The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

by Louise Clark

  Chapter 28

  "Why is that man here?" Charlotte Sawatzky asked. She was wearing a flowered spring dress, a little early for the season, but appropriate for the meeting this morning. Her eyes were narrowed ominously; she didn't look happy.

  Ellen peered around the room. A utilitarian meeting room in the basement of the Library building on West Georgia, the room had been set boardroom style for the two dozen people invited to become the inaugural members of the East Side Beautification Committee. As they waited for the full contingent to arrive, people milled about, chatting, helping themselves to coffee and semi-stale pastries, and generally scoping out who they would be working with. "What man?" she asked.

  As the genders were pretty much evenly represented, the question made sense. She recognized a few of the faces. The head of the city's Parks and Rec department, the owner of a well-known chain of garden stores, and the dean of English Bay University's downtown campus, to name only a few of the worthy citizens who had answered the call.

  "That one. The agitator," Charlotte said, pointing. She didn't bother to be discreet.

  "Oh," said Ellen, after a quick glance. "You mean Sydney Haynes."

  "Yes!"

  Ellen contemplated her friend, unsure why she would be so hostile toward the man. True, Sydney Haynes tended to be a single focus kind of person. He'd talk about nothing but his charity, droning on and on until his auditor wanted nothing more than to escape. Ellen thought he probably gained quite a few donations with that particular tactic. But to call him an agitator seemed a bit much. Still, Charlotte Sawatzky wasn't the type to make a fuss where none was needed. "I've only met him twice. Both times ended in unpleasant circumstances, but I don't think he caused the unpleasantness."

  "I have not met him at all," Charlotte said, her tone dismissive. She sniffed and her chin tilted up. "I only know of his doings."

  Ellen raised her brows and waited, but Charlotte didn't say anything further. She had apparently decided she should hold her tongue on the subject of Sydney Haynes.

  After a moment, Ellen said, "How are your son and daughter-in-law coping?"

  Charlotte seemed to deflate. "Badly," she said. "The police have botched the investigation completely. There are no new leads and not enough evidence to charge the brother of that dreadful musician."

  Charlotte was talking about Hammer and Kyle Gowdy. Once, before she'd moved in with Christy and Noelle, Ellen knew she would have identified Graham Gowdy exactly as Charlotte just had. Now that she'd been to a SledgeHammer concert and partied with the band and the assorted characters who surrounded them, she had to squash irritation at Charlotte's comment. She realized, with some surprise, that she'd enjoyed the experience and liked the people. The thought threw her off stride and she missed what Charlotte said next. She became aware she'd been wool gathering when Jeff Darling, the city councilor who was representing the mayor, called the meeting to order.

  They settled onto sturdy metal and fabric covered chairs around tables set up in a large square. Jeff talked enthusiastically about the changing requirements of the city and the need to create a plan to revitalize decaying areas on the East Side. Ellen listened attentively and made notes in a small leather bound book she drew from her purse. Charlotte, seated beside her, glared at Sydney Haynes.

  Jeff identified the need for more green spaces, suggested flower boxes be erected at regular intervals along major streets, and then closed his opening remarks with the cheerful request for input from all present. "But first," he said, as he prepared to sit down, "let's introduce ourselves."

  They went clockwise around the table. The EBU dean spoke first, in a self-depreciating way that did nothing to minimize the list of his accomplishments. He was followed by Portia Quance, a woman who owned a very high-end boutique hotel. Portia simply looked around the table with raised brows and said her name, expecting everyone present to know what it represented.

  The next person was Sydney Haynes. He'd been sitting hunched over, as if he didn't feel he should be here. That was odd, Ellen thought. At the SledgeHammer concert he had kept to himself, but he had seemed confident and was open and friendly when spoken to. Then he didn't have the wary posture and almost furtive expression she was seeing today. She tried to remember how he had behaved at the party. He'd been there, she knew, because Sledge had announced that the party had raised a hundred thousand dollars for Homeless Help, and he'd presented it to Sydney not long before the fight between Hammer and Vince had begun. Sydney had left almost as soon as he'd received the donation, so no help there. But what about before?

  Sydney's oddly penetrating stare flicked around the table, lingering on Charlotte before moving on. His behavior was strange, but Ellen couldn't identify what had triggered the change. She decided that anyone who dragged himself out of full-blown drug addiction to sobriety should be allowed the odd quirk.

  After another quick glance at Charlotte, Sydney straightened and said, "I'm here to represent the downtrodden and ensure that the fat money cats don't throw them out with the garbage."

  The statement was like a slap across the face. Ellen pulled away from the table in an instinctive reaction. The positive atmosphere created by Jeff Darling soured in an instant. All eyes were on Sydney, whose mouth was a grim line and eyes hard shards of calculated rage.

  No one seemed to know what to do. Jeff said, "Ah... umm... no one said... I mean, that's not what..."

  Sydney paid no attention. His lips curled into a sneer. "I know how it's done. People get together, whisper behind doors. Deals are made with no input from those who really matter." His voice rose, and he surged to his feet, his finger thrusting out aggressively. "Then before we know it buildings are being torn down to make way for some high-rise. Or the homes my people live in are being sold out from under them to be converted into condos that only the richest can afford."

  "You're talking about the Regent Hotel conversion," Charlotte said.

  Ellen shivered. Charlotte was furious, though her voice was even and her face was a mask of polite disdain.

  "It's the most notorious example, but not the only one," Sydney said.

  "The Regent Hotel was condemned," Charlotte said. "The building would have been torn down if Sawatzky Restoration hadn't rescued it."

  "That redevelopment has been completed. Let's move on to the real reason we're all here," Jeff said, trying to regain control of his meeting.

  Syd paid no attention. It was as if the councilor hadn't spoken. "All of the people living there—the poorest of the poor, the homeless—were evicted. People who had no access to other housing and who were forced to live on the street."

  "Those people were squatters, putting themselves at risk by simply being in the building. There was no power. No water. No heat."

  "I think we should talk about those flower boxes. What do you think?" Jeff asked, looking around the table and smiling hopefully.

  "There was shelter!" Sydney roared. "A place to find warmth, to get in out of the rain. There may not have been the luxury accommodations that people like you expect, Mrs. Sawatzky, but it was home to many, many people."

  "What nonsense," Charlotte said, contempt in her expression and voice.

  "I'd expect nothing less from one of the privileged—"

  "How did you know her name?" Ellen asked. She'd learned a bit from living along side the highly skeptical Armstrong men and Trevor McCullagh these past few months. Her question stopped Sydney mid roar, so she smiled as she looked around the table and said, "Ellen Jamieson here. I'm a director of Jamieson Ice Cream and I was born and raised in Vancouver." She turned back to Sydney. "We had hardly started the introductions, Mr. Hayes. I realize many of us at this table are known to each other, as for instance you and I are. I'm curious, though, how you know Charlotte? Would you care to enlighten us?"

  The relief around the table at the interruption was almost a physical thing. It was short-lived.

  Still standing, Sydney put one clenched fist on the tabletop and leaned tow
ard Charlotte, pointing with his other hand. "This woman's son murdered the best man who ever lived!" He intoned the words as if this was a pronouncement from God. His thin, sharp features were twisted with grief and an inner agony that froze his audience in place.

  "He did not!" Charlotte said. There were two spots of red in her cheeks, but otherwise she was pale.

  "You're talking about the death of Reverend Wigle during the Regent Hotel riots," Ellen said.

  "He was my mentor, my dearest friend," Sydney said. It was as if the air had been punched out of him. "If it hadn't been for the Reverend, I would still be a drug addict and one of those people you are all so anxious to drive into institutions or shove on to someone else's jurisdiction."

  "No one said anything of the sort," Portia Quance said. She pushed back her chair as she glanced at her watch. "I have too much to do to waste my time with this." She was up and headed for the door before the city councilor could think of anything to say.

  "Typical," Sydney said, sneering at her straight, elegant back.

  At the doorway, she stopped and turned. "You know better than to behave this way, Sydney Haynes. Your father would be ashamed of you." She pulled open the door and strode out.

  There had been a rumor years ago that Tate Haynes, Sydney's ultra respectable lawyer father, had had an affair with the glamorous hotel owner, but Ellen had always discounted it. Now, as Sydney flushed red, she wondered.

  "The Reverend Wigle was my father! Tate Haynes may have bred me, but he made no attempt to raise me!" he shouted to the closing door. There was no evidence Portia had heard, but with the whiff of scandal, those who remained had become a willing audience. "I would do anything to keep Reverend Wigle's name and the causes he believed in alive."

  "As Mrs. Quance said, I don't have time for this." Charlotte pushed back her chair and made to rise.

  "Yeah, that's it. Run away," Sydney said, sneering again.

  Ellen frowned. "She's not, you know."

  Sydney scowled at her.

  "Running, I mean. Really, Mr. Haynes, can't you see that this conversation is difficult for her? Family is important and she recently lost her granddaughter."

  "Mine is a just cause," Sydney said. "What does the death of a girl matter to it?"

  "Oh!" The word came out as a little gasp of anguish from Charlotte.

  Jeff Darling suddenly found a spine and said, "You were invited to participate on this committee because we thought you would bring the viewpoint of the area to our discussions. I did not expect you to turn this table into a soapbox. I think you should go now, Mr. Haynes."

  As other members of the committee nodded agreement, Sydney shot a poisonous look at the councilor before he stormed around the table. At the door he paused to say, "You can silence me in this room, but I will make my voice heard." The only reason the door didn't slam behind him was the hydraulic arm that controlled the speed with which it closed.

  "Well," Jeff said into the silence that followed. "Shall we continue?"

  Chapter 29

  Christy kissed Noelle at the classroom door and gave her a hug. Noelle squirmed out of her grasp and danced away to visit with the other little girls in her class. It was the first day back after Spring Break and the kids were busy sharing vacation experiences. Christy didn't envy Mrs. Morton the task of bringing their attention back to their schoolwork.

  She waited until the bell rang, then headed home using the path behind the school. She had a lot to think about and a quiet walk through the trees would give her the perfect venue to do it. Except it didn't. This was where she walked with Quinn. Where they shared their thoughts, where they kissed and learned each other's needs. She'd come this way so she could think objectively about her tangled relationship with Quinn and Frank. By the time she reached the townhouse development, she had decided objectivity was impossible, but she knew she couldn't move forward until she was certain Frank was gone.

  The townhouse was quiet when she got home. Ellen was off at some committee meeting or other. Stormy was asleep on the couch. Christy was restless. They'd all agreed to get together around lunch time to pool their knowledge and brainstorm who the killer was, but there were too many hours between now and noon for her peace of mind. She wanted to do something to keep busy. But what?

  She could ask Roy and Quinn if there was any research or interviews that still needed doing, but for the first time since she'd asked for Quinn's help to find Frank, she was shy about going over to the Armstrong house. She dithered about what to do, then finally decided that avoiding Quinn wasn't the answer.

  As it happened, it was Sledge who answered the doorbell. He flashed her the smile that made millions of enraptured fans sigh with longing, and said, "Quinn's not here," before she'd even had a chance to speak.

  Christy had never seen this side of Sledge. On their first meeting he had still been keyed up from the performance, then afterward he was preoccupied with the fallout from the murders. Looking at him now—the famous smile, the dirty blond hair perfectly cut so that it looked ragged and unkempt, gorgeous eyes, and the scruff of a beard emphasizing a lean jaw—she couldn't help but be a little starstruck. Well, maybe not a little. Maybe a lot. "Oh. I, ah... Is Roy around?"

  Sledge nodded. The smile wasn't just on his lips; it warmed his eyes too. "Upstairs, with my dad." He turned to lead the way inside. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that hugged his form. Christy followed, enjoying the view.

  In the living room the fragrant aroma of marijuana mixed with incense perfumed the air. Sledge settled onto the couch beside his father and took the joint Trevor passed him. Christy hovered at the top of the stairs. The joint explained Sledge's relaxed mood.

  "Everything okay?" Roy asked, frowning.

  "I just dropped Noelle off at school," Christy said. "I'm at loose ends. Is there anything I can do for the investigation?"

  "Quinn's talking to the guitarist fellow," Roy said. He looked at Sledge. "What was his name?"

  "Brody Toupin."

  Roy nodded. "He's about the last of our suspects. We're going to pool our information later, once Quinn and Ellen are home, but you know that. There might be something to do after."

  Christy nodded. Later didn't help. "Okay."

  "What about that chef woman?" Trevor said, passing the joint to Roy. "She keeps coming up in people's alibis."

  "Rita?" Sledge asked. His expression was mildly surprised. "Rita is a terrific cook and she's always prepared. I doubt she had anything to do with Vince's death."

  "Someone should talk to her," Trevor said.

  "I'll do it," Christy said. Talking to an unlikely-to-be-involved chef was exactly the kind of task she needed today. No pressure, but a small worthwhile achievement once she'd got it done.

  Sledge offered to phone Rita to see if she was available. Thirty minutes later, Christy was in her car, headed to North Vancouver where Chef Rita Ranjitkar had her business.

  She found Chef Rita's Catering Kitchen in a low-rise building off the Esplanade, North Vancouver's main east-west street. Traffic was heavy and the parking spots were few, but Christy managed to snag one a couple of blocks away. As she walked to the building it began to rain, and she shivered, reminded that it was still only March and temperatures in Vancouver could be unpredictable.

  The door to Chef Rita's Catering Kitchen opened into a nicely appointed reception area. A middle-aged woman sat behind a beautiful antique desk, which had a telephone and a computer screen on the top and nothing else. No clutter. No evidence of work being done. "Can I help you?" she asked, smiling.

  Christy gave her name and the woman nodded. "Please come this way. Chef is expecting you." She led Christy to an office that was as attractive as the reception area and looked as if it had been decorated by the same hand.

  Chef Rita was not what Christy expected. She assumed she'd find an older woman dressed in chef whites. Instead, she found a gorgeous female who looked to be in her thirties, beautifully made up. She was seated behind a desk that appeare
d to be the twin of the one in reception, but she stood when Christy entered. The receptionist quietly left them together. The office door clicked shut behind her.

  "Mrs. Jamieson," Rita said, holding out her hand. She was wearing a tunic style button front white blouse, belted at the waist and a pair of navy pants that emphasized her dark hair and slender shape. "I am delighted to meet you."

  "And I you," Christy said. She felt underdressed in her jeans and sweater, but she had her Jamieson manners to draw on, so she smiled at the chef in a polite way and said, "I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me."

  "Of course," Rita said. "Please sit down. What can I do for you?"

  When they were both seated, Christy said, "I'm helping Rob McCullagh find out who killed his manager." She noticed Rita stiffen, but she continued. "He tells me that you catered the party that night."

  "I did provide the catering, but—" Rita raised her brows. "Why would Sledge not leave the investigation to the police?"

  Christy smiled thinly. "There are rumors flying around that could do serious damage to SledgeHammer's reputation. Sledge can't control them, but he wants them stopped."

  "I suppose you mean the rumors that Hammer is the murderer," Rita said.

  Christy nodded.

  Rita drummed her fingers on the desktop for a few moments, then she seemed to come to a decision. "I understand, but I doubt I can help in any way. I spent most of the evening in the kitchen. I didn't see anything, not even the argument that I gather led to the killing."

  "Several people are using you as part of their alibis..."

  Rita's dark eyes flashed. "Who? That drunken lout Hank Lofti is one, I suppose."

  "He is," Christy said cautiously.

  "He came on to me earlier in the evening, when he was still relatively sober. I shooed him away, but he kept coming back. Finally, I told him to stay away from my kitchen."

  "When was that?"

  "About a half an hour before the argument."

  "Someone else said that he tried to find you in the kitchen just after the argument ended, but couldn't," Christy said. "Were you in another part of the house checking on the buffet arrangements, perhaps?"