The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

by Louise Clark

  Hank stared at him myopically. Roy paid. The bartender went away.

  Hank picked up the bottle and drank deep. "What were we talking about?"

  "Vince's murder," Roy said, watching him.

  "Right." Hank contemplated the bottle. "I was in the kitchen. Pretty fancy one it was, too."

  "Why were you in the kitchen?" Roy was genuinely interested. Hank didn't seem like the kind of man who thought about cooking, especially high-end recipes. He seemed more the fast food type.

  Hank's smile was close to a leer. "I was chatting up that pretty little chef Sledge hired."

  "Chatting up. You mean talking to her in the kitchen?"

  Hank began to laugh. "Been a while, has it, old man? No. I was putting the hit on her." The smile turned into what was definitely a leer. "I wasn't doing her in the kitchen, but close enough."

  Roy thought about the chef, who was indeed an attractive young woman, and Hank Lofti striking sparks off each other. It was possible. Hank had a full head of thick dark hair and well defined pecs from the physical work that provided his income. It was also possible that Chef Rita might have flirted with him in the kitchen while she worked.

  What Roy couldn't see as possible was a woman with a thriving catering business jeopardizing it by doing anything more than flirting at an event she was working. Since Chef Rita had come up in both Crosier and Lofti's statements, someone needed to talk to her. He'd suggest Ellen give it a try. She might not be great at interviewing, but he was sure she had lots of experience in dealing with caterers. She'd speak Chef Rita's language. That was for later, though. Right now, he needed to dig deeper into Hank's Lofti's story. He moved his glass back and forth, aware that Lofti's eyes followed it. "So you were in the kitchen when the cat started to howl? Making out with Chef Rita?"

  "Yeah."

  "That's strange. Mitch Crosier says there was a server in the kitchen about then and Chef Rita wasn't around."

  Lofti's eyes darted upward. His hand tightened on the beer bottle. "Crosier lies."

  "Really?"

  "Look, old man, I said I was in the kitchen and I was." He shifted on his stool, away from Roy, and hunched protectively over his bottle. "I ain't got nothing more to say to you."

  Hank Lofti was lying about where he was when Vince died, but that didn't mean he was the killer. He could have been with Chef Rita somewhere other than the kitchen. Did that mean they were both involved in Vince's murder, or that they were making out as Lofti claimed?

  Roy couldn't see a motive for the pretty young chef, but he could see one for Hank. Bitter, angry, blaming Vince for his own failures, Hank had plenty of reasons for killing Vince.

  But did he do it?

  Roy added him to the growing list of suspects.

  Chapter 27

  Quinn ended the call from his editor and stretched. He glanced at the clock at the corner of his computer screen. Two in the afternoon. He rubbed his forehead and wondered if he should cancel the plans he'd made for this evening.

  Yesterday, when he'd talked to his father, his afternoon stretched before him, full of opportunities. He wanted to give the article on Mitch Crosier another review and polish, but he didn't expect that to take more than fifteen minutes. Then he'd send it off and he could concentrate on arranging a romantic Saturday evening for Christy.

  He finished the article, emailed it, then booked a table at Christy's favorite seafood restaurant and a room at one of the best hotels in town. She was stressing over Frank and his refusal to talk to her, or, more importantly in Christy's mind, to Noelle. He accepted that. He also guessed that living with the cat, waiting for it to speak, would be more than a little difficult. She needed time away where she didn't have to wonder, or worry.

  He told himself that was why he was planning the evening, but he knew there was more to it. They'd committed to each other in the middle of Spring Break, but now, mere days later, the school vacation was almost over and so was their relationship. He couldn't accept that; he had to do something.

  He was about to go over to Christy's house to lay out his plan and invite her to join him when his phone rang. He considered not accepting the call, but it was from his editor at the publishing house that was putting out his book on Frank Jamieson's murder. It was late Friday afternoon. At this time of day, on the last day of the workweek, a telephone call would be to share some spectacularly good news, or to stave off imminent disaster. He decided he'd better take it.

  Unfortunately, the editor wasn't calling to celebrate. Legal had issues with certain parts of the manuscript. The book was due to be sent to the printer on Wednesday and they needed those sections revised by Saturday afternoon so editorial could review the new text on Sunday, legal could okay it on Monday and production could make sure the changes were included in the final document on Tuesday. Quinn put his personal plans on hold and got to work.

  The rest of the afternoon and all of his evening was a marathon of review, revision, and negotiation with his editor. He heard his father going out around seven. When Roy returned much later, he was deep in a confrontational call with his editor, arguing about changes the publisher wanted and which he didn't agree with. He crashed about two and was up again at six.

  Now the changes were finally done, everyone was satisfied, and he had the rest of the weekend to himself. He could still take Christy out for that romantic dinner and night out. The arrangements were made; all he had to do was ask her.

  When he made his plan for the evening, was he thinking of Christy's needs or his own? He wanted her to be focused on him, not on her dead husband. But was that what was best for her? He considered that moodily as he saved and closed files, methodically tidying up his on-screen workplace.

  It was certainly best for him. By taking her out to dinner and then to a hotel he'd have her all to himself, which was exactly what he wanted. They could talk about each other, their feelings, the future they could have together. It would be like a recommitment to their relationship.

  He brooded about that as he went up to his room to make himself presentable. It wasn't a good sign when a dating couple needed time and an artificially romantic environment to remember why they were dating in the first place.

  Worrying, he thought, was a sign of fatigue, that was all. He shook himself out of the mood while he cleaned up. Once he had Christy's agreement and they'd organized timing, he'd have a quick nap. That would help his frame of mind.

  He went down to his front door and then out and over to hers. As he rang the bell, he could hear shrieks of laughter echoing dimly from somewhere in the house. Those were followed by the thump of feet rushing up stairs moments before the door was wrenched open. Noelle, with Mary Petrofsky peering over her shoulder, grinned at him. "Mom! It's Quinn!" She opened the door wider to let him in.

  He stepped into the small landing. He had the ominous feeling that his timing was off.

  Noelle slammed the door shut and said, "Mom's upstairs."

  Mary Petrofsky's less assertive voice said, "With my mom." She stopped, then added, "They're having tea."

  "Using the Jamieson tea service," Noelle announced. "Aunt Ellen's there too."

  He could just imagine the scene.

  "They're having scones—"

  "Yum," said Mary.

  "And clotted cream!" Noelle said.

  "And sandwiches. Little ones," Mary added, nodding.

  "It's a proper tea!" Noelle's announcement was echoed by the sound of female laughter coming from the living room. Quinn didn't recognize the voice, so it wasn't Christy or Ellen. Must be Rebecca Petrofsky.

  Not only was his timing off, but it was disastrously off. It was now two o'clock in the afternoon. He'd made the dinner reservation for seven, and thought they could check into the hotel about five. Those two hours would give them time to enjoy each other, then change before going out.

  Part of the whole romantic evening plan was the way he would ask Christy to come out with him. He'd take her for a walk in the woods where they ha
d spent so many intimate hours together. There he would invite her to go with him for the evening out.

  No way she was going to go for a walk in the woods with him right now. In fact, it was unlikely he'd even have a chance to talk to her before five o'clock.

  "Who is it, Noelle?" Christy asked, breaking into his thoughts as she appeared at the top of the stairs. She looked beautiful in a pair of dark slacks she'd topped with a sapphire blue sweater that did great things for her coloring and hugged her figure in all the right places. Her expression, though, was worried, but relieved at the same time. Quinn knew why. She was worried that Joan Shively, the social services worker who had made checking on Noelle's well-being her life cause, might take it into her head to do a random house visit. It was unlikely since it was Saturday and even Shively had a life, but Christy was always wary.

  He hoped the relief was pleasure at seeing him. "Hi," he said.

  She smiled and came down the stairs. "Hi, Quinn. What's up?"

  Though she smiled at him, Quinn thought he saw some restraint there. He decided that it was best to ignore it. "It's a nice afternoon. I dropped by to see if you'd like to go for a walk."

  Christy glanced up and over her shoulder. "Quinn, that's sweet..."

  "My mom's here," Mary Petrofsky said.

  "She is," Christy said. She came further down the stairs. "Noelle, why don't you and Mary go back to the playroom? I've got this."

  Noelle looked from Mary to her mom to Quinn, then nodded. "Come on, Mary. I'll race you!" They dove back down the stairs to whatever game they were playing in the basement family room.

  Christy paused on the stairs so she was eye-to-eye with him. "I'm sorry, Quinn. It was lovely of you to think of me, but..." She shrugged. "I can't."

  "What about later?" he asked in a low voice.

  "Mary is doing a sleep over and the Petrofskys are going out to a romantic dinner." Her lips twitched. "And having a romantic night as well, I expect."

  He saw his own romantic evening slipping away while the Petrofskys had theirs. He wasn't going to let it go without a fight. Tonight might be out, but he could change reservations. "The Petrofskys obviously had the same I idea I did."

  She looked confused.

  "I came over to invite you to dinner."

  Her face lit up. "That's sweet, Quinn." Her expression turned rueful. "But..."

  "Yeah," he said. "Bad timing." He reached up to stroke a stray lock of hair away from her eyes, forcing her to look up into his. "What about tomorrow evening?"

  Her gaze searched his for a moment, then she looked down and away. "Last day of Spring Break," she said. "I need to be here for Noelle." She lowered her voice. "Since Frank left, it's been hard. She's upset, but she's hiding it. I don't want to..." She hesitated. Her voice shook a little when she resumed, but her words were firm. "I can't go out tomorrow. It's a family thing. I need to be with her." She looked up at him, her eyes pleading. "You understand, don't you?"

  Down in Pasadena they'd pretended they were a family: Christy, Quinn, and Noelle. Now they had returned to Burnaby they were back to the way they'd been before they went away together. Christy had a daughter and they were both Jamiesons. Whether Frank was still in Stormy didn't matter at this point. Christy had asked him if he understood, and he thought he did. She wasn't ready to commit to anything deeper than a sexual liaison.

  So he had to decide—was that all he wanted from her? Was it enough?

  He didn't know. He didn't think so.

  Still, as he looked into her eyes he knew he couldn't end it this way, with Ellen and Rebecca in the living room, the kids downstairs and the cat somewhere in the house, probably spying on them.

  "I understand," he said. He stepped away. "I'll let you get back to your tea party."

  "Thanks," she said, but she made no move to climb up the stairs.

  He nodded and let himself out, the image of her cool composed Jamieson princess expression burned in his mind's eye.

  He was already canceling his reservations as he headed down her front walk.

  * * *

  "I'm going to tackle Brody Toupin today," Quinn said. He was eating breakfast with his father. The bacon and eggs Roy had fixed were congealing on his plate.

  Roy set his own plate on the table and sat down. He looked pointedly at Quinn's uneaten food. "Something playing havoc with your appetite?"

  Quinn cut a piece of bacon and ate it. "No." He looked at his plate, not his father.

  Roy dipped toast into the soft yoke of his fried egg. "True love never runs smooth," he said, before crunching the bread.

  "Oh, for God's sake!" Quinn said. He pushed back his chair and picked up his plate. "I'll be back later."

  "See you," his father said affably.

  Brody Toupin lived in Kitsilano, not far from Jericho Beach on the shore of English Bay. In the forty-five minutes it took Quinn to drive from Burnaby, he fumed about know-it-all fathers, women who couldn't move on, and idiots like him who put up with them. By the time he arrived at Toupin's address his mood was bleak and his outlook grim.

  Brody Toupin's residence was a small mid-sixties infill house that had been sandwiched into a tiny lot between two much larger houses. The building took up most of the property. There was enough space left to provide a driveway and a pocket-sized lawn.

  From the outside, the building didn't look like much, but in Vancouver's high octane housing market Quinn guessed it would sell for well over a million dollars. He knew from his research on Toupin that he was the owner of the property and he reflected sourly that the music business must be doing well by him.

  Toupin answered the bell on his first ring, as if he had been hovering nearby waiting for Quinn to arrive. He said hello, then peered over Quinn's shoulder, frowning.

  "Looking for something?" Quinn asked.

  Toupin scanned Quinn up and down, then said, "You don't have a camera and you didn't bring a photographer."

  Still standing on the front step, Quinn said, "No." He left it at that. He had a feeling he knew where Toupin was going with the question, but he wanted the man to say the words. Then he'd be able to act.

  "You're not going to supply pictures to whatever rag you're selling the article to, are you? Will they accept it without images?"

  Quinn was still standing at the front door. He reflected that Brody Toupin couldn't be all that bright. He expected Quinn to write a favorable article about him, but he'd begun the meeting with a confrontational statement and hadn't even bothered to invite him in. "The paper will supply a shot from their morgue," Quinn said. He sent Toupin a cool look and added, "I don't write the kind of fluff that requires more photos than content. People read my articles because they're interested in what I have to say and the opinions I offer, not because they want to ogle a pretty face or drool over a muscular body."

  Since Brody Toupin possessed both of those qualities, he stiffened. "I'm not some pinup for teenyboppers."

  "No, you're backup for one of the hottest bands on the planet." Quinn indicated the house with a nod of his head. "From your address and the value of property around here, I'd say you don't have a lot to complain about."

  Toupin's brows snapped together and his expression hardened. "I was supposed to get headline status. Vince promised me that when he convinced me to participate in the SledgeHammer tour. Then the bastard screwed me, told me I wasn't good enough. That's bullshit."

  "There are plenty of people who would envy you the success you've already got," Quinn said crisply. Brody Toupin was rubbing him the wrong way. Between the two of them and their equally negative moods, it was unlikely that he was going to get much of an interview from the man, even if Toupin agreed to one.

  "I dumped the band I was with to go on that tour," Brody said. Anger reverberated in his tone. "We were doing okay. Not great, but we were making sales and getting airplay. In Canada, at least. Vince told me he'd push me into the stratosphere and I bought it." Now he sounded more disgusted at himself, than angry at Vince. "Tha
t band. The one I dumped? They had a US number one a month ago. They haven't made it yet, but they're on the way." Bitterness crept into his voice. "And I'm stuck here without a band. Without a label. Without even an opportunity to work back up on a big-time band because SledgeHammer is on hiatus."

  "And you blame that on Vince?" Quinn said.

  "Of course I blame it on Vince! Who else would I blame it on?"

  Yourself, Quinn thought. Your bad decisions. Your greed. "I guess you were pretty mad at him."

  Vince held up his hand. "Oh, no. I see where you're going. Don't try to pin Vince's death on me!"

  Quinn shrugged. He was snarly enough to want to push this guy to the limit. Sure, he should be objective, but he was human and Brody Toupin struck him as the kind of guy who would never be satisfied. "Someone killed Vince. Why not you?"

  Toupin allowed his mouth to gape open in astonishment. "Why would I?" At Quinn's raised brow, he said, "Look, Vince was my manager. Sure, I was pissed at the mess he'd made, but I couldn't afford to dump him until I found a new one. Now I don't have Vince behind me, I'm not going to get the kind of gigs I did when he represented me. Yeah, I was furious at him for lying to me, but killing him would be like cutting my own throat. I wouldn't do it."

  "People do stuff for stupid reasons. Ever heard of revenge?"

  Toupin's eyes narrowed. "I didn't kill Vince. Like I told the West Van cop, I was in the can when the cat started to howl. No way I could have gone outside, killed Vince and slipped back into the house without anyone seeing me. I'm in the clear." He stepped back from the door. "I think we're done here."

  "Works for me," Quinn said. The door slammed behind him as he walked back to the street where his car was parked. Although Brody Toupin's defense sounded reasonable, his alibi for the time of the murder was thin. There was only his word that he'd been using the bathroom when Vince was killed. They would have to check his whereabouts with others before they wrote him off as a suspect.

  Buoyed up by that thought, Quinn got into his car and headed back to Burnaby.