by Louise Clark
"Yes, Ellen Jamieson, one of his trustees. She'll be here tonight, by the way. I'll introduce you. When we were in Kingston, Frank didn't tell me much about his childhood, so when we moved here I wasn't prepared." She glanced at him. "This is off the record, okay?"
He nodded. He wanted to know where this was going. He'd deal with the off the record clause if he thought the information was important to the article that was drifting further and further away each day.
"Frank's trustees were horrible to me when we arrived. Of all of them, Gerry Fisher—"
"Of Fisher Disposal?"
"Yes, do you know him?"
Quinn grinned. "In a way. Go on."
"Gerry was the only one who welcomed me. The rest made it clear that they believed Frank had married below him. Edward Bidwell, the lawyer, was absolutely furious there was no prenuptial agreement. Not my fault! Samuel Macklin, who is an accountant, told me I'd better watch my spending and that he was going to keep a close eye on the books. Aunt Ellen Jamieson looked me up and down then asked Frank why he'd wasted his name on inferior goods."
"Ouch." They were almost at the end of the long hallway that led from the breezeway to the lobby. "You and Frank were married for a number of years. Did it ever get any better?"
"I learned to hide my feelings. They backed off. The more Frank and I drifted apart, the friendlier his trustees became. I think in the beginning they were afraid I'd change him. When that didn't happen it was easier for them to be polite." They reached the foyer. She took a deep breath. "Okay. Time to become the Jamieson princess."
The transformation was subtle but startling. She was still a beautiful young woman wearing a gown that made the best of a gorgeous figure, but now her spine was a little straighter and she held her head tilted to an imperious angle. Her smile was warm, but impersonal, her eyes watchful. Even her walk was different, her steps smaller, a hint of arrogance in the movement.
She put her hand on his arm. Quinn could feel the tremor and knew how much she disliked this kind of event and understood how heavy the Jamieson princess persona was.
They neared a knot of people waiting for the elevator. "The dinner is in the main ballroom on the mezzanine."
A woman whose eyes were a mass of black makeup cut herself free of the group to come over. "Christy, darling! I didn't expect to see you here tonight. We didn't deliver any tickets to the mansion—" Lips the color of dried blood curled up in a snarl that pretended to be a smile. "Oh, I forgot. You had to vacate. So sorry to hear, darling. Lovely to see you." She kissed the air on either side of Christy's head in an age-old parody of affection.
Christy did her own pair of air kisses. "It's been too long, Natalie. May I introduce my friend, Quinn Armstrong? Quinn, Natalie DeBolt. Natalie is the chair of the IHTF Board."
"Hello, Natalie." So this nasty creature was Aaron DeBolt's mother. He studied her with frank interest and noted that she was observing him with equal curiosity.
"Well, Christy," she said, a sneer in her voice. "I had no idea you were so daring." There was a suggestive gleam in her eyes as she looked Quinn up and down. "Somehow, I wouldn't have thought it of you."
Christy blushed, but she smiled and her tone was musical with laughter. "Why, Natalie, you've always had a very clever imagination."
Natalie bared her teeth again as she lifted her hand in a dismissive wave. "I'd always pictured you as a—a homebody!—darling. I had no idea you would find a lovely male so quickly after Frank deserted—" The doors to the elevators pinged, then opened. Natalie blew a kiss. "Must go, darling. I'll see you up there." She oozed away, chattering effusively to some other poor soul.
Christy and Quinn waited for the next car. "Lovely woman," Quinn said. He clamped down on emotions he didn't have the right to feel, so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He wished he had the right to deal with Natalie and all the others like her Christy would have to face tonight, but he didn't.
Christy laughed. There was an edge of gritted teeth and restrained anger in the sound. "She's not so bad, really. She works hard for this charity."
"Events my dad attends can attract people like Natalie DeBolt. They'd often try those little games out on my mom."
Christy took his hand and squeezed it. Quinn realized with considerable astonishment that she was comforting him.
"How did your mom handle it?" The doors to the elevator opened. Quinn and Christy boarded with a few others.
Quinn grinned. "My mom always said they were jealous, acting like a leashed dog, barking and lunging at a loose one. Put that way the meanness didn't matter much. My father, on the other hand, fumed." He looked down at Christy. Understanding came quickly and unexpectedly. "I used to think my mother had it right. I just got my father's point of view."
Christy's lips parted. The elevator doors slid open. She shot him a blinding smile that could only be a thank you, straightened her shoulders, then swept out, her head high. Quinn followed, his mood considerably lighter.
The foyer was awash with elegantly dressed people, drinking a variety of beverages from sparkling glasses. There was a steady flow of bodies as people moved from one little knot to another, schmoozing. Their chatting echoed loudly in the contained space.
"Aaron DeBolt usually hangs out with the younger crowd," Christy said. "If we can locate them, we'll find Aaron."
"In the meantime we have to thread our way through the snake pit." Quinn looked about with a sinking feeling. There were a lot of people in a confined space. It wasn't going to be easy to find one man in this mob.
Christy laughed. "The foundation will be happy. They've held a hugely successful event. Okay. Let's see what we can do."
She headed off. Quinn followed. There was an interesting mix of local celebrities, city dignitaries, business people and socialites. Christy seemed to know many of them. She stopped to chat frequently, always with that friendly, impersonal smile and detached warmth, but they had no luck finding Aaron DeBolt before the announcement of dinner had the crowd flowing into the ballroom.
As they made their way to the table assigned to Fisher Disposal, Christy continued to stop and chat. She introduced Quinn, each time carefully adding a description of how the person fit into her life.
"Quinn, this is Edward Bidwell, a lawyer sitting on the board of the Jamieson Trust. Edward, this is my friend, Quinn Armstrong."
Bidwell was tall and running to fat. His bulgy brown eyes observed Christy the way a scientist might look at a frog he was about to dissect. "You're wearing the Jamieson diamonds. I thought Frank sold them."
Christy went white, but her smile didn't falter. Quinn whispered in her ear, "Want me to deck him now or after dinner?"
She laughed out loud. Bidwell frowned. Quinn grinned, feeling considerably better.
"Edward, thank you for your concern! These were in the vault at the bank, so they were quite safe. Have a good evening."
They moved on. "Nice guy," Quinn said sardonically, but he realized soon after that Samuel Macklin, the accountant trustee, was just as bad.
Christy did her introductions.
Macklin nodded, not really paying attention. He pointed to her sapphire gown. "That's a pretty expensive dress."
"Yes, it was, Samuel. Two years ago."
Macklin frowned.
"I think she means the dress was purchased a while ago," Quinn said helpfully. "Pretty thrifty, isn't she? It's not every woman who can recycle a dress and still make it look good."
Macklin glared at Quinn. He smiled back, enjoying himself.
Christy gripped his wrist. Time to move on.
Their next stop was Ellen Jamieson. Quinn didn't think it was possible, but she was even worse than the first two trustees.
"Aunt Ellen, this is Quinn Armstrong, a friend of mine. Quinn, this is Ellen Jamieson. Ellen raised Frank after his parents died."
Ellen Jamieson was positively quivering with indignation. From the pictures he'd seen, she had the same body type and facial bone structure as her nephew, b
ut deep grooves bracketed her mouth and frown lines marked her forehead and eyes.
"What are you thinking of, Christy? Everyone here knows you, knows the story of Frank's disappearance. You were invited tonight to stop the rumors. Instead you're making them! What are you doing with this man?"
The hand on Quinn's wrist shook, but Christy said calmly enough, "Aunt Ellen, Gerry told me to bring a date. So I asked Quinn."
"You were supposed to come with Aaron DeBolt. He knows everyone, and they know him." She swept Quinn with a disdainful, all encompassing glance. "This one is a nobody. There will be questions."
Quinn favored her with raised brows and his own version of cool. "Wrong on two counts, Ellen. I know lots of people, and they know me." He pointed to the publisher of one of the city's daily papers, followed by the manager of the network TV outlet and the multi-millionaire owner of a chain of grocery stores. "He knows me. He knows me. He knows me. I'll introduce you, if you'd like."
"That will not be necessary," Ellen said. She looked as if she was trying to puzzle out how he could possibly have met these men.
Christy tugged on his wrist. Time to go again, before Ellen decided to start another bitchy conversation.
As they threaded their way through the mass of tables, Quinn searched for something to say to Christy that would minimize the behavior of the trustees. He figured she must be pretty upset by now. "You know, I don't blame Frank for running off to Mexico. His trustees certainly are a nasty bunch of people. I think if they were mine, I'd probably do anything I could to escape them."
Christy stopped. She turned to him, laughter and gratitude on her face. "Thank you," she said. She put her hands on his shoulders, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.
It was on the cheek, but she did kiss him, there, in the middle of a hotel ballroom set for five hundred people. His spirits soared. He put his hands on her waist, wishing he could turn his face so his lips could meet hers. That would be going too far, though, so he contented himself with whispering in her ear, "My pleasure. Am I going to have to square off against anyone else?"
She laughed again as she drew away. "Probably. If we ever find Aaron DeBolt you'll discover that he makes Aunt Ellen look polite by comparison."
"Terrific," Quinn said. He frowned as he looked at her. She glowed as she stood before him. Her eyes were bright with spirit, her face alive with the small victories of the moment. She had the look of a woman who hadn't felt this positive in a long, long time and was relishing every second. If she were his, he'd do everything in his power to ensure she always kept that vibrant joy alive. "Why did Frank hang out with people like this guy DeBolt? I can understand the trustees. He was stuck with them, but why DeBolt?"
"Habit." Her face clouded briefly, then she smiled again and took his hand. "Come on, let's find our table."
Their table was in a prime position. A tall, heavy-set man whose tux did a great deal to minimize mid-life bulges stood to one side of the round table greeting people.
"That's Gerry Fisher. He's the senior trustee. You mentioned earlier that you knew him. Did you interview him at some point?"
Quinn laughed. "No. I protested against one of the dump sites his company had chosen."
Christy stared at him, her expression incredulous. "Protested? You mean with picket signs and people chaining themselves to trees?"
"Yeah." Quinn chuckled. "Is that so hard to believe?"
"No, I suppose not. But... when and how?"
"Years ago. Fisher Disposal was just becoming a force in the area and they were expanding rapidly. They had a reputation of being lax about following proper sealing procedures for their landfills. They'd bought a site in the Valley, near a salmon stream that fed into the Fraser River. My parents were both involved in the protest. My dad used his celebrity to draw attention to the issue, while my mom managed the media links."
"You must have been young. Fisher Disposal has been a model corporation for as long as I've lived here."
"I was in the seventh grade." He'd been full of raw black and white passions, and the opportunity to skip school to aid in the protection of the environment had been irresistible for an idealistic twelve-year-old. "My father marched in more than one demonstration against the company. I was proud to tag along and carry a picket sign too."
"Amazing," Christy said. "Your protest obviously worked. Gerry got the message and turned his company around."
Not before he had threatened to bankrupt the leaders of the protest and had even had his lawyers issue a lawsuit against them. Quinn could still remember the smile on his mother's face when she heard what Fisher had done and the satisfaction in her voice as she said that Fisher Disposal didn't have a case and she would be the one to ensure Gerry Fisher knew it.
Quinn wasn't going to tell Christy about that, though. It was old news now and people changed. Sometimes.
He looked at Gerry Fisher, twenty years older, heavier, with less hair. There was still a cold calculation in his eyes that reminded Quinn of the man who had announced to the press that he'd make sure none of the demonstrators ever worked again.
"My dear Christy," Fisher said, "has anyone told you that you look lovely tonight?" He took both of Christy's hands in his and smiled at her in an avuncular way.
"I did," Quinn said. "You're the first of the trustees to mention it, though."
Fisher stiffened, then looked Quinn up and down, his gray and brown mustache fairly bristling with disapproval.
Christy rolled her eyes at Quinn, making him laugh. "Gerry, this is my friend, Quinn Armstrong. I'm afraid the other trustees haven't made a good impression."
Fisher's thin lips disappeared into a frown. "I didn't realize they were expected to." He looked at Quinn. "Armstrong. The name is familiar, but I can't quite place it."
"I've been helping Christy look for Frank. Or you may have heard of my father, Roy Armstrong."
Something flickered in Fisher's eyes, something dark and interesting. Quinn couldn't decide what it was, but his gut was telling him it would be a good idea to be careful of Gerry Fisher.
The emotion disappeared, ruthlessly suppressed by the cold calculation of before. "I'm afraid I'm drawing a blank. Now, Christy, I've put you between Eve and me as you didn't let me know you would be bringing a... date. Quinn, there's an empty place beside Stan Czernaki."
Color washed up into Christy's cheeks and her eyes flashed. "Gerry, Quinn is with me!"
For the second time that evening Quinn's spirits soared. He squeezed her arm. "It's okay."
Christy smiled at him, relief on her lips, concern in her eyes. At that moment he wanted very much to put his lips on hers and kiss away the distress.
Hold it! Back off, Armstrong. Wrong place, wrong time.
Gerry's long, almost ascetic features folded themselves into disapproving lines, but he introduced Quinn to his wife, Eve, and the rest of the people at the table, all of whom apparently worked for Fisher Disposal. Quinn discovered Stan Czernaki was the vice president of sales. On his other side was the vice president of product development. He settled in for an unproductive evening.
Dinner was more interesting than he'd expected. Stan and the other VP apparently thought Quinn was an uncritical audience and talked a little too freely. He heard about Fisher Disposal's extensive business in garbage removal and recycling collection, the dump sites in British Columbia and Alberta and five western states, and the company's current thrust toward expanding its business into the production of animal feed from waste products. That fired up Quinn's animal rights beliefs, but he held his tongue and let the earnest gentlemen talk. He stored the data they provided away in a memory file marked 'potential story.'
Dinner was a grade above rubber chicken and the speeches went on interminably, as they always did at this kind of function. Finally, the evening ended. People smiled and said good night to those around them. Quinn abandoned the vice presidents in favor of Christy.
"My dear, I am so glad you came tonight," Fisher said, ignoring Q
uinn. He'd taken both of Christy's hands in his and was smiling at her in that avuncular way.
Christy leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Gerry. Come by and visit Noelle again soon, okay? She always enjoys seeing you."
He smiled. "I will." His gaze sharpened at he looked at Quinn. "Armstrong, a pleasure meeting you. I do recall your father now. It was several years ago we had cause to meet, was it not?"
"It was," Quinn said, holding the other man's gaze.
"Yes." Fisher's eyes went flat and cold. "Your family tends to seek out causes. I hope you have not decided Christy is one of them."
Quinn touched Christy's shoulder in an intimate way, a reckless answer to Fisher's challenge. "Christy needs help, and I'm giving it to her because no one else around her will."
Before Fisher could respond, Christy squeezed his hands, drawing the man's eyes back to her. "Gerry, thank you for inviting me tonight, but I've got to get home. It's late, and Noelle will be up early, demanding to hear everything that happened on Mom's night out. I need to get my sleep!"
"Of course, my dear." He kissed her cheek, then Christy and Quinn eased away, joining the stream of people leaving the ballroom.
Christy groaned. "What a night. And we still have to find Aaron DeBolt. He was sitting at his mother's table near the podium. I saw him move away as soon as the awards finished, but he's probably still in the hotel." The area in front of the bank of elevators was crammed. "Come on, let's try some of the corridors, or the stairs. Maybe we can still catch up to him."
Chapter 10
Quinn took her hand to guide her through the packed bodies waiting for the elevators. Christy let him. It made sense, really. There were so many people crowded into such a small space, and she didn't want to lose Quinn. He didn't let go, though, when they broke through the pack into the relatively people-free foyer from which the stairs to the main floor descended. Now was the time to pull her hand free, but she was cautiously enjoying the firm grip of his fingers around hers, not to mention the lovely fantasy of being on a date with a very desirable man.