by Louise Clark
Christy sat in a chair between the two men. Bidwell shot her a sardonic look. His jowls quivered a little, but he said calmly, "Everything is fine."
Clearly relieved that there wouldn't be a scene, the restaurateur left. Christy smiled at Bidwell. "It would have been easier if you'd seen me in your office."
"I don't have time to waste on unimportant matters," Bidwell said. He sipped from his glass, watching her warily over the rim.
"That was rude, Edward," Christy said. "But I have to agree. I don't have time to waste either. Tomorrow I have to meet with a social worker who believes I owned the mansion outright and that I sold it against the wishes of the Trust. How do you think she got that idea?"
"I wouldn't know," Edward said.
"Gerry, can you guess?"
Fisher frowned at her. "Don't drag me into this, Christy. It's your mess."
"Not really," she said. "You guys made it for me. One of Frank's trustees killed him, ripped off all his money, and now that person is using the trust to punish me by stealing my daughter. I'm here to tell you that you won't get away with it."
Edward Bidwell's lip curled and he said, "You are an unfit mother and we can prove it."
"With forged documents? I keep records of all our correspondence, Edward. Letters and e-mails from the Trust, my letters and e-mails back. I can prove those letters Ms. Shively has are forged documents. She won't tell me who in the Trust provided them to her, but she knows, and once she sees my documents she'll wonder if she's being set up. I don't think she'll like that, do you?"
Gerry Fisher slanted a glance at Bidwell, whose cheeks were bright with anger. "No one in the Trust has done anything wrong, Christy, except Frank, who began this whole thing by blackmailing a trustee."
"Please, Gerry! He used his father's diary to blackmail three of you!"
Fisher toyed with his glass. The liquor inside swirled back and forth with increasing force. "That diary no longer exists."
"So you burgled the mansion? Samuel Macklin thought Frank senior's diary had been stolen then, but he wasn't sure. Did you steal Frank's passport too? Then give it to a lookalike so people would think Frank had taken off to Mexico?"
"This is ridiculous," Edward Bidwell said, curtly. "Why would anyone bother to impersonate Frank? He was a worthless addict who stole from his trust fund so he would have more money to waste on drugs and fast living."
Christy looked from Bidwell to Gerry Fisher, then back to Bidwell again. "Frank was murdered by one of the people he was blackmailing."
"You've gone too far this time, Christy." Gerry Fisher sounded indignant. "I will not sit here and allow you to accuse me of murdering Frank. Or of being blackmailed by him."
"Gerry's right. Bad enough that you're claiming we have secrets that merit blackmail, but there's a big step between paying blackmail and murder."
Christy drew a deep breath. "Maybe the step isn't so big when a second blackmailer is involved."
Bidwell frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean Frank told his secrets to Aaron DeBolt and Aaron promptly started his own little blackmail business. Didn't you know, Edward?" She looked from Bidwell to Fisher. "Or was it only Gerry's secrets Aaron discovered?"
White with fury, Fisher said, "These are lies."
Bidwell said calmly, "I knew. Now I'm going to ask you, Christy, how much do you intend to reveal to your boyfriend?"
That surprised her. "What boyfriend?"
"That reporter fellow, Quinn Armstrong, the one who is using you to further his career."
"He already knows all the sordid details."
Gerry had been staring at his glass while Edward spoke. Now he looked up, his features twisted. "I suppose you've been fool enough to trust him. Did you ever wonder if he was the one responsible for that awful story about you in the paper, the one that convinced the Ministry of Children and Families that you weren't a suitable guardian for Noelle? The one that made them take our petition for custody seriously?"
Christy glared at Fisher. "If I had any doubts, you just washed them away, Gerry. I know Quinn wouldn't do that to me."
Bidwell laughed mockingly. "You sound like a lovesick female."
"You don't know what you're talking about." But did he?
"Predictable answer, Christy. I'd have thought better of you."
Fisher's smile was closer to a sneer. It flicked her on the raw. "It's the killer who's been feeding stories about the Jamieson Trust to the media, not Quinn. Maybe that's you, Gerry. Or maybe it's you, Edward. Or maybe all of you are involved."
She pushed her chair out, then stood up. "The police are hunting for Brianne's Lymbourn's killer. Tomorrow Joan Shively will have proof that whoever tipped her off lied and provided her with false documents. She's going to be asking questions that will probably end up with the police. The net is closing. Which one of you will be caught inside?"
Chapter 25
"Come on, kiddo, let's go out to dinner tonight." Christy ruffled her daughter's hair. It was five thirty and she and Noelle had just seen Mary Petrofsky back to her house. Having the girls playing in the family room on this rainy fall afternoon had forced Christy to keep herself together, but she freely admitted that she was exhausted after the emotional meeting with Gerry Fisher and Edward Bidwell earlier in the day. The thought of making dinner was more than she could manage.
Noelle shot her a calculating look. "Can we go to the barbecue chicken place?"
Christy laughed. "Your favorite. Yes, we can go there."
Noelle grinned, then pouted. "Daddy can't come though."
"Nope, they don't appreciate cats in restaurants."
The cat sauntered up the stairs from the family room. Bring me home some takeout. He stretched and yawned. You and Mary tuckered me out, kiddo. I think I'll have a nap until you get back. As the cat rubbed against her legs, Noelle picked him up and cuddled him against her chest. Stormy purred loudly.
After a minute, Noelle carefully placed the cat in the center of the most comfortable chair in the room. Frank sighed and the cat rubbed his cheek against Noelle's hand. She scratched his ear, then danced back to her mother. "Since Daddy can't come with us, why don't we invite Roy and Quinn?"
That was a good question. Why not invite the Armstrongs? Maybe because she'd been avoiding Quinn since the day she'd accused him of being the cause of all her problems simply because he was a reporter. They'd gone from there to his demanding that she let him do the interviewing of the trustees, which led to her refusal. That had been two days ago and, though he'd called a half-a-dozen times since, she hadn't responded to his messages.
Call him, Chris. You need to touch base and let him know what you've found out. The cat's voice was half asleep. She could hear the yawn in it. Roy says Quinn's pretty worried. You guys need to work it out between you.
"So how about it, Mom?" Noelle said, "Dad's right. You don't want Quinn to be upset, do you?"
Christy wagged her finger at her daughter and tried to look stern. "You shouldn't be listening to conversations between your father and me."
Noelle grinned, not in the least intimidated. "Is that a yes?"
Christy sighed. "Let's do it."
* * *
Dinner was fun, but it didn't solve anything. Christy briefly described the meetings she'd had, trying not to go into too much detail because she was aware of Noelle's listening ears. Roy talked enthusiastically about his agent's reaction to his new manuscript and entertained Noelle with stories about book tours packed with disasters. Christy and Quinn danced around the arguments they'd had, leaving Christy relieved. She didn't have the energy to deal with emotional issues tonight.
By the time they were finished coffee and dessert, it was Noelle's bedtime, so they said good night to Quinn and Roy at Christy's front door. It was Roy who suggested a strategy session after Noelle went to school in the morning. Christy agreed, but she wished that Quinn had been the one to propose the meeting. He'd been strangely silent since they'd reached her doorstep
.
She was in bed by ten o'clock, asleep by half past, then suddenly awake again. The room was very dark. She blinked sleepily and yawned, wondering what had roused her. Rolling on her side, she punched her pillow, determined to go back to sleep. She wanted to be rested for her meeting with Joan Shively the next day.
She was drifting off again when a sound made her open her eyes. Suddenly alert, she looked at the bedside clock. One in the morning. She listened intently, waiting to hear a toilet flush, or the cat thumping around as it prowled through the house chasing imaginary mice and snacking on leftover dinner.
Her straining ears caught the sound again. What was it? The creak of a floorboard, then the muffled click of a drawer being closed somewhere below. Cats didn't close drawers and Noelle wasn't likely to be downstairs checking out her toys at this hour of the night. Christy slipped out of bed. She pulled on her dressing gown for warmth and comfort, then went into her daughter's room.
Noelle was fast asleep, oblivious to what was happening below. The cat, who usually slept with his head on her knee, was sitting up in bed, staring alertly at the door.
"Frank, do you hear that? Is there someone here?" Christy asked in a whisper. Her skin was beginning to prickle as her stomach knotted.
I hear it. There was a grim note to the voice. I'm going to go check out what's happening.
"Thanks. I'll—" The stealthy sounds increased. Christy was sure she heard footsteps from the direction of the staircase. Fear clutched at her insides, real, primal fear that verged on panic. The cat dashed out. Christy remained by Noelle's bed, torn between standing guard over her daughter and going for help in the form of the telephone on her bedside table in the other room.
Call the cops! The mental command was followed by an angry, vocal hiss.
The footsteps hesitated. Christy whimpered. She had that feeling of dream inertia, where limbs are weighted, unable to move, even though danger approaches. Maybe this was a nightmare she'd wake up from in a couple of minutes, sweating and anxious, but blessedly safe.
The deep nasal yowl of a furious cat broke through her frozen panic.
This was real and she had to do something. She looked at Noelle. Her daughter was still asleep, moving a little restlessly, but so far not aware of the danger that surrounded them. A man's deep voice shouted with sudden pain and Christy heard Frank's voice grunt in her head.
She looked about the room, desperately seeking a weapon of some kind. The lamp on the table beside Noelle's bed was a possibility. To get to it she'd have to go to away from the door, deeper into the room, but that would put Noelle between her and the intruder, exactly the opposite of what Christy wanted to achieve.
The footsteps were louder now, making no attempt at quiet after the battle between cat and man. There was no chance now to bolt into her bedroom and call the police. The intruder would be upon them before she'd ever make it to the phone.
She had a wistful thought of her cell phone, downstairs, tucked securely into a pocket in her purse. From now on she'd bring it upstairs. She'd put it in her dressing gown pocket. She needed a weapon.
The footsteps sounded so close now, dragging her jumbled thoughts into focus. What could she use as a weapon?
She looked wildly around the room. There were toys, six-inch dolls made of hard plastic, and some stuffies on the end of Noelle's bed. Her duvet was half on, half off the bed, as usual, along with her second pillow, which had made it to the floor almost at Christy's feet. Not one thing close to hand looked remotely like a weapon.
Christy whimpered, desperately aware of the intruder who might be anywhere by now, and who could be on top of her in seconds. What could she use for a weapon?
A floorboard creaked. Christy knew that sound. She cursed it every night when she came up to bed because she worried the noise would wake Noelle. The board was right at the top of the stairs, impossible to miss.
The intruder was close. A few footsteps and he would walk into this room and do whatever horrendous act he wished. The danger to Noelle was acute. The time to act was now.
Christy grabbed the pillow and bolted from the room. She closed the door behind her in a vain attempt to protect Noelle from whatever happened in the hallway.
Christy's townhouse was a roomy one, but it was tall and narrow. The boxed-in staircase led up to a narrow hallway from which three bedrooms opened. The first was at the top of the stairs and looked over the back of the house; the second, where Noelle slept, was at the end of the hallway; while the third, the master suite, was on the front side of the house. The hallway itself was only twenty feet long from staircase to Noelle's bedroom door.
As the intruder crested the top of the stairs, moonlight shone in through the window in the first bedroom, highlighting the man. He was dressed in dark clothes that included tailored slacks and a black turtleneck sweater under a bulky down vest. His body was long, though well-fleshed, whether from muscles or good food, Christy didn't know and didn't want to find out. Leather gloves protected his hands, the kind used to ward off winter cold. A thick black stocking covered his head, obscuring his features. She guessed that his skin was white, but more than that she couldn't have said.
They stood for a moment, assessing each other. Christy knew she had a certain advantage. The drapes in the master bedroom were lined, limiting the amount of light that spilled over her, so the intruder would see little more than her shadow against the white of Noelle's bedroom door. She held the pillow close to her body, desperately hoping the man would go away and leave them in peace.
Chris! Did you call the cops? The voice was thick as if the owner had been out of it for the past few minutes and was only just coming to. There was an urgency there too, a desperation born of an inability to act.
"No! There was no time!"
Her voice broke that fragile moment of assessment. The intruder launched himself down the hallway. Christy leapt forward, screaming madly, raising the pillow as she went, then she swung with all her strength. As he raised his arm to deflect the blow, she saw the black cloth was ripped. Large red scratches, deep enough to still be bleeding, showed where the cat had torn his skin. The pillow hit the wound with a solid thump. The intruder cried out. Christy raised the pillow again, slamming it against his head this time.
Made of feathers, the stuffing had bunched down at the base of the pillow as Christy swung it. The blow might shock and sting, but feathers did not have the impact of a more solid substance like a wooden baseball bat, a metal poker, or a glass vase. There was no way she would ever be able to deliver a knockout blow. The best she could hope for was that her resistance would convince the man that staying was too much trouble.
The intruder swore and grabbed at the pillow as Christy raised it again.
His flailing hands connected with the pillowcase and pulled. It slipped off. He stumbled backward, leaving Christy still in possession of her weapon and with a momentary advantage. She brought the pillow down on his face in an overhead blow that had her bent double with the effort. He snatched again, but she danced back, out of his reach.
She was breathing hard, but so was he. She had retreated as far back as the doorway to her room, but she dared not go inside, leaving Noelle's door unguarded and her daughter vulnerable to the intruder.
The attacker had her measure now. He knew her weapon was nothing more than a feather pillow that he could grab and tear from her grasp. He approached carefully, not running at her, but judging his timing so he could disarm her then grapple with her, using his superior strength to overwhelm her.
Christy choked back a sob. This was it. This unequal contest would soon be ended, but she was determined that even if she lost the battle she would not give up now, before it was over. She raised the pillow to bring it down in a stinging blow. The intruder reached up, caught the cloth, closed his fingers over the ticking, and pulled.
The pillow was wrenched from Christy's grasp. She heard him grunt with success, then he tossed the pillow behind him, far away from Christ
y's reaching fingers.
"Noooooo!" The word wrenched from her heart was a wail of despair and frustration. Over the intruder's shoulder, illuminated by the moonlight, she saw the cat at the top of the stairs. He was moving slowly, favoring the leg that had been injured weeks before.
The intruder's hand curled around her forearm. Christy struggled and screamed, "Frank, help me!"
The intruder froze. His hesitation gave her a sudden, not to be repeated, opportunity. She jerked backward at the same moment as the cat uttered one of its blood-stopping howls and sprang.
The intruder half turned at the cat's battle cry, then swore as the animal landed on his shoulder, front claws digging deep into his flesh, hind feet raking viciously. Christy broke his hold on her arm. Or perhaps the intruder let her go as he tried to shake the cat off his body. Their battle was short and vicious. At the end, the intruder's sweater was torn in a dozen places where blood seeped from nasty gashes caused by razor sharp cat claws, but the cat's lithe body was limp. The intruder shrugged off the cat and stumbled backward.
Horrified, Christy watched Stormy fall. All she could think was that once again Frank had been murdered, this time in the defense of his wife and daughter. No matter what he had done in his life, after his death he had been her friend and Noelle's confidante. She had a brief mental image of her daughter mourning her beloved father/cat as it lay limp on the hallway floor and was so filled with fury that she rushed the shaken intruder. Her body landed hard against his, pushing him backwards so that he hit the wall at the top of the stairs. His cat-scratched shoulder took the brunt of impact and he howled with pain. Still, one hand closed over her shoulder, seeking control.
Christy struggled. She raised her elbow and rammed it hard into his ribcage. He grunted and swore in her ear, his voice hauntingly familiar.
Christy knew nothing about proper self-defense techniques. She'd never taken a course and she could no more toss someone over her hip than she could swim the English Channel. But long ago her mother had taught her that a man's most sensitive spot was also his weakest and that a woman's knee rammed into a man's groin was an effective way of proving no meant no. Christy used that method now, putting all her fear and outrage into the blow.