The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

by Louise Clark

  "It's my husband who's the victim. My life!"

  "Not just your life," Quinn said, his tone gritty. The lights changed again. Pedestrians flowed around them. "Like it or not, I'm involved too."

  So am I. Looks like we're a threesome.

  "Shut up, Frank."

  "Damn it, is that cat talking to you again?" Quinn drew a deep, annoyed breath.

  The ringing of a cell phone interrupted them. He and Christy both automatically reached for their units, but it was Christy's that was ringing. She checked her watch as she answered, wondering if it was the school calling. "Yes?"

  "Mrs. Jamieson, it's Detective Patterson here."

  Christy frowned and glanced at Quinn. "Detective Patterson. This is unexpected." She began to walk. Quinn fell into step beside her. "What's up?"

  "We have a report of a woman matching Brianne Lymbourn's description."

  "Brianne?" Christy said eagerly. "Where is she? I've just come from the apartment where she was staying. No one there has seen her for at least a week."

  "We believe she's in Kamloops, Mrs. Jamieson."

  "Kamloops? Can't be. Kamloops isn't Brianne's style." Lying in the rain shadow of the Coast Mountains, Kamloops was a mid-sized city where two major highways met. It provided services to the ranchers who grazed cattle on the dry grasslands and accommodations for the tourists on their way somewhere else. It was a practical, working town without even a hint of glamour about it.

  "We don't think she was in the area voluntarily." There was a second's hesitation before Patterson continued. "She's dead, Mrs. Jamieson."

  Christy stopped short. She was vaguely aware that her car was parked two vehicles ahead and that Quinn was watching her with concern. "Would you repeat that, please?"

  "Brianne Lymbourn is dead, Mrs. Jamieson. Murdered. In the Kamloops area."

  Chapter 20

  They flew to Kamloops.

  Christy insisted on talking directly to the RCMP officer in charge of Brianne's case. Patterson had been reluctant, Quinn had protested, but Christy had been adamant. She said she needed closure.

  Quinn's gut was sending out warning signals. Brianne's death had to be linked to Frank's, which meant that whoever had killed Frank was getting worried. Christy might want closure, but Quinn wanted out of the investigation, the sooner the better. If a trip to Kamloops and an interview with a cagey cop would help further that end, he was all for it.

  There were no scheduled flights to Kamloops that left after school began and returned to Vancouver before it let out, so Quinn chartered a small plane to fly the three of them to Kamloops the next day.

  Yeah, the three of them. That irked him. He hadn't wanted to bring the cat, but Christy insisted. The pilot wasn't too keen on flying an animal either, even one secured in a soft, onboard carrying case. He'd responded, though, when Christy raised her brows, her expression aloof, almost haughty, and became Mrs. Frank Jamieson, wife of wealth and privilege. The transformation was amazing. She'd gone from a worried, slightly harried woman to one who controlled the situation around her. He knew it wasn't natural, that it was a mask she assumed, but he found it damned sexy for all that.

  The flight to Kamloops was short and uneventful. If Stormy was frightened at the noisy vibrations of the propellers, Frank kept him in line. The noise didn't allow for conversation, but flight was a visual treat as the low-flying plane soared over the tops of the magnificent Coast Mountains. By the time they were above Merritt, the green of the coastal rainforest had given way to the yellows and browns of the interior grasslands. High peaks were replaced by uplands and rolling hills. From there it wasn't long before they were above the Thompson River valley where Kamloops nestled.

  An old railroad town, Kamloops was now home to British Columbia's newest regional university and an expanding ski resort, modeled after Whistler Village. The population topped eighty thousand, making it one of the bigger towns in the B.C. interior.

  The police station was located in the downtown area where Kamloops had first been settled two centuries before. The detective who agreed to talk to them looked as hard and weathered as the old brick walls of the station building. His reluctance was obvious in the blank expression on his face and the shuttered one in his eyes. His name was Inspector Broadhurst. He was a senior man in the detachment.

  "Detective Patterson e-mailed me you were coming," he said by way of greeting.

  Christy smiled at him as they sat down in his office. She kept the bag containing the cat on her lap. "I hoped she would."

  Broadhurst clasped his hands together on the blue blotter that covered the top of his battered wooden desk. "I am afraid you've wasted a trip. There's little I can tell you that you couldn't hear from Detective Patterson."

  "Inspector, my husband has disappeared, and Brianne Lymbourn was the only link to his whereabouts. Quinn and I have been trying to locate her so we could ask her some questions. Before I give up my search for her I have to be certain that she's the person who is dead." Christy hesitated. Quinn noted that her hold on the bag tightened. "And if she is dead, I am hoping that the way in which she was killed might give us some clues that will lead us to Frank."

  As she spoke Broadhurst's cold, blue eyes assessed her. Quinn knew he was seeing a woman trying very hard to hold it together, but whose emotions were close to the surface. He wondered if Broadhurst could see, as he could, the courage that had her sitting here prepared to look at photos of a grisly death, disturbing images that would remain in her mind's eye for an eternity, to provide proof and closure on another gruesome death.

  Perhaps he did, for after a minute Broadhurst opened his hands, tapped them on the desktop and sat back. "Mrs. Jamieson, the woman's body was found at a private landfill near Merritt. She probably would never have been located, but there was a hole in the fencing around the site and a coyote got in." He raised his hand, palm up, a fatalistic gesture. "Dug up the body. Would have made a real mess of her if it hadn't been disturbed."

  Out of the corner of his eye Quinn saw the pet carrier start to twitch. Broadhurst didn't know they'd brought a cat along to the meeting. He was relieved when Christy carefully placed the carrier on the floor. That feeling dissipated when she opened the zipper so the cat's head could pop out.

  "A garbage dump? Brianne died in a garbage dump. Was that where she was killed? Or was her body moved there?"

  "Killed there, definitely." Broadhurst shot her one of his assessing, cold-eyed looks. "Although why she was in the landfill raises questions. She was wearing the kind of clothes a woman chooses for an evening out—heels, a fancy dress, silk underpants, push up bra."

  "Someone took her there to kill her and make her burial easier," Quinn said. He kept a wary eye on the restive package on the floor.

  "Could be."

  "Do you have any photographs of the body, Inspector?" Christy asked. She reached down to stroke the cat's head reassuringly.

  "Mrs. Jamieson, I do not think that it is advisable for you to view the crime scene photos."

  Christy's hand stopped. "Why?"

  "The coyote was hungry."

  Christy blanched.

  With a sigh, the inspector continued, "And she'd been beaten."

  "Is that how she died?" Christy asked in a soft voice.

  "No, she was shot from behind."

  The cat's head disappeared back inside the carrier. The zipper began to flex as the cat struggled to escape. "Please, Inspector. I need to see the photos."

  Broadhurst's reluctance was obvious, but he opened a file folder, took some photos out, then spread them on the desk in front of Christy and Quinn.

  The images were as bad as Quinn imagined. There were bruises on the woman's face and body, rope burns around her wrists. Christy stared at the photos for a moment, then picked up one that clearly showed Brianne's face and lowered the image so the cat could see it.

  Quinn wasn't entirely sure that cats had the ability to read photos, but Christy was intent on giving Frank closure. Broadhurst
frowned and seemed about to speak, but at that moment the cat began to howl.

  * * *

  "Think you can manage lunch?" Quinn asked.

  They were out of the police station, into the sunlight of an arid fall day.

  Christy breathed deep. "Yeah, sounds good."

  How about shrimp this time? The cat likes tuna, but a little goes a long way, as far as I'm concerned.

  "You don't deserve shrimp. Frank, how could you howl like that?"

  Excuse me? I don't remember anyone asking me not to mourn a woman who died because she was involved with me.

  "I did," Christy said, her temper heating. Arguments with Frank were always like this. She pointed out his shortcomings, and he avoided the issue. "In case you didn't notice, Broadhurst decided I was a total fruitcake when he found out I'd brought you with me."

  And the point is?

  "The point is that you blew it for us!"

  Bull—!

  "Don't swear at me!"

  "You're talking to the cat again, aren't you?" Quinn said, guiding Christy across the street toward a sandwich shop.

  "Yes, I am!"

  "Are you having a marital spat?"

  He sounded only mildly interested, but Christy had an immediate realization of what the conversation must sound like to someone else. She was, essentially, talking to herself. Arguments between a married couple were bad enough, but Quinn wouldn't hear Frank's annoying comments, only her increasingly irritated responses. "Yeah, I guess I am. Frank can be pretty infuriating when he wants to."

  Thanks a lot!

  She ignored him. Using the excuse that they were going into the sandwich shop, she zipped up the carrier, despite his protests. Quinn bought the sandwiches, splurging on a shrimp one for the cat, then they took them to a city park where they sat on a bench to eat.

  Christy opened the bag and the cat popped out. As she laid out his sandwich, Frank said, Shrimp! Babe, you're the best.

  "Thank Quinn. He bought it."

  "What? Oh the sandwich. You're welcome, Frank."

  "He hasn't thanked you yet."

  "Figures." Quinn took a bite out of his turkey club. "I've been thinking about the information Broadhurst gave us. Brianne was found in a landfill."

  Christy shuddered. "By coyotes."

  "And the coyotes were noticed by a watchman, which means the dump was still being used."

  Christy chewed on her veggie sub as she nodded. "Okay, so where does that get us?"

  Nowhere. Brianne is dead.

  Quinn said, "Remember the fundraiser? Gerry Fisher had us sitting on opposite sides of the table?"

  "Sure. What about it?"

  "I sat between two vice presidents who competed with each other by telling me stuff about Fisher Disposal, like where they had landfill sites. Guess what?"

  Christy drew a deep hissing breath. "Fisher Disposal owns that landfill?"

  "Bingo," Quinn said.

  Can't we talk about something else?

  "No, not when we're finally getting somewhere," Christy said heatedly.

  "You're talking to the cat again. Share the wealth." Quinn took another bite of his turkey club.

  "Sorry. Frank doesn't want to deal with this. He'd like to change the subject."

  The look Quinn shot the cat was compassionate. "It can't be easy looking at a picture of a dead woman and wondering if your own body received the same treatment."

  Tell him to stash his sympathy. I don't need it!

  Christy sighed. "Or if your final resting place is a local landfill where your body will never be found."

  "The thing is, did someone use Fisher's landfill to implicate him, or is he directly involved?" Quinn put the last of his sandwich into his mouth and chewed.

  Christy shifted uneasily. "I can't believe Gerry would do something like this. He's not the type."

  So what type of person commits murder?

  "Good point," Christy muttered. Quinn cleared his throat. She took the hint and passed on what Frank had just said.

  "I have to agree with the cat. We can't rule out Gerry Fisher, just because he is the least unpleasant of the trustees," Quinn said. "But Fisher Disposal's holdings are public knowledge. Anyone who wanted to implicate Gerry Fisher could find the location of his landfill and dump Brianne's body. The question is, who would know that Gerry Fisher was being blackmailed by Frank and so could be implicated in his death?"

  My good buddy Aaron. The voice was filled with loathing.

  "Frank thinks it's Aaron DeBolt," Christy said. She shoved the last of the sub into her mouth and chewed while Quinn considered that.

  "If Gerry Fisher was arrested for the murder of Brianne Lymbourn, how would that benefit Aaron DeBolt? His source of income would be cut off."

  "But not until Gerry was arrested," Christy said. "The person who put Brianne's body into the dump didn't expect the coyotes to dig up her grave."

  Quinn said, "Good point. And if Brianne's body is found on a property owned by Gerry Fisher's company then he might be implicated. Okay, Aaron DeBolt as a suspect. Who else knew Frank was blackmailing Gerry Fisher?"

  All of them.

  Christy stared at the cat, who was now cleaning its whiskers with fastidious precision. "All of them? You mean all four of the trustees?"

  Yup.

  "Oh my."

  The cat hopped onto Christy's lap. They ganged up on me one day. I tried to play dumb, but they'd been talking amongst themselves. They knew it all, even old Aunt Ellen. They told me I had to stop.

  "And did you?"

  No. I needed money, Chris. Aaron supplied prime stuff, but it was expensive.

  "When did all this happen, Frank?" Christy's voice shook. Despite herself, she felt betrayed by the sham her marriage had become.

  About a month before I got bashed in the alley.

  Having finished off the turkey club, Quinn wiped his fingers with a paper napkin. "I'm taking a flying leap here and guessing that all of the trustees are still implicated, right?"

  Christy nodded. "As well as Aaron DeBolt." She pushed the cat off her lap. "Frank, do you realize how this makes me feel? To know how empty our marriage had become? How could you?"

  The cat hissed, then sat on the dry grass and licked first one paw then the other, a study in denial.

  Quinn watched him moodily. "This situation is beginning to look pretty nasty to me. I want you out of it, Christy."

  "All of this comes back to Frank and his blackmailing of his trustees. I'm involved, Quinn, I can't help it."

  "Christy, as long as everyone accepted that Frank had run off with a woman and a fortune, his murder could be concealed. When we started to question his disappearance, the murderer began to feel insecure."

  "So he—or she!—murdered Brianne. I get that. I just don't see how that puts me in more jeopardy than I was before."

  "You're asking questions about Frank's whereabouts. You know about Brianne's death. You're too close."

  She turned so she could look into his face. "So are you, Quinn. If I'm in danger, you are too." She touched his cheek.

  He hesitated a moment, then he caught her head with his free hand and slowly covered her lips with his.

  Christy closed her eyes, savoring the lovely sensation of his mouth over hers. If she could, she would make this moment last forever, preferably in a private place like their very own bedroom.

  The kiss went on and on, creating wonderful sensations. When at last he pulled away, he said, "Promise me you won't be involved in this anymore."

  "Only if you will promise me the same thing." Her voice was husky, charged with sensual promise.

  "I can't," he said.

  "There's your answer, then," she said, pulling his head down again. When his lips were a hair's breath away, she whispered, "We're in this together, Quinn. For better or worse."

  Chapter 21

  The woman hosting the television show was perky. Her co-host was a dour fellow with big ears and a long, mournful face that reminded Roy
of a basset hound. Together they were a popular combination. Roy munched healthy cereal that contained soy, flax, and oat bran as he tried to figure out why these two individuals had such popular appeal with the public.

  As the two labored through an interview with a well-known actor shooting a movie in the area, Roy crunched the organic flakes. The questions were superficial, which allowed the actor to smile and smile and smile, while the girl bounced up and down, giggling. The male host glared at the actor as if he carried a contagious disease.

  Roy found his head bobbing up and down in rhythm with the woman. Must be the breasts, he decided. She had huge boobs that flowed with her as she moved. Great enticement for men, but what about the female audience?

  He munched more flakes, concentrating on the program. He had an interview on this show next week, and he wanted to know what he was getting into. Would they try to trip him up? Would they dote on his every word? Go for an intellectual discussion? The only way to figure out what kind of approach they'd take was to watch the show and hope the interviews he was seeing were representative.

  After finishing up the flakes, he started on an organic apple. There was a howling sound in the studio. Odd that no one made any effort to fix the equipment causing it. That was disturbing. If the crew didn't have respect for the show, being interviewed would be a painful experience. He'd probably end up explaining proper procedures and doing his own interview himself.

  That had happened once, years ago, in a small town in the American mid-west. His U.S. publisher had sent him on the granddaddy of all author tours, hitting not just the big cities, but also the small towns. If you had a bookstore, you could have Roy Armstrong visit it. The trip had taken weeks, Vivien had pretended she was going to divorce him, and he'd learned more about the book business than he'd ever wanted to know.

  He got up to throw the apple core into the garbage. He wasn't happy about having gotten himself into this interview. He didn't have any books to sell at the moment and, while he didn't mind doing promotion, he didn't like to—

  Old man, will you wake up? I need to talk to you!

  "Frank?" There was no answer, of course. The cat wasn't in the house and so couldn't hear him. The cat was somewhere, though, and broadcasting loudly. He puzzled about it as he washed his hands, then returned to the living room. There the co-hosts were thanking the actor, the woman effusive, the man curt. The howling, he was thankful to note, had stopped.