The Cat's Paw

by Louise Clark

  Natalie stepped away, looking horrified. The cat's hiss turned into a yowl of rage. Christy moved to one side of the porch to let Natalie escape down the stairs.

  As she passed, she shot Christy a look, much more like the ones Christy was used to receiving from her. When she reached the walk, she paused and said, "Aaron mentioned that your cat was rabid. I see that he didn't exaggerate." She minced off, hips swinging in a sashaying stride that was all woman, heading toward the visitor's parking on the far side of the complex.

  "That display was inexcusable," Ellen said, watching her go, outrage in her voice.

  Christy glanced at her watch. "And I'm going to be late if I don't hustle." She opened the bag and set it down. "Do you want to stay or come with me?"

  Ellen took this question to be addressed to her. She sniffed. "Although it is hardly a warm invitation, I will come with you. I would like to see Noelle's school."

  The cat shook himself all over and jumped out of the bag. If she's coming, I'm not. Besides, Stormy is upset. He wants to hunt for mice. Or birds, but he never catches birds. Mice are dumb.

  "Right." Christy resisted the urge to add, have fun. Ellen wouldn't understand. So she simply said, "Let's go."

  There was a little fuss while Ellen locked up, but they still reached the school before the kids were released for the day. Bonus, Christy thought, waiting for Noelle's classroom door to open. It always made a good impression on the teacher when the parents arrived early.

  When the door opened a minute later and the kids piled out, Christy couldn't help a sinking feeling when she didn't see Noelle in the doorway. She waited for the torrent to ebb, then she motioned for Ellen. "Noelle must still be inside."

  "Of course she is," Ellen said briskly. "She's a Jamieson. She wouldn't indulge in the kind of undisciplined behavior these little..."

  A word hovered on her tongue, unspoken. Christy could almost hear it. Savages. Barbarians. Peasants. Hooligans. Any would do. She waited for Ellen to blurt it out.

  "Children," Ellen said with a commendable show of restraint. "These little children are behaving rather wildly, don't you think?"

  Christy shrugged. "No, I don't. They've been cooped up all afternoon. They just want to stretch their legs and let off some steam." She didn't wait for an answer or bother to see if Ellen followed her as she headed inside.

  There she found Noelle sitting at her desk, a long-suffering look on her face. "Mommy. The social services lady came to visit again. And she told me I had to wait here for you. Again."

  Joan Shively, the child services worker, stepped forward from the desk at the head of the classroom where she had been talking to Mrs. Morton. She smiled thinly. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Jamieson."

  Christy frowned at her. "I thought I'd cleared up the charges against me. They were bogus, laid by the very people who were embezzling my late husband's trust fund." She didn't look at Ellen. She hoped her ears were burning. Ellen had been part of that scam and she'd almost succeeded in tearing Christy and Noelle apart.

  Shively sniffed. "You know we have to be careful, Mrs. Jamieson. The documents you provided were quite detailed—"

  "They were conclusive!" Christy said, indignant.

  "Perhaps." When Christy glared at her and opened her mouth to rebut, Shively said hastily, "Probably! But when children's lives are at stake, we have to be sure! I will be monitoring your family for at least several months. You need to be aware of that."

  Mrs. Morton said, "I, for one, applaud the policy. You can never be too careful when it comes to children's happiness."

  There wasn't much Christy could retort to that, so she merely nodded.

  Ellen, who had been an observer of the conversation to this point, chose to intervene. "Happiness may be something we all wish for children, but it is not the school's duty to impart it. Schools are places of learning. And discipline." She fixed the teacher with a steely look. "The children I observed evacuating your classroom were not disciplined in any way. I see that as a failure. Your failure."

  Christy saw Noelle's eyes widen and her mouth open in an "O" of fascinated approval. At the same time the teacher's expression turned to offended disbelief. Shively's mouth hardened and her eyes narrowed.

  Time to get out of here while she still could. "Come on, kiddo," Christy said. "Is your backpack ready to go?" Noelle nodded, still wide-eyed. "Good." She held out her hand and Noelle took it. "Ellen?" she said with more than a hint of command in her voice.

  "Who are you?" Shively said.

  "I am Ellen Jamieson. Christy should have introduced me." She shot Christy a look of disapproval.

  Christy ignored it. "Let's go, everyone."

  "You're one of the trustees," Shively said. "You laid the claim against Mrs. Jamieson." She sounded excited, as if she'd just struck a mother lode of golden information.

  Ellen must have heard that almost avaricious glee as well, for she raised her head a little higher and assumed the kind of look that usually made people quite aware that they were dirt under her feet. "I certainly did not. That was done by my co-trustees, Edward Bidwell and Gerry Fisher. I was not informed of the action."

  "Ha!" said Shively.

  Ellen's eyes narrowed. "You don't believe me."

  "I do not."

  Ellen raised a brow, curled her lip and looked down her nose at the unfortunate Joan Shively. "I am not surprised. You do not appear to be a perceptive woman. Or, indeed, an intelligent one. Christy! Is Noelle ready to leave yet?"

  Already on her feet, Noelle said, "Yes, Aunt Ellen!" She was grinning hugely. Clearly this was the best entertainment she'd had all day.

  Anxious to be gone before the battle worsened, Christy said, "Good-bye, Ms. Shively. I promise you, I am taking good care of Noelle. Goodnight, Mrs. Morton." She grabbed Noelle's hand and headed for the door without waiting to see if Ellen followed.

  Chapter 8

  Roy Armstrong clapped his old friend on the shoulder as the pair indulged in a manly hug in the small front hall of his townhouse. "Thanks for coming, Three."

  Trevor Robinson McCullagh the Third, known only to Roy Armstrong as "Three," returned the hug and back slap. "My pleasure," he said. His voice was raspy, the casualty of years of courtroom dramatics, too many cigarettes, and an over-indulgence in strong liquors.

  The greetings completed, they both stepped back. Roy took a moment to inspect his old friend. Trevor was looking healthier than he had in years. His hair was longer than it used to be. More silver than black now, it was still thick and there was a healthy sheen to it. His blue eyes were clear, his color good under the three-day-old stubble that was more a result of not bothering to shave than a fashion statement. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a plaid shirt under a leather bomber jacket, an outfit that was similar to Roy's black jeans and dark blue shirt.

  He looked, Roy thought, at peace. "Granola culture agrees with you," he said, grinning.

  Trevor shot him a frowning look that said more than words. "Flakes can be amusing in small doses and when they're in conflict with suits, but en masse? They do good works and raise pigs."

  Cancer had driven Trevor into an early retirement and the relative quiet of Salt Spring Island four years before. The rural life might have sent his illness into remission, but he evidently had never acclimatized to the alternative viewpoints of the other refugees from the city who populated his new island home.

  "Pigs?" Roy proceeded up the half staircase that led into living room. "Bedroom's upstairs, but why don't you drop your bag here and we'll have a coffee?"

  "Pigs," Trevor said firmly as he deposited his suitcase against the wall at the top of the stairs. "My next-door neighbor has a perfectly nice five-acre property that includes a beautifully renovated century home and a barn that was converted into a garage."

  "Where do the pigs come in?" Roy asked as he entered in the kitchen; Trevor was a few steps behind.

  "The madman converted the garage back to a barn and added pigs."

  Ther
e was a story here, Roy thought, and it didn't deserve coffee. He went over to the counter area that housed a set of canisters his wife once used to store flour and other similar kitchen staples. They were pottery, whimsically designed in the shape of trees, the trunks providing the storage and the leafy branches the lids. They had been given to Vivien by a grateful tree hugger she'd defended back in their protect-the-rainforest days. He lifted the lid on the jar marked "Tea" and drew out the makings for a joint. He stashed his weed there because Quinn never drank tea. It was the perfect hiding place.

  He turned and showed the items to Trevor, raising his brows in question.

  "This is how you make coffee?" Trevor said.

  He sounded incredulous. Affronted, even. Had life on Salt Spring changed him that much?

  "I can make coffee... if that's what you want." Roy proceeded to roll a joint. He was going to indulge, even if Trevor stuck to the straight and narrow.

  "I quit when I went to Salt Spring," Trevor said, eying the joint Roy had rolled.

  Roy nodded.

  "I'm supposed to live clean. Healthy."

  Roy nodded again.

  "If I keep to a healthy lifestyle I'll live to a hundred." He sounded like he was repeating an oft-used mantra.

  Personally, Roy thought that the odd joint should be a fundamental part of any healthy regimen, but to each his own. He nodded again and waited.

  "Hell. Who wants forty years of virtuous boredom?" Trevor said, coming to a decision and looking pleased with himself.

  Roy grinned. He pulled his ashtray out of the pottery tree then led the way back to the living room. The two men settled on the couch. Roy lit the joint, then handed it to Trevor. As he watched his friend indulge in his first glorious puff, he said, "So... pigs."

  Trevor inhaled slowly before taking a second drag. He handed the joint to Roy before he slumped a little deeper into the couch. His gaze was not quite focused. "He's a stockbroker, you know. Made a pile and got out of the market before it tanked in '08. Came over to Salt Spring to live the good life." He snorted. "The good life. Do you know how much effort it takes to raise pigs?"

  Roy shook his head. He'd never thought about raising any kind of farm animal. If he had, he'd be a vegetarian and he liked his steak too much to abandon it.

  "It's all the idiot talks about. He has dinner parties and invites the other back-to-the-land types who had perfectly good jobs in Victoria or Vancouver and now think they've got to do penance just because they've been successful."

  "Takes all kinds," Roy said. He handed the joint back to Trevor, who took another drag, savored it, then exhaled.

  "Yeah. I suppose." They smoked in silence for a while, then Trevor said, "So tell me about this dead body of yours."

  "Brittany Day, twenty-four, grad student at EBU, girlfriend to a nasty little twerp called Aaron DeBolt—"

  Trevor sat up straight, suddenly alert. "Nathan DeBolt's kid?"

  Roy raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"

  "There's not a lawyer in Vancouver who doesn't. Kid's been trouble since he first started to walk."

  "Have you ever defended him?"

  Trevor's jaw hardened. "No."

  "Good," Roy said. "Because Aaron is an accessory in the murder of Frank Jamieson and our dead body provided him with a false alibi."

  Trevor held up his hand, lawyer coming to the fore. "Whoa! How do you know it was false?"

  Roy took a drag, held it, then expelled the smoke slowly, keenly aware that Trevor watched narrow-eyed. He couldn't tell Trevor the truth—that Frank had told him—because his friend would never believe a cat could talk, even under the influence of prime stuff. "There's plenty of evidence. The point is..." He waved the joint for impact. "Brittany was killed on Ellen Jamieson's terrace. Ellen Jamieson is Frank Jamieson's aunt."

  "I know who Ellen Jamieson is."

  Was there a hint of disapproval in Trevor's voice? Just how well did Trevor know Ellen Jamieson? Roy watched his friend as he said, "The cops think Ellen offed Brittany because she wants to frame Aaron for Frank's murder."

  "Did she?"

  "She says not and I believe her," Roy said. "That's why we need your help."

  Trevor accepted the joint Roy passed him as he considered this. Then he frowned as he said, "There's more to this, isn't there?"

  Roy nodded. "Quinn and Christy—she's Frank Jamieson's widow—are out at EBU checking into the people Brittany knew there. We'll talk about what they found over dinner tonight." He'd invited everyone over to meet Trevor, including Stormy the Cat. He wondered if Frank would communicate with Trevor the way he did with Christy, Noelle and him. He grinned. He couldn't help it. He hoped the cat made the effort. It would blow Trevor right off the straight and narrow and back onto a more familiar path.

  "Will I get to meet Ellen Jamieson?"

  Roy nodded, but he raised his brows. "I thought you said you knew her?"

  Trevor shook his head. "Not me. I know of her, but we've never been introduced."

  Roy laughed. "You may not like her much. She's pretty starchy."

  Trevor took another drag of marijuana. He waved the joint around in a grandiose way as he said, "Not surprising. She's spent her life making up for her brother, the ice cream king's, sins."

  Roy thought about the three trustees who had been Frank Jamieson senior's best friends. They were all men with flaws—big, deep-fissure flaws. It made sense that Frank senior would be as morally challenged as they were.

  He eyed Trevor. Normally the man was pain-in-the-ass tight-lipped. Perhaps the weed had mellowed him. "Really? Like what?"

  Amusement leapt into Trevor's eyes.

  So not quite as mellow as all that.

  He said, "This and that. Some of his decisions at Jamieson Ice Cream don't bear scrutiny. Thing is, he died young, and Ellen Jamieson has done a good job plastering over the cracks, so people have forgotten. I'm not going to bring them up again." He paused as he handed the now mostly burned down joint back to Roy. "Unless I have to."

  Roy took a last drag and stubbed out his joint. "Let's hope you don't, then."

  Quinn arrived home shortly after five. By that time Roy had a big pot of spaghetti sauce simmering, liberally endowed with hot peppers and garlic, except for the portion he'd set aside for the cat. Frank said garlic gave the cat indigestion and Stormy wouldn't even come near a bowl of human food that included hot peppers.

  "Uncle Trevor!" Quinn said. His eyes lit up. "Good to see you." They shared a hug and back slap, then he turned to Roy. "Christy is coming over about five thirty. She's bringing Ellen and the cat. Noelle is having dinner over at the Petrofsky's."

  "Why is she bringing her cat?" Trevor asked.

  Quinn looked uncomfortable. Roy laughed. "It's a very sociable cat."

  Quinn and Trevor shared a bit of get-together chitchat, but when the conversation began to veer into the murder, Quinn went off to clean up for dinner, promising to fill them in with the details of what he and Christy had learned once they were all together.

  Christy arrived precisely at five thirty, carrying a couple of bottles of wine. She was followed by Ellen and the cat, who slithered around Ellen's ankles and bolted up the stairs to the living room where Roy and Trevor stood.

  "That cat," Ellen said, brushing past Quinn who had let them in. He closed the door and headed up the stairs behind Christy and Ellen.

  Nag, nag, nag, Frank said.

  Christy sighed. Roy chuckled. Trevor stiffened. He looked around him, eyes narrowed.

  I swear, she's done this to persecute me. Frank was on a roll, venting immediate and long-standing issues about his aunt and former guardian. Anything to make my life miserable. Anything!

  By the time Frank had finished his rant, Trevor's complexion was pale and edging toward pasty. Probably thought he was hallucinating because of the joint they'd shared earlier, Roy thought. He shot the cat a warning look and said, "A bit over the top, isn't it?" Then he turned to Ellen. "Ellen Jamieson, my friend Trevor Robinson Mc
Cullagh the Third. Trevor is retired now, but he used to be one of the top criminal lawyers in Western Canada."

  Ellen had looked at him strangely when he spoke to the cat, but at his introduction, she brightened and focused on Trevor. "The Trevor McCullagh of McCullagh, McCullagh, and Johnson?"

  Trevor recovered his aplomb and smiled winningly at her. He took her hand between both of his, as urbane and sophisticated as he'd ever been during his heyday. "The same, dear lady. I'm flattered that you know of me."

  Look at her. She's eating it up.

  Christy and Quinn had gone into the kitchen to stash the wine, and probably snatch a couple of private moments, but they were back in time to see Trevor whiten again. His eyes darted from one part of the room to the other, his expression wary. Christy picked up the cat and held him up so that they were eye to eye. "Behave." The cat meowed plaintively. She put him back on the ground, then turned to introduce herself. Trevor regained his equilibrium and order was restored. For the moment.

  By the time they'd eaten the spaghetti and finished two bottles of wine, everyone was more relaxed. Quinn and Christy had filled Ellen, Roy, and Trevor in on what they'd learned at EBU and the conversation revolved around Brittany Day's murder.

  "I don't understand why she was found on my terrace," Ellen said, not for the first time. "I don't know the woman. I've never even met her. How can the police imagine I would invite a stranger into my apartment? I don't indulge in risky behavior and I'm not such a fool."

  "Are you sure you don't know her?" Trevor asked. He was deep in defense lawyer mode now and they were all focused on him. "That there's no connection at all, no matter how minor it is?"

  "None," Ellen said firmly.

  Trevor frowned. He rubbed the greying three-day stubble on his chin. "There has to be a connection," he said. "Bodies don't just turn up in someone's space for no reason. Our job is to discover what that reason is and make sure the police don't." When Ellen opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hand, stopping her before she started to speak. "We already know there's one connection. Brittany Day is providing one of the people accused in Frank Jamieson's murder with an alibi. Are there any others? What about the people she works with or the fellow she studies under at EBU?"