by Louise Clark
“Yeah,” Christy said. She paused to drink her own coffee. “I find it hard to believe too. I mean, Fred was sleeping with Archie’s wife. Most men would be furious and starting divorce proceedings.”
The coffee had apparently revived Patterson cynical side. “Marian Fleming comes from old money. Maybe Archie couldn’t afford to divorce her.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Christy said. This was the tricky part. She had to provide Patterson with the information Archie had given Quinn last night, but she didn’t want to admit that Quinn was the one who talked to Archie Fleming. There was no telling how the detective would react, what she might feel she was required to do. Quinn may have been released without being charged, but he was still a person of interest and would be until the real killer was found.
She sipped her coffee while she marshaled her thoughts. “During our shopping trip, Marian talked a great deal about her relationship with Fred. I have to admit, I was skeptical about Archie’s position. She invited us to drinks last night.” She toasted Patterson with the mostly empty coffee cup. “Archie opened up and told all.”
Patterson’s brows went up and she tilted her head in an enquiring way. “I’m listening.”
Christy grinned. She couldn’t help it. “Archie’s sex life is much better since Marian started sleeping with Fred.”
“Oh, dear God!”
Christy laughed. “Yeah, that about says it. The important thing is that Archie and Fred had a pact. No matter which one of them won the leadership race, the other would benefit with a senior cabinet post. Archie truly believes that he will win and would have even if Fred were alive. He says Fred knew it too.”
Patterson contemplated nothing in particular for a minute, before she refocused on Christy. “So Fleming and Jarvis are allies, running together and basically ensuring that no other candidate can come up from behind and snatch the election away from them.”
Christy nodded. “Sounds that way.”
With a sigh, Patterson said, “There’s a whole bunch wrong with that, but it doesn’t provide a motive for murder. In fact, it argues against Archie or Marian being involved.”
“Possibly, but Ellen noted that Archie is a politician, a good one. He knows how to talk around an issue so it sounds like he’s coming down strong on one side, when he is actually inclined differently. It’s a good point. I think it makes Archie worth talking to. We only know about the pact from Archie. What if he was lying about that and about his sex life? Jarvis wanted to use Tamara to help his campaign. What if Archie thought her participation would push Fred ahead of him in the polls? He kills Jarvis and makes it look like Tamara is the murderer. All those people who were thinking of voting for Fred then turn his way. Now he’s the sole front runner for the party leadership and the man who stole his wife is no longer around to taunt him.”
“Archie Fleming was in Calgary at the time of the murder. He has an unbreakable alibi.”
“So he said. But you said the murder appeared to be carried out by a professional. Archie has money and influence. He could have hired a hitman.”
Patterson stared at Christy for a moment, then she said, “Easier said than done. Anything else?”
“Letitia Jarvis was aware of her husband’s string of mistresses and didn’t mind. Or she says she didn’t mind. Her big issue was kids. According to Olivia Waters, Letitia was happy to let Fred stray wherever he wanted as long as no children resulted. In fact, that’s why Jarvis dumped Marian. She got pregnant. It was Archie’s child, but that was the end of her relationship with Fred.”
Patterson drank more coffee as she listened to this. “So Letitia had it in for Tamara, her husband’s love child?”
Christy nodded. “She’s quite certain Tamara killed Fred.”
“How do the kids feel about their half-sibling?”
Christy sipped her coffee before she replied. “I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to talk to them yet. Ellen thinks there may be more mistresses lurking in the wings. She’s heard rumors for years, but had no proof.” She swirled her coffee cup, watching the liquid crawl up the sides of the paper cup. Then she looked straight at Patterson. “She may be right. When we were waiting to be admitted into the church for Fred’s funeral, I spoke to a woman who was ahead of us. She mentioned that Fred liked cats. She has a Persian and he told her stroking it was a stress reliever for him.”
Patterson grinned. “That was your cat, wasn’t it? The one who crashed the funeral?”
Christy drew a deep breath. “Yeah. He hitched a ride with Roy Armstrong.”
Patterson laughed, then got back to business. “So Jarvis liked to pat cats. Doesn’t mean the woman was his mistress.”
“No, it doesn’t. It was an impression I got from the way she teared up and the emotion in her voice when she spoke of Fred.”
Patterson pursed her lips, then clicked her tongue. “Okay, so what we have is a man with a screwed up personal life. He behaves like a medieval seigneur who figures every woman is fair game and their men own him their allegiance—”
She broke off as Christy shook her head vehemently. “It wasn’t like that. Not at all.” She paused, lifted her hands as she tried to find the words to explain. “Fred Jarvis seduced people,” she said. Her brow wrinkled as she chose her words, slowly piecing together a picture of a life that was highly individual and perfectly reasonable for those involved in it. “If Fred wanted someone, he made her—or him—want to be with him. Marian Fleming loves her husband, Archie. She also loved Fred Jarvis. It was a different kind of love, but … ” She shook her head. “How do I explain? With women, it was sensual. Fred gave them pleasure, made them feel desirable, needed, powerful. For men, he was their best bud. The guy who had their back, the man they could depend on. And when he broke off the physical relationship a woman, he did it carefully, so no one was hurt. Then the woman became his friend, like her man.” Christy paused, drinking more coffee, looking inward. “It was not a style I could have handled. Nor Frank, I think. More certainly, not Quinn. Maybe it was a generational thing? A variation on the free love days of the baby boomers.”
Patterson snorted. “Or maybe it was just weird and all these people are pretending they’re okay with it, but they weren’t.”
Christy nodded. “Could be.”
Patterson sipped coffee and ruminated. Christy finished off hers and waited. “Okay,” Patterson said finally. “Here’s what we do. The taskforce has taken statements from everybody involved in Jarvis’ life. I’ll review them and check the alibis. Could be some are not as airtight as they look on the surface. I’ll also check bank records to see if any of the people in his personal circle recently withdrew a large sum of money. You talk to his kids and also see if you can dig up any more mistresses.”
Christy nodded agreement as Patterson hesitated.
“I think you’re on to something here, but I have to tell you, we’re pushing water up hill. Fortier believes this is a political murder brought about by an international conspiracy. He likes Tamara Ahern for it and she doesn’t have anyone who can corroborate her story that she was walking in Stanley Park when the killing took place.” Patterson shrugged. “In fact, you’re right. The actual killing could have been done by a hired pro, but if so, Tamara could have been the one who did the hiring. Fortier doesn’t care if she is the planner or the doer. To him, she’s still guilty.”
“Does he still think Quinn is involved? That he’s the one who pulled the trigger? Because, if he does, he’s wrong!”
“You probably know that he cut Armstrong loose. I don’t think he’s likely to charge him.”
Christy breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”
Patterson shot her a sympathetic look that made Christy blush. “Okay, Mrs. Jamieson. Keep in touch. But we have to move quickly. Fortier wants an arrest—and so do our bosses.”
“I’ll do what I can.” She held out her hand. “There’s a recycling station over by the restaurant. I’ll get rid of our cups.”
>
“Thanks.” Patterson handed her the cup, then slid into her car.
Christy watched her drive away before she trudged slowly over to the disposal area. Patterson seemed to have bought her implication that she and Ellen had talked to Archie Fleming. She’d also accepted that it was Christy and Ellen who had come up with the idea that Archie might be lying, when in fact, it was Quinn who had brought it up as they drove home from West Van last evening.
Talking to Quinn about the case, discussing suspects, pulling apart their statements, all of it had been bittersweet, dredging up memories from previous cases when they were working together on their relationship, not just to solve a murder. He had a sharp, incisive mind that was a good counter to her more instinctive way of reading people and situations. They made a good team.
She hugged that thought close as she watched the cups disappear into the depths of the recycling box. Her future was complicated as she took up her new position as The Jamieson, even as she dealt with old emotions and figured out new ones. She suspected Quinn was in a similar position. Tamara’s home base was Toronto. That would mean a cross-country move for Quinn, if they were to get together. Then there was her international aid work, another set of emotional challenges.
A lot of decisions coming up, for both of them. Decisions that could only be made after they cleared Tamara and found Fred Jarvis’ killer.
She turned away from the recycling bin and walked quickly back to her van.
Chapter 22
Christy parked her van in the visitor parking of the West Vancouver townhouse complex. The parking lot was at the base of the development, which crawled up Cypress Mountain. Below them the always busy TransCanada Highway was screened by an environmental fence and a row of tall cedars. It muffled the traffic noise, but didn’t quite eliminate it.
Christy peered up at the stacked townhouses above them. Each residence looked out toward the city of Vancouver, and their fronts were a wall of glass that glinted in the midday sunlight, making the most of the location. “The view from those windows must be spectacular.”
“There is more to a residence than the view,” Ellen said. She sounded like she’d already made up her mind not to like the townhouse that was for sale. Miss Krippen, their long-suffering realtor, had her work cut out for her.
“Okay,” Christy said. “I see Miss Krippen’s car on the other side of the parking lot. Let’s get this done.”
Ellen sniffed.
It had been Ellen who suggested that Miss Krippen expand her search for an appropriate new residence for Ellen. She had been looking in the downtown and West End area, but Ellen had been intrigued by Christy’s description of Olivia Waters Dundarave apartment in West Vancouver, and she decided she might enjoy living on the North Shore. Miss Krippen had accepted the challenge with enthusiasm and sent over a dozen listings for Ellen to consider. This Cypress Mountain complex was the first she and Christy had been to see.
Seeing them alight from the van, Krippen bustled over, smiling cheerfully, as she always did—until Ellen rejected yet another of her options. Christy didn’t know how she remained so positive. In Krippen’s shoes, she would have been wreathed in constant gloom.
“Good morning, ladies,” Miss Krippen said when she was near enough not to shout. “Isn’t this a lovely development?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Because I know your neighbors are important to you, Miss Jamieson, I’ve arranged for you and Mrs. Jamieson to meet with the chairperson of the Strata Council after we’ve done a tour of the unit. I have the details about the management of the complex, but she will be able to tell you about the community itself.”
She looked so hopeful as she outlined her strategy that Christy had to smile back as she nodded. Ellen raised her eyebrows. Miss Krippen gulped and headed out to give them the tour.
At the end Ellen had to admit that the unit was spacious and well laid-out, with a breathtakingly spectacular view. Heartened by this evidence of thawing, Miss Krippen’s optimism reached new heights. “Mrs. Conroy is meeting us in the community building. They have an indoor aquatic center with a swimming pool, sauna, and hot tub. As well, there is a common room with a lovely little kitchen. They use it for their strata meetings and neighborhood parties. Owners can also book the space for their own events.”
The common room was decorated to look like the great room in an upscale mansion. Squishy sofas and chairs were positioned to make the most of the stupendous view of the city and seascapes. A round table covered with a starched, crisply ironed white linen tablecloth had been set up in a cozy corner. On it were the trappings of coffee service for four. There was a woman sitting at the table, presumably Mrs. Conroy. As they neared, she stood, smiling in welcome.
She was a woman in her mid to late forties and Christy knew her instantly. She’d sat in the family row at Fred Jarvis’ funeral.
After the introductions had been made, they talked about the management of the strata while they all shared a cup of coffee and a pastry, then Miss Krippen quietly excused herself to allow Ellen and Christy to talk privately with Sharon Conroy.
Christy said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Sharon.” When the woman looked blank, she added, “You were at Fred Jarvis’ funeral, sitting with Letitia.”
Sharon Conroy blinked then said cautiously, “Were you one of Fred’s … friends?”
Christy sucked in her breath. It hadn’t occurred to her that anyone might consider her in the role of one of Jarvis’s mistresses.
Ellen set her teacup down into the saucer with a clink of bone china. “Of course not. She’s a Jamieson,” Ellen said, as if that explained everything. “We were both there, as representatives of the Trust.”
Sharon looked down at her cup, then reached for the coffee urn to pour a refill. “Where were you seated?” she asked in a neutral voice.
“In the balcony,” Christy said. She exchanged a glance with Ellen, who didn’t appear to be impressed by the route the conversation had taken.
Sharon was nodding as she poured. “Good,” she said. “Fred’s women were assigned places close to the family seating.” She set down the urn and seemed to come to a decision. “Since we may become neighbors, you’ll find out anyway. Letitia Jarvis is my sister. Fred Jarvis was my brother-in-law.”
“This is probably not a good time for you, then,” Christy said, deciding to go the sympathetic route.
Sharon flicked her wrist dismissively. “I’m fine. And so is Letitia, really. My brother-in-law may have been a brilliant politician, but he was a lousy husband. And father, for that matter. I put up with him for Letitia’s sake, but I never liked him.”
Christy glanced at Ellen. Sharon Conroy’s attitude was what she had expected from the women in Fred Jarvis’ life—dismissive, disdainful, perhaps even angry. “It must have been hard on Letitia to have to share him with another woman.”
“Another? As in one?” Sharon laughed without humor. “The man was a serial philanderer, Christy. Over the period of their marriage, Fred had a dozen or more other women. I lost count over the years. I did notice that they kept getting younger and younger, though.”
Christy thought about the woman at the church, the one who owned the cat Fred liked to stroke. She had been in her thirties, younger than Olivia, who was in her fifties, and Marian, who she thought was in her late forties. She had guessed the woman had been one of Fred’s mistresses. Now she was sure.
Ellen said, “I gather you don’t approve of Mr. Jarvis’ lifestyle. How curious, since Letitia doesn’t seem to mind.”
“She doesn’t, and she does,” Sharon said. “Fred made sure she knew she was first. His legal wife, the mother of his children, the woman who would always be there. But, as you say, she had to share. That took its toll.”
“I’m not surprised,” Ellen said.
Christy hid a smile. Ellen was making no attempt to hide her disapproval.
“Your viewpoint on Fred’s lifestyle is different from everyone else we’ve spoken to,” Christy said.
“It’s refreshing,” Ellen said.
Sharon sipped her coffee. She put her cup down, toyed with it for a moment, then said in a low voice, “That’s because I knew Fred was selfish and self-absorbed. He made people think they were important to him, but really, they weren’t. All he wanted was his own pleasure and he didn’t care who he hurt in the process.” She stopped just before her statement turned into a rant.
“Did something happen?” Christy asked.
Sharon fiddled with her teacup some more, then she shrugged. “The man is dead. He’ll never be Prime Minister now, so I suppose I don’t have to keep the secret any longer.” She lifted her head and looked Christy right in the eyes. “Fred propositioned me. Me! His sister-in-law.”
“When?” Christy asked. If it was a recent occurrence it might be a valid motive for murder.
“It was after he’d dumped Olivia Waters for getting pregnant.” She sounded belligerent. “He told me he’d decided to keep his ladies in the family.” She snorted. “Imagine that, making a pass at his own wife’s sister. Horrible man.” She shook her head. “Later on, I realized he’d taken that idea of making his women family and run with it. That’s why he had that weird relationship thing with the husbands. So not only did Letitia have to accept that he went to other women, but she had to socialize with them.”
“That must have been hard on her,” Christy said.
“Of course it was! He was such a bastard. I hated him for that, for what he did to Letitia. Belittling her, making her part of such a distasteful arrangement. Making me part of it.”
Ellen frowned. “I assumed from what you said that you rejected him.”
“I did, but Letitia is my sister and I wasn’t about to let her go because she’d married a jerk. To stay within Frederick Jarvis’s magic circle, I had to accept his ways too. I had to socialize with his women—and their men. I had to make nice and pretend that I thought everything he did was okay.” She stopped, drew a deep breath. “I hated it. I hated him. I just didn’t realize how much until he was dead and I didn’t have to pretend anymore.”