The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

by Louise Clark

  Kim was eye candy, he mused, as he got out of the car. She'd be sent packing once her youthful beauty surrendered to time. A cynical view, perhaps, but it went well with his sour mood. He climbed the steps to the double doors and rang the bell.

  Kim Crosier opened the door, as she had for his father. She smiled at him with genuine warmth and said, "Mitch is in his office." She peeked around him as he moved past her into the house. "Did you bring that cute kitty with you?" She frowned, looking about as fierce as a beauty queen was able. "You didn't leave him in the car, did you? I'll be happy to watch him while you're talking to Mitch."

  "I don't have the cat," Quinn said briefly. Christy had the cat. Christy was worried about the cat. Christy was obsessed with the cat.

  Kim's frown dissolved into disappointment. "Oh, that's too bad. Well, come on through. Mitch is waiting for you."

  She led him deep into the house to a quiet wing that seemed to be devoted to rooms with a purpose—a large screening room, an exercise room, a sewing room. That last one took Quinn aback. He doubted the sewing room was for Mitchell Crosier's use, but he couldn't quite see Kim, the pretty, rich man's prize, spending her days sewing... things.

  He must have frowned as they passed the room, because Kim shot him an amused look and said, "Yes, I'm the one who uses it. I sew many of my own clothes." She indicated the dress she was wearing. It was sleeveless, with a mock turtle collar, cut to show off her shoulders. The sapphire blue knit material clung to her curves, but flared below her waist so it swirled around her thighs and showed off her long legs as she walked. "This is one of my creations."

  Quinn was wrestling with that statement, and the superficial assumptions he shouldn't have made, when they reached Mitchell's office. The door was closed, so Kim knocked before she went inside. Still clothed in the white dress shirt he must have worn to the funeral, but minus a tie and jacket, Crosier was working at a glass topped, steel framed desk. His chair was leather and designed for comfort. He looked up from the computer monitor he was studying and smiled at his wife.

  She sashayed into the office, the blue skirt swinging jauntily. "He's here, darling," she said, kissing her husband on the cheek. "Would you like me to bring coffee? Or something stronger?"

  "Coffee," Mitch said. "Afternoon, Armstrong."

  "Crosier," Quinn said by way of greeting. There was a chair—modern, rectangular, boxlike and leanly padded—in front of the desk. Quinn sat down and pulled his phone out as Kim slipped away to organize refreshments. "I hope you don't mind if I record our conversation."

  Crosier considered the phone for a moment, then he shook his head. "I'm okay with that provided you give me a copy of the tape."

  "Why?"

  Crosier raised his brows. "My words," he said. "I like to make sure I'm being quoted correctly."

  Quinn shrugged. Though he was here to find out if Mitchell Crosier could have murdered Vince Nunez, he also planned to write an article based on the interview. He wasn't concerned about misinterpreting Crosier's words, because he always checked his facts, so Crosier didn't need to worry about misrepresentation. "I don't intend to libel you."

  A muscle flexed in Crosier's jaw. "I've had reporters do exactly that, promising just what you promised." He eyed Quinn, who eyed him back. "I'll level with you, Armstrong. The only reason you're here is because you're Sledge's friend and he trusts you. Vince's death has put my label under siege. The media loves the drama of it and while the publicity has been generating interest—"

  "And sales?"

  Mitch nodded. "And sales, right now at least. I can see it backfiring on us long-term. My company has a distribution agreement with one of the major labels. Right now they are willing to accept that I was only a bystander at Vince's death. If they think I'm involved?" He shrugged. "Not good news for us."

  "I write balanced, investigative articles, not fluff pieces or smear attacks," Quinn said, keeping hold of his temper. "I want to know how Vince's death is going to affect those in the music business who worked with him. That includes SledgeHammer and your company. Most people only know the music business by what they listen to and the songs they purchase. I'd like to give my readers a wider picture, with more detail on how the industry works. Sledgehammer fans are worried. There's been a lot of ink shed about Vince's death being the end of the band the way Brian Epstein's death presaged the end of the Beatles."

  Vince nodded gloomily. "Could happen."

  "Or it might not."

  "Bands break up all the time. Musicians are creative flakes and they can get wound up over the craziest things. SledgeHammer has had a long run." He shrugged. "Maybe it's their time."

  "Sledge and Hammer don't think so," Quinn said, though truthfully he didn't know. He had Crosier talking now, even if it wasn't on tape, and he was getting impressions and ideas he'd be able to use.

  Crosier grimaced. "They never do before they do it."

  Quinn assumed he was speaking generically. They being musicians in general, not Rob McCullagh and Graham Gowdy specifically.

  Kim Crosier chose that moment to arrive with two mugs, a coffee urn, a plate of sweet bread slices, and a stack of napkins, all balanced on a silver tray. A fragrant scent wafted from the bread. Quinn eyed it uneasily. He thought it might be banana bread; not one of his favorites.

  She set the tray down and poured coffee into the mugs. "Do try the banana bread, Quinn," she said, confirming his suspicion. "It's just out of the oven."

  "My favorite," Mitch said, eying it hungrily.

  She laughed. "I know, darling. Today was difficult for both of us, but especially for you. I thought you needed a treat." She handed Quinn a mug. "If you like it, I'll give you the recipe for Christy." She smiled, then turned to provide the other mug to her husband.

  Time to reassess, yet again, Quinn thought, as he watched Mitchell look at his wife fondly. Kim Crosier managed her husband with a deft dexterity that indicated a subtle understanding of the man. There was clearly more to her than appeared on the surface.

  Mitch took a slice of banana bread, bit into it, and chewed. After he swallowed he winked at his wife and said, "Wonderful!" She winked back, then said, "I'll leave you to talk, then. Nice to see you again, Quinn."

  She was gone before Quinn had time to sample her banana bread. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have bothered, but this time he didn't have the option with Mitchell Crosier watching him, waiting for his reaction with a possessiveness the baker herself didn't seem to share. With a mental shrug, he picked up a slice. He'd eaten worse when he had to. He broke off a chunk, then popped it into his mouth. And savored. "God, this is good," he mumbled. The texture was firm, but not heavy, the flavor sweet, but not over sweet. It was delicious.

  "I know!" said Crosier, with enthusiasm. "That woman is a domestic goddess. She looks great, and she understands that sometimes I have to chat up the chicks. She is absolutely the best wife a man could want." He shook his head as he chewed another piece of banana bread. "I don't know how she puts up with me, but that's not why you're here."

  Since Quinn had another mouthful of the bread, he couldn't reply. Mitch flicked his finger at Quinn's phone, which was still sitting on the desk. "Go ahead. Turn it on. Let's get started."

  Quinn finished chewing, then wiped his fingers on a napkin, which was linen with cheerful red checks and a hand-sewn hem, ironed into crisp, perfectly even folds. He flicked on record and got started.

  They talked for an hour about the music business and Crosier's position in it. That led to his plan for convergence marketing and inevitably, his hope that Roy would be involved. "Your father's agent turned me down flat," Mitch said, looking gloomy. "Too bad about that." He eyed Quinn thoughtfully. "If you talked to your father, do you think he'd override his agent?"

  Quinn was prepared for this. He shook his head. "Wouldn't work. My dad always takes his agent's advice over mine."

  "Pity," Mitch said. They went back to the music business and talked about SledgeHammer from their early days to the ba
nd's current world success. Quinn steered the conversation back to the night of Sledge's party and Vince's murder. "Give me your impression of the evening."

  Mitch leaned back in his chair, cradling his second mug of coffee. All that was left of the banana bread was crumbs on the plate. "There was an edge, like everyone was waiting for something to happen." He took a sip while he reflected. "Not surprising, really, after that girl's death at the concert. There was a lot of looking over your shoulder, if you know what I mean."

  "Explain it to me so I'm clear."

  Mitchell leaned forward and put his elbows and the coffee mug on the table. Hands free he moved them in the air, using them to help him find the words for something he evidently hadn't tried to describe before. "I think there were several people in that house who wondered if Kyle Gowdy was guilty. They wondered and they watched. It struck me that no one was surprised when Vince told Hammer to keep away from his brother. It was as if everyone expected him to say that and an argument to follow."

  "Where were you when the argument happened?"

  Mitch hesitated.

  Quinn raised his brows. "My dad told me Kim was in the great room talking to him. He didn't know where you were."

  Mitch looked at the phone, looked at Quinn, then looked at the door before he said with a rush, "I was in the kitchen when the shouting started out on the deck. I was on my way to the music room when Hammer and Vince came into the great room."

  "Why were you going to the music room?"

  He hesitated again, before he said, "I was looking for the lady chef Sledge used to cater the party. One of the servers told me she had gone to the music room. I followed her."

  Quinn blinked. Not the answer he expected. "Did you find her?"

  "Not then. Later." Crosier had reddened.

  Quinn wondered why. He imagined it was probably the usual one for powerful men, but he asked anyway. "Why were you looking for her?"

  If anything, Crosier's face got redder. He stared at Quinn's phone, looking worried. "She made the most wonderful mini tourtiere pies. The crust was sensational and the filling..." He sighed. "Heavenly. Kim asked the chef for the recipe, but the bitch wouldn't give it to her. So I thought I'd see what I could do."

  "You wanted a recipe," Quinn said carefully.

  "Kim loves to cook. You tasted her banana bread. Imagine what she could do with a light as air pie crust and some ground meat."

  From the expression on Crosier's face, Quinn figured he was doing enough imagining for them both. "Did you ever find her?"

  "Later, after all the fuss happened," Mitch said looking annoyed. "Turned out she wasn't in the music room at all. She wouldn't give me the damn recipe either."

  "Anybody see you between when Vince left the house and when Vince's body was found?"

  "No." The annoyance was now in Mitch's voice.

  So Mitch Crosier didn't have an alibi for the time of Vince's death. If his irritation was any indication, he realized he could be in a vulnerable position if the cops chose to take a closer look at him.

  "How was your relationship with Vince? I understand he wanted a complete review of the contract terms between SledgeHammer and your company."

  Mitch eyed him levelly. "He did and I respected him for it. Vince was a talent agent as well as the band's manager. His job was to get the best terms he could for his artists. He was good at it too, because he only represented quality musicians. I knew that whatever Vince and I agreed to, I'd still profit from the arrangement."

  "And yet you played the game."

  "Yeah, I played it. Why not? I wasn't going to just hand over the gilded plate to Vince. I was willing to make concessions, but he had to work for them."

  "What happens now?"

  Crosier shrugged. "SledgeHammer finds a new manager."

  Quinn looked at him. "My research indicates that your label has interests in a company dedicated to managing artists. Sledge told me he'd already been approached by them."

  "Yeah, so?"

  "So it puts another spin on Vince's death."

  "No, it does not," Crosier said shortly. "My company has an investment in the management company. I don't own it. Dig deeper into them. The artists they represent are recorded by a dozen different labels. If SledgeHammer decides to go with them, there's no guarantee they will keep the band with us."

  No, there was no guarantee, but even if SledgeHammer signed with a new record label, Mitchell Crosier would still benefit.

  The man had no alibi for the time of Vince's death and a lot gain from it. In Quinn's opinion, that put him right up near, or at the top, of the suspect list.

  Chapter 25

  The house was still when Christy woke up. Outside her window she could hear morning commuters on the way to work. Not as many cars passed as usual, but it was still Spring Break, so that wasn't surprising. She lay in the dim light that seeped through the curtains covering the windows and wondered why she'd woken so early when she didn't have to get up to make sure Noelle got to school on time. Then a cold damp nose pressed against her cheek and the sounds of loud purring echoed in her ear. Stormy was awake and wanted breakfast.

  She kept her eyes closed and pretended she hadn't woken. Since their return Stormy had acted like a normal cat. A friendlier cat than he'd been when Frank was alive, but still just a cat. He snuggled. He sat on her paper if she was trying to write notes or a letter. He played with Noelle, chasing the ball she threw down the stairs, then made her retrieve it so she could have the privilege of throwing it for him again. He purred when he was stroked. He ate quantities of food.

  But he didn't talk. To anyone.

  Roy was upset. He worried that it had been his decision to take the cat to the SledgeHammer party that had caused Frank's silence. Roy figured that seeing the murder happen in front of him had brought back memories of his own murder and that he'd been traumatized. This had either convinced him to accept his passing and to flee Stormy's body, or it had left him so deeply unhappy that he had retreated from life and those still living. The result for both options was the same. Frank was no longer willing or able to communicate with the living the way he had before.

  The purring in her ear grew louder and this time Stormy butted her cheek with enough force that Christy could no longer pretend to be asleep. She swatted at the cat and said, "Go away."

  Still purring, Stormy positioned his paws on her shoulder, then began to knead. His purrs echoed through the room, in time with the slow rhythmic movement.

  Christy groaned. His claws were in, thank God, or she'd be shrieking right now, but the loud purring and the kneading weren't going to let her go back to sleep. "It's too early to get up. I'll wake Noelle."

  Stormy kneaded and purred, intent on his objective, paying no attention to her excuses.

  "Oh, all right. I'll feed you, but then I'm coming back to bed." Fat chance that would happen, but she could hope. She wiggled out from under the kneading paws, then flung off her covers. Stormy bounded to the edge of the bed and leapt to the floor. He waited for her at the door as she yawned and put on her dressing gown.

  They headed downstairs, Christy trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake the other occupants of the sleeping house, Stormy thundering down the stairs the way he did when he was intent on making his presence known. By the time she reached the kitchen, Christy knew that returning to bed to sleep was a forlorn hope, so she programmed the coffeemaker for a cup before she opened the pantry door to pull out a can of cat food for Stormy.

  Stormy sat by his bowl and fixed an unblinking green gaze on her while she worked. She had deliberately fed him only canned cat food since she'd returned. She thought that if there were no treats—no tuna, no shrimp, no human food of any kind—that Frank would come out of his funk and complain. That he hadn't said a word was ever increasing proof that he was no longer living in Stormy's body.

  She opened the cutlery drawer and picked up a spoon. "I have tuna in the fridge." She shoved the drawer closed. "If you want it,
tell me now before I open the cat food."

  Stormy stared at her, unmoving.

  She went over to him, and stroked his head. "I don't know what happened that night, what you saw and what it made you think, but I want to help."

  Stormy stared at her, then slowly blinked, but Frank didn't respond.

  She sighed and picked up the bowl. She returned to the counter and put the bowl beside the can of cat food. The label said Tuna Dinner. Frank had always been scornful of the names given to the cat food she bought and said that all the flavors tasted the same. Stormy consumed the various varieties enthusiastically, though, much to Frank's disgust. But then, Stormy also happily ate grasshoppers, beetles, mice and birds, so he wasn't much of a gourmet.

  She held up the can. "Last chance for real tuna."

  Stormy abandoned the mat on which his food and water bowls sat and came over to wind around her legs. Then he stood on his hind legs and reached up toward the counter with his forepaws.

  The message was clear. Feed me now.

  The coffeemaker sputtered and completed its drip cycle. Despite the cat's silent demand, she took a moment to grab her cup and have a sip of fresh brewed coffee. "Oh, Frank," she said, staring at Stormy. "Why didn't you wait to say good-bye?"

  Stormy was down on all fours again. His tail was now shivering with anxious anticipation.

  Christy sighed again. There were moments when she wondered if Frank had chosen to leave because she'd gone away with Quinn. He probably guessed that she and Quinn had become lovers; that would have been hard for him to bear. Add the affront to his ego together with the trauma of witnessing a murder and you had a pretty good one-two emotional punch.

  Unfortunately, the deed was done. There was nothing now that she could do about it. She took another swig of coffee, sighed again, and pushed guilt aside as she set about preparing Stormy's breakfast. She pulled the tab on the can and the seal broke with a hiss of air. She glanced down at the cat to see his reaction, but Stormy was simply being a cat. He paced to his mat then back again, impatient at her dithering, but nothing more.