The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

by Louise Clark

  Laughing and chiding the cat, Noelle charged up to grab the ball for another throw. There was a moment when Stormy glared at her, then he surrendered the toy. Standing up, his tail twitching, the cat stood tensed, waiting for the next throw.

  Quinn watched this scene moodily. "Because he's a cat, Dad! He can't be a person too."

  "Why not?" Roy said again.

  "Come on, Dad! People don't suddenly turn into cats."

  A lot he knows.

  Roy laughed.

  Christy sighed. Frank had been making snarky comments about Quinn since he'd first started communicating with her that morning.

  "What?" Quinn said.

  "Stormy disagrees," Christy said. "He says he's Frank and that Frank's human body is dead."

  "Frank is probably still in Mexico, very much alive, but minus his passport. He's just lying low." Quinn's jaw was set and his voice was firm. He'd made his decision and he wasn't prepared to back down.

  "You're too rigid, boy. That's why you're the only one who can't hear the cat talking. You're closed to the infinite possibilities of the cosmos." Roy gestured with his wine glass. "Relax. Go with the flow. Open your mind. Let him in."

  Quinn shot his father an impatient look. He jumped to his feet and began to pace, like a lion locked in a holding pen. He certainly didn't look like a man prepared to relax any time soon. "Okay, Dad. I've opened my mind. There's nothing out there. The cat is just a cat."

  Stormy, busy eviscerating the ball, laughed. So did Christy and Roy.

  Quinn's jaw flexed. "This is stupid." He sat down again and drank some wine.

  His father topped up his glass.

  Christy decided that Quinn Armstrong was a very sexy man. Not only did he move with the easy grace of a big cat, but he had a way of narrowing his eyes and looking straight into a situation. Physical control tied together with a quick intelligence was a potent combination that she needed to ignore. She'd already shown him that she responded to his kisses. She didn't want him thinking she was mooning over him every minute they were together. Not only was she still married to Frank, but she was very much aware that Quinn was a successful journalist. Everything she said would eventually find its way into the media, including her belief that her husband was living inside Stormy the Cat. Wouldn't that look great in big black type on white newsprint? Embezzler's Wife Decides Husband Is a Cat.

  Time to follow Quinn's lead and solve this puzzle in a logical way. "Let's step back and see what we've got so far. We know Frank's passport was used by a person traveling to and from Mexico. That individual fit Frank's physical description. He could have been Frank, or someone else. Last week, the person using Frank's passport returned to Canada along with Brianne Lymbourn, the woman Frank was reported to be with in Mexico. On arrival in Vancouver, Brianne took a room at the Strand Manor. The man with her did not register, but apparently stayed in the hotel. Both of them have now disappeared. In fact, no one has seen Frank or spoken to him in months."

  "No one here." Quinn was now slouched in a lawn chair, one long jean-clad leg propped on the other. His hand was wrapped around the goblet of his wineglass, which he'd just raised to his lips.

  Christy remembered the way those lips had felt on hers and heat sizzled through her. She swallowed hard. "Okay. Let's look at that. What proof do we have that Frank was ever in Mexico? News stories. That's it."

  "And the embezzlement," Quinn said.

  "As reported in the press." Roy waved his glass. Red wine sloshed dangerously close to the edge before it receded. "If I were writing a story about this, I'd point out that none of the trustees have confirmed any details of the embezzlement to Christy."

  That's because I didn't do it. I didn't go to the Caribbean and someone else ripped off all my money. I wish this guy would get with the program.

  "Patience, man," Roy said. "I'm on it."

  "I hate to ask, Dad, but what are you on?"

  Roy ignored him. He waved the wineglass again, with another near miss for a spill. "Now listen, all we know about the embezzlement is that the money is gone. Not who did the actual transfer or where they transferred the money. If you read the newspaper reports, they're pretty vague. In fact, they all sound the same."

  "That's a good point." Christy watched her daughter and the cat. Noelle had been delighted when she saw Stormy. She and the cat had been inseparable ever since. They'd given up on the ball. The cat was now crouched in the garden, eyeing a bird perched on a tree branch. Noelle was rummaging in a box of toys for the next game. "It's like they all came from a single source."

  Quinn swirled the wine in his glass absently. The motion was neat and precise. The wine climbed a scant millimeter or two up the side of the glass. "I noticed the similarity in the reports too, so I checked around last week."

  Oblivious to the danger of the nearby cat, the bird fluttered from its secure place on the tree to a low branch on a bush dangerously close to the cat.

  "It seems the source was a reporter named Greg Barret. We had a beer together yesterday afternoon. Hey!" Quinn jumped up. The wine in his glass went flying as he charged toward the bush. The bird fluttered away.

  Stormy turned with a hiss and a lashing tail. Jerk! The cat almost had it.

  "Not in front of Noelle!" Christy said tartly.

  "What happened, Mom?" Noelle said, coming over to Christy for a hug, her eyes wide.

  "Nothing much, honey." Christy cuddled her daughter for a moment. "The cat spotted a bird and was about to pounce on it when Quinn shouted to make the bird fly away."

  Noelle's eyes opened wide. "He was going to eat a bird? Yuck. Stormy! You can't do that!" She headed over to the cat, her finger wagging. The adults laughed.

  That's right, make me look bad in front of my daughter when I'm just doing what cats do. Thanks, Chris! The cat sat in front of Noelle and licked his paw while she gave him a lecture about respecting all life.

  Quinn observed this with a grin. Christy figured that while he might not consciously accept that Frank's body was dead and his essence was living in Stormy the Cat, part of Quinn had tuned into the idea, and that part of him was enjoying the sight of Noelle lecturing her father.

  Drawing his gaze away, Quinn refilled his glass. "Barret claims he received a series of anonymous letters detailing everything Frank did, starting with his flight to Mexico. Each letter was postmarked Vancouver, but there was no return address on the envelope, and the letters weren't signed. They arrived at intervals, and each time Barret received one, he was able to find evidence that backed up the allegations he'd been sent. Barret has never found out who his source is, but I don't think he's tried too hard. He latched onto the Jamieson name and flogged the story to any outlet that would pay for it. This has been a real moneymaker for him."

  "And when it became big news all the others copied off the original story, adding their own bits of hype," Roy said.

  Quinn sipped again, then nodded. "That's about it."

  "Okay," Christy said. "So what do we know then?"

  That I'm dead and I did not transfer most of my trust fund to some bank in a two-bit third world country. Do you think I'd do that to you and Noelle?

  Roy rubbed his chin. Christy said hotly, "I don't know what to think, Frank!" Quinn groaned. She ignored him. "Three months ago you walked out our front door and didn't come back. Then you show up this morning and tell me that you're dead and your essence is living inside a cat. A cat who hated me when we lived in the mansion! Right now I'm having a hard time adjusting to having a voice that isn't mine talking inside my head."

  "I think it's cool," Roy said. "The first time Frank spoke to me I thought I was having a bad trip. When he got in this morning, just after I'd finished breakfast, I wasn't prepared. He had to shout so I'd open the door for him."

  "He meowed, Dad, and threw his body against the door. He was so loud he woke me up too. Letting him in is not proof that the cat was talking to you. Or that he's Frank."

  I would have been back sooner if he, th
e cat looked at Quinn and hissed, hadn't kidnapped me!

  "Whatever." Christy waved her hand impatiently. "The money is gone. If you didn't take it, then who did?"

  Beats me. Ouch! Hey, kiddo, careful where you put your feet. The tail's off limits.

  Noelle immediately picked up the cat. She stroked him gently and issued apologies. Stormy began to purr.

  Christy drew a deep breath. "So what's our next step?"

  Find out who stole my money.

  "We find Frank," Quinn said, sounding grim. "And get him to explain what is going on."

  The voice laughed. Good luck.

  "Quinn, what if we have found Frank? Or I should say, Frank has found us?" Christy asked. "All we've discovered so far is that Frank wasn't the man who traveled to Vancouver with Brianne. Maybe Frank really is dead."

  Quinn swirled his wineglass again. The wine slid up the sides, higher than before, though there was never any danger of it sloshing over the edge. "I don't buy Frank living inside the cat, but you and my father do. The cat claims Frank never left Vancouver. That means all the reports of Frank in Mexico would have to be reports of Crack Graham's activities there. We need proof of that. We also have to eliminate the possibility that Frank was ever in Mexico and that he's not down there right now. I say we take the hunt to Frank. We go to Mexico."

  * * *

  The reported sightings of Frank had taken place in an area of Mexico known as the Mexican Riviera. Located in southeastern Mexico, it encompassed the resort towns of Cancun, Playa del Carmen, and Tulum. Wide, white sand beaches faced an azure Caribbean sea and enjoyed soft sea breezes with endless sunshine. Away from the coast, a lush jungle that hid ancient Mayan ruins begging to be explored and marveled over covered the land.

  The gateway to the Mexican Riviera was Cancun. To fly to Cancun from Vancouver, without a layover in an American city, there were two options—via Toronto or Mexico City. Since the flight that Brianne and her companion had used had been through Mexico City, Quinn and Christy booked seats on that route as well.

  "Do you think we'll have any more luck with customs here than we did in Mexico City?" Christy asked as they stood waiting for their luggage to be delivered on the slowly rotating carousel at the Cancun airport. When they passed through customs in Mexico City they had interviewed the supervisor on duty. He had no memory of Frank, either his recent departure from the country, or his earlier arrival. He had been apologetic but firm. Three months was too long to remember any one individual.

  "I think the odds are low." A suitcase came down the ramp, slid onto the carousel, and bounced against the protective edge. "This is a major international airport. We can try, though. We might get lucky."

  The suitcase was black. Quinn stepped forward to check it out, then shook his head. Not surprising. All the luggage on the carousel was rectangular and black. Figuring out what belonged to whom in the busy Cancun airport was a nightmare. Quinn already had his case. He'd found it immediately because he had marked it with a bright neon green tag. Christy hadn't been so organized, or experienced.

  Christy looked around her. The Cancun airport was large, modern, and packed with people in holiday mode. "Quinn, I—" He lunged for another suitcase, then stepped back when it wasn't Christy's. "This trip is costing a huge amount. I mean, Frank wouldn't hear of Aunt Ellen looking after Noelle, so I had to get my mom to come in from Kingston. Then there's the ticket price and the hotel. I'll be living off my credit card for the next few months. The trustees have already told me not to look for Frank in Vancouver. They'll go nuts if they hear I've flown to Cancun for the weekend. What happens if we don't—"

  Quinn pounced on another suitcase. Christy resisted annoyance. She knew he was listening to her, but it would be nice if he showed her that he was by staying put and looking her way. "Especially if we don't get some answers out of it."

  He released the bag, then watched the carousel moodily. "Stick with me, Christy. It's early days, yet." Another suitcase came down. He moved forward, checked the luggage tag, and grabbed the rectangular, black case. "Got it." He grinned at Christy. "Come on, let's check in with local customs and see if their memories are any better than those guys in Mexico City."

  They weren't. The customs supervisor shook his head. "I have told you all I can, señor. In the high season, eight hundred thousand people pass through our airport each month. Many of them will be using our customs facilities. I'm sure you can see why it is impossible to remember one face from another." The man was very polite, very earnest and very proud of the success of this tourist region. Christy had the feeling that if he could have helped, he would have.

  Quinn had rented a car and booked them into one of the more moderately priced hotels, a low-rise complex along the strip of sand facing the Caribbean. Once they had checked in they went through the same procedure they'd used in Vancouver, visiting each hotel in the area, talking to front desk staff, the concierge, bellmen, and waiters and hostesses in the restaurants.

  At the first hotel, they entered through revolving doors that sealed in the cool, air conditioned air. "This is certainly Frank's style," Christy said, looking around the enormous lobby, open up to the third floor. There was marble everywhere, and enough seating for several busloads of visitors. Beach access and a fancy beach bar added up to a room rate that was considerably higher than the economy hotel Christy and Quinn had chosen.

  Quinn looked around him thoughtfully. "Not exactly low profile. Would a man on the run choose a ritzy place like this one?"

  "If the man really was Frank Jamieson, you bet." Christy headed for the reservations desk. "He'd know how to fit in. No one would notice him, because he'd wear the right clothes and act the right way in every situation."

  "Then we have our work cut out for us."

  Christy looked over her shoulder and made a face at Quinn. She knew he was right, but oh how she wished he wasn't.

  Questioning everyone who might have remembered Frank was exhausting, painstaking work, made more difficult because there were dozens of hotels along the peninsula that made up Cancun's beach resort area.

  A few people remembered Brianne. Attractive, leggy blonds stood out, and spoiled, willful blonds stood out even more. They found one restaurant where Brianne had thrown a hissy fit about the doneness of her steak. At a clothing store they remembered her because she had tried on a stack of sun dresses, complained about the quality and sizing, then flounced out, buying nothing, leaving all the items on the floor of the changing room. But every time they flashed the picture of Frank, all they received were headshakes and denials. The longer they searched the more likely it became that Frank had never been in the area at all.

  They had dinner at a restaurant in one of the hotels they visited. The prices were extraordinary, but Christy's entrée, an octopus dish in a cream sauce flavored with a hint of mustard and Mexico, hit every taste bud in just the right way. As they drank their coffee, she checked her watch. It was eight o'clock. Three time zones away Noelle would be finishing up her homework, while Christy's mom would be prepping dinner.

  She fished her cell phone out of her purse and held it up. "Do you mind? I thought I'd call Noelle and see how her day went."

  Quinn leaned back in his chair and shook his head. He was smiling, and there was something about him—warmness perhaps?—that spoke of approval. "Go ahead. I figured after dinner we'd hit some of the nightspots. I imagine Brianne is a big-time party girl."

  In the midst of dialing her home number, Christy nodded. "I don't know her well, but I'd have to agree, on the surface, that's Brianne. There may be more to her..." Voicemail clicked on. She heard her own voice repeat the phone number. Disappointed, she left a cheery mom-type message for Noelle and told her she'd try to call again before bed.

  Quinn raised his brows. "No luck?"

  "Voicemail. Noelle is probably outside with Mary Petrofsky, and knowing my mom she's probably out there too, scoping out the neighborhood."

  "Or maybe they're over at my plac
e for dinner. Before we left my dad mentioned something about keeping an eye on them both."

  "My mother will enjoy that." Christy fiddled with her coffee cup. "Quinn, this isn't working. We've found proof that Brianne was here, but nobody seems to remember the man she was with, so we're no further ahead. Was she with Frank or Graham? Who knows? We know Crack Graham was in Mexico, but I don't think Frank was ever here."

  Quinn put his cup in the saucer, then reached across the table to take Christy's hand. "We know Crack used Frank's passport when he returned to Vancouver. If Frank was ever in Cancun then he's here in Mexico, without a passport. You don't require a passport to enter Mexico, but you do need one to fly across US airspace. That means Frank can't return home. If he's here, we'll find him."

  "But if we confirm Brianne was with Graham then it's unlikely that Frank is here now, or ever was here. All the sightings put the two of them together."

  Quinn squeezed Christy's hand and smiled. "That's speculation. We're here to find facts. Let's keep going. The worst thing about digging is how much you have to do before you find the treasure."

  They hit a dozen bars and several nightclubs in the fashionable hotels, all without success. Brianne might be remembered, but was always solo or with Crack Graham, and always flirting with trouble.

  Their second day was a reprise of the first, except longer. They finished with the top hotels and moved on to the second tier ones. Still no sightings of Frank.

  Their real breakthrough came late on the third day they were there. They had checked out of their hotel in Cancun and planned to move on to Tulum, where they had reservations for that evening. In the meantime they would visit the least expensive hotels, then check out the town of Cancun.

  In an effort to cover as much ground as possible, Christy and Quinn split up. Christy didn't feel comfortable driving the rental car, so Quinn dropped her in town. They agreed on a time and a place to meet, then Christy was on her own. She had fun poking into the shops, talking to the friendly merchants, but she ran into the same answers over and over again—shrugs and headshakes and pleasant, but firm, negatives.