The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

by Louise Clark

  Stormy rolled onto his back and splayed his legs so his belly was exposed. Roy scratched it absentmindedly. The cat purred loudly.

  Szostalo stared at the purring cat, then checked his witness list and frowned. "There's no Mrs. Tam at the party. Why would Sledge worry about this woman's cat?"

  Roy scratched Stormy's belly. Stormy continued to purr. "Neighborly relations. She lives next door and she has a Siamese female. Apparently, Mrs. Tam is very protective of her cat."

  "But why would he think the Siamese would be out at night for your cat to encounter?"

  Roy moved his fingers up so he was scratching behind the cat's ears. Stormy opened his eyes and gave a little cat yip of protest. Szostalo frowned. Roy moved his fingers back to Stormy's belly and the purr began again. "Some cats like to roam at night, Detective. I guess the Siamese, like Stormy, is one of them."

  Szostalo considered Roy's answer for a moment, then he nodded. Roy thought that his answer must have tallied with Sledge's. "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Armstrong. That will be all for now, though I may have to contact you again."

  Roy nodded. He stood, then scooped up Stormy. Or tried to. Stormy hissed, did a boneless cat twist that had him leaping out of Roy's arms, then landing back on the kitchen table inches from Szostalo face. Szostalo reared back and the constable who had been taking notes, jumped up, prepared to defend his chief.

  Did Stormy's action mean that Frank was still in the cat and wanted to stay in the music room to hear more? Hope unfurled in Roy's chest and with it relief and not a little elation.

  Stormy ignored Szostalo, brushing past him as he hopped off the table. Then, tail high, he strutted for the door.

  Roy sighed, his hope dashed. It was Stormy who had hissed his annoyance when the patting ceased, not Frank expressing irritation because he was being removed from the center of the action. Roy nodded to the detective, then turned and opened the door for the cat.

  Chapter 20

  Sledge was sitting on the most uncomfortable sofa he had ever had the misfortune to use. The back was straight, so a person couldn't slump comfortably the way he ought to be able to. It met a hard bench seat at a ninety-degree angle that allowed no flex. There was a minimum of padding on the back and seat. He thought the padding was more to plump up the green velvet fabric that covered the whole, than for the comfort of the unfortunate souls—like him!—who had to sit on it.

  The sofa was an antique from the Victorian era, according to Ellen Jamieson who was sitting opposite him on a chair that had thin spindly legs, a seat covered in yellow silk and an oval shaped back, covered in the same fabric. If anything, her chair looked even more uncomfortable than the sofa. Sledge thought longingly of the deep squishy cushions on his chesterfield in West Van. He could stretch out on it, snooze, watch TV or eat his dinner, if he felt so inclined. Hell, he'd made love on it more than once and neither he nor his partner had complained.

  He wouldn't be sitting on his sofa for a while, though. Not only was his house a crime scene, but news of Vince's death had got out and caused a media sensation. News trucks and paparazzi had started to assemble before dawn and every departing guest, already strung out from an interview with the annoying Szostalo, had to run the gauntlet of the media frenzy. The cops were all over his house looking for clues—though what they expected to find, since Vince was murdered outside, Sledge didn't know—so he was restricted to rooms they'd finished with. As the night had greyed into dawn, they gave him access to his bedroom. By that time his guests had all been interviewed, Szostalo had departed, and the only people who remained were the meticulous crime scene techs. He had crashed for a few hours, hoping they'd be gone when he woke up, but they weren't.

  He spent the afternoon avoiding the techs and peeking out his windows at the ever-growing crowd of media at the end of his drive. Many were snapping pictures using super long lenses on high-end cameras and they all clamored for interviews every time someone moved in or out. He couldn't live like this. He knew it was part of the cost of the fame he'd worked so hard to achieve, but faced with this feeding frenzy at a time when he just wanted to grieve, it was too much.

  He had snuck out in the small hours of the morning. He didn't attempt to breach the media barricades. Instead, he'd slipped through the trees that separated his property from Mrs. Tam's, then crossed her lawn to the next house. Waiting for him at the base of the driveway was his father. Which was why he was now sitting on Ellen Jamieson's antique sofa, wishing last night hadn't happened yet and it was the day before yesterday. Vince would still be alive, he'd be looking forward to the party and maybe, just maybe, everything would happen differently.

  But it wasn't the day before yesterday. It was today. Vince was dead and he was homeless, living in Ellen Jamieson's downtown condo as a guest of his father. He shifted on the Victorian monstrosity. Thank God Ellen's condo had a spare bedroom. He couldn't imagine spending a night on the sofa. His back would seize within an hour.

  His father, who was sitting on the other end of the Victorian monstrosity, didn't appear to find the sofa uncomfortable. He wasn't sitting upright, though; he was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his expression intent as he listened to what the others were saying.

  Ellen and Roy had arrived about a half an hour ago to join his father and him in a brainstorming session to figure out who killed Vince. Across from him was Ellen, perched on her pretty little lady's chair. Beside her, Roy lounged in a high-backed chair, all wood, with not a hint of padding to be seen. It was constructed of walnut and beautifully carved, with a wicker seat and back. Ellen had said proudly that it was Jacobean, whatever the hell that meant. Sledge thought, with some considerable admiration, that Roy had aced the damn Jacobean antique. He looked as if he owned it, sitting on it with an easy confidence, like a lord presiding over a gaggle of serfs. Crouched under Roy's Jacobean throne, and still not talking, was Stormy. The cat had taken up a position there when Ellen had chased him off the Victorian monstrosity. Sledge thought the cat might have the better of the seating arrangement.

  Trevor said, "Szostalo hasn't arrested Hammer yet, but he will."

  That roused Sledge from his introspection. They'd been talking generally about the situation, allowing him to tune out and do a little wallowing. It looked like they were finally getting down to business. "Why?" he asked, unable to hide his hostility. "Hammer didn't kill Vince."

  "So he says," Trevor said.

  That made Sledge mad. His father often said stuff to prod people into looking at situations in a different way. Maybe that was what he was doing now, but if so Sledge was having none of it. Hammer was his friend. His ally. As close to a brother as a man could be. "Yeah. He says. And if he says it, it's true."

  Roy rubbed his chin. "He did leave the house just before Vince left. He could have been waiting for him outside. Maybe he didn't want to cool off. Maybe he wanted to go at Vince in private. They got into another argument and it got out of hand."

  The anger that had made Sledge snarl at his father boiled up into a rage that was fueled by worry and grief. Vince had been more than their manager, he'd been a trusted friend, as much a member of SledgeHammer as Sledge and Hammer were. He'd been there at the beginning. His energy and his belief in them had brought success and made them all wealthy. He couldn't believe Vince was gone. He knew Hammer would never kill him, any more than Sledge himself would. "Vince was family. Families disagree, but they come together again."

  Roy cocked a brow. "Even when the quarrel is about a brother? A real brother?" He paused for a minute, then added, "Vince was telling Hammer he had to dump his brother for the good of the band. He was forcing Hammer to choose. Sounded to me like Hammer did before he rushed out."

  "I know Hammer. He wouldn't kill Vince." Sledge's voice rose, hardened.

  Roy shrugged.

  "And I know Vince." The words came out with a snap. He swallowed, fighting his temper. This was a brainstorming session, after all. Everything laid out on the table. "Once he and
Hammer both cooled down, they would have talked it through and worked out a compromise."

  "What if Kyle Gowdy is charged with the murder of the girl? Then what?" Trevor asked. "Hammer must have known that Vince would push him that much harder to disown his brother." He tapped on the inlaid coffee table between the sofa and the chairs. It looked like an antique, too. "Maybe Hammer decided to silence Vince now, before his demands started to make sense."

  "You think Hammer would dump his brother because he was framed by the cops?" Sledge asked tightly.

  "Not framed, charged, because of the body of evidence made a case against him."

  "Framed," Sledge said. Anger burned through him and made him bite out each word. "Framed, because he's no guiltier than Hammer is."

  His father flicked a glance at Roy, who flicked a look at him. Roy then closed his eyes once, slowly like a cat, and Trevor nodded. Fury engulfed Sledge. They were managing him, the bastards, like he was a little kid having a temper tantrum.

  Ellen's quiet voice broke through his outrage and had him quickly looking her way. "There were so many people at the party, wandering in and out of the house, moving from room to room. Is there any way we can figure out who heard the argument, and who was where? Besides us, I mean."

  "You're right," Roy said. He sounded chirpy, as if this was all a game that was hugely entertaining. "Since we were in the great room, we were center stage, as it were. Let's try visualizing." Ellen frowned. His father looked intrigued. Roy continued. "Close your eyes."

  Between the party, the cops, and the late night flit, Sledge hadn't had much sleep. If he closed his eyes he'd probably doze off, even on this dreadful sofa. Then he'd wake up with a crick in his neck and a headache.

  "Imagine yourself in the great room," Roy chanted in a soothing monotone. "Feel what you are sitting on."

  His chesterfield, a hell of a lot more comfortable than this God-awful Victorian monstrosity. He wished he was home again, not here.

  "Listen to the voices around you. What are they saying? Can you hear one voice? Who does it belong to?"

  "Hammer saying that he just saw Sydney Haynes leave," Ellen said. She sounded as if she was in a trance, or at least on the edge of one.

  This was ridiculous. "Too early," Sledge said, trying to keep his voice as mellow as Roy's. He didn't succeed. There was an edge to it as he said, "I saw Syd slip out before the argument ever started."

  "How long?" Trevor asked. His voice was sharp. He wasn't zoned out in some meditative trance.

  Sledge shrugged, but the question made him look back on the evening. "Long enough for him to get into his car and be gone before either Hammer or Vince left the house."

  Roy nodded. "Sledge is right. Syd came late, had a few words with everyone who counted." He snorted. "That means everyone who gave big donations, like Mitch Crosier. Early on, I saw him and Vince talking, but I don't know what they said." He pointed at Sledge. "Getting back to the time in question. That chef—what was her name?"

  "Rita. Rita Ranjitkar," Sledge said. He decided he wasn't going to be pissed about the finger pointing. He wondered where Roy was going with this.

  "She came out after Syd left and whispered something in your ear."

  "She was asking me when I wanted her to bring out the celebratory cake. I was about to tell her we had to round up all the guests, so in about fifteen minutes, when I heard Vince and Hammer out on the deck, voices raised. I went out to see what was up. Rita went back to the kitchen. At least that's what I think she did."

  "But you don't know for certain where she went?" Trevor asked.

  Sledge thought back, then shook his head.

  "Now we're getting somewhere," Roy said. "Who else was in the great room when Vince and Hammer came in from the deck?"

  "Kim and Mitchell Crosier," Ellen said. She sounded a little more with it, but she still had her eyes shut.

  "Kim was with us when we heard Stormy howl," Sledge said. He addressed his comment to Roy and his father. Ellen's serene, spacy expression was creeping him out.

  "Mitchell wasn't, though," Trevor said. He shot Sledge a penetrating look. "Crosier and Vince did business together. Were there any issues between them that might have been contentious? Contract problems, that sort of thing."

  "Crosier had a crazy scheme he wanted me to buy into," Roy said. "Was he pushing it at Vince too?"

  Sledge shrugged. "Could be, but if he was, Vince wouldn't care. He kept his focus on the band and our interests."

  "Any concerns, then?" Trevor asked.

  "He was negotiating a new contract. He told me he was asking for better terms and more perks, because SledgeHammer was at the top of the charts and a hot commodity."

  "Money and profit, then," Roy said, satisfaction in his voice.

  Sledge could imagine him rubbing his hands together with glee and he had the thought that if Quinn were here, he'd shake his head and say his father was plotting a novel again.

  "What about that musician? The guy who plays guitar when you're on the road? He was talking to Vince earlier, I think," Trevor said.

  "He asked if Vince had talked to Mitch about something," Ellen said.

  Sledge frowned. "You mean Brody, Brody Toupin?"

  Ellen smiled at him, proving she wasn't in a trance, but she still looked very relaxed for someone who'd witnessed a murder and was now discussing suspects. "Could be," she said. "Dark hair, wearing a leather jacket and a black T-shirt, with jeans. Black boots on his feet."

  The damn woman was uncanny. "That sounds like Brody. He wants a chance as a solo artist and I know he'd talked to Vince about it. That was one of the reasons he came on the tour with us. Vince was testing him out, trying to see if he could handle the pressure. I doubt Vince had decided yet, though. He usually takes a couple of weeks off after the tour ends before he picks up the pieces again."

  "I saw a young man emerge from the corridor that leads to your music room just as you all came in from the deck. I don't think he knew anyone was looking at him. His expression was..." Ellen paused, thought. "I don't know. Fierce. As he listened to the argument it changed and became almost... gloating."

  "You're talking about Hank Lofti," Sledge said. "I saw him too. He was one of the roadies on the tour. Stoned half the time and snarky the rest of it. Undependable. Vince wasn't going to hire him for the next tour. He wasn't happy about that."

  "Then, of course, there's Kyle Gowdy," Roy said. The cat slipped out from under his chair and began to paw his leg, claws sheathed. Roy picked him up and absently settled him on his lap. "He was the cause of the argument. He would obviously want his brother to side with him. What if he thought Vince would keep at Hammer until Hammer ditched Kyle and left him to the mercy of the Vancouver cops? He's probably afraid of being charged with poor Chelsea Sawatzky's murder."

  "So any number of people had a good reason to dislike or be angry at Vince," Trevor said. There was approval in his voice. "Our job, then, is to dig up what we can on everyone but Hammer, because I don't think Detective Szostalo of the West Van PD is going to bother doing it."

  "What about Chelsea?" Ellen said. There was no relaxation in her expression now. If anything she looked upset. "We were searching for her killer. Are we going to abandon that project in favor of this one?"

  Trevor drew a deep breath, his expression thoughtful. "The murders don't appear to be linked, except that Kyle Gowdy is a featured suspect in both. I think that's happenstance, though."

  "I'm sorry the girl died," Sledge said, "but this is personal. I need to know who killed Vince."

  Slowly the others nodded, one after the other. Stormy yawned, then began to knead Roy's leg. "I think he's hungry." Roy said.

  "Maybe he wants to use the litter box," Trevor said, frowning.

  "He probably wants attention," Ellen said, with a sniff.

  It was easier, Sledge thought, when the cat could talk.

  Chapter 21

  "Thanks for coming, man," Sledge said, as he waved Hammer into Ellen's apart
ment.

  Hammer looked around curiously as he followed Sledge from the entry foyer to the large living-dining room. Sledge had to suppress a grin. The apartment was in a modern building that was mostly glass and steel, creating expectations of sleek, simple furniture with clean modern lines. Ellen's antiques, designed for another era and a more formal generation, came as something of a shock.

  "Can I get you anything? A beer? Scotch?" Sledge asked as he gestured toward the Victorian monstrosity. He could no longer stifle his grin as he saw the dismay on his friend's face when he realized where he would be sitting.

  "Beer," Hammer said. He perched gingerly on one end of the sofa and smiled at the two other people there. "Hi, Ms. Jamieson, Trevor. I appreciate your helping Sledge and me."

  Sledge headed into the kitchen and busied himself in the refrigerator. There was bacon in the meat tender and a head of lettuce in the vegetable drawer. A carton of eggs rested beside a six-pack of his favorite microbrew. A package of cinnamon buns and a loaf of bread were shoved behind a bottle of French merlot, which his father said was Ellen's choice. A half-liter of the cream his father used in his coffee was slowly aging. Though it hadn't yet passed its best before date, it soon would.

  Breakfast and blotto, he thought, as he pulled a can of beer from the plastic holder, except for the lettuce. Why it was there he wasn't sure. There was no salad dressing in the fridge and neither he, nor his father, were in the habit of adding lettuce to their bacon and egg sandwiches.

  Still mulling over the lettuce issue, he brought a can of beer for Hammer and one for himself to the living room. He handed the can to Hammer and had to pretend he didn't notice the frown that leapt onto Ellen's face because he didn't also hand Hammer a chilled glass. Doing things in the proper way was important to Ellen and she expected everyone around her to act the same way. But Hammer didn't come from a family that favored formal manners and he'd be uncomfortable if he was expected to use them. Sledge was not about to put his friend on the spot, not when Hammer was not only grieving Vince's death, but was fearful that he might be charged with the man's murder.