by Louise Clark
"How do you know her grandmother?" Vince asked.
"We're on a couple of committees together. She is still very active, even though she's almost eighty." Ellen paused, then said with forced lightness, "She was very supportive of me when I went through some nastiness before Christmas."
The nastiness had been an accusation of murder and a couple of nights spent in jail while Trevor, acting as her lawyer, scrambled to get her released on bail. The real culprit had been found and the charges against Ellen dropped, but it had been a trying time for her. And it hadn't stopped with her exoneration. As Christy had discovered when people thought she was in cahoots with her late husband Frank, embezzling the assets of the Jamieson Trust, memories could be long and people judgmental. Despite having nothing to do with the crime, Ellen had been dropped from committees and friends suddenly were very busy when she called.
The experience had drawn her closer to Christy and Noelle and the budding friendship was helped along by her refusal to return to her downtown condo where a young woman's dead body had been found on her terrace. Ellen was adamant that she'd never live in the apartment again. Now, four months later, she'd begun looking for a new place, but she was still living in Christy's Burnaby townhouse. Trevor, who had a house on Salt Spring Island, had taken over her city condo and was considering buying it so he would have a Vancouver residence once more.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The words reverberated through the arena, signifying the concert was about to begin. Quinn joined Christy and they found seats together. They were followed by the Oshalls and the musicians. Vince stayed up in the box with Kim and Mitchell Crosier, while Syd Haynes left his seat on the sofa to lean against the eating bar, half in, half out of the box.
SledgeHammer came onto the stage with a profusion of pyrotechnics and opened with their biggest hit, a hard driving song with a pounding beat. The crowd roared, sparks flew, and Christy settled in to enjoy herself.
Chapter 3
I still think you could have smuggled me in.
Christy's mouth twisted. "It would have been impossible." She was in the townhouse kitchen, stacking the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher after returning from dropping Noelle off at school. "The security guys checked all bags. If they'd found you in my tote there would have been a huge scene. I would have had to take you back to the car and you would have had to spend the evening there."
She was talking to her late husband Frank, who in the form of Stormy the Cat was sitting on her kitchen counter. The cat, an extra large dark gray tabby with a tortoiseshell belly, was watching her work. Frank was arguing with her.
You could have bribed a security guard to let you in without going through the checkpoint.
Christy slammed a plate into its slot with unnecessary force. "I don't bribe security guards." She straightened and stared the cat in the eyes. Stormy's whiskers twitched and after a minute he meowed. She stroked the back of his head and scratched behind his hears. He began to purr. "I know," she said. "It's not your fault that he doesn't listen."
Ha, ha, ha. Seriously, Chris. You know how much I like SledgeHammer.
Yes, she knew. Her fingers slowed as she lost herself in memories. SledgeHammer had just begun their rise to superstardom when she and Frank had moved from Ontario where they met at university, back to his home in Vancouver. They were newlyweds, still very much in love. Frank had bought tickets to SledgeHammer's first arena concert. They were on the floor, in the first row. Awesome seats that cost a fortune, though she and Frank actually spent very little time sitting. SledgeHammer, then as now, played a form of rock that was heavy on the drumbeat. They hadn't been as polished then as they were last night, and they'd played a lot of covers of popular songs because they hadn't yet amassed the collection of number one hits they had today. That didn't matter, though. Energy had pumped from the stage. The evening had been magical. Both evenings. The one ten years ago with Frank and the one last night with Quinn.
Christy sighed. She slid her hand down so she could cup Stormy's chin in her fingers. "Frank," she said gently. "Cats don't go to rock concerts. Stormy's hearing is much better than a human's. He would have freaked and there's nothing you could have done to soothe him."
Stormy purred as if he understood what Christy was saying. She tickled his chin with her middle finger and the purring got louder. She chuckled.
I hate it when you're logical.
"So you'll concede I'm right?"
Huh.
Christy laughed and gave Stormy a final pat before she got back to filling the dishwasher. The task completed, she shut the door, then picked up the cat and placed him on the floor. "I have to wipe the counters and I need to be quick. I've got a ton of stuff to do today." She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, her standard morning attire, so one of her tasks was to shower and change for the outing today with Frank's Aunt Ellen.
Since he was on the floor Stormy went over to his bowl to see what was in it. The cat had a stomach that was a bottomless pit. That didn't mean that he ate indiscriminately like a dog. He'd been known to turn his nose up at a variety of canned foods, but he was ever hopeful that the bowl would produce something tasty every time he inspected it.
The bowl was empty. This morning it had contained egg, sausage, and chicken—people food, the best in Stormy's opinion Frank had told her—but Stormy had inhaled the contents and now it was empty because Christy kept feeding to a schedule. Disgruntled, the cat came back to sit at her feet, perfectly positioned for her to trip over.
I'm not sure I like the idea of you and Quinn taking Noelle to Disneyland.
"You just want to come too." She finished wiping the counters and returned the cloth to the basket on the side of the sink where she kept it.
I can't. I'm living in a cat, remember?
"How can I forget," Christy murmured. It was a couple of months shy of a year since Frank had been murdered and he'd taken up residence in the body of Stormy the family cat. At first she assumed he'd move on once she proved he had been murdered, but that hadn't happened. Now she wasn't sure when, or even if, his spirit would ever leave Stormy. In the meantime, she'd gotten used to having her late husband talking to her in mind thoughts and staying in her house while she gradually allowed herself to fall for the gorgeous reporter who lived down the street.
She smiled as she thought of Quinn. She was looking forward to their trip to Disneyland. They'd be away for almost a week and they'd be alone for the first time. Well, Noelle would be with them, but Frank wouldn't. She was pretty sure that his thoughts wouldn't be able to follow her all the way down to California.
What if something happens to her?
"Health-wise, you mean? Like she breaks her arm or something?" Christy was teasing him, hoping to lighten his mood.
She understood what was bothering Frank. Or she thought she did. He wouldn't be there to watch Noelle have fun, or to hold her if she got scared on one of the rides. Quinn would. Frank might be able to communicate with Noelle the way he did to Christy, Roy and Trevor, but there were limits to what he could do.
No, not health-wise. What if someone kidnaps her? She is a Jamieson after all.
"A poor Jamieson. The embezzlers drained your trust fund, remember? There's no point kidnapping someone who can't pay."
Aunt Ellen can pay.
"No one is going to kidnap Noelle, Frank. Quinn and I will make sure of it."
"Christy?"
Ellen's voice. Just outside the kitchen doorway. Christy stiffened. She couldn't see into the living room from where she was standing and she hadn't noticed Ellen's footsteps either. How much had Ellen heard?
"Are you all right?"
There was concern in Ellen's voice. Too much, then. "I'm fine."
Ellen walked into the kitchen. She was wearing a charcoal gray skirt suit, a dove gray silk blouse and a string of lustrous natural pearls that were big, fat and cost a fortune. In her hand she held the iPad Christy and Noelle had given her for Christmas.
"I heard yo
u mention Frank's name." She hesitated. "As if you were talking to him."
Christy was aware of ghostly laughter in her mind. She resisted the urge to look down at the cat. Instead she smiled and repeated, "I'm fine. Have the plans for today changed? I thought we were going apartment hunting this afternoon?"
Ellen narrowed her eyes and examined her in much the same way Stormy inspected his dish. Then, apparently satisfied, she held up the iPad. "There was a murder after the concert last night."
Christy felt her stomach clench. Murder had inserted itself into her life twice in the past year. The mere sound of the word was enough to shoot a chill through her body. "Murder? Who? Where? When?" Then, lamely, perhaps even desperately, she added, "We don't know the person, do we?"
Ellen nodded, slowly. She turned on the iPad, accessed her newsfeed, and found the article she wanted. She handed the tablet to Christy so she could read the account.
After scanning the report, Christy looked up. "The victim was the girl who was our suite attendant?"
Ellen nodded again. "Awful, isn't it? She was so young. So pretty. And to think she died so horribly."
The article said that the victim had been sexually assaulted sometime after the SledgeHammer concert had ended. She had struggled and her assailant had struck her on the head, the blow hard enough to kill her. Her body had been found early this morning by cleaning staff in the blocked off area on the second level, not far from the suites she managed.
"I'm going to pay a condolence call on Charlotte Sawatzky. I think I mentioned last night she's Chelsea's grandmother."
Christy nodded.
"I know she must be devastated," Ellen said. Her eyes, usually sharp and assessing, were filled with sadness. "She was so kind to me last November, when most people were acting as if I was a plague carrier. I want to know if I can do anything for her. And I want tell her how awful I feel about this."
Christy put the iPad onto the counter. "Of course. We can go apartment hunting some other time."
After a young woman was murdered on her terrace, Ellen had moved out of her downtown Vancouver condo into Christy's Burnaby townhouse. Five months later she was still there. For the last six weeks, she had been looking for a new apartment, but in a desultory way, without success. Once Christy would have been chaffing at the delay, but the truth was, she'd gotten used to having Ellen living with them. Noelle loved having her aunt available and Christy no longer butted heads with Ellen at every turn.
"Tomorrow, perhaps," Ellen said.
Christy had planned to go to the mall tomorrow to shop for a new bathing suit and a summer outfit or two for the warm California weather, but it was easy enough to switch days. "I'll call the realtor and see if we can change our appointment. I'm sure it shouldn't be an issue."
Ellen nodded. "Thank you, Christy."
"Where does Mrs. Sawatzky live? Can I give you a lift?"
"West Vancouver. I've already ordered a taxi, but thank you." The doorbell rang. "This will be my cab now."
Christy nodded. "Call if you need anything."
"Of course." Then she was gone, leaving Christy feeling gloomy and not a little unsettled. She thought about clothes shopping and wondered if she was in the right mood. Then she thought about Quinn and decided that yes, she'd be in the right mood if she could coax him into joining her.
With that thought in mind she patted the cat, made sure he had plenty of water, and headed out the door.
Chapter 4
"The building was completely renovated three years ago," Shelley Kippen, the realtor, said. She was a chirpy woman, somewhere between Christy and Ellen in age. She smiled a lot without the smile reaching her eyes. Not surprising, Christy thought, noticing how Ms. Kippen clutched her iPad to her chest as if it was a shield. Ellen wasn't the easiest of clients to make a sale to at the best of times. She was impossible when she wasn't ready to buy.
"I remember," Ellen said. Elegant and sophisticated in the simple sea blue A-line dress she wore under a knee length wool coat, she looked around the wood paneled lobby, complete with a sweeping staircase that rose grandly to the floor above. "I assume the renovations included structural work, not just the attractive finishings?"
"Of course!" Ms. Kippen said. She gestured at what had once been the reservations desk when the building had been the Regent Hotel on the edge of Vancouver's Downtown East Side. "The renovations were designed to marry modern convenience and old world charm."
Ellen eyeballed the desk where the building manager and the doorman could be seen. Both were smiling at the potential new occupant. They probably believed it would be an additional enticement to buy, Christy thought. Clearly, they did not know their client was Ellen Jamieson.
"The condo fees must be through the roof," Ellen said, her gaze drifting over the staff members without acknowledgement.
"This building has excellent security as well as wonderful conveniences," the realtor said. She was sounding a little less chipper now.
"Security is important," Ellen said briskly. "Particularly in this part of town."
The building was, in fact, on the edge of one of the poorest parts of Vancouver. In the early days of the city it had been one of the best hotels in town, but as the city grew and hotels were built closer to the newer areas, the Regent fell on hard times. Its last incarnation was as a flophouse for those an inch or two away from destitution. As land values soared in the rest of Vancouver, the decaying inner city began to look enticing to investors and property developers. Inevitably the hotel-turned-flophouse was bought up. Initially it was slated for demolition, but an energetic group dedicated to the preservation of Vancouver's past managed to have it designated a historic building. Instead of being torn down, the old hotel was made to shine again and was now one of the city's premier addresses.
"As the area around the Regent Building is redeveloped, your condo will appreciate in value," Ms. Kippen said. "More and more projects are coming on line. I think you will be very happy here, Ms. Jamieson. Now, if you will come this way." She gestured across the lobby, toward the elevators.
Christy wedged the brown leather clutch purse she only used for outings like this more firmly between her arm and her body. The long coral-colored cardigan she wore with black slacks and a white silk shell had a pocket she could have slipped the clutch in, but the weight would have destroyed the elegant flow of the wool and linen fabric and spoiled the image of sophisticated Jamieson wealth she was projecting for this meeting. Shelley Kippen was trying hard to find a new residence for Ellen, and Christy appreciated that. Ellen was a difficult client, picky and never satisfied. All that was keeping Kippen on the case was her desire to make a sale to one of the well-known Jamiesons and the fat commission she'd earn when she finally closed a deal. Christy figured she'd bail if she thought she was just dealing with a cranky middle-aged woman and a single mom. Hence the Jamieson princess look.
As they marched toward the elevators, Christy reflected that she could have told Ms. Kippen that she didn't have to bother showing them the actual unit. She knew from a dozen or more site visits that Ellen had already made up her mind that this was not the building for her. She measured every unit against the condo she'd moved out of after the murder had been committed on her terrace. She might not want to live in her former apartment again, but Christy figured she still loved the building and the unit itself. That was why she was camping out in Christy's spare bedroom in the Burnaby townhouse, far away from her usual stomping grounds. And why she refused to put the condo on the market.
They entered the elevator and the doors closed. Ms. Kippen shoved a keycard into a slot and prattled on about state-of-the-art security that would not allow anyone without a card to access the residential floors.
"A nice feature," Ellen said grudgingly.
If there had been a system like that at her building the murder might never have been committed in her apartment, because the murderer wouldn't have been able to get in.
The elevator had been decorated
to look like one from the 1920s, but it was a modern unit, silent and swift. It delivered them up to the fifteenth floor before Ms. Kippen had finished talking about the building's security system, then glided to a smooth stop. The doors slid open, revealing a brightly lit hallway, wood paneled like the lobby. Red and blue carpeting that was lush and thick beneath their feet provided a splash of rich color. Opposite the elevators was a console table flanked by two padded wing chairs. On the table was a house telephone and an enormous urn filled with fresh flowers.
"Pretty," Christy said, touching one of the blooms.
Encouraged, Ms. Kippen said, "The flowers come from the green house that is part of the roof garden. I'll show you the area later. The gardens are managed by the condo council. There's a committee dedicated to the care of the space. It's wonderful for people who want to downsize from a house with large grounds and who like to garden. It's one of the building's best selling features." She urged them forward. "Unit 1505 is just down the hall, this way."
"Though I do like to look at a well-maintained garden, I am not one to dig in the dirt," Ellen said.
"No, no of course not! Now, here we are." The realtor made play with the keycard, then she flung open the door to the suite. Ellen and Christy went inside.
A half an hour later they were up on the roof garden. The apartment tour had been an anticlimax. It was spacious, but unremarkable. All the residential benefits were in the building—its history, the elegant lobby, and the restaurant and fitness facilities that could be accessed from it. The suite itself was a large box, portioned off into rooms. There were no balconies or terraces attached to the apartments, so the only outdoor space was the roof. It was a beautiful addition to the amenities of the building and the view was spectacular.
Ms. Kippen smiled at Christy and Ellen, and said, "I'll give you a minute to look around, shall I?" She moved away, pulling her phone out of a pocket in her jacket and checking messages while Christy and Ellen set off down one of the graveled paths.
