The Cat's Paw

by Louise Clark

  Trevor sat with one leg resting on the other knee and his elbow on the arm of the sofa. He looked bemused. Evidently he wasn't even attempting to sort through the mountain of Noelle's details.

  The cat was between them, seated in his usual tidy pose as he watched Noelle's performance.

  When Roy reached the living room, Noelle scrutinized the apps on the cell phone and brought up the pictures Christy had taken. "Look. This is me on the little train. Isn't it awesome?"

  She showed the pictures to Ellen, who jumped when the cat crawled up into her lap. Stormy was purring loudly and after a moment Ellen reached out to draw her hand from his head, along his back to his tail.

  Noelle looked over her shoulder at Christy, a big grin on her face. Christy's heart melted. Despite the ominous news Roy mentioned, she wished she could capture this moment forever.

  She heard the click of a camera and looked up to find that Quinn had his phone out. He smiled his crooked half smile and showed her the image. There was Noelle, delight on her face. Ellen smiling, her hand on the cat's back as she stared at the images on the phone Noelle was holding. Roy was beside Trevor and they were both looking at Ellen and the phone. There was a wistful expression on Roy's face, as if he was lost in memories. Trevor simply looked worried.

  It was a moment Christy would keep in her heart forever and a photo she would cherish. She smiled up at Quinn. He worked the phone's keyboard, then said, "I e-mailed it to you."

  "Thank you." The words were inadequate, but what she really wanted to do—put her hand up and drag his head down for a kiss—was inappropriate, so she had to hope that he'd understand from her expression and the inflection in her voice.

  "You're welcome," he murmured. From his tone and the warmth in his eyes, he understood.

  "Mom, can I show the pictures to Mary Petrofsky? Pleeease?"

  "Yes, but only if you call first and make sure she's home, and that it's okay with her mom," Christy said.

  Noelle plugged in the number, which she knew by heart, and retreated to the kitchen to talk to her friend. The adults in the living room chatted about the miniature train and Christmas shopping until Noelle returned a few minutes later.

  Just inside the living room, she stopped, staged a pose with her arms flung wide and announced, "Mom! She's home and it's okay."

  "Go," Christy said and smiled as her daughter bolted for the stairs. "Noelle, once you've showed the pictures to Mary, ask her mother to put my phone somewhere safe."

  "Okay, Mom." She raced down the stairs. They heard the door slam. Noelle was on her way.

  The echo of the closing door had hardly faded to silence when Roy said, without preamble, "Jacob Peiling was found dead in his office this morning."

  Chapter 22

  Christy stared at Roy. "How?" she asked.

  "Anaphylactic shock. It appears to be an acute reaction to the peanut oil in the takeout dinner he'd been eating at his desk," Trevor said.

  "Apparently Peiling had a very serious peanut allergy," Roy added.

  "The cops are viewing it as an accidental death," Trevor said.

  "How do you know?" Quinn asked. He was watching his father and Trevor, a frown between his eyes.

  "It was on the morning news," Roy said. "Why?"

  Quinn shrugged, but his frown didn't ease. "It's odd, that's all. A man dying from a reaction to a known allergy isn't news, it's a family tragedy. Are you sure the cops have called it accidental?"

  Roy had settled into the armchair at Trevor's end of the sofa, so Christy picked up the cat and slipped between Ellen and Trevor, leaving Quinn the chair near Ellen. "Do you think Patterson planted the story, Quinn?" she asked. "That Dr. Peiling was actually murdered, but the cops don't want it to become common knowledge yet?"

  "Could be," Quinn said.

  Trevor brightened. "Well, if that's the plan, it's good news for us."

  "Why?" Christy asked.

  "Trevor stayed at my condo last night," Ellen said. She lowered her eyes demurely as she blushed a pleasing shade of pink.

  Christy stared at her. The blush was provoking mental images she didn't want to visualize. She had a sudden realization that Ellen Jamieson, a person obsessed with following the rules of proper behavior and social etiquette, was also a woman who wanted to feel needed and appreciated.

  "I was so upset. I couldn't use my bed, even though Trevor and Roy very kindly replaced the mattress and box spring for me. I knew I wouldn't sleep anyway, so when Trevor took me back to the apartment, I asked him to stay. We sat in the living room all night. Talking, for most of it."

  "Ellen has an iron-clad alibi for Peiling's death," Trevor chimed in. There was satisfaction in his voice. "If the professor was murdered in his office, there's no way Ellen could have done it. And if she wasn't involved in Peiling's death, that makes it less likely that she was the one who murdered Brittany."

  Why?

  Apparently forgetting that Quinn couldn't hear Frank and Ellen didn't even know that Frank was rooming with Stormy in the cat's body, Trevor said enthusiastically, "It's obvious, of course! Roger Day asked Peiling to keep an eye on his kid. Somehow the man must have discovered something about Brittany that threw light on who killed her. The murderer then got wind of it and decided Peiling had to go. Since Ellen couldn't have murdered Peiling, it's unlikely she was the one who murdered Brittany."

  Ellen listened to this with rapt attention. Apparently she assumed Trevor had just continued his thought process without interruption. She said eagerly, "So you think the police might withdraw the charges against me?"

  Trevor put on his poker face. Christy had the impression he didn't want to disappoint Ellen, but he was a lawyer. He knew the police were not always quick to change. "If they find proof that implicates someone else as thoroughly as the evidence they have on you, then yes, they will charge that other person."

  Ellen's mouth quivered, then hardened. She sat a little straighter. "In other words, no."

  So. We figure it out. That was already the plan anyway.

  Trevor glared at the cat. "Easier said than done."

  I have faith in Chris. She came through for me when no one believed I was dead. It was Chris who figured out who killed me. She'll come through for Aunt Ellen.

  Ellen was staring at Trevor, a confused expression on her face. Christy decided it was time to intervene before Trevor and Frank pushed them all into admitting to Ellen that they were in communication with her dead nephew. She'd never believe that, but it would be even worse if they had to admit that the consciousness of said nephew was residing in the cat presently sitting on Christy's lap.

  "Quinn and I figured out who killed Frank. We'll do the same for this case." She looked around the room. "We need a plan of action. Let's start with what we know."

  There were nods all around.

  "Brittany Day was killed on my terrace, while I was in my bedroom mere yards away." There was a quaver in Ellen's voice but she cleared her throat and continued. "I did not do it, but whoever did could have killed me as well."

  "Whoever killed Brittany chose your condo for a reason," Roy said. He cast Ellen a compassionate look. "You were targeted, though I don't think your life was ever in any danger. He or she wanted to frame you for the murder."

  "Good point," Quinn said. "Let's look at motive. Why kill Brittany Day? What has she done recently that would make someone willing to end her life?"

  "I don't think a sex scandal is enough cause," Roy said thoughtfully.

  "There is no sex scandal. That is pure fabrication! I am not gay and Brittany Day was not my lover!"

  Stormy's whiskers twitched. Glad we got that one sorted out. The voice was rueful and maybe a little relieved.

  "So it must be the alibi for Aaron," Quinn said.

  "We know she lied about what happened that night, so the alibi was false." Christy frowned. "That puts the DeBolt family in the forefront of our list of suspects. But there are others too. She had bad relationships with the TAs and she imp
lied to her father that someone was blackmailing her. That suggests an EBU connection. Dr. Peiling's death also supports a university connection."

  "Was Peiling's death a murder, though?" Trevor said. "The news report called it a tragic accident and the loss of a gifted researcher. Maybe we're completely wrong and Peiling simply didn't take enough care of his health."

  "Jacob Peiling made no secret of his allergy. Indeed, he mentioned how severe it was every time he hosted a social evening that included appetizers. And they always included food of some kind," Ellen said. Her tone was tart, her expression disapproving. "He was exceedingly careful about what he ate. It wasn't enough that there were no peanuts or peanut products used in the cooking. He also refused to eat anything that might have been prepared with a utensil that had touched peanut products. He was so concerned about the allergy that he carried his EpiPen on him in the breast pocket of his suit jacket."

  "He died in his office," Trevor said, "so he probably wasn't wearing a jacket."

  "Then the pen would be nearby. On his desk, perhaps. Certainly somewhere in plain sight and within easy reach."

  "An allergic reaction isn't like the impact of a bullet, or being hit by a car. The person has a few minutes to respond before shock sets in. Why didn't Peiling use his EpiPen and give himself a shot?" Quinn asked. "He sounds like he was almost paranoid about the issue. He'd know the symptoms. As soon as he felt them, he'd act."

  Quinn's speculation had the rest glancing at each other and nodding. Christy said, "Maybe he couldn't find his pen."

  "Then he'd call 9-1-1," Ellen said. "I saw him do that once at a party when he thought he'd eaten something toxic."

  "So we need to find out if there was a 9-1-1 call and if the paramedics weren't able to get to him in time." Quinn looked thoughtfully at Ellen. "Do you have any idea who might know about his allergy?"

  "Anyone who has ever eaten a meal with him, or who has ever been at one of his social events," she said promptly. Then she frowned. "Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen him eat a takeout meal. At least, not from a fast-food place."

  "Two good points," Quinn said. "First, where did the food that killed him come from? If not from one of his preferred restaurants, then why did he choose this particular vendor? And secondly, which of our suspects have been with him at a social event where food was served? Or have shared a meal with him?"

  "That could be a lot of people," Christy said. "All of the students. His advisory board. Those who donated to his program."

  Quinn nodded. "It's a long list, but I don't see how Peiling's death can be an accident. He was murdered. So we go back to EBU and we talk to people, starting with Lorne Cossi, who has a bad rep with his female students."

  "We should also look at Rochelle Dasovic," Christy said. "She plagiarized a friend's paper to get into Peiling's program. If Brittany found out, she might have been blackmailing Dasovic, causing Dasovic to snap. When Quinn and I talked to Dr. Peiling, we discovered that he didn't know what she'd done. He might have accosted her about it after our visit. If she'd already killed Brittany to keep her secret, she'd be capable of killing her advisor too."

  "We also need to talk to Roger Day. He might be able to shed more light on who was blackmailing Brittany or who she was blackmailing."

  "I think he's back in Calgary by now," Christy said.

  Roy's eyes brightened. "Trevor and I can Skype him."

  Ellen frowned. Evidently computers and video conferencing weren't her thing.

  "We need to talk to Patterson too," Trevor said. "I can do that."

  Quinn shook his head. "Not the best idea. Your relationship with her is confrontational. Christy should do it. Patterson respects her. She can be cagey, but she'll open up more to Christy than any of us."

  Great. We've got a plan. The cat stood up and stretched. Time to celebrate. Break open the tuna, old man, and let's eat.

  Chapter 23

  "Don't you have a desk, Armstrong?" Trevor said as he frowned at the laptop on the kitchen table. He and Roy were searching out the best place to position the computer for the video conference call they were going to make to Roger Day. Their plan was to have Trevor make the call and be the one to interview Day. They both thought Roy should be able to see Day's expression and body language throughout the conversation, though, so they needed spot where Roy could view the screen, but not be in the picture. They'd decided the kitchen table had both, plus a good, large flat surface on which to place the laptop.

  "Never used a desk," Roy said. "If you have a desk you have an office. If you have an office you have paper. If you have paper there's always clutter. If you have clutter you can never find what you want when you need it. I prefer the kitchen table. Nothing gets lost that way."

  Trevor absorbed this as he looked around the room. It was spacious, well lit and tidy. But it was a kitchen. There was only one blank wall that would provide a plain backdrop for Trevor's image. Unfortunately the wall was a bright, pumpkin orange. He pointed to it. "The color clashes with my suit."

  That was certainly true. The suit was a charcoal gray, the fabric a smooth, wool/silk blend. The tailoring was expert. It should have been at the price Trevor had paid for it.

  "And my tie." He'd paired the suit with a crisp white shirt and a Mediterranean-blue silk tie. There was no possible way he could sit in front of an orange wall and look professional. "What about the Jamieson place?"

  "Christy doesn't have an office either. Her kitchen wall is a nice yellow." Roy looked dubiously at the charcoal-gray suit. "I think it would be worse than my orange."

  Trevor grimaced and raised his hand to run his fingers through his hair, but stopped before he made contact. He'd had his shaggy hair cut—styled, actually—at a salon rather than cut by a barber, to emphasize the power look he'd donned with the expensive suit. Running his fingers through it wasn't in the cards.

  "What about McCullagh, McCullagh, and Johnson? Think they'd have a spare office?" Roy asked. "Or maybe they'd lend you a boardroom?"

  Trevor's brightened. "Good idea! Technically they don't have to provide me with space since I'm retired, but I do consult with them on some of their high-profile cases from time to time." He punched numbers into his phone. "You know, I didn't really feel comfortable calling someone of Roger Day's status from a kitchen," he said over the sound of ringing. It stopped and was followed by the mumble of a voice. "Good morning. Trevor McCullagh here. I'm fine, thank you. Yes, I was wondering if..."

  A few minutes later they had a conference room booked, a space with far more sophisticated video conferencing capabilities than Roy's laptop. Trevor had also arranged for a secretary to book a meeting time with Roger Day using the official McCullagh, McCullagh, and Johnson phone system.

  "Very professional," Trevor said with satisfaction as they hurried out the door, heading for the carport.

  "Frank," Roy yelled, as they descended the porch stairs. "Hustle up. We're calling Day from Trevor's office."

  "We're bringing the cat?"

  Roy nodded. "Frank likes the odd excursion. Christy usually puts him in a tote bag or a backpack, but I'll just carry him."

  Stormy trotted up. He'd been sitting at the foot of the big oak that graced the bottom of the street, staring up at something he'd treed, his tail lashing. Climbing didn't come easily to him due to his size and heavy bone structure. The local wildlife had already figured out that the tops of trees were a much better refuge than going to ground.

  Stormy is pissed. He wanted to outwait the squirrel he treed. I thought you were going to Skype from the kitchen?

  "Change of plans," Roy said. He eyed the cat dubiously. "If Stormy is in a mood maybe I should get a backpack."

  They reached the car. I'll sit on Three's lap.

  "No way!" Trevor said. "The cat will shed."

  "Backseat or backpack. Take your pick," Roy said, opening the car's rear door.

  Fine. Stormy hopped into the back while Trevor and Roy got in the front.

 
McCullagh, McCullagh, and Johnson was on the eighteenth floor of a glass-and-steel tower on West Georgia Street. It was a power address for a firm that had a reputation of being tough in corporate law and rarely losing in the courtroom. Trevor fit right in with his expensive suit and pricey haircut. Roy, dressed in jeans, a sweater, and a leather jacket, his long hair tied into a tail at the back, and holding a large cat under one arm, did not.

  Or maybe he did, Roy thought with inner amusement. McCullagh, McCullagh, and Johnson's clients came from all walks of life. All they needed was a bank account that stretched to lots of zeros and a problem that needed to be fixed. He grinned at the receptionist. She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering longest on the cat, though her polite, uncritical expression didn't change. Trevor never broke stride. He simply asked where Johnson had put him as he passed the reception desk. The girl had to leap to her feet, then race to keep up as she babbled directions. Roy slouched along behind, enjoying the show.

  The conference room at McCullagh, McCullagh, and Johnson was tastefully decorated in creams and browns. The large oval table was a rich walnut, polished to a high gloss, the swivel chairs were upholstered in chocolate brown leather that was butter-soft to touch, and the carpet was a sandy brown that tied together the darker colors and the cream walls. Trevor sat down in the chair at the head of the table. Frank took the tabletop, while Roy settled in on one of the chairs a little way down from Trevor. The receptionist returned to her desk. She was replaced by a secretary, who brought coffee service for two, then set up the camera so that it focused on Trevor and not on Roy and Frank. To her credit she seemed not at all surprised to see that a cat had accompanied the two men.

  "Mr. Day, thank you for taking my call. My condolences on the loss of your daughter," Trevor said as the connection to Calgary came up.

  While the camera in the room focused on Trevor, Roger Day's image was projected onto a wall screen so that Frank and Roy were both able to see him.