The Cat's Paw

by Louise Clark

  "I disowned him." The words came out in a rush. Nathan glared at Quinn as if he hated making the confession and blamed Quinn for forcing him to do it. "He's an addict. I arranged for him to go to a treatment center in the States where he could get clean and no one would know. He refused."

  "When was this?"

  "A year ago."

  Now that the taps were open, the words were pouring out. "He said he didn't have a problem. I knew he did. I stopped his allowance and told him he had to survive on his own."

  "That's when he started dealing drugs? Or had he been doing it before?"

  DeBolt's face twisted. Quinn saw anger there, but he also saw the need to unload some of the anguish that must have been eating at him for a long time. Nathan DeBolt might be a powerful, well-connected businessman, but he was also a father whose son was destroying himself.

  "He'd been doing it before." Nathan looked over Quinn's shoulder to the wall of First Nations originals. "My wife thought I was the cause of Aaron's downfall." He shook his head. "She couldn't see the darkness in him. She thought affection and cossetting would sort out his problems, when what he really needed was a spine."

  Quinn thought that a personality transplant was what was actually required, but he didn't say it. He had Nathan talking and he wanted to keep the flow going. "Disagreeing over how best to help your son must have put a strain on your relationship with Mrs. DeBolt."

  Nathan shrugged. "Natalie can be stubborn. When she wants to get her way, she doesn't care who she has to push aside."

  Interesting. The answer was simple, but vividly expressive at the same time. Quinn decided to push a little and see what happened. "Was she having an affair?"

  DeBolt's body stiffened. Quinn saw anger in his narrowed eyes. "What the devil are you suggesting?"

  Quinn met his stare. "I have a source that claims your wife is having an affair with another woman."

  Shock was followed by amazement on DeBolt's face and he burst out laughing. "Are you kidding me? Natalie? With a woman? I'd dump your source, Armstrong. If you told me she was having an affair with the pool boy I might have believed you. But a woman? My wife is many things, but I can guarantee you this. She lusts after men, not women."

  * * *

  "The husband is often the last to know," Roy Armstrong said. He was in the living room, presiding over a Saturday morning coffee klatch consisting of Quinn, Trevor, Christy and the cat. Rebecca Petrofsky had taken Noelle and Mary skating at the local community center rink and Ellen was out shopping with Natalie. Ellen and Natalie's relationship was the focus of the conversation.

  "In novels," Quinn said. He accepted a mug of coffee from his father.

  "In real life too," said Trevor. He finished doctoring the coffee Roy had given him a few minutes before. Two sugars, lots of cream. He cradled the mug between his hands, frowning.

  Christy took the mug Roy handed her, but she put it on the coffee table in front of the sofa almost immediately. She and Quinn were sitting together, with Trevor in the easy chair at the end near her. The free chair near Quinn was where Roy would sit. The cat sat on the coffee table and eyeballed the cream, his whiskers twitching.

  "I hope Nathan DeBolt is right," Christy said. "I've never been able to read anything more than malice in Natalie. She's power hungry and she's ruthless."

  Power hungry? How? She doesn't do anything but run committees for charities.

  "You never understood, Frank," Christy said, hostile. She knew she was bickering with him again, but she couldn't help it. In life, Frank had never understood the motivations of the DeBolts or the cruelty Natalie had dished out so effortlessly. "Those charitable boards she's on? The events she organizes? They make a difference in people's lives. The media thinks Natalie DeBolt is just this side of a living saint. Her good works give her the power to paint actions—hers or everyone else's—any way she wants."

  The cat hunkered down, compacting his body into a crouch. Frank had never liked to lose an argument and death hadn't cured him of that flaw. She watched Roy put a saucer of cream on the table. There was pity in his eyes, but his action distracted Frank, because Stormy went right for the food.

  "The detective seems to have bought into Natalie's storyline," Trevor said, gloomily watching the cat lap the cream. "Patterson admits that she knows about Aaron's threesomes. She even claims she wondered if Brittany had fabricated the alibi in a desperate attempt to focus Aaron's attention on her and only her. The cops are investigating the alibi and how it might relate to Brittany's death, but the evidence they have all points to Ellen. The murder happened in her apartment in the early hours of the morning when she claims she was alone. She has no one to confirm that. She's got motive. Brittany's alibi will get Aaron out of jail and in fact, will mean he never goes to trial. The cops will claim that Ellen believes Aaron took part in Frank's death, and that Brittany was lying. That's a pretty good motive to get rid of the only person who can put Aaron in the clear."

  "You're talking about revenge as a motive," Roy said.

  Trevor nodded.

  "If Ellen denies that, how can the police prove it?"

  "They don't have to," Trevor said. "If they have a strong case built on physical evidence, they can suggest motive. A good prosecutor can sway a jury, particularly if the motive supports the evidence."

  And Trevor McCullagh would know. With his record of acquittal after acquittal, he'd probably influenced a few juries himself. "Detective Patterson doesn't blindly accept the obvious," Christy said. "She was the one who thought Frank's disappearance was suspicious. She was the one who alerted me that Frank had apparently returned to Vancouver. It was her who helped us discover Frank's fate and set us on the trail to finding his killer."

  "A good point," Roy said, settling deeper into his chair. "Gives us a clue as to how we should proceed."

  "We need more information," Quinn said. He watched the cat lick the pads on one paw then rub the paw over its whiskers as it cleaned away the remains of the treat. "Why did Brittany provide a false alibi for Aaron in the first place?"

  Maybe she loved him. Aaron always had babes falling over him.

  "Maybe," Christy said doubtfully.

  "He's good looking," Roy said. He sounded doubtful too.

  "I've never met him. What makes him so special?" Trevor asked.

  "Okay, so you're all talking about Aaron. What did the damned cat say?" Quinn sounded more resigned than miffed.

  "You can't hear him?" The twinkle in Trevor's eyes indicated he found the Quinn's limitation interesting.

  "He suggested that Brittany might have been in love with Aaron," Christy said, rushing in to change the subject. Quinn had gone a long way to accepting that he couldn't hear Frank's thoughts, but it had to be annoying when even the newly arrived Trevor did.

  Quinn thought for a moment, then he shook his head. "Frank might be right, but I don't see her coming up with the alibi idea on her own. Everything we've learned about her says she was basically a decent kid who got lured into something she couldn't handle. I think someone put her up to it."

  "Okay, but who?" Trevor asked.

  Roy leaned forward. He waved his coffee cup in an enthusiastic way that had the beverage inside slopping up the sides dangerously. "Aaron's family, for starters. His father Nathan has a lot to lose, reputation wise. He's a pillar of the community. Having a son convicted of murder is a big blot on the family name."

  "Natalie has always been besotted with Aaron. He's her only child and though she's cold to anyone she doesn't like," like me, Christy thought, "she can be a very affectionate to those she cares for."

  "Then there's Aaron himself," Trevor said. "I'm sure he doesn't want to spend the next twenty years of his life in a prison cell."

  "So everyone in the DeBolt family has a motive," Quinn said. "What about the blackmail that's been mentioned? Was it one of the DeBolts who was blackmailing Brittany? And if it was, what would they have on her?"

  "Her lifestyle," Christy suggested. "She
wouldn't want the sex-in-public stuff to become generally known. Her parents would be devastated. Nor would she want her drug habit to be public knowledge."

  "That adds Cara LaLonde to our list," Quinn said. "She has a direct link with Aaron and she knows a lot about Brittany's relationship with Aaron. If Brittany is out of the way and Aaron is free, then Cara gets Aaron all to herself."

  Who fed Brittany's habit after Aaron went to jail?

  Roy, Christy and Trevor stared at the cat.

  "What?" Quinn said.

  "Frank suggested we follow the drugs," Roy said. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's a good point. If Brittany was hooked, she had to be getting her drugs from somewhere after Aaron was arrested. Where?"

  Trevor shrugged. "Easily available on the street."

  "Cara," Quinn suggested.

  "Or someone Cara found. Cara had to find a new source too," Christy said.

  "Let's find the new source, then," Quinn said. "Any more thoughts on the blackmail angle?"

  "The girl TA—what was her name?" Christy said. She snapped her fingers. "Rochelle Dasovic, that was it. Maybe Rochelle had something on Brittany. We found out she snooped into Brittany's private stuff and we know she resented her."

  "The university direction is a good one to go down," Trevor said with a nod. "It takes the attention away from Frank's death and focuses it on Brittany's life."

  "But why would a TA from EBU murder Brittany in Ellen's apartment?" Christy asked.

  Trevor shrugged. "To frame her?"

  Roy drank his coffee and eyed his friend critically. "That's too easy. The question has to be repeated. Why would Rochelle Dasovic want to frame Ellen?"

  Trevor tapped his bristly chin. "Ellen was the face of the Jamieson Trust's donations to EBU. When the Trust's funds dried up, the person who appeared to be stopping the donation was Ellen. Now, from what I understand, Ellen has money in her own right. Correct?"

  She's loaded. My grandfather's will split his shares in Jamieson Ice Cream between my father and Aunt Ellen. The Trust was set up to control my father's share only.

  Christy explained Frank's comment to Quinn. Trevor continued to speculate. "So an EBU TA, unaware of the details of the Jamieson family fortune could assume that there was plenty of money in Ellen Jamieson's pocket and Ellen was just being spiteful. If Rochelle, or one of the others, was afraid he or she was going to lose their grant, that person might be willing to kill the competition and get revenge against the person who put them in this position at the same time."

  "Then let's assume Patterson is going to follow the direct path and look for evidence that implicates Ellen," Quinn said. "What we need to do is find links that focus the investigation elsewhere. We'll start with the EBU connection."

  He looked around at the assembled company. They all nodded.

  The cat jumped from the coffee table to Christy's lap and started to purr.

  Chapter 14

  Christy set the paring knife against the apple and expertly quartered it. The next step was to slice out the core and cut the quarters in half before she set the apple onto a plate. She worked swiftly and efficiently as she prepared Noelle's afternoon snack, but her mind drifted as she organized apple slices, cheese and crackers onto the plate.

  On the other side of the room, seated at the table, Noelle was doing her homework with the help of Ellen. Noelle and Mary Petrofsky had arranged an afternoon of tag with some of the other kids in the neighborhood, but both Christy and Mrs. Petrofsky were adamant that homework had to be done first. Since the November evenings were closing in, Noelle was working diligently to get it done as quickly as possible. With Ellen helping her she was making admirable progress.

  Ellen, while not an asset to the household, was beginning to find a place in it. Most afternoons she walked over to the school with Christy to pick up Noelle and she seemed to enjoy helping Noelle with her homework or being the adult supervising the children's play when they were outside. She couldn't hear Frank—which Christy considered a blessing, because Frank was often highly critical of what his aunt did—but she was getting along well with Noelle and she hadn't found fault with Christy for at least a couple of days.

  She also seemed to have called a truce with Mrs. Morton, Noelle's teacher. She still raised her eyebrows when the kids were rambunctious and not chastised about it, but she no longer commented. Christy hoped that meant she was coming to terms with the reality of twenty-first century parenting and not that she was storing up choice comments for some future teacher takedown.

  Now if only they could get this damned murder investigation sorted out. Christy didn't believe Ellen had killed Brittany. Or that Ellen was gay and that Brittany had been her lover. To her, both suppositions were malicious speculation. Together, they blackened Ellen's character, but they also diverted suspicion away from the individual who was the source of the gossip. The issue was to find the person who was targeting Ellen.

  That was proving hard to do. In the meantime, she would believe the best about Ellen and—

  The doorbell rang.

  Noelle's head popped up, her attention hopelessly compromised. "Is that Mary, Mom? If it is, tell her I'm almost finished and I'll be out in a minute!"

  "Focus," Ellen said, pointing at the assignment sheet beneath Noelle's pencil. "Do it right the first time and it gets done faster."

  Christy headed down the stairs with Ellen's comment ringing in her ears. She was smiling as she opened the door, thinking about the diminutive Mary whose energy preceded her like a tidal wave. The smile faded when she saw who the caller was. "Ms. Shively."

  "May I come in, Mrs. Jamieson?" Joan Shively asked. The expression on her face was serious.

  Christy's heart sank. "Of course." She held the door wider and gestured for Shively to enter. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

  Shively blinked and looked confused.

  "Why are you here, Ms. Shively?" Christy said gently.

  The cat yawned in her mind and appeared at the top of the staircase, then settled there, its tail curled around its paws, body straight and stiff, like a feline bodyguard. She's up to no good, Frank said.

  He was probably right, but Christy waited politely for Shively to state her reason for coming to the house.

  "I'm here to see Noelle and evaluate her condition, of course," Shively said. She headed up the stairs. Christy followed. The cat sat its ground.

  Noelle bounded into the living room, on the way to the stairs. "I'm finished!" she shouted. "Mary, I'll—" She skidded to a stop as she saw Joan Shively paused on the last riser, in a standoff with the cat. "Oh. You're not Mary."

  "No. I'm Ms. Shively. You remember me, don't you, Noelle?"

  All at once Noelle went from enthusiastic eight-year-old to a Jamieson. "Yes, of course," she said, drawing herself into a more ladylike pose. She advanced toward Shively, holding out her hand. "How are you, Ms. Shively?"

  Ellen, following behind Noelle, narrowed her eyes at Shively, but said politely, "Good afternoon, Ms. Shively. How nice of you to visit. We were not expecting you."

  "Exactly," said Shively. She stepped over the cat and advanced into the living room.

  Christy breathed a sigh of relief when Frank did not allow Stormy to reach out and bat her leg, claws extended, but she had a sense that there was some kind of inner cat dialogue that went on and that Frank had only just retained control of the situation.

  "I am here to inspect the home and ensure that Noelle is being well cared for," Shively said to no one in particular as she moved through the living room and into the kitchen. "Ah, what is this I see? Dinner preparations?"

  "Snack," Christy said. "Noelle, back to the table and eat up before you go out."

  "Surely it's rather late for the child to be playing outside?" Shively said.

  "It's not dark and Ellen will be watching the kids," Christy said. She put the plate of apples and cheese onto the table. "You'll find that the bedrooms are tidy and clean, Ms. Shively. Please go ahead and do your
inspection."

  Noelle picked up an apple slice with her fingers and ate it daintily. "I have established order in my room, Ms. Shively," she said, very much the daughter of wealth and privilege. "With the help of my mother and aunt, of course. I would be happy to show you once I am finished my snack."

  Well said, kiddo. The cat padded into the kitchen, blocky tiger's body tight with tense muscles ready to spring. But don't get carried away. She's not used to kids with manners.

  Noelle munched another apple slice then inspected the plate and added cheese to a cracker. "Okay."

  Christy froze. Shively frowned, and so did Ellen.

  The doorbell rang.

  Noelle immediately slipped from Jamieson heir back to eight-year-old. "Mom! That's Mary. Can I go out now?"

  "Snack first," Christy said. Noelle immediately started stuffing the contents of the plate into her mouth until her cheeks looked like a chipmunk's. "Mary can have some too," Christy added hastily, fearful her child would choke herself.

  But it wasn't Mary Petrofsky at the door, brimming with energy and enthusiasm. It was Detective Patterson, her expression grim. "Is Ellen Jamieson here, Mrs. Jamieson?"

  Christy stared at the cop. Of all the moments Patterson could have chosen to come and question Ellen, this was probably one of the worst. "Yes, she is."

  Patterson raised her brows. "May I speak to her, please?"

  Once again Christy found herself opening her front door wide and inviting an unwelcome visitor in. The arrival scene repeated itself, with Noelle racing for the stairs and Ellen following. This time the cat had to dodge between human legs to assume his post at the top of the stairs and Shively was the one at the back end of the parade. When Noelle and Ellen stopped short she crowded forward, peering over Ellen's shoulder to see who was there.

  "Ms. Jamieson," said Detective Patterson, standing in the small foyer, just inside the door, her neck craned as she looked up the stairs. "I have some questions in the matter of Brittany Day's death. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"