, that he'd talk to them again, because he had promised her he wouldn't leave her without saying good-bye. It had been days, almost a week, since they returned, and Frank still hadn't spoken. Even Noelle, with her trust and optimism, was beginning to believe her daddy hadn't stayed to say good-bye.

  It crushed Christy to see the doubt in Noelle's eyes when she patted Stormy. The small frowns when she thought Christy wouldn't notice. The hunch to her shoulders. The sleepover with Mary Petrofsky had been a desperate attempt to redirect her attention, the return to school, a relief.

  She knew Quinn wanted clarity, to define what they were together and where their relationship was going. But how did she make him understand her tangle of emotions without hurting him? Now the moment was upon her she couldn't see a way.

  He came up beside her, matching his strides with hers. "I have a little time. I was going to go the back way," she said. Her voice was husky with emotion tightly bottled.

  "Works for me," he said.

  There was a grimness to his tone that clawed at Christy. Her throat worked and she fought for control. They walked up the street in silence. She kept her head down, studying the black asphalt surface of the road as if each tiny flaw, each lump on the surface could trip her up and cause her to fall flat on her face.

  The silence stretched, tightened. Quinn made no attempt to talk about the murder, about the fruitless discussion that followed Christy's suggestion that Vince's murderer had been lying in wait for him. He didn't want to talk about the murder. Neither of them did.

  They reached the top of the street and turned onto the path. The trees closed around them, bright new leaves bursting out on the cottonwoods and maples, shoots of vivid, almost neon, green beginning to open on the pines and cedars. The woods were coming alive after their winter sleep and she should be celebrating the joy of a season of rebirth. Instead all she could feel was the bleak despai
r of crumbling decay.

  "I thought we had something together," Quinn said. He was staring ahead, not looking at her. His voice was low, a rumble of sound filled with all the hopelessness she was feeling. She opened her mouth to reply. He continued.

  "Down in California, I thought..." He paused. She saw his jaw tighten, the muscles flex as he fought for control. "I thought we could be a family."

  A vise tightened around her heart. She had thought they could be a family too. Instead, they returned to despair and crushing guilt she couldn't get out from under. "Quinn, I..." The words wouldn't come. How did she ask a living man to wait while she dealt with the emotions she felt for a man who was already dead?

  They were near the place where the path forked, one arm leading down to the school, one going forward. He stopped and she did too, standing so that they were facing each other. Close, but not intimately so.

  He looked down at her, his expression serious. His finger traced the shape of her face, a slow sensual touch that evoked other, intimate, memories. "I get it, you know. I understand where you're at. Noelle comes first, always."

  "Yes." Her choked voice was thick with unshed tears. She had a sense where this conversation was leading and it terrified her. "Quinn..."

  He put his finger over her lips, asking for silence. She stared up into his eyes and saw sadness there. "This isn't the right time for us, is it?"

  She wanted to break her silence, shout that the timing was perfect, that he was perfect, but she couldn't. His touch, light, almost a caress on her lips, demanded honesty. She couldn't give him the reassurance he needed, so she said nothing. But her eyes searched his face, begging him not to push this conversation to its inevitable conclusion.

  "I've been telling myself to be patient. That you care for me..."

  "I do!" The words burst from her. His finger left her lips, and he stroked her cheek and dug his hand into her hair.

  "But not enough." His mouth quirked up into a rueful smile. "My problem is, I care too much. I want more, Christy. More than I think you can give."

  Christy had no answer to that, because he was right. "Quinn." His name was agreement, and they both knew it.