by Louise Clark
"But the police found blood on my nightgown," Ellen said. She paled as spoke and her eyes darkened. "Detective Patterson hounded me about it when I was at the police station. I couldn't explain how it got there and she wouldn't believe me, because she said the blood spatter indicated I was near the Brittany when she was bludgeoned."
"I expect Natalie put your gown on once you were out of the apartment," Trevor said. "She finished Brittany off, then put the hairs on your pillow." He shrugged. "She realized she didn't have to rush, because she knew your housekeeper came in at noon. She had plenty of time to add artistic touches that would implicate you."
Ellen shook her head. "This is so very difficult to understand. Why did she kill Jacob Peiling? He knew nothing of Brittany's life with Aaron. How was he a danger to Natalie?"
"Lorne Cossi again," Quinn said. "Peiling knew about the student complaints against Cossi. He may even have known that Cossi was sexually interested in Brittany. He was aware that someone was blackmailing Brittany, and initially I think he figured it was Cossi, trying to convince her to sleep with him. Then he discovered Brittany and Cossi had already had sex. He put the date together with the alibi and realized that Brittany had lied."
"He told Brittany's father that he knew why she had died, and he thought he knew who had killed her," Christy said. "I suppose he did what we did, asked why someone would kill Brittany and then when he found out she'd lied about the alibi, he decided it had to be one of the DeBolts."
"But he was an academic to the end. He had to find proof before he could publish," Roy said, shaking his head.
"I'm pretty sure he thought Nathan was the killer," Quinn said. "But Nathan was a generous supporter of his program. He couldn't afford to lose that grant by accusing the man of murder then finding out he was innocent. He had to know for sure."
"Why meet with Natalie? Why not call Nathan outright and ask where he was the morning Brittany was killed?" Roy asked.
"Nathan would be furious," Ellen said quickly. "He would consider Jacob's question insulting. Jacob's funding would be gone immediately." She paused to consider, then added, "I expect he would talk to the president of the university and the Board chair about Jacob, too. He has a lot of influence when he cares to use it."
"So Jacob decided to pump Natalie for info instead," Roy said. He drank some wine. "Risky. What if they were both in on it?"
"I think Dr. Peiling felt guilty that he'd left Brittany pretty much on her own after she came to Vancouver. He'd promised Roger Day—one of his oldest friends—that he'd look after her, but he didn't." Christy stared at the wine in her glass. "It was too late to save Brittany, but at least he could put a name to her killer. Unfortunately, he underestimated Natalie." Christy glanced at Ellen, then away. "She is very good at making people like and accept her."
"So he didn't know Natalie was the murderer?" Ellen said. "That's why he ate the food she brought?"
Christy sipped some wine, then nodded. "He trusted her. He planned to ask her a few questions, enough to confirm his assumption that Nathan was the killer, but not to raise her suspicions. And if she did figure out where his questions were leading, he assumed that she would be horrified."
"So she shows up with food from one of his favorite restaurants and offers it to him. I still don't buy him eating it." Roy reached for the wine bottle and offered to refill Ellen's glass.
Ellen shook her head no, and sighed. "Good manners, Roy. Natalie would have presented it as a gift. Perhaps she told him it came from his favorite restaurant. If he protested, she may have said that the chef had made it especially for him. He would feel obliged to at least try it."
"Ellen is right. Natalie can be very charming when she wants," Christy said dryly. "She likes to give presents to people she wants to influence. She breezes up, hands the gift to the person, and says, 'Darling, I saw this whatever-it-is and thought of you. I knew you'd love it and I had to buy it for you.' Or words to that effect. The recipient is caught off guard and accepts the gift, because Natalie is standing there looking like an eager puppy who's just dropped a slobber-coated tennis ball at its master's feet. You think she means well and accept the gift, just like the puppy owner who doesn't want to touch the ball, but throws it anyway. It's only later, when Natalie asks for a favor and hints about what special friends you are, that you realize what's she's done."
Roy rubbed his chin. "Hmm. What about the EpiPen? Why didn't he use it?"
"When the first symptoms came on, she may have offered to help him, by giving him the injection. Once she had the pen all she had to do was make sure she kept it out of his reach," Quinn said. He accepted a top-up from his father.
"She disarmed him," Trevor murmured. His voice rose theatrically. "Then she struck!"
So did Roy, who emptied the bottle into Trevor's glass then stood up to open a second.
"What will happen to her?" Ellen asked.
"She'll be tried," Trevor said. "She—or her husband, Nathan—will hire a good lawyer." He grinned. "Probably my nephew, who's almost as capable as I was before I retired. His services cost the earth, but the DeBolts have the money."
"Will he get her off?"
Trevor shot Ellen a cautious glance. "That, dear lady, is up to twelve good people on a jury. But, no, given the evidence stacked against her, a very good motive for both murders and the deliberate, careful planning that went into the first one—no, I don't think she will get off."
"At least it's over and we can get back to living our lives," Christy said. She finished up the wine in her glass. "Now, I think we're probably all ready for dinner. It's one of Noelle's favorites. And Frank's." She smiled faintly. "My mom's chili." She scratched the belly of the cat snoozing in her lap. "You too, Stormy."
The cat yawned and stretched, then hopped off her lap to take up a station beside his food bowl.
"But first..." Christy hesitated, then said, "I know you don't want to go back to your condo, Ellen. You're welcome to make your home here, with Noelle and me." When Ellen opened her mouth, a polite refusal clear in her expression, Christy added hastily, "Despite what has happened before, we'd like to have you. You're family, after all." She stood up. "You don't have to answer right now. Think about it. The offer is open-ended."
"Thank you, Christy," Ellen said gravely. "I will consider it."
"All I can ask," Christy said. "Who's ready for supper? Quinn, would you call the kids?"
"I'll set the table," Roy said.
"What can I do?" Ellen asked.
Christy looked at her mischievously. She brought out the dish of meat and sauce she'd spooned out earlier and left to cool. After adding some of the hot mixture to warm it, she handed the bowl to Ellen. "You can feed the cat."
The End
Page forward for
CAT GOT YOUR TONGUE
The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series
Book Three
Cat Got Your Tongue
The 9 Lives Mystery Series
Book Three
by
Louise Clark
Chapter 1
The music pounded from the stereo. An electric guitar whined while the drummer laid down a beat that surged through the blood. The lead singer's voice was rough and deep. He sang about life's downside with an earthy charm that had entranced millions. The group was called SledgeHammer and they were Christy Jamieson's favorite band.
The band was playing in the background as she stared at the screen of the laptop she'd placed on the kitchen table. She hoped that having the music on while she job searched would give her heart and take her mind off the dreary task of discovering how few employment skills she had.
I was down, Sledge sang. Down and out till you came along. You made me whole. You made me strong.
Not the world's most articulate lines, Christy thought, as she stared at the job posting for a secretarial position at one of the local universities. Sledge pulled it off, though, because he sang with such intensity that he sounded as if he was singing to her and her a
lone.
Very sexy, she decided, using the thought to divert herself as she considered the job skills required of a secretary. Keyboarding: check. She could type pretty quickly, though she'd never timed herself. She tended to go back and erase when she noticed a mistake, rather than go on and fix it later, so that slowed her down, but hey, she was accurate and that was a good thing.
Experience with the standard office suite of software. Yup, she had that too. She'd taken a night course through the school district after Christmas. She even had a piece of paper to prove she'd passed. So far so good.
The next requirement was good organizational skills. That she had in abundance, so a big check there. Through her charity work and the parents' council at Noelle's schools, she had a lot of experience organizing events. She could even get references, if she tried. She could also use her volunteer experience for the next requirement, the ability to interact successfully with clients and staff.
She thought rather cynically that she could also parlay her years as the wife of the Jamieson heir for this one. Playing well with others was probably the most transportable skill from her old life. Amusement swiftly followed the critical thought. She wasn't sure that dressing in designer gowns and trading air kisses with people you saw far too often and didn't like at any time constituted a transportable skill for the office setting. Still, it was all in how the information was spun, wasn't it? That's what air kisses and false smiles were all about. Darling, we're such wonderful friends, but the moment we part I'll be putting you down to anyone who will listen.
The final condition was where she ran aground. It was computer skills again, this time requiring that the successful candidate be expert in the use of a page layout program and a photo manipulation one. Christy frowned. What was that all about? She knew the programs. That is, she'd heard about them. Both were way too complicated for her limited computer skills. She glowered at the screen, her disappointment keen, then she sighed and moved on to another posting. There was no point in applying when she couldn't do the job. Maybe she should be looking for a clerical position, one that wanted someone to file paper, not publish brochures and posters along with all the other duties a secretary fulfilled.
On the stereo one SledgeHammer song ended and the next one on the CD began.
I left my home to travel far. I had my friends. I had my music. I was alone. Then she found me and I knew she was the one. She completed me. She completed me. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Behind the simple words Hammer's drumbeat drove home the promise in Sledge's rough, masculine voice. The music flowed over Christy and washed away the frustration of her job search.
There was something incredibly erotic about a man focused on a woman, she thought. She pushed the laptop away and put her elbow on the table, then propped her chin on the heel of her palm. This was one of her favorite SledgeHammer songs. Sledge crooned a sensual melody for the first two dozen bars with Hammer laying down a steady drumbeat behind, then Hammer increased the tempo, until the song tightened into a potent dance that mirrored the sexual battle between a man and the woman he desired.
You completed me. You made me strong. The words echoed in Christy's mind as she allowed her thoughts to drift away from depressing ones on job hunting to much more pleasurable ones about Quinn Armstrong. Since she'd met Quinn, she was stronger than she had been before, and, yes, she was beginning to think he completed her.
She envisioned him in her mind's eye. Tall, with a muscular body. Thick black hair that fell over his forehead in an undisciplined way, no matter how hard he tried to tame it. Gray eyes that saw more than most people could—or even wanted to. An angular face and a mouth designed for kissing. She sighed with pleasure, then laughed a little at herself. She was smitten. She wasn't sure if smitten would lead to something deeper, like commitment, but right now it was enough to have his light in her life.
She went back to the job search feeling much less stressed and for another half hour she perused job descriptions. She saved one for a receptionist that stated the successful applicant would dress well, have knowledge of modern telephone systems, and provide clerical computer support when needed. She figured she had the dresses well part down pat and the clerical computer support probably meant knowledge of the standard office suite. The telephone system was another matter. Still, she had to start somewhere.
The job posting closed at the end of the month, which was perfect, since Quinn was taking her and Noelle down to California for a Disneyland vacation during Spring Break. They'd be back by the time the job posting closed, so there would be no problem making an interview, if she got one. She sighed.
Bringing in an income to supplement the money she received from the Jamieson Trust each month was not yet a necessity, but she was very aware that could easily happen. The huge Jamieson fortune had been embezzled at the same time as her late husband Frank Jamieson was murdered. What was left was a fraction of the original. The amount was enough to provide Christy with an income that she used to pay the everyday expenses. Later, it would stretch to paying for her daughter Noelle's university education. There was no contingency for emergency expenses though, which was why she was looking for a job.
There was a possibility—slight at best—that the Jamieson fortune could be recovered. One of the men who embezzled the money was working with a court appointed accountant to try to rescue it and return the funds, but the way was tangled. Now, almost six months after she and Quinn had proved that Frank was dead and not responsible for the embezzlement, the Trust was still a shadow of its former self.
Thinking about the Jamieson Trust had her frowning and checking her e-mail. Recently, she'd started helping Isabelle Pascoe, the Trust's office manager, handle some of the day-to-day details. In the past, the woman always had a trustee to turn to for decisions. Now that three of the former trustees were facing criminal charges, she only had Frank's aunt, Ellen Jamieson, and Christy to use for guidance. And she preferred talking to Christy.
There were two new messages in her box. One was from Quinn. Are you home?
She typed yes and pressed send, then turned to the other post, which was indeed from Isabelle asking whether she should reinvest a bond coming due or cash it in. Christy read over the details, then told her to designate it as part of Noelle's university fund and reinvest it. She was not going to dribble away her daughter's future by using capital for day-to-day spending now. That was why she needed to get a job. For today's expenses. The Jamieson Trust might be little more than a nest egg now, but if she managed it carefully the money would give Noelle the head start she deserved.
She put the laptop to sleep and turned off the SledgeHammer CD, then she went outside to wait for Quinn on her front porch. She sat on the top step and turned her face up to the sun.
The winter had been one of rain and cold winds blowing off the ocean. The raw weather meant the spring flowers were slow in coming out, and she was still wearing her winter clothes. Today she had put a jacket on over her jeans and the long-sleeved V-necked sweater she was wearing. The sweater was thin, made of silk and wool, and clung to her curves. It was surprisingly warm on this lovely spring afternoon. She smiled as she basked in the weak sun. This was one of the first days that it was warm enough to sit out on her porch and enjoy her world.
When a shadow blocked the light, she opened her eyes and straightened. Quinn was standing in front of her, tenderness in his expression. He bent and kissed her, then sat down beside her on the step. "Hi," he said.
His voice was husky and the word had been spoken with a low sensuality that reminded her of a SledgeHammer song.
"Hi yourself." Her eyes searched his face. "Do you want to go for a walk?" They usually walked along the woodland path that traversed the greenbelt behind the townhouse complex where they lived. At this hour of the day the path was largely deserted and the shadow of the trees provided privacy for passionate kisses.
Quinn's mouth quirked up into a half-smile. "Maybe in a bit. There's something I need to talk
to you about first."
"Okay. Shoot." There were any number of things Quinn might have to discuss with her. A journalist of international repute, he'd written a book about Frank's murder and the embezzlement of the Jamieson Trust that had been the cause of it. He'd sold the rights to a multinational publisher and the book had been optioned by a big name movie producer. He was using part of his advances for their upcoming vacation to California. He might need background information for the revisions he was now working on. Or he might want to let her know that he'd included some personal details they hadn't discussed before. She was sure that whatever it was, they'd talk it through.
He pulled a white envelope out of the inner pocket of the leather jacket he wore over his own jeans and sweater. She stared at it, surprised. This wasn't what she'd been expecting.
She flicked one corner lightly. "This looks just like the envelope Gerry Fisher gave me the day he told me I had to attend the IHTF fundraiser as the Jamieson representative." She smiled faintly. The gala dinner had been a trial, but Quinn had come with her that evening and made it easier for her.
You complete me. You make me strong.
He looked down at the envelope. There was satisfaction in his expression. "This is much better than the IHTF event." He handed her the envelope. "Open it."
She laughed. "What is this? Like a present?"
"You could say that."
The envelope wasn't sealed, so she flipped open the flap. Inside were two tickets. She looked up at Quinn, frowning.
"They're for us," Quinn said. "Or you and Noelle, if you think it's appropriate. I can get another."
She shot him a bewildered look as she reached inside and drew out the tickets, then she could only stare in amazement. "Oh," she said at last.
"A good 'oh' or a bad 'oh'?" he asked, sounding worried. And maybe a bit amused.
She turned to him, her eyes wide. "SledgeHammer tickets," she said, awe making her voice breathy. "This show was sold out months ago. How did you get these?"