The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

by Louise Clark

  Still, this reporter was a neighbor. How could she convince Noelle that not all neighbors were the kind you were friendly with without scaring her and making her into some kind of tortured introvert now that she had to live in the real world?

  Take the easy road. Focus on Mary Petrofsky until you can figure out how to handle the Quinn Armstrong issue. "Have you thought about asking Mary to play outside with you after school?"

  "Maybe, but not today. She's in daycare today, cuz her mom works part-time." Noelle paused to eat one of the apple slices Christy had put on the table. "Mary says her mom's an admin assistant. What's that, Mom?"

  In the discussion about the duties of an administrative assistant, Noelle forgot about Quinn Armstrong. Christy didn't. While her daughter worked on her homework, Christy fussed around the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, wiping the counters, picking up bits and pieces of things that were out of place, and generally perfecting an already tidy environment. While she worked, she wrestled with her problem. Her thoughts weren't pleasant.

  Quinn Armstrong wasn't going away. She couldn't escape him by disappearing this time. He was going to put himself in her face, constantly reminding her that he was there and that he wanted an interview. When she was just going through the daily motions of life, that was a bother, but she didn't want an intrusive reporter following her around while she sought out Frank.

  Her imagination conjured up a scene any reporter would delight in—the curvy blond Brianne wound around Frank, who was pretending to be innocent while his wife tore a strip off of him. Yeah, a reporter would love that one, she thought, particularly if they could capture it all on tape for the six o'clock news. It was the kind of notoriety of which nightmares were made. Her nightmares, at least.

  She brushed away the image. Finding Frank would not be easy. Detective Patterson couldn't do it. What made her think that she would be able to?

  She would check out the address Patterson had given her, the Strand Manor, an inexpensive tourist hotel. She didn't think Frank was staying with Brianne Lymbourn—the Strand wasn't his usual style—but she could talk to Brianne. Maybe Brianne would open up to her. Unlikely, but worth a try.

  She leaned against the clean counter and watched Noelle work diligently at a page of addition problems. She needed to find Frank before he hurt Noelle any further. Her research skills were limited, though. If Frank didn't want to be found, she'd probably discover more dead ends than open pathways.

  She thought about that as she helped Noelle with one of the math problems. Why would Frank want to hide from her and Noelle? She could understand him avoiding the trustees. He would be pretty certain that Samuel Macklin, the Trust's accountant, or Edward Bidwell, the legal arm, would turn him in if they caught wind of his being in town. He might even figure that his Aunt Ellen would be ready to disown him for his embezzlement, since she had more invested in it than the other trustees.

  When the Jamieson Trust was set up, Frank had been a baby. Frank senior had expected to live to an old age and to father more children, but there had always been the chance he would die young or that his baby might not survive childhood. So a second beneficiary was chosen to ensure that the Jamieson fortune would stay in the family. Should Frank junior, or his heirs, die before they inherited, Ellen Jamieson would be the recipient of the Jamieson fortune.

  Christy had always suspected that the possibility she might one day inherit her brother's fortune had been why Ellen had hated her so much. Frank's marriage meant that there was a potential for kids, and Christy had fulfilled that fairly quickly. Noelle's arrival was one more reason why Ellen, though wealthy, would never be as rich as her annoying nephew.

  But what about Gerry Fisher, who had been Frank's mentor and father figure? Wouldn't Frank want Gerry to know he was safe, that he was home again?

  Noelle put the math sheet away, drawing Christy's attention. "What's next, kiddo?"

  "Handwriting." Noelle drew out a lined sheet of paper. "I have to practice the letter g."

  "Why g?"

  "Because it's hard to do." With painstaking slowness and infinite concentration, Noelle shakily drew the letter on the page.

  Christy watched, fascinated. Her daughter was absolutely right. The only way to learn was in the doing. She could stand here for hours thinking about finding Frank, or she could do something about it.

  She sat down beside Noelle at the kitchen table and wrote down all the places Frank might go if he had returned to Vancouver. It included all the top hotels in town, much more Frank's style than the economy-grade Strand Manor.

  Then there were the people he would want to see—or not see. Top of that list was Noelle. Just below was his best friend, Aaron DeBolt, another wealthy young man with too much time on his hands and more than enough money to spend wasting it. At the bottom were the trustees.

  By the time she finished she'd filled a page and she was completely overwhelmed.

  "What's that, Mommy?" Noelle asked, taking a breather from her handwriting practice to rest her hand.

  "It's a list of stuff I have to do, honey," Christy said, frowning at the paper.

  Noelle frowned too. "There's lots on that list. It looks like the ones you used to make for my school."

  When she had been president of the Parents Advisory Council at VRA. "That was different, honey."

  "Yeah," Noelle said with a sigh, "it was."

  Christy faltered, then continued on with nothing more than a little shake in her voice. "I had a bunch of people helping me. All I had to do was figure out what needed to be done, then give the jobs to the people best suited to handling them."

  Noelle nodded. "Then why don't you find someone to do all that stuff for you?" Conversation over, Noelle went back to her careful practice writing the letter g. Christy stared at her daughter as if she'd just announced that the world was round at a meeting of the flat earth society.

  Noelle was totally right. What Christy needed was a professional to find Frank, a detective like Billie Patterson, only the private kind, not one on the public payroll. How did you go about hiring a detective?

  For that matter, did she have the funds to pay one?

  She mentally reviewed her income and decided, reluctantly, that she didn't. She could approach the trustees and ask that the cost be borne as a direct expense of the trust, but that would mean selling more Jamieson stock. Even if Macklin and Bidwell agreed to it, dear Aunt Ellen certainly would not.

  That put her back where she began. She'd have to do the digging herself, because she didn't know any professionals who'd provide her with a free research service...

  Or did she? Reporters researched their stories. Quinn Armstrong was a reporter. Quinn Armstrong wanted an interview with her. What if she offered to give him an exclusive? In exchange he would have to help her find Frank. The idea of involving Quinn Armstrong had her stomach clenching and her hands shaking, but there was a certain seductive quality to it.

  Over the years she'd learned to manage people, but was she good enough to handle Quinn Armstrong? There was only one way to find out. She'd have to put her proposal to him and set the process in motion.

  The doorbell rang. She went to answer it with Noelle hot on her heels. A dark-haired girl stood on the porch. "Can Noelle come out to play?"

  "Hi, Mary," Noelle said. "Can I, Mom? This is Mary Petrofsky. I told you about her. She's in my class."

  "And I live down the street in the end house," Mary added.

  "I thought Mary was in daycare," Christy said.

  Mary grinned, revealing a gap where an eyetooth had once been. "I am. Mom picks me up at four thirty. I'm off tomorrow though. Maybe Noelle and I can play together then, too."

  Christy looked at Mary, but she thought about Quinn Armstrong. If she followed Noelle outside, she could keep an eye on the kids and ring the Armstrongs' doorbell at the same time.

  "Okay. Put away your homework first, Noelle. Then you can go out."

  "Thanks, Mom!"

  Noelle rushed
away. Christy took a deep breath and stepped outside. Time to put the process in motion.

  * * *

  Roy Armstrong answered the door. He was holding a cup of coffee and there was a distracted look in his eyes, as if his body was here, but his brain was somewhere else. But he smiled when he saw Christy and opened the door wider.

  "Hi, Roy," Christy said. Dressed in tie-dyed T-shirt and jeans with holes in them, he didn't look like a famous author. There was more than a passing resemblance to his son, though. She heard her voice shake as she added, "I'm Christy Jam—"

  "I know you," Roy said. "I do. Quinn!" he bellowed over his shoulder. "Shake a leg. Christy, our new neighbor, is at the door." He smiled at Christy again. "Since meeting you, Quinn's been jumpier than that cat he took in a while back. Be kind to him, and give his old man some peace, would you?"

  Christy's eyes opened wide. "It's not like that, er, Roy! It's... it's business."

  His eyes lit up. "You don't say."

  Footsteps sounded, then Quinn Armstrong appeared. The layout of the Armstrong house appeared to be exactly the same as Christy's. The front door opened into a small landing from which stairs ran up and down. At the top of the up flight was the living room-dining room combination, which opened into the kitchen. Further stairs led up to the bedrooms. The other set of stairs went directly down to a large family room.

  Christy watched Quinn descend, her nerves tightening with each step.

  On the last step he paused and surveyed her. "Mrs. Jamieson."

  "A mite formal, aren't you, boy?" Roy said, cocking a brow. He observed his son over the rim of the cup before taking a sip.

  Quinn shot him a look. "Until this moment, Mrs. Jamieson was hardly willing to acknowledge my existence. Formality seems appropriate in the circumstances."

  "Is that a fact." There was laughter in Roy's eyes as he looked from his son's cool expression to Christy's reddening cheeks.

  "Until this moment, I had no reason to agree to your request, Quinn," she said, deliberately using his first name.

  His brows snapped together. He stepped down that last stair to the landing, a movement of lithe grace and loose-limbed elegance.

  Christy watched him with an enjoyment she didn't want to acknowledge. Quinn Armstrong was a pleasure to look at, and she had a suspicion that he could be defined as 'hot.' He was, however, a member of a profession she loathed. She had also decided he was going to be an employee, of sorts. That alone should be a reminder to keep her eyes to herself.

  "Christy, why don't you come in? Dad, don't you have something you need to do? Like work on that book?"

  "You nag me worse than your mother did, boy," Roy said amicably. He sipped coffee as he locked eyes with his son.

  Christy said, "I can't. Come in, that is. Quinn, would you mind talking to me out on the porch while I keep an eye on my daughter and her friend?"

  "Solves that problem," Quinn said, shouldering past his father.

  "Work, work, work. That's all the boy thinks about," Roy muttered to no one in particular. "Okay, you two, have fun." His eyes danced as Quinn glowered at him, then he firmly shut the door, leaving Christy and Quinn facing each other on the small porch.

  Quinn shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe. "What made you decide to do the interview?"

  "You get straight to the point, don't you?"

  He shrugged.

  She drew a deep breath, told herself she was doing the right thing, then put the process in motion. "I haven't agreed to do the interview—yet."

  He didn't move, but Christy could have sworn that he stiffened. "So you've got terms? Most people in your situation do. I don't write promo pieces. I do my research. If what I discover differs from the spin you're putting on the information, I write the story the way I feel it should be told."

  "I'm glad to hear that. It's your research skills that prompted me to agree to your request."

  "Checked me out, did you?"

  Christy laughed. It wasn't a happy sound, but one aimed directly at herself. "Oh no. I wouldn't know where to start. That's my problem, I don't know how to find information on people."

  He studied her, his brows drawn together in that little frown that was surprisingly sexy. "You're losing me."

  "I have someone I need to find."

  "Your husband."

  "Yes. I have a place to begin the search, but I don't know how to proceed from there. I need help."

  "My help."

  She nodded. "What I'm proposing is that you help me find Frank, and I'll agree to give you an interview."

  Straightening, he said, "Everything we find out I can use."

  "Agreed."

  "Once we find him, I get an interview with Frank Jamieson, as well as the one with you."

  "Agreed," Christy said without hesitation. It was the least the rat could do after deserting her and Noelle.

  Quinn shot out his hand. "Okay, we've got a deal. Tell me what you've got, and we'll start from there."

  Christy slowly put her hand in his. His palm was warm and a little rough. As his hand closed around hers she had a sense of strength and protection that was immensely reassuring.

  There was no going back. She was committed.

  Chapter 6

  "This is not Frank's sort of place."

  Christy had doubted that Frank would stay at a hotel like the Strand Manor from the moment Billie Patterson gave her the scrap of paper with his location written on it. Standing here now, she was quite sure it wasn't possible.

  At Christy's comment, Quinn glanced around the small lobby, then he cocked her a questioning look. "His tastes run to luxurious, do they?"

  Lit by bright white overhead fluorescents, the lobby branded the hotel as cheap but clean. It featured a seating area to one side of the reception desk and in front of the elevators. The furniture consisted of an overstuffed sofa with square, blocky arms covered in durable leatherette with two matching chairs opposite. A potted fern drooped dispiritedly at one end of the couch. There was nothing welcoming about the little area. This was minimal seating, to be used while a guest waited for a taxi. It was not there to encourage leisurely chats.

  The Strand Manor was clearly a pit stop for travelers looking for a place to crash and little else. It was not the kind of place she and Frank patronized when they traveled. Not only was the Strand a bottom feeder hotel, but it was located on Pender Street, in a shabby area on the edge of the Vancouver's downtown east side, the poorest area of any city in Canada.

  "Frank has always had money. The cost of a night's stay was never an issue. It isn't an issue now, either, since he has access to the money he embezzled. He likes nice surroundings and he likes people to be there to see to his needs." She looked dubiously at the clerk at the reservation desk. The woman was dressed neatly, but without a uniform. A further sweep noted that there was no bellman in sight and the lobby didn't feature a concierge desk.

  Quinn considered her comments thoughtfully as he assessed their surroundings. "So Frank staying at this hotel is out of character."

  "Yes. I'd say it's also out of character for Brianne Lymbourn. I only met her a few times, but I got the impression that money and luxury were big issues for her." Christy stopped, hearing the sneer in her voice and mentally cursing herself for expressing her feelings for Brianne all to clearly.

  "As in she was looking for a male with lots of the former so she could spend it on the latter?"

  Christy laughed, relieved that Quinn had not commented on her situation or the emotions that were so clear in her comment. That showed a respect for her feelings she hadn't expected to find in a reporter. "Yeah, something like that."

  At the desk, the reservation clerk finished checking out a guest. Quinn nudged Christy. "Do you have the picture of Frank ready?"

  Christy nodded.

  "Okay, let's see what we can find out."

  He approached the desk with Christy one step behind. She watched his mouth curl in a smile that would melt
the hardest female heart. The clerk, a woman in her mid-twenties, smiled back warmly.

  "Hi, Selma," Quinn said, reading the woman's nametag.

  "Good morning. How can I help you, sir?" She tilted her head just the slightest degree. Her smile grew wider.

  Christy held the picture of Frank by its edges so the nervous sweat from her fingertips wouldn't ruin the image. She had spent a lot of time choosing the photo they would use for their search. On Quinn's advice, she'd found a clear snap of Frank showing his torso and head. He was staring directly into the camera, only the faintest of smiles on his mouth. The shirt he was wearing was the casual, open necked and short-sleeved kind she would expect him to travel in.

  Quinn leaned against the desk. He appeared to be a man with all the time in the world to flirt with a pretty woman. He got straight to business. "We're here to visit an old friend who is staying at this hotel."

  "Not a problem, sir. If you give me his name, I'll key it in and ring his room for you."

  "Frank Jamieson." They waited while the clerk typed and frowned.

  "Are you sure he is staying here?" She looked up apologetically. "I don't have a Jamieson registered."

  Quinn shot her a small, rueful smile. "Would you try his girlfriend, then? Maybe they registered under her name. It's Brianne Lymbourn."

  The clerk keyed in the name then watched the screen. "Ah, here she is. Brianne Lymbourn, party of two." She frowned. "I'm sorry, sir. She checked out an hour ago. You just missed them, I'm afraid."

  "Did Brianne leave a forwarding address?"

  The clerk played with some keys then shook her head. "She gave her home address as a city in Mexico, but that's all I have."

  Quinn looked at Christy. He was frowning now. His eyes told her he wanted her to play along with him. "If that isn't Brianne at her worst!" he said. "Does that woman ever stop to think? We've all been planning this for weeks!"