The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

by Louise Clark

  Christy was very aware of his larger, muscled body beside hers. She wanted to lean against him and cuddle closer, but she didn't think it was fair to test his restraint. Seeking a neutral subject, one that would take both their minds off of the demands of their bodies, she said, "I found the program Brittany Day was in, and I have the name of her advisor."

  "Well done." The approval in Quinn's eyes made her blush with pleasure. "What was she into?"

  "She was enrolled in a collaborative research-based program that has a combined math and chemistry focus. She was a master's-level student, but there are also doctoral students in the program." Christy shook her head as she thought about the languid, bitchy woman she'd last seen at the IHTF gala. "Not exactly what I expected. I also found the names of some of the people she knew through Aaron DeBolt, but I thought I'd approach the advisor first."

  "Good idea," Quinn said. They passed the school, quiet now with the children inside their classrooms. "I tracked down her father's company, but I wasn't able to make contact with him. I spoke to his secretary and offered condolences, but she was very protective and wouldn't put me through. I did some digging on the company. It has a good reputation for its business practices, including its environmental policy. Roger Day is considered to be a progressive CEO who runs a clean, well-managed operation."

  "Were you able to learn anything about the rest of Brittany's family? Or about her background?" The trees surrounded them again, wrapping them in a cocoon of green quiet. Christy felt as if she and Quinn were the only two people in the universe, a feeling that created a special serenity as they walked, even though they were discussing a murdered girl.

  Quinn shook his head in answer to her question. "His personal information is closely guarded and secret. I'll have to dig a little deeper to find it."

  But he would. Christy was quite sure of that.

  "One thing I did learn. There's plenty of money in the family. The company's last annual report to shareholders cited Day as having a base salary of close to a million dollars. That didn't include his bonus and stock options. I don't think Brittany was suffering a shortage of cash."

  "Fits with the way she was dressed at the gala," Christy said. "Her gown was beautiful and probably cost her several thousand. Then there was the jewelry she was wearing and her shoes! Big bucks. Everything she wore shouted money."

  "Aaron struck me as the kind of guy who wouldn't bother with someone who didn't have a trust fund behind them."

  "You got that one right," Christy said, with a little laugh.

  They walked along in silence for a while, aware of each other and communicating mutual desire in the quiet way of the brush of shoulder on shoulder, a shared look, the warmth of hands held. They reached the park and there decided to turn around.

  "I wonder if Brittany was a princess, always demanding, worrying about status and her place in things?" Quinn said as they retraced their path. "Or was she was a dedicated, rather naive student who got mixed up in something she didn't know how to handle?"

  "I hope her advisor will be able to tell us," Christy replied.

  "When you make the appointment with him—or is it a her?"

  "Him."

  "Okay. When you make the appointment to meet with him, I'll come out to the university with you."

  "I hoped you would," Christy said. She smiled up at him and when he smiled back her heart did a little flip.

  She sighed when their walk was over and he left her at her door. Spending time with Quinn invoked both pleasure and a guilty confusion in her. She desired him. She enjoyed being with him. She respected him. She thought she was falling for him, and she so wanted that. But they still had not buried Frank, who lived with her and was in her head every day. And she was Noelle's mom, which she loved, but which also had responsibilities. She wasn't sure how to integrate a man—a lover—into her life at this moment in time.

  She was wrestling with these thoughts as she shrugged off her jacket and hung it in the little closet by the front door.

  A voice—critical, imperious, and yes, fretful—interrupted her. "You were gone a long time."

  She looked up to see Ellen standing at the top of the stairs. The expression on her face was disapproving. Christy resisted the urge to sigh. "It's a beautiful day and I thought I'd take advantage of it."

  Ellen sniffed.

  Christy wasn't sure whether she disapproved of a person walking in the crisp fall sunshine, or Christy not being there when Ellen wanted her. "What's up?"

  "I spoke to Natalie. She is devastated by Brittany's death." Ellen paused. Hesitated in a most un-Ellen like way. "She's coming to visit tomorrow. She'll be staying for lunch."

  "Visit? Here?"

  Ellen nodded.

  "In my house?"

  Ellen flushed at the incredulous note in Christy's voice, but she tilted up her chin and said in her arrogant way, "In the Trust's house."

  "Oh, my," Christy said, so shocked at the thought of entertaining Natalie DeBolt that she didn't even flinch at the barb about the ownership of the townhouse.

  She didn't want to make nice with Natalie, tomorrow or any other day. So it was that later that afternoon, when she called English Bay University and spoke to Dr. Jacob Peiling, Brittany Day's academic advisor, she arranged to meet the man at eleven forty-five in the morning. Since it would take her at least an hour to drive from Burnaby out to the EBU campus on the west side of Vancouver, she would be well away before Natalie arrived.

  Thank God.

  * * *

  Dr. Jacob Peiling, Brittany's academic advisor, was a tall, gangly man with a prominent Adam's apple. He looked younger than Christy expected, with wavy brown hair, a beak of a nose, and glasses he tended to push up on that nose while he spoke. Dressed in jeans and a checked, button front shirt, he could have been in his forties, but Christy knew from his extensive list of publications that he was past fifty. He greeted her and Quinn graciously, urging them to sit in simple metal frame chairs with black leatherette seats and backs.

  "You wanted to ask me about Brittany Day," he said, his Adam's apple bobbing disconcertingly. He arched a brow above the heavy brown frame of his glasses. "I don't know how much I can tell you since you're not family."

  On the long drive across town to EBU Christy and Quinn had talked about what strategy to use to get Peiling to talk. From her experience with academics, Christy figured a sideways approach was best. Get him chatting, disarm him, see what precious bits of information he dropped. Quinn wasn't sure how far they'd get, but he agreed that it was a way to set the conversation in motion.

  "We'd appreciate anything you can tell us, Dr. Peiling," Christy said now. "Brittany's body was found at my aunt's home and she is distraught about it. Not only did a young woman die, but Aunt Ellen doesn't know anything about her."

  Peiling looked thoughtful. He gazed above Christy's head at the plasterboard wall behind her and shoved his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. His office was a large cubicle in a steel-and-glass building constructed in the seventies when universities were doing their best to erase their elitist ivory-tower reputations. Utilitarian inside and out had been the order of the day, and the style hadn't aged gracefully. He said, "She was from Calgary."

  Christy nodded encouragingly. Quinn said conversationally, "I understand her father is in the oil business."

  Peiling's throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he nodded. "He's a geological engineer of some repute. We went to university together."

  Roger Day was an engineer. When he and Jacob Peiling attended university there were only a few institutions in Canada with big-name reputations in the field. A little tingle of hope had Christy saying, "Oh, what university was that?" When he named the institution where both her parents worked, she was able to say, "What a coincidence! My father is in the math department there, and my mom is an English prof."

  As she'd hoped, that broke the ice with Peiling. He looked at her with more interest and said, "Brittany was a master's student in the ma
thematical chemistry project I chair. This would have been her second year in the program. She was an excellent student. Not brilliant, but hardworking and thoughtful. I will miss her."

  Somehow Christy couldn't fit the image of Brittany as hardworking scientist that Dr. Peiling was painting with what she knew of the woman. "Did she have problems keeping up with her work?" When Peiling frowned, she changed direction. "I mean, she was a friend of a friend and when I met her socially, she didn't seem academically inclined at all."

  He shrugged. "I don't know what she was like away from the university. I just know that here she was a student who was an asset to my research team."

  "You mentioned the program was split between two disciplines. What was her focus?" Quinn asked.

  "She was a math major." He nodded at Christy, working his glasses up his nose. "Like your father, Mrs. Jamieson. As I said, she was competent, if not inspired. Though inspired wasn't what was required for her part in the project. I needed her to do her work and provide background materials for my PhD students to use."

  "So she can be easily replaced," Quinn said.

  Christy looked at him, wondering if he was searching for more details or trying to get under Peiling's skin.

  The professor's mouth tightened and his throat worked as he swallowed. "Not true," he said finally. "I had great respect for Brittany. As I said, I will miss her." He leaned forward and drew a file folder from a neat stack on the corner of his desk. Apart from the telephone and computer monitor, the folders were the only things that marred its smooth steel and faux-wood surface. "I'm afraid I don't have much more I can tell you."

  The words and the action were clear: we're done here. Christy moved, ready to rise from the uncomfortable metal chair. Quinn stayed put.

  "It's November. Won't you have difficulty recruiting someone to take her place?" He sounded curious, even sympathetic.

  Peiling frowned. "There is no doubt that her death will set the program back somewhat. However, I have an excellent team and I know they will put in the extra hours that will now be necessary. The real problem," he said, his voice filled with the disgust of an academic for the administration, "is filling her teaching assistant position. Until she is replaced I will have to run the lab as well as do the lectures."

  Quinn pounced on that. His eyes brightened and a hopeful expression dawned on his face. "Brittany was a TA? Did she share an office?"

  Peiling's frown deepened and he said, "Well, yes, but..."

  "Great. We can talk to the other TAs then. Where did you say the office was?"

  "On the third floor, but..."

  Christy stood up. "Thank you, Dr. Peiling. It was very good of you to see us today. I know you have a busy schedule." She eased away as Quinn shoved out his hand and shook Peiling's. They escaped from the office before the professor thought to forbid them to visit Brittany's former office.

  "What did you think?" Christy asked as they moved off down the hall.

  "He doesn't strike me as being capable of the kind of stealth used by the person who broke into Ellen's apartment. Nor do I think he would be able to convince Brittany to come along on a break-and-enter so he could kill her on the terrace."

  "Put that way, it's unlikely anyone would be guilty."

  They reached a stairwell. Quinn paused, his hand on the door. His expression was compassionate as he looked at her. "It's a possibility we have to consider."

  "I can't believe Ellen might be guilty of murder," Christy said. Her voice hitched and she sighed. "She not a nice woman, but murder?" She shook her head.

  Quinn bent to brush a quick kiss along her lips. "Come on, let's go talk to the office mates. Maybe they'll give us more information than Peiling was prepared to offer."

  Chapter 5

  The third-floor hallway was a long, straight corridor that ran the length of the building. On either side of the linoleum-covered floor were office doors, some open, some closed, all painted a depressing dove gray. The dismal decor carried through to the walls, which sported an ivory shade that had faded to a yellowing cream. The numbers for each office were inscribed on small black plaques, which were affixed to the wall on the handle side of each doorjamb. Below the number sign was the name of the occupant and a small corkboard, apparently used to indicate office hours, or occasionally a change in office hours.

  Most of the doors Christy and Quinn walked past were closed, even though the corkboard indicated that the professor lodged within should be available. Occasionally one was open, showing a busily working individual who didn't even look up as they passed.

  When they reached their destination, room 317, the door was ajar. The nameplate indicated that the residents were Lorne Cossi, PhD candidate, Rochelle Dasovic, also a PhD candidate and Bradley Neale, a lowly MS student. The title of the program they were registered in was there as well. Brittany Day's name was nowhere to be seen.

  Quinn took the lead, pushing open the grim gray door and walking boldly into the room. Christy followed in his wake, looking around curiously.

  The room was about the size of her bedroom, perhaps sixteen by twenty feet. Four desks were crammed into the space. There were no partitions to separate the work areas and provide privacy. Everything that happened in this room was out in the open.

  The desks were standard office style: double pedestal, steel-frame construction, a gunmetal gray that was a couple of shades darker than the door. They looked as if they had perhaps once been issued to secretaries or other support staff but had been discarded, considered too battered to use any longer. Now they were hand-me-downs suitable only for the lowest of the low—students.

  Opposite the door, the exterior wall was mainly windows. There was little view to speak of, but lots of light. A dark-haired woman sat at a desk pushed into the corner made by an inside and exterior wall. She was hunched over a laptop and didn't look up as Quinn and Christy entered.

  Kitty-cornered from the woman, at a desk just inside the door, a young man was seated. He straightened and said politely, "Can I help you?"

  Quinn nodded crisply, his tone no-nonsense. "We're friends of Brittany Day. Dr. Peiling told us she worked out of this office."

  The young man's friendly expression closed. He nodded, pointing to the desk across from him. "She sat there."

  The woman looked up, her attention caught. She shifted in her seat to view them without craning her neck.

  Quinn's gaze flicked to the desk, took in its blank, empty look, then returned to his scrutiny of the young man. "I'm sorry. I didn't introduce myself. I'm Quinn Armstrong, and this is Christy." He left off her last name. They were searching for information about a woman who had provided an alibi related to Frank Jamieson's death. Christy figured Quinn didn't want either of Brittany's office mates to hold back because of her relationship to a murdered man.

  "Bradley Neale—Brad," the young man said. "I'm one of the chemistry students working on Dr. Peiling's project." He pointed to the woman. "That's Rochelle Dasovic."

  Quinn nodded acknowledgement. Christy said, "If you have a few minutes, we'd like to ask you some questions."

  Rochelle stood up. She was tall and heavy-boned. The jeans and cable-knit sweater she wore gave her body a bulky look. "Sorry. No time. I have a lab that starts in fifteen minutes and it's clear across campus. Maybe Brad will help."

  "Glad to," Bradley said. He shot Rochelle a disapproving look.

  "Will you have time later in the day? Or tomorrow?" Quinn asked Rochelle.

  She hesitated, then shrugged. "I have office hours at four o'clock this afternoon. You could come back then."

  It was on the tip of Christy's tongue to say four wasn't possible, but Quinn smiled that gorgeous smile of his and said, "That's great. We'll talk to Bradley now and I'll come back to see you at four."

  Rochelle's eyes widened, then she swallowed and nodded. She pushed her laptop into a bag and followed it with a collection of books, then slung the strap over her shoulder. "Okay. See you later." She blew past Christy and Qui
nn, shooting Quinn an appreciative glance as she went. Then she was gone, leaving them alone with the young man.

  Bradley Neale had thin dark hair, gray eyes all but hidden behind thick lenses in metal-rimmed glasses, and a straggly beard that gave his face a surprising boost of interest. Christy thought he looked like an open, honest person. She hoped they'd have better luck extracting information about Brittany from him than they had from Dr. Peiling.

  Quinn gestured toward the empty desk. "I didn't think Brittany was such a neat freak. Her desk looks like it's been cleared out."

  The gloomy expression on Brad's face deepened. "Peiling had Lorne clear it out as soon as he heard about Brittany's death. He said it was because he needed to send her things to her parents, but I think he wants to have it ready for whoever replaces her in the project."

  "That's harsh," Quinn said.

  Neale nodded. "I don't think Dr. Peiling meant to be hurtful, but Brittany was a real asset to our group. We all miss her like crazy."

  Quinn smiled as he raised his eyebrows, inviting further confidences. "That says positive things about Brittany, considering the small size of this office space."

  Brad snorted. "It's an easy place to get on each other's nerves, all right. I can't tell you how many times Brittany had to step in and ask Lorne to tone it down."

  "Lorne likes to bitch about stuff?"

  "Lorne finds fault with a sunny day," Brad said.

  There was an edge of bitterness in his voice and Christy wondered why. Had the apparently cranky Lorne Cossi bullied his younger colleague? Or was Neale just an envious sort who clashed with those further up the ladder than he?

  "Lorne had a thing for Brittany," Brad continued. His hand tightened on the pen he was holding. "She made use of it to keep him in line." He shrugged, but there was nothing indifferent in the rest of his body language.

  It looked to Christy as if Brad had forced himself to make the casual gesture, but she couldn't be sure.

  "How about the other person, the woman who just left—Rochelle, wasn't it?" Quinn asked. "How did she get along with Brittany?"