Let Sleeping Cats Lie: The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series, Book Four

by Louise Clark

  Quinn looked at his father with considerable admiration and laughed. “I was thinking of mailing the copied drive to my editor, but yours is a much better idea.” He shook his head. “Helps to have a novelist in the family.”

  Roy beamed. “Backing up hard drives will take quite some time. Best to get started.” He headed back into the house.

  Quinn took one last look around the quiet neighborhood, then followed.

  Chapter 9

  “They’re going to railroad him. I can feel it in my bones.” Sunk deep in gloom, Roy crossed one ankle over the other knee and stared fiercely at the sole of his Birkenstock sandal. The sole was worn, but still serviceable though he’d had the sandals for years.

  Trevor frowned. “Not if I can help it.”

  “What if you can’t? They’re looking at Quinn for a political killing, for God’s sake! They could take him away one day for questioning and make sure he never reappears again.”

  Trevor’s mouth turned down as he frowned. “No, they can’t.”

  Roy grunted. Canada’s law provided the national security services with considerable power to investigate and detain individuals who were suspected of terrorist acts or sympathies. Charges didn’t have to be laid or proof of wrong doing supplied. Trevor had been a card-carrying member of the legal system when personal freedom and innocent until proven guilty was still a cornerstone. He’d been retired for years now and the system had mutated into a one that often chose to see a bogyman behind the mask of a simple clown.

  Not that Quinn was a clown. Bad analogy. Still, Roy decided, the meaning behind his thought was valid. Quinn was in danger simply because he was who he was and his friendship with a woman who had survived an ordeal that was unimaginable to most people. Trevor was being naïve and putting too much stock in a flawed system.

  The silence lengthened. Roy knew he was brooding, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t going to let his son be trampled on by the state gone wild. He just needed to figure out a way to subvert the minions of a Fasci—

  Ellen’s on her way.

  Frank’s voice was in his mind even before Stormy’s lithe body bounded across the grassy area that connected the backyards of the row of townhouses.

  Trevor brightened and he stood, moving so that he could see past the ten-foot fences that partitioned the green space and gave each townhouse some privacy. “Ellen!” he said as he peered around the whitewashed wood. His smile could have lit a dozen Christmas trees.

  Roy heard her say, “Trevor! I didn’t expect to see you here.” Then she reached the fence and entered his field of vision. She was smiling as brightly as Trevor. The apparent pleasure his old friend and new one were taking in each other should have improved his mood. Instead it just sank him deeper into the dismals.

  He ruminated glumly while Trevor and Ellen enjoyed some light social chitchat. Then he heard Ellen say, “She’s gone down to the Trust offices to meet with Isabelle Pascoe, the manager. I expect she’ll be spending a lot of time down there from now on. At least, she will once she’s finished this assignment for Patterson,” which brought him abruptly out of his dark deliberations.

  “She?”

  Ellen and Trevor both looked at him, Trevor with raised brows, Ellen blinking with surprise. “Christy, of course,” she said.

  Why Christy would be spending more time at the Trust would have to wait. “What’s this about an assignment for Patterson? I thought the detective was part of this nasty taskforce that’s looking into the death of Fred Jarvis.”

  “She is. Inspector Fortier believes there is a political motivation behind Fred Jarvis’ murder. Patterson isn’t so sure.”

  Detective Patterson’s intelligence rose a few notches in Roy’s mind. Still, he wasn’t ready to believe Fortier and his taskforce would actually evaluate any new information in a fair and unbiased way. They’d picked their targets—Tamara and Quinn—and they wouldn’t let up until they found the proof they needed. “Why would Patterson want Christy involved?”

  Because she’s a Jamieson, of course.

  There was pride in the voice and perhaps a little derision, as if the speaker was somehow superior. Roy’s usually amiable temper, already stressed by the threat to his son, unraveled further. “It may be obvious to you, Frank, but it isn’t to me. Clarify or let the people do the talking.”

  There was a shocked, uneasy silence, then the cat arched his back, fluffed his tail, and pounced. He landed on Roy’s foot and bit his bare toe.

  “Ow! What was that for?”

  I don’t like your tone.

  “Well, you can just—”

  “Patterson wants Christy to approach the members of Jarvis’ family and find out if any of them had a motive to murder him,” Ellen said, intervening hastily.

  And she’s doing it because of your son! The voice was furious. The cat’s tail lashed back and forth. His green eyes were hard.

  “Is she putting herself in danger?” Trevor asked.

  Probably. She is a Jamieson.

  Ellen sat down on one of the webbed deck chairs. “I’m going to help her.”

  “This sounds inadvisable,” Trevor, the lawyer, said.

  “Christy can’t do this on her own,” Ellen said. She sounded determined. Clearly, she’d already made the decision. “Patterson is not in charge of this investigation, so she can’t change the direction unless she has a solid lead that will result in evidence and a conviction. That’s what she wants Christy to do. Look for leads, like motive. Find discrepancies in people’s stories.”

  Roy brightened. It sounded as if Christy would be doing exactly what he planned to do—redirect the focus of the taskforce away from Quinn and Tamara. “I like the sound of that.”

  Of course you do.

  The cat still glowered at him. The voice was contemptuous.

  Ellen looked from the cat and to the two men. The tiny lines between her brows indicated she was disturbed by the hostility between them. “Patterson told Christy that the taskforce saw Tamara as their prime suspect, with Quinn involved as well.”

  Trevor rubbed his jaw. “They’ve interviewed all of us. Quinn is in the most trouble, because he was alone in his car when the shooting happened, but Roy’s alibi is shaky too. He was seen here before the time they’ve pinpointed, then sometime later he was seen as well. The travel time between Burnaby and Yaletown where murder occurred means it is unlikely he could have been the shooter. But I’m sure they’re examining every detail of his story to see if they can pick it apart and perhaps find a loophole.”

  “And I hope they do,” Roy said fiercely.

  Ellen’s eyes opened wide. “Do you even know how to fire a gun, Roy?”

  He shot her a brooding look from under his brows. “Of course I do. Anyone can.”

  “This was a sharpshooter shot,” Trevor said.

  “So?” Roy snapped, hostile.

  “So you’re not likely to be the killer,” Ellen said.

  “You don’t even own a gun,” Trevor said. “If they were stupid enough to charge you, I could get you off in an instant.”

  “Not if I give them more evidence to prove my motivation.”

  You want the taskforce to arrest you?

  Roy glared at the cat. “Don’t sound so surprised, Frank. They already like me for it. Fred Jarvis and I have been at odds for years. He wants—wanted!—to rape our environment. Cut down old growth forests to feed sawmills or ship logs to China. Build houses and office buildings on the habitats of endangered species. Pave over the most fertile farmland in the province just because it is located close to this city. The man was a slave to corporate interests. He—”

  We got it. Your motive is better than Quinn’s.

  “Perhaps not,” Ellen said. Her tone was gentle, her eyes sad. “The best motives are the emotional ones and I understand Quinn is deeply attached to Tamara. If she’s guilty, they can certainly make a case against Quinn as well.”

  Roy nodded. “That’s why I need to get them to look a
t me, instead. I can’t let them take Quinn down.”

  “Roy.” There was disapproval in Trevor’s voice, but there was compassion too.

  “Christy won’t let that happen,” Ellen said. She leaned over and patted Roy’s knee. “And neither will I.” Sitting back, she looked at each man in turn. “Now, gentlemen. We are going to help Christy find the killer and we need a plan. Let’s get started.”

  Christy stood in the hallway outside the door marked with the name Jamieson Trust. She drew a deep breath, gathering her defenses, drawing the cloak of her Jamieson princess persona around her. She reached out, took the handle and turned it. Then she walked inside, head high, expression calm.

  The offices of the Jamieson Trust were the same as they had been when Frank was alive and his fortune intact. In those days, Christy rarely visited—if a trustee needed to talk to Frank, he came to the mansion, Frank didn’t go to him. Christy’s most memorable visit had been the day when the four trustees had told her to stop searching for Frank. Events had spun out of control after that, resulting in her being reported to child services as a poor parent. An investigation and ongoing home inspections by the child services agent Joan Shively followed. To say that Christy had an aversion to the space was putting it mildly.

  The reception area was quietly opulent. The walls were painted the rich dark green of BC jade above a crisp white chair rail. Below, thick mahogany paneling gave the room a traditional look and hinted at wealth tastefully restrained. The deep pile carpet was off white, complimenting the colors in the room. It confirmed the impression of wealth—who else, but people used to unlimited funds, would choose a floor covering that would so easily capture dirt and grime for a professional office?

  A sofa and two chairs lined the walls to allow the occasional visitor to sit. At the end of the room a door opened into what Christy knew was the hallway that lead to the offices. The door was guarded by a receptionist seated at an elegant mahogany desk that glowed with the same vibrant red gold as the wall paneling. The receptionist was young, and pretty. She was also new and Christy had never met her. Still, the woman jumped to her feet as Christy entered.

  “Mrs. Jamieson, welcome!” She came round the desk, mincing in a tight skirt and sky-high heels, her hips swaying. Her smile was a mixture of rampant curiosity, bright-eyed enthusiasm, and cool sophistication. The result made her seem impossibly young.

  Christy hadn’t expected this level of effusiveness, though she probably should have. With confirmation that a large part of the Jamieson fortune would be restored, the Trust would once again become a power in the Vancouver scene. As its primary representative, Christy was now an important person in the life of this young woman. She would naturally want to make a good impression.

  Christy smiled warmly and held out her hand. “Thank you. I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced.”

  “Oh,” the young woman said. She eyed Christy’s hand, clearly not expecting the friendly gesture from her new boss. Then her smile returned, she grabbed Christy’s hand and said, “I’m Bonnie King, Mrs. Jamieson. I’m so pleased to be working with you. Mrs. Pascoe asked that I bring you to the conference room as soon as you arrived.”

  “The conference room?” When the trustees bullied her into quitting her hunt for Frank they had called her into the conference room like a misbehaving teen summoned to the principal’s office. The memory of that confrontation made her quite sure she didn’t want to have the meeting where she was establishing her position as the head of the Jamieson Trust take place in that room. “No need to be so formal,” she said to the enthusiastic Bonnie. “Why don’t you direct me to Isabelle’s office?”

  Bonnie hesitated, concern at this breech in protocol clear in her expression. “Well … ”

  “I’m sure she won’t mind.”

  “Well,” Bonnie said again, hovering indecisively.

  Christy gave her a little wave and headed for the opening to the hallway.

  Bonnie caved and led the way.

  Isabelle Pascoe’s office was located beside the corner office that was reserved for the use of the senior Trustee. It was a small cubical, more appropriate to a secretary than to the woman who did the day-to-day management of a financial empire. On the way, Christy and Bonnie had passed three large offices, originally used, Christy presumed, by the three other trustees, space for clerks—currently empty—a supply center that also housed the coffee maker and a refrigerator, and the despised conference room.

  Isabelle’s door was open and when Bonnie and Christy arrived, she stood hastily. She shot Bonnie an annoyed look, but smiled when she turned to Christy. “Mrs. Jamieson, a pleasure to see you again. Let’s adjourn to the conference room. Bonnie will bring us coffee. Or would you prefer tea?”

  “Coffee would be fine,” Christy said as she walked into the office and stood by the lone visitor chair opposite the utilitarian steel single pedestal desk. “Bonnie has already suggested the conference room. I asked her to bring me here, Isabelle, because you and I will be working closely together and I don’t think we need to begin our relationship with false formality.” She smiled. “I’m new to this, but I want to secure my daughter’s future, and for that I need your help.”

  The stiffness eased from Isabelle’s posture and she smiled back. “You have it, Mrs. Jamieson.” She gestured to the chair. “Please sit and make yourself comfortable. Bonnie, can you bring the coffee service here, please?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Pascoe.” Bonnie moved away, silent on the thick carpeting.

  Isabelle waited until Christy sat, then she eased back into her simple swivel desk chair. Christy looked around the room. The walls were white and file cabinets took up much of the floor space that wasn’t given over to the desk and chairs. The space was inappropriate, Christy decided. Isabelle deserved a larger office, but she put the thought aside for now. She’d act on it once she’d established her own position at the Jamieson Trust.

  They talked about the upcoming return of the Jamieson funds, what Isabelle’s role would be in the reconstituted Trust and Christy’s, until Bonnie carried in a silver tray loaded with fragile bone china cups and saucers, a silver coffee urn and a plate of petite fours. “I can see why you suggested the conference room,” Christy said wryly.

  Isabelle shifted papers on her desk. Bonnie off loaded the contents of the tray. “It’s fine,” Isabelle said. Bonnie retreated, leaving Christy and Isabelle to get back to work.

  “Will you be appointing a new group of trustees?” Isabelle asked. She sipped her coffee and watched Christy.

  Christy nodded. “Ellen Jamieson and I have discussed this. She has agreed to remain as a trustee and will head the search for another three individuals to replace the men charged in the embezzlement of the Trust.”

  Isabelle nodded. “An accountant and a lawyer would be useful. Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “Ellen has some ideas,” Christy said, “but she’s not ready to name them yet.”

  Isabelle nodded again and Christy took a deep breath. She was about to get into the tricky part of the conversation. “Ellen has asked me to take on the role as the family representative and has given me the title and authority of CEO of the Trust.” Isabelle’s expression didn’t change. Christy couldn’t tell if she was upset by the changes, relieved, or ambivalent. “You and I have been working well together for the past months and I hope that you will continue on in your present position and help me with the transition.”

  Isabelle sat back in her chair. Holding her teacup in both hands, she studied Christy over the rim. “And after the transition?”

  “I hope you will continue on at the Trust.” Christy smiled warmly. “As I see it, Isabelle, my main job in the Jamieson world is to raise my daughter to be the best woman she can be. My second focus is to represent the family within the community. I don’t want to manage the day to day running of the Trust. That’s your job. You do it very well and I want you to continue doing it.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jamieson.�
�� Isabelle sat forward and returned her cup to the saucer. Then she smiled. “I accept your offer and would be pleased to continue working with you.”

  Relief washed through Christy. “Excellent!”

  Isabelle hesitated a moment, then said, “While we’re on the subject of representing the family in the community, there’s an event I think you should attend.”

  She stopped and Christy raised her brows in question, waiting silently for her to continue.

  “Frederick Jarvis’ funeral.”

  Taken aback, Christy said, “His funeral? I didn’t know the man.”

  Isabelle hesitated again, then she said on a rush, “Mr. Fisher always made sure the Trust was represented at important events.”

  “Galas and fundraisers, yes. But a funeral?”

  “He said it was important to be involved in the community, even if that meant showing our respects when a prominent person passed.”

  “Still,” Christy murmured. She didn’t want to attend Fred Jarvis’ funeral, on her own or as the representative of the Trust. She’d feel like an interloper, gate crashing a solemn, intensely personal event. She couldn’t do it.

  Then she thought about Detective Patterson’s request that she investigate the people in Fred Jarvis’ personal life. The funeral would be a perfect venue to identify those people. Perhaps even to question them a little. When would she have that opportunity again?

  With a silent groan, she surrendered. “Yes, all right, I’ll attend.”

  Isabelle drew a deep breath, her expression relieved. “Excellent. I gather the arrangements are quite complex. There’s a great deal of security, given who he was and the way he died. I’ll let his office know and they’ll put you on the guest list. I’ll send you the details once I receive them.”

  Christy frowned at her. “I haven’t heard anything about the service. Do you know if it will be here or in Victoria?” Though Fred Jarvis represented one of the Vancouver area ridings and had a house in Lion’s Bay just up the coast, political funerals were often held in Victoria, the provincial capital.