The Cat's Paw

by Louise Clark

  She sighed. Quinn might be right. However tenuous, she and Roger Day shared the experience of losing a loved one. Still, she shook her head. "If it were me, I'd refuse to do the interview." Quinn's mouth turned up in a fleeting smile. Refusing to talk to the press was her default behavior, and they both knew it. She shot him a rueful smile in response. "No, I'll use my rare afternoon off and do some Christmas shopping while you talk to Mr. Day." She sobered. "My afternoon will be far more pleasant than yours."

  Quinn's face twisted as he released Christy's hand and straightened. He picked up his coffee cup. "Poor bastard. How much do you think he knew about Brittany's life here? For instance, her relationship with Aaron DeBolt?"

  Christy shook her head as she picked up her own cup to sip. "He's not the kind of guy you brag about to your father." The mention of Aaron brought another thought to mind—Ellen and her apparent relationship with Natalie DeBolt. "Quinn, I'm worried about Ellen. She's acting strangely. Not getting dressed before Natalie arrives at the house and letting the woman make her breakfast. It's just not like her. If I hadn't seen it myself, I wouldn't believe she'd behave this way."

  He drank some coffee, then stared down into his mug, pondering what she'd just said. When he looked up, he said, "If she's gay, does it matter?"

  "No, of course not. But it does matter if she's in a relationship with Natalie."

  A faint smile lifted the corner of Quinn's mouth. "I can see that."

  It's okay to be upset, his expression said to her. Don't sweat it. "Quinn..."

  He pushed the mug aside and reached over to take her hand. This time he held it in a comforting grasp. "From what Trevor told my dad, Patterson went at Ellen pretty hard the other day."

  Christy nodded. "She held it together until Patterson left, then she fell apart. She spent the rest of the afternoon in her room. I think she's really scared." It had been a difficult time at the Jamieson house since Patterson's visit. Ellen had been moody and the unpleasant Natalie DeBolt had been forever underfoot.

  "She should be," Quinn said. His expression hardened. "I don't know where Patterson got the information that Brittany was bisexual, and that she preferred older women, but if it's true, then it could go a long way to explaining why Brittany was on Ellen's terrace when she was killed."

  "Natalie made it look as if she was more than casual friends with Ellen. I could see Patterson's brain ticking over as she watched. Trevor saw it too. Unfortunately when he bellowed at Natalie to stop talking, it only made it more obvious to all of us."

  "Not Ellen, though."

  Christy wrinkled her brow. "No. She denies it completely."

  The waitress brought the bill, found out how Quinn wanted to pay, then went off to fetch the card reader with the promise she'd be back in a minute. Quinn reviewed the bill with a quick scan, then pulled out his wallet.

  As he dropped his debit card on the table, Christy said, "Do you think it's possible that Brittany's death has nothing to do with the alibi she provided for Aaron? That she was killed simply because of her risky behavior?"

  As good as her word, the waitress returned with the handheld card reader, interrupting their conversation. Quinn paid for the meal, but he waited until they were out of the restaurant before he answered Christy's worried question. "At this point, I think anything is possible. But my gut tells me that Natalie is tied up in this somehow."

  They walked down the sidewalk, heading toward West Georgia Street where they would part—Quinn going to the landmark hotel where Roger Day was staying, while Christy went to the Pacific Centre to shop. "Then implicating Ellen is a diversion? But why Ellen? Quinn, it doesn't make any sense to me!"

  Quinn took Christy's hand firmly in his. He held their linked hands in front of them both, then smiled down at Christy. Her heart gave a little flutter. Together, the gesture said. They were in this together. She smiled back.

  "I know Ellen is a pain to live with," he began.

  Christy rolled her eyes. "That's putting it mildly."

  He laughed. "She needs lessons in houseguest manners, no question, but I think she cares for Noelle. She wouldn't deliberately do anything to harm her."

  "She'd better not," Christy said. She'd risk everything to keep Noelle safe. She'd done it before, and she'd do it again. "Noelle is my first priority. If there's even a whiff of impropriety, Ellen's gone. I know that sounds harsh, but I won't give Joan Shively any ammunition to take Noelle away from me."

  Quinn rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. "My fierce tiger mom. Noelle's a pretty lucky kid to have you for a mother, you know that, Christy?"

  His words warmed her, but it was the edge of a caress she heard in his voice and the affection in his eyes that had her beaming up at him like a besotted fool and feeling like the rainy afternoon was filled with sunshine.

  * * *

  Quinn met Roger Day in the lobby bar of the Hotel Vancouver where he was staying. A Vancouver landmark known for its luxury accommodations, his choice wasn't surprising. Nor was the tailored black suit that fit him perfectly even as it proclaimed his mourning status. Roger Day was a man of power who knew how to express it. And use it.

  Quinn introduced himself and offered condolences as he held out his hand.

  As he shook, Day said, "Mr. Armstrong, Jacob Peiling suggested I speak with you, but I am not sure how I can help you."

  Quinn said, "I'm researching Aaron DeBolt and how he was involved in the murder of Frank Jamieson."

  "Jamieson. That's the name of the woman who owned the apartment where Brittany was found." He gestured to a chair and they both sat down.

  Quinn nodded. "Yes. Ellen Jamieson is Frank Jamieson's aunt. The police believe that Aaron DeBolt lured Frank Jamieson to his death, but your daughter claimed that at the time Aaron was supposed to be with Frank, he was actually with her."

  A waitress, smiling broadly, sallied up, glad to have customers. In the early afternoon, the bar was almost empty. Day shook his head, though, and her face fell before she turned away.

  "How much do you know of your daughter's life here in Vancouver and her relationship with Aaron DeBolt, Mr. Day?"

  Frustration, quickly masked, showed on Day's face. "Not enough," he said. His expression hardened. "I trusted Jacob Peiling when he said that she was adapting well and that she was excelling at her grad work. I had no idea she was involved with a man who was accused of murder."

  "She never said anything to you?"

  Day shook his head. "Brittany told my wife and me about her successes, not her failures." He swallowed. "She took her bachelor's degree at the University of Calgary and lived at home. Moving to Vancouver for graduate school was her big adventure. I didn't want her to go. That's why I asked Jacob to keep an eye on her."

  "Peiling was her academic advisor. Legally, since Brittany wasn't a minor, he couldn't talk to her parents unless he had her consent. Why did you expect him to report on her activities to you?"

  Day shrugged. "Jacob and I go way back, to our university days. I asked him to look after my daughter as a favor to an old friend, not as part of his duties as her professor. He said he would." Day's mouth twisted. "I trusted him."

  Emotion was very close to the surface. Quinn decided to lead the conversation in another direction. "Can you tell me a bit about Brittany?"

  "She was a gifted student," Day said gruffly. "She worked hard and graduated at the top of her class at the U of C. She was popular in Calgary, and had a big circle of friends. She didn't go out during the week, though. She focused on her schoolwork. But she received lots of invitations for the weekends. So many she could pick and choose."

  He was clearly a proud father, a man dealing with a pain he would never quite escape, but what fathers saw and what daughters actually did, didn't always match. "She lived at home, I think you said."

  Day nodded. "She and her mother were close."

  "Is it possible that Brittany confided in your wife and asked her to keep a secret, Mr. Day?" Quinn asked, careful to keep h
is tone neutral.

  Day's hands, resting in his lap, clenched.

  There was something here, Quinn thought. Something Roger Day didn't want to admit to.

  "She called home a few days before her death," Day said slowly. "During the afternoon, which was unusual for her. I was at work, of course, so she talked to her mother. Lynn, that's my wife, spoke to her for almost an hour."

  "What did they talk about, if you don't mind my asking?"

  A muscle flexed in Roger Day's jaw. "Her program. She wasn't happy. She said that the other TAs she worked with had it out for her. She started talking about blackmail. Lynn said Brit began to cry and became incoherent."

  "Blackmail!" Quinn couldn't mask the shock in his voice. "Mrs. Day must have been horrified."

  Roger Day looked miserable. "She didn't know what to say or how to help Brittany. When Lynn tried to get particulars, Brittany said it was all tangled up. The university. Her friends. The donations. It was too complicated, she said, and her mom wouldn't understand. Lynn told me she was almost hysterical. She said something about being afraid, then said she had to go and slammed down the phone. Lynn was devastated and called her back, but she only got voicemail. By the time Brittany phoned again, she was calmer and said she'd overreacted."

  "And your wife accepted that?"

  Roger Day sighed. "Brittany was a smart kid, but she could be emotional under stress. Yeah, we accepted it. We thought she'd work out the problem and that it was just part of her growing up."

  We failed her. The words hovered, silent, but no less deadly for not being spoken.

  "You mentioned donations," Quinn said, not acknowledging the painful emotions in Day's voice. He sympathized, but the best way to help Roger Day deal with them, was to find out who killed his daughter.

  Day nodded resolutely, responding to Quinn's professionalism, though his expression remained anguished. "The grad program she was enrolled in is an experimental one. The base funding is minimal and most of costs are covered by donations. She claimed that donations were drying up and Jacob was worried about whether he'd be able to keep all the grad students."

  "Have you asked Dr. Peiling about that?" Quinn asked.

  Day shook his head. "It doesn't matter now."

  It might not matter to Roger Day, Quinn thought, but it would matter to the other students in the grad program, particularly if they feared the funding for their positions would be cut.

  Roger Day looked down at his hands. "When the fall semester began, Brittany told her mother and me she wanted to dump her program and come back to Calgary. I talked her into staying." There was anguish in his voice. "I trusted Jacob. And he failed me."

  Chapter 13

  Christy and Quinn made it back to Burnaby in time for the triumphant return of Noelle and her guardians from school. Noelle was delighted. Apparently the parade of grandparent-aged adults had caused a stir amongst her fellow students, only surpassed by Stormy when he leapt up into her arms as she was leaving the classroom. The whole class of twenty-five students had crowded around wanting to pat him. Noelle, in her glory, had allowed them access and the cat, thankfully, had purred loudly.

  By the time Noelle finished gleefully reciting her story, Stormy still in her arms, Christy was sitting on her front steps, shaking her head and laughing. Ellen was disapproving, but no one was paying any attention to her. Eventually she brushed past Christy without acknowledging her and entered the house. As the door closed with a snap, Christy stiffened, then went back to talking to Noelle and the others.

  Over the next couple of days Quinn watched as tensions grew at the Jamieson house. Natalie DeBolt visited both days, arriving after Christy and Noelle left for school and while Ellen was still drifting around in her nightclothes. Quinn knew all about that, because Christy wouldn't stay in the house with Natalie and retreated both days to Quinn's place. It was a situation ripe for disaster and Quinn thought that Natalie was at the core of it. He decided it was time to do some digging into her background.

  He knew that she was married to Nathan DeBolt, the CEO of one of the province's wealthiest forestry conglomerates and a prominent member of Vancouver society. Nathan had a reputation of being a workaholic executive who used his recreational activities for networking rather than pleasure. Natalie, it appeared, had a similar philosophy. She had used her charitable work to enhance her profile and to provide her with a powerful position that built upon her husband's. Together they were a power couple.

  Until their son was arrested as an accessory to murder.

  That made Quinn wonder when Natalie and Ellen had become best buds. It also made him curious about how Natalie and Nathan DeBolt felt about their only son and his wayward ways.

  Did Natalie have the kind of fierce protective feelings toward Aaron that Christy had for Noelle? How did Nathan feel as he watched his position and power erode because of a wastrel son who squandered the opportunities inherent in being the child of wealth and power and frittered away his time with drugs and wild sex?

  Only one way to find out, Quinn thought, and that was to ask.

  He secured an interview with Nathan DeBolt more easily than he'd expected. His reputation as an internationally known journalist was probably why the company communications director helped him out. Whatever the reason, he found himself in DeBolt's office at British Columbia Forest Industries at three on a Friday afternoon, sitting on one side of an oblong table with DeBolt on the other.

  The BCFI offices were on the top twenty floors of a modern glass-and-steel tower on West Georgia Street. As was appropriate for the CEO of an international corporation with revenues in the billions, DeBolt's office was large and professionally decorated. Forestry products dominated the space. Gleaming hardwood paneling on one wall provided a surface for West Coast First Nations art.

  Opposite the art wall was a bank of built-in shelves in the same dark, polished wood. These were home to more West Coast art; wood carvings this time. The shelves also housed a small bar, with appropriately expensive versions of manly drinks—single malt scotch, the best Canadian whisky, and the finest bourbon. Hidden in a cabinet below was a small fridge filled with that other manly drink—beer. Quinn knew about the fridge and its contents, because DeBolt had offered him his choice of the local microbrews stashed inside as he led Quinn to the dark wood table in the elegant meeting area in the back of the office.

  "How may I help you?" DeBolt said, after Quinn had turned down his offer of a beer.

  Quinn used the moment to study the man, allowing the silence to stretch out. Hopefully it would unnerve him, because DeBolt was already playing power games, as indicated by the offer of a beer, not a glass of one of the expensive and exquisite brands of hard liquor. Admittedly the selection of microbrews included the best of the best, but Quinn had a hunch that the sixty-year-old scotch was only offered to someone DeBolt considered an equal.

  He was pretty sure DeBolt had offered the beer to put him in his place and to annoy him at the same time. Why? Did the man have something to hide? Maybe he did. Quinn decided he'd play along, let Nathan think he was uneasy in this luxurious office and not sure of himself or his position.

  Perched on the edge of the comfortable leather swivel chair, he put his forearms on the gleaming surface of the table, then gestured with his hands, as if in supplication. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. DeBolt. I know you are busy and have a large number of demands on your time."

  DeBolt sat straight in his seat, his hands clasped before him and resting on the tabletop. He nodded, apparently open and ready to answer freely, when in fact the expression in his eyes was guarded.

  "I'm writing an article, and a book, on the murder of Frank Jamieson. When I started the project it seemed pretty clear that your son was involved." Quinn spread his hands wider. His expression was earnest, a truth seeker looking for answers. "Now I understand Aaron has an alibi, provided by Brittany Day, who was recently the victim of murder."

  DeBolt nodded. Cautiously. "That is correct."
r />   "Have the police released him from custody?"

  "I understand that the alibi must be confirmed before that can happen."

  Quinn allowed himself to frown. "Is that possible, since Brittany Day is dead?"

  "I believe she signed an affidavit."

  Every statement the man made was careful, correct and cautious. He was clearly well trained in dealing with the media. Time to shake him up. "Ms. Day stated that she was with Aaron on the night in question. Do you know what they were doing?"

  DeBolt's expression blanked. Quinn waited.

  "I'm afraid I do not have those details."

  Quinn allowed the corner of his mouth to kick up into a cynical half smile. He leaned forward. DeBolt shifted in his chair. "She claimed they were in a club, having sex," he said. "In public. According to one source I spoke to, that is a favorite pastime for your son."

  DeBolt's hands flattened on the gleaming tabletop. Quinn pressed on.

  "If Brittany were still alive, it's my guess that the media would have been all over her when the police released Aaron. Beautiful, smart, good family, she'd have made great copy. The details about what she and Aaron were up to on the night of Frank Jamieson's death would have created a sensation. But Brittany's dead and words on a page don't have the same impact. No visuals make for a harder sell. I think you lucked out. You may be able to bury what Aaron was up to and focus on Frank's best friend wrongly accused."

  DeBolt's face was flushed. He looked as if he was holding on to control by the smallest thread. "Who is your source for my son's behavior?"

  Quinn raised his brows. "You expect me to tell you?"

  DeBolt narrowed his eyes. "My company is a major investor in the media network you work for."

  "Wrong, Mr. DeBolt. I resigned two years ago. Now I'm an independent. I sell my stories to the highest bidder and I think I've got a gold mine here. Your son is rich, entitled, and spoiled. The only reason he may skate away from the Jamieson accusation is because one of his women was murdered. How do you think people will react when they find out that your precious son is morally corrupt and a sexual deviant besides?"