The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

by Louise Clark

  She looked over at the medical examiner. "Was she wearing a coat or a jacket of some kind?"

  He shook his head. "What you see is what you get."

  Patterson grunted, resisting the urge to run her fingers through her hair, which was pulled back from her face. Instead she rubbed the scar that ran down one side, from eye to jaw, and frowned.

  Jamieson murders tended to be brutal and involved head wounds. Though they hadn't yet found Frank Jamieson's body, he was reported to have been bashed on the back of the head before being bundled into the trunk of a car, then taken for what amounted to an execution.

  Whoever had killed this girl wanted to be sure she did not survive the assault. She'd bled copiously from the head wound and the indent in her skull was clearly visible. As Patterson studied the body, she thought that the injuries looked almost... personal. She grimaced and stood up.

  Of course it was personal. Brittany Day was one of Aaron DeBolt's girlfriends. DeBolt had been charged as an accessory in the murder of Frank Jamieson and he was currently being held without bail because he was considered a flight risk due to his links with Vancouver's seedy underbelly of crime lords and drug kings. His socialite mother and respectable, old-money father had tried to convince the judge that bail should be granted, but to no avail. DeBolt was still in lockup and would remain there until his trial.

  If there was a trial. Patterson shoved her hands into the pockets of her brown leather jacket as she stared moodily down at the body of the once-pretty victim.

  A week ago, Brittany Day had come forward claiming that DeBolt had been with her on the night of Frank Jamieson's death. Patterson didn't believe the alibi was true, but she had to investigate it all the same. So far, everything she'd learned fit and the alibi held up. It looked like DeBolt would walk, even though Patterson's gut told her that the man was guilty as sin.

  Now Brittany Day was dead and it seemed that someone—probably Ellen Jamieson since this was her apartment—wanted to make sure that DeBolt didn't weasel out of doing hard time for his part in Frank Jamieson's murder. The blunt object and the energy used to wield it indicated anger, and maybe fear. Powerful emotions that would push a person into violent acts he or she would never normally consider.

  Patterson gazed down at Brittany's face and wondered why the woman had come to Ellen Jamieson's apartment in the first place, dressed so casually. Had Ellen offered her a bribe to retract her statement that she had been with Aaron DeBolt on the night in question? Had it been Brittany who offered to change her testimony for a generous payment? Had she come to the apartment to pick up her cash?

  Either was possible, Patterson thought. Ellen Jamieson's fortune didn't come from the Jamieson Trust, currently on the cusp of bankruptcy. No, her wealth came from family money and investments in the Jamieson Ice Cream Company, and since Jamieson Ice Cream was still a thriving business, she had plenty of cash to spare.

  Patterson looked around the open terrace, glad the November day was mild and it wasn't raining. She could leave the crime scene geeks here and in the apartment to do their work collecting every scrap of evidence they could find while she followed Ellen Jamieson out to Burnaby where she'd retreated after she'd heard the break-in earlier today.

  At that thought Patterson grinned, the smile adding a mischievous glow to her attractive features as it warmed her brown eyes. She'd bet that Christy Jamieson wasn't happy just about now, not with having her husband's aunt descending on her. From what Patterson knew of the complicated Jamieson family relationships, Christy and Ellen didn't get along. Not surprising, considering Ellen Jamieson was one of the four trustees whose hostility had made Christy's married life miserable.

  She suspected the coming interview would make for an entertaining afternoon.

  * * *

  "Hi, Mrs. Jamieson. Is Ms. Ellen Jamieson here by any chance?"

  Christy stared at Detective Patterson. She looked like an ordinary twenty-something attractive woman, smartly dressed in a leather jacket, crisp black slacks and a tailored shirt, her sand-brown hair drawn back in a stylish French braid. She had what Christy thought of as her "cop face" on, though: serious, to the point of being unreadable. Why would the police force send a plainclothes officer to Burnaby to talk to Ellen about the burglary at her condo? Surely an ordinary constable would be appropriate. "Sure," she said. "Ellen's in the living room. Come on up." She stepped aside to let Patterson enter, then led the way up the stairs.

  Ellen Jamieson was sitting on the sofa, her back to the big bay window and the view of the greenbelt behind the townhouse. On the coffee table in front of her resided a rectangular tray containing a china tea set that had been a gift to Frank's parents on their tenth anniversary. The china was eggshell-thin and patterned with roses, daisies and other flowers. On the tray were a teapot, teacup and saucer, desert plate and a platter of small sandwiches. She was in the act of pouring tea for one when Christy and Detective Patterson entered the living room.

  She set down the pot carefully and frowned. "Who is this, Christy?"

  "You remember Detective Patterson from the police department," Christy said. She kept her voice even and careful. She and Ellen had been rubbing against each other since Ellen had shown up and her temper was wearing thin. She had a healthy respect for Patterson's deductive capabilities, though, and didn't want to parade family squabbles in front of her.

  Ellen raised her brows in a way that could only be called haughty. She made a deliberate show of checking her watch before she said, "It is one forty-five in the afternoon, Detective. I contacted the police before six this morning."

  "There have been developments in the case, Ms. Jamieson," Patterson said. Her voice was even, her eyes assessing.

  Christy thought that if she'd walked into a house and been greeted with the kind of hostility Ellen was producing, her tone would be a lot sharper than Patterson's was. "Detective Patterson, would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?"

  Patterson smiled at her in a friendly way and said, "If coffee isn't too much trouble, I'd prefer that, Mrs. Jamieson."

  "Of course." As Christy headed into the kitchen she thought that there had been amusement in Patterson's eyes and maybe even a trace of sympathy. She set about brewing the coffee, at the same time resisting the urge to sigh. Hopefully Patterson brought good news that would send Ellen back to her condo sooner rather than later. She tuned out the quiet hum of voices from the living room until she returned there with Patterson's coffee, plus a plate and napkin so the detective could share the sandwiches.

  The voices stopped as she entered the room, so she said cheerfully, "I brought a plate for you, Detective Patterson. The sandwiches on the tray are egg salad or ham." Ellen had wanted watercress. Christy didn't stock watercress in her fridge and she'd resisted Ellen's demand that she immediately rush to the grocery store to pick up several bunches.

  "Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Jamieson," Patterson said, accepting the sturdy mug Christy handed her, "but I finished a sandwich before I came."

  "Not a problem," Christy said. She smiled at Patterson, then glanced at Ellen. She was frowning, but her expression wasn't the usual grim disapproval she aimed at people who didn't meet her exacting standards. There was dismay and an edge of fear in the expression. Christy resisted the urge to ask what the problem was. Instead she said, "I'll leave you to your discussion, then. I'll be outside in the garden, if you need me."

  "Stay," Ellen said.

  Patterson wrapped both hands around the coffee mug as she raised it to her lips. Over the rim her eyes were watchful.

  Christy hesitated. "But—"

  Ellen raised her arm and pointed. "This policeman—"

  "Person," Patterson said.

  "Is making unthinkable suggestions. I want a witness to the answers I give to the questions she is asking."

  Christy put the unwanted plate on the coffee table as she sank down on one end of the sofa. Ellen was far from her favorite person, but she knew all about how devastating allegations a
nd innuendoes could be. "What's going on?"

  "A body was found on my terrace and she—" Ellen pointed dramatically at Patterson. "Believes I put it there."

  "A body?" Christy said. She could feel her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open. "You mean, like a human body? A dead body?"

  Patterson nodded and Ellen said, "Yes!"

  "What's a body doing on your terrace?" Christy asked, staring at Ellen.

  "An excellent question," Patterson said. She drank more coffee and watched the interplay between Christy and Ellen.

  Ellen quivered with anger. "Are you helping this person, Christy? Are you so abandoned to your responsibilities to your family that you would take the authorities' side and help them railroad me into prison?"

  "Whoa! Wait a minute," Christy said. She held out a hand, palm up in the classic "stop" position. The statement was typical of Ellen, caustic, self-centered, dramatic. She shouldn't be shocked by it, but she was.

  Patterson said, "I am only here to discover the facts of the case, Ms. Jamieson. Your burglary is now an open homicide investigation. Questions need to be asked and we are starting with you, because the body was discovered on your premises."

  "Who..." Christy paused to clear her throat. "Who was killed?"

  "A young woman by the name of Brittany Day." Patterson looked from Christy to Ellen. "Do you know her?"

  Ellen sniffed. Christy said in a low voice, "I do. She was a friend of Aaron DeBolt."

  Ellen peered at her. "Aaron? Are you sure?"

  "Yes. She was one of his harem of babes who always trailed him around."

  "Something more than that, Mrs. Jamieson," Patterson said. "Ms. Day was a grad student at English Bay University. Her father is the president of a petro-chemical company in Calgary. And..." Here she paused, deliberately stretching out the moment. "Brittany Day was with Aaron DeBolt on the night your husband was alleged to have been murdered. That means DeBolt has—had now—an alibi for that night."

  Christy stared at the detective, feeling sick. She knew her husband Frank had been murdered, because his essence had taken up residence in the body of Stormy the Cat after his death. Frank had told her that Aaron lured him into an alley, where he was clubbed and pushed into the trunk of a car for a drive that ultimately led to his death. But Frank only communicated with a few select people. Patterson and the police department didn't have access to his thoughts and information. Real physical proof had to be gathered. An alibi from a living human being would go a long way toward clearing Aaron.

  Now the woman who was providing the alibi had been murdered. On Ellen Jamieson's terrace. And Ellen, as Frank's oldest living relative, could be expected to have a stake in seeing those who were accused of killing him brought to justice. That meant she had a very good motive for murdering Brittany Day, the one person who could prove Aaron's innocence.

  Ellen was right. She was in deep, deep trouble.

  "I think, Detective Patterson, that you should leave now," Christy said. "Ellen won't answer any more questions unless she has a lawyer present."

  Chapter 3

  Patterson didn't go without asking a few more questions, but Christy managed to keep Ellen from blurting out anything that came to mind. Ellen was clearly shocked by the realization that her burglary had resulted in a death. Christy wasn't sure she actually understood that she was currently the prime suspect in that death.

  As she saw Patterson out, Stormy the Cat hopped up the front stairs.

  Is the cop here about Aunt Ellen's home invasion?

  "I hope you are not seriously considering Ellen for Brittany's murder, Detective," Christy said. She didn't look at the cat. Patterson already thought there was something odd about Stormy. She didn't want to increase her speculation by talking directly to him.

  There was a moment of silence after she finished speaking, then Stormy hissed and arched his back, puffing up his fur and generally doing his best to look dangerous. Patterson raised her brows—at the cat's antics or her question, Christy couldn't be sure—and said, "We have to follow all avenues in an inquiry, Mrs. Jamieson. I'm sorry you feel it is important for Ellen Jamieson to have representation before she can speak to us."

  Good call, babe, Frank said. Fill me in on what's going on after this chick leaves.

  Christy had an absurd desire to laugh. Detective Patterson was about as far from a "chick" as a woman could get.

  The cat shot Patterson one more baleful look, then stalked into the house. Christy said, "Detective Patterson, you used the same phrase on me when I was a suspect in Frank's disappearance. You were wrong then and you are wrong now. Ellen Jamieson isn't any more guilty of this murder than I was of helping Frank embezzle from his trust fund."

  Patterson grimaced, then shrugged. "I'll be in touch, Mrs. Jamieson."

  Christy watched her run lightly down the steps then on to her car. She waited until Patterson's vehicle had driven away before she headed back into the house.

  In the living room she found the cat sitting on the couch beside Ellen, eyeballing the platter full of sandwiches. "Off," Christy said. She picked up Stormy and placed him on the floor near the kitchen doorway. "Eat your own food. The sandwiches are egg salad. You know they give you indigestion."

  I smelled ham. The voice sounded miffed. Ham was one of Stormy's favorites.

  Christy grinned and was about to reply when she saw Ellen staring at her oddly.

  "You know when your cat has indigestion?" Ellen said.

  "Some foods give him gas," Christy said hastily. "It's easy to figure out."

  "Really." Ellen shot a disapproving look at the cat.

  Thanks for getting me into trouble, babe, Frank said grumpily. Stormy sat on his haunches and licked a paw.

  Christy turned to Ellen. "Patterson will be back. You should get yourself a lawyer as soon as you can."

  "Normally I would go to Edward Bidwell," Ellen said. "But..."

  But Edward Bidwell was one of the discredited trustees from the Jamieson Trust. Not only was he charged with embezzlement from the Trust, but the law firm where he had once been a partner had forced him to resign. Edward Bidwell was no longer a useful connection in a time of trouble.

  "I'll talk to Quinn. He and Roy probably know someone you can contact."

  Ellen perked up at the sound of Roy Armstrong's name. "An excellent idea." Christy began gathering up the used cups and plates. She almost dropped them when Ellen added, "That way whoever you choose will be comfortable working with you and that reporter son of his." Her lip curled as she said the word, reporter. There were some things Ellen couldn't let go, even if her life depended on it. Hostility toward the media was one of them. "You can all work together to clear my name."

  Very carefully, Christy placed the fragile china back onto the silver tray. The cat sashayed over to the couch, then jumped onto it and sat down, paws primly together, tail neatly tucked around them.

  "Ellen, I'm not a private investigator," Christy said cautiously.

  You figured out who killed me. That was pretty good work. If that cop thinks Aunt Ellen murdered someone, she really does need a private dick.

  "No, of course not. But Quinn Armstrong is reputed to be excellent at his job. He'll know how to proceed," Ellen said. "You can help him."

  Aunt Ellen can be clueless about some things, but when it comes to self-preservation she's pretty sharp.

  "Ellen, Brittany Day was murdered. I don't want to get involved."

  "I'm involved," Ellen said. "Your husband's aunt. Your daughter's great-aunt. That woman is determined to charge me with murder. And if she does, the media will have a feeding frenzy. Do you want them here, camping out on your doorstep? Here, where there are no gates and no security guards to protect you?"

  No, she did not.

  But she also didn't want to go hunting a murderer. Her final confrontation with Frank's killer was still fresh in her mind and the knee she'd twisted as she tried to escape his furious rage still twinged if she pushed herself too hard—
a constant reminder that she wasn't trained for confrontations with killers.

  "Ellen, I..."

  "Please, Christy. I must have been there when the murder happened. I was in my bed, asleep, but who would believe that I could sleep through someone's death? Patterson thinks I'm guilty, I'm certain of it. I'm not, but I have no way of proving it. I need help."

  Christy had never heard panic in Ellen's voice before, but it was there now. She was surprised how deeply Ellen's vulnerability moved her.

  Ellen's right, without you and Quinn she's toast. I hate to say it, but you've got to help her, babe.

  "Please," Ellen said again.

  With a sigh, Christy caved. "All right. I'll ask a few questions and see what I can find out. But just a few questions! I'm not chasing murderers."

  Ellen nodded and whispered, "Thank you."

  The cat licked her hand and began to purr.

  * * *

  When Christy picked Noelle up at school about an hour later, Mary Petrofsky, Noelle's best friend, announced that this was her mother's day off and Noelle should come to her house to play then stay for dinner. Noelle was enthusiastic, so Christy agreed, provided Mary's mother was okay with it. They waited at the school for Mary's mother to arrive, then, with the playdate and dinner confirmed, the two girls and their mothers walked home together. Christy liked Mary and her mother, Rebecca, so she cheerfully kissed Noelle when they neared the Petrofsky house and waved her good-bye. Then she went inside her townhouse and called Quinn to tell him about the developments. He suggested a strategy session. In the background Christy could hear Roy suggesting dinner and offering to cook. Christy said she and Ellen would be there at five thirty.

  The cat came too, of course.

  Ellen insisted they change for dinner, so Christy put on a pretty teal-colored dress with a V-neck, long sleeves, and a skirt that came well up her thighs. Ellen's choice was a flirty number that showed she had a great figure for a woman in her fifties. They had both dressed for the Armstrong men, Christy noted with amusement when she saw Ellen. She thought Quinn would notice and approve, but she wasn't sure how much of an impression Ellen would make on Roy.