The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

by Louise Clark

  I'm not surprised. Aaron never did believe he'd get caught.

  "I want to hit him with everything I can," Billie said, unaware that there'd been any kind of interruption. "Is there any possibility that DeBolt was your intruder?"

  Aaron? He doesn't have the guts.

  "I don't think so. The body shape was wrong. The intruder was bigger, broader, and heavier, than Aaron. But there's one way to find out for sure."

  Billie snapped her notebook closed. "The cat scratches. Unfortunately, he doesn't have any." She moved the book thoughtfully as she stood up. "Well, it was a long shot. We'll speak to the trustees and maybe DeBolt will give us something substantial. In the meantime, Mrs. Jamieson, don't open the door until you're sure you know who it is."

  "That won't be a problem," Quinn said. "I'm not about to leave her on her own."

  * * *

  Christy kept seeing the intruder in her mind's eye as her subconscious played with information her conscious mind refused to contemplate. After Noelle went to sleep in the big master bed, with Stormy curled protectively against her, Christy sat on the living room couch with Quinn, reviewing all that had happened. Roy worked at the kitchen table, revising his current work-in-progress with a focus that blocked out the activities of those around him.

  "If the police picked up Crack Graham last night, the intruder couldn't have been him. And Aaron DeBolt is the wrong body type. So that means that the intruder was one of the trustees," Christy said, thinking aloud.

  "Not necessarily." Quinn slipped his arm around her waist, holding her securely against him. "You're assuming the intruder is somehow associated with Frank's disappearance and Brianne's death. It could have been an ordinary break and enter."

  Christy laid her head on his shoulder. "But the lock wasn't broken, Quinn. The door was opened with a key. A burglar wouldn't have access to the house key. It's got to be one of the trustees." She swallowed hard. "But which one, and why?"

  "Dad still thinks it's Bidwell." He shifted her so that she was on his lap and they could maintain eye contact as well as stay close.

  With her head resting on his shoulder, Christy reached up and shaped Quinn's face with her fingertip. His short, dark hair was silky to her touch, his skin warm. "Edward appears to be the one who forged the documents that Joan Shively has. He wasn't the one who entered my house, though. He's too fat and he's out of shape." Her finger trailed down Quinn's jawline to the tip of his chin. "I can't imagine Bidwell creeping into my house in the middle of the night to do—what?"

  Quinn nipped her fingertip. Christy laughed.

  "If it wasn't Bidwell then it must have been Macklin or Fisher," Quinn said. "Or someone the killer hired. Which would mean it could have been any of them."

  Christy moved restlessly. "I don't think he was a professional thief. He wasn't wearing the right clothes."

  Quinn laughed. "So what kind of clothes does the well-dressed criminal wear these days?"

  Christy shot him a 'well-duh' look. "Jeans, cargo pants, casual stuff. This man was wearing trousers with a knife-edge crease and the gloves he had on were hand-sewn, supple leather."

  "Old guy establishment clothes," Quinn said slowly. He stared at her. "Definitely one of the trustees."

  "Yeah." That made it very personal. "So what was he after?"

  They each considered that in silence, then Quinn tipped her chin toward him with one finger. "This will be over soon. The cops have accepted that Frank was murdered. They've identified Graham and DeBolt as accomplices. It's only a matter of time and due process before the killer is caught."

  "And in the meantime?"

  He smiled, then touched her lips with his. "I'll keep you safe."

  She put her hands on his shoulders. "Thank you." Her voice was husky.

  Quinn took advantage of the invitation in the sound to catch her mouth in a long, passionate kiss that involved nips and tongues. The caress shoved the mystery into the background and put Quinn squarely in the forefront.

  "When my dad woke me up last night and told me that some man had just come out of your house and scuttled down the street like an injured crab, I thought my world was about to end. Then I saw you kneeling in the hallway weeping. All I could think was that as long as you were alive we could work things out." His mouth played with hers again, while his hands eased under her shirt. "Can we work things out, Christy?"

  She wasn't sure what he was asking for, but she did know that whatever it was, she was ready to agree. "I'm open to suggestion, provided you kiss me again."

  He laughed.

  Quinn and Roy both stayed the night. Roy had apparently forgotten that he was in Christy's house. He accessed her coffee pot, made occasional visits to the bathroom, which was in exactly the same place as it was in his house, and typed furiously during those times when he wasn't staring into space, lost in some parallel universe. Quinn sprawled on the sofa with the television on, a blanket over his legs and a pillow behind his head. There was no way any burglar would bother this house tonight. If one bolder or stupider than the rest did try, Christy knew she was well protected.

  That didn't stop her imagination from working overtime. She lay in the big bed beside Noelle, playing with information, trying to decide what was fact and what was illusion. The key was whatever the intruder had been trying to find. Was it the diary kept by Frank Jamieson senior? But the diary had been stolen from the mansion at the time of Frank's disappearance, and all of the trustees seemed to believe it had been destroyed.

  Perhaps it was the documents proving she didn't instigate the sale of the mansion. That would mean that it was either Fisher or Bidwell, as both were involved in the effort to blacken her name. There was always the possibility that it was Noelle that they were after, whether for ransom or simply to prove to Joan Shively that Christy didn't have the security arrangements in place to adequately care for her daughter.

  Her mind shied away from that frightening possibility. Instead, it replayed the fight with the intruder. She saw the man's hands close over the pillow, her only weapon. She saw his eyes gleaming behind the stocking mask, heard his curse of pain mix with the cat's howl of outrage as Stormy landed on his shoulder and dug in.

  The scene was in her mind as she drifted off to sleep. Her dreams brought it alive, magnifying each movement, emphasizing the shape of the intruder's body, his hands, his head. Remembered terror made her shift restlessly. Then, in the middle of the skirmish, as she fought for her survival and her daughter's safety, the black stocking-mask dissolved and she looked into the eyes of the killer.

  Chapter 27

  "Sleep well?" Quinn asked after he had kissed her awake. Christy sat up groggily. He handed her a cup of coffee.

  She drank deep, savoring the first hit of caffeine in freshly brewed coffee. Then she yawned and rubbed her eyes with her free hand. "Not particularly." She looked at the clock, which read seven fifteen. She reached over and shook the still-sleeping Noelle. "Hey, kiddo. Look lively, time to get up."

  Noelle grunted and burrowed deeper.

  Quinn let her enjoy another jolt of coffee, then he took the cup, put it on the bedside table, and caught her chin in his hand. Christy stared up at him, surprised. He bent to kiss her. She murmured deep in her throat, a sound that was part giggle, part moan, as his mouth covered hers. When he pulled away she sighed.

  He grinned and touched the tip of her nose with a careless finger before he replaced the coffee mug in her hand. "Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes. I'll see you downstairs."

  "Hmm, right," Christy said. He sauntered out, looking pleased with himself. Christy sipped more coffee and gathered her scattered wits about her. "Okay, kiddo, it really is time to motor." She put the cup on her bedside table then looked over at Noelle and saw the cat wide awake and staring at her.

  She blushed. "How much did you see?"

  Everything. There was a sigh in the word. The guy's crazy for you, Chris.

  "Frank, I—I didn't know you were awake, or I wouldn
't have kissed Quinn that way. In front of you, I mean."

  But you would have kissed him.

  "Yes."

  Are you in love with him?

  "I—"

  Wait, don't answer that! It's doesn't matter. The voice was gloomy. I don't do sex anymore. The cat does, from time to time. I think he's got at least a half-a-dozen families out there. He doesn't seem to care though.

  "I don't think I want to know this, Frank."

  I was trying to explain to you that I'm not jealous. Much. I've been working on this, so don't go thinking about the other day when I got mad about it. We had something special once, a long time ago. I'd like to see you have that again.

  Christy stared at the cat. The cat stared back, unblinking. Finally, she stroked his back, then scratched him behind the ears. "Thank you, Frank." The cat began to purr. Christy patted him a while longer then she threw off the covers and shook Noelle. "Sleepy time's over, sweetheart. You need to get up." Noelle didn't stir.

  Let me. The cat nudged the child's cheek with his head, then licked her nose. Noelle sat straight up, brushing at her nose at the same time.

  The radio was on when Christy came downstairs, leaving Noelle in the shower. Along with the traffic report, the stock market report, the sports report, and a few lively quips between the host and the various contributors, was the main morning news, which covered everything not dealt with elsewhere. Quinn was flipping eggs onto plates already heaped with bacon and ham, Roy was packing up his laptop, and Christy was setting the table when one news item stopped them all.

  "The police have detained Thaddeus Graham, also known as Crack Graham, in the death of local socialite, Brianne Lymbourn. Graham has a previous record for distribution of drugs. Ms. Lymbourn is known to be involved with Frank Jamieson Jr., whose disappearance several months ago has been linked to embezzlement from his trust fund. The police are also looking into this and have asked for assistance from Jamieson's friend, Aaron DeBolt. In other news..."

  Christy was the first to react. "Uh–oh."

  "I wonder who leaked that information," Roy said. He snapped his laptop shut and moved it out of the way so Christy could lay down a place setting. "One of the lawyers, I'll bet. Sounds like a strategic news release."

  "Could be worse." Quinn brought plates over and set them on the table. "It could have said that the police are seeking Frank's murderer."

  Christy looked down at the cutlery still in her hand. "All the same," she said, "this will be all over the city. There may be more details in the paper. There may even be a clip on the morning TV news. The killer knows now that the police are this close to him." She held up her hand, forefinger and thumb a scant distance apart. "He's bound to act."

  "Yes, but how?" Roy asked. He'd already sat down and was digging into his bacon and eggs.

  Quinn brought another two plates and nudged Christy into a seat. "Eat. I'll get Noelle going." He flicked off the radio as he headed out of the kitchen. She heard him shout, "Hey, Noelle, breakfast! Come on down."

  There was no more talk of murderers. The cat went to school with Noelle and Christy again. This time he was rousted from Noelle's backpack and sent home with Christy, despite the protest of the twenty-four eight-year-olds who wanted to adopt him as the class mascot.

  The house was empty when Christy unlocked the door. There was a note on the fridge from Quinn saying he'd gone to the bank and another from Roy saying he'd gone for a jog and would be back by the time she returned from school. Christy laughed a little at that. Roy's sense of time was more than a little off.

  As she did morning chores the telephone rang. "Mrs. Jamieson? This is Harry Endicott, the auditor."

  Christy made a polite reply, frowning as she tried to figure out why Endicott was calling. As far as she knew the audit was on permanent hold.

  Endicott wasted no time coming to the point. "Mrs. Jamieson, when I first began the audit I asked a friend of mine in the banking business to make some enquiries into any significant financial transactions which might relate to the Jamieson Trust. He discovered something rather interesting."

  "He knows where the embezzled money is?"

  Endicott hesitated. "In a way."

  Christy resisted the urge to sigh. Instead, she poured herself a cup of coffee and settled on the sofa in the living room. She had a feeling this conversation would take a while. "Okay, Mr. Endicott. You've got my attention. What's up?"

  "The embezzled money was used to buy the Fisher Disposal shares sold by the Trust to finance the purchase of your present home."

  In the middle of taking a sip of coffee, Christy choked. "What! How can this be?"

  "Interesting, isn't it?" Endicott said, with considerable relish. "The Fisher Disposal shares owned by the Jamieson Trust were sold to Snowcap Investment, a venture capital company in Toronto. The company is a legitimate business, with an excellent reputation. My friend is one of the shareholders. Snowcap recently received a large influx of cash, from a numbered company, which is privately held, so ownership is not public information. The deal was arranged by a gentleman with South American connections."

  "Oh, my," Christy said.

  "Yes, indeed," Endicott said enthusiastically. "Snowcap used part of the new funds to purchase the Jamieson Trust's ten percent share of Fisher Disposal."

  "They used Frank's money to buy the stock he already owned?"

  "Among other investments," Endicott said. He sounded dazzled by this latest twist in the serpentine travels of the Jamieson fortune. "Not only that..."

  He paused, waited for Christy to prod him. "Yes?"

  "Gerry Fisher has been appointed to the Snowcap Board."

  A minute later Harry Endicott was saying good-bye and Christy was hanging up the phone. She sat for a moment, holding her coffee cup in both hands, staring over the top.

  As a member of the board at Snowcap Investments, Gerry Fisher would be able to influence how the company voted its ten percent share of Fisher Disposal. That meant he controlled fifty percent of Fisher Disposal. He didn't have to worry about his wife learning he used an escort service so he was no longer vulnerable to blackmail.

  Still, murdering a man, embezzling from his trust fund, then buying back stock as the result of a series of convoluted financial transactions seemed like a lot of work just to cover up a few sexual indiscretions.

  "Frank?" she said to the cat, who was finishing off his breakfast after his jaunt to the school. "Was there anything weird about Gerry Fisher's affairs? Something that would make him really anxious not to have them exposed?"

  You're kidding, right?

  Christy felt herself go cold. "No. I'm not kidding."

  You mean you didn't know? Gerry is a pervert. He likes underage girls, the younger the better. It started with an affair he had in college. He was twenty and the girl was fourteen. When he married Eve it was for money and social position. He always figured affairs were okay. His problem was and is that he can't get young girls just anywhere, so he uses a pimp who supplies him with street kids, no questions asked.

  "He's the one," she said.

  Gerry? Could be.

  "He's the right build, and his voice..." The vivid dream of the night before came back to her. She heard the intruder's voice and visualized the shape of the face behind the stocking mask. Oh, yes, the intruder was Gerry Fisher all right. "I have to call Detective Patterson."

  Patterson wasn't answering her cell phone. Christy left a voicemail, then hung up, wondering what to do. On impulse, she called Fisher Disposal and asked for Gerry Fisher.

  "I'm sorry. He's not in the office today, Mrs. Jamieson, and I don't expect him in until next week. Would you like me to schedule an appointment for you on Tuesday or Wednesday?" his secretary said.

  "Don't bother." Christy hung up. She stared at the cat. "Frank, he's going to run. He's probably got money—your money!—tucked away somewhere. If he leaves we'll never find him again. And this will remain unresolved. I have to stop him."

  Chris!
Don't do anything hasty—

  Christy ignored him. As she shoved her arms into a jacket she said, "I'll keep my cell on, Frank. If Quinn or Roy comes home tell them I've gone to Gerry's house."

  Why are you going to Fisher's place?

  She slung her purse over her shoulder. "Just in case he hasn't gone yet. The news report only came out this morning. He may not have had time to make his travel arrangements. If I can catch him at home maybe I can stall him long enough for the cops to get to him."

  This is crazy, babe! Forget it! Let the cops deal with Fisher. He's dangerous.

  She opened the door. "I'll leave a message for Quinn on his voicemail. If he gets home before Roy you need to make sure he checks his messages. Now shoo!"

  * * *

  Gerry Fisher's home was large, modern, and not particularly tasteful. It was crowded onto a lot with a great view of English Bay, but not much land. Christy parked on the street a few doors down. She took a moment to phone Billie Patterson, but once again all she got was a request to leave a message. This time, she identified where she was. As she climbed from the car she felt alone and vulnerable.

  Eve Fisher smiled as she answered the bell. "Why, Christy! What brings you here?" She opened the door wide and stepped back, inviting Christy in.

  "Hi, Eve. How are you doing? I need to see Gerry. I called the office, but his secretary said he was going out of town. I thought I'd try to catch him before he left."

  "Not a problem." Eve gestured toward the back of the house as she closed the door. "He's in his study, gathering up the papers he needs for the trip. His plane leaves at eleven thirty, but it's only a local flight, so he doesn't have to be at the airport too early." As she and Christy approached the study they could hear the whining crunch of a paper shredder at work. Eve pushed open the door. "Gerry, look who's here to see you."

  He turned with a start. Morning sunlight and pale blue walls made the room bright and fresh. The man who stood by a pile of papers, shoving them into the shredder with single-minded intensity, was gray and rumpled by comparison. He glared at his wife and at Christy. "Why did you let her in?"