Let Sleeping Cats Lie: The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series, Book Four

by Louise Clark

  She drew a deep breath. Life was about to change, and all of the people seated on the simple wooden visitor chairs in Harry Endicott’s cramped, airless office knew it. Beside her, Ellen was staring intently at Endicott, her expression giving nothing away. Ellen was the only trustee not currently in custody or serving a sentence, so this news was as important to her as it was to Christy. Beside Ellen was Trevor. He was there to provide legal advice should they need it. He was listening, an observer rather than an active participant. On Christy’s other side was Detective Patterson. The Frank Jamieson murder case was still hers. Although charges had been laid, the trials had not yet happened. Christy supposed Harry’s findings would become part of the evidence that would be produced in court.

  The only other person in the room was the awful Samuel Macklin, a former trustee, who had plea bargained his way into a light sentence that included helping Harry Endicott recover the Jamieson funds and unraveling the twisted accounts of Homeless Help, a non-profit organization that Patterson was also investigating.

  Part of Christy wanted to shout with joy at the news, but another part was worried. Yes, the financial concerns of the past year would ease, but there would be new problems. Somehow, she would have to blend the high-profile Jamieson world into the new, more comfortable lifestyle she’d created in the simple Burnaby Mountain townhouse complex. At this moment, she didn’t know how she would do that. So, she fell back on what had worked in the past and summoned her Jamieson princess persona. Let everyone think this came as no surprise to her. “This is welcome news, Harry.” She smiled and raised her brows in an enquiring way, a woman in perfect control. “How did you discover the location of the funds?”

  Her question allowed Endicott to launch into an enthusiastic, and very detailed, explanation of his process. Beside her, Christy sensed Detective Patterson was listening carefully.

  Christy knew this meeting was bringing back difficult memories for Ellen, and she was glad that Trevor was seated beside her. She’d noticed him patting Ellen’s hand a couple of times, particularly when Macklin had been speaking. Ellen had come a long way since she had shared responsibility for Frank’s fortune with Macklin and the other trustees. Back then, she’d let the others provide the direction and allowed herself to be the Jamieson figurehead in the organization. She’d been naive and come to regret it. The exposure of the embezzlement had shocked her and caused her to reevaluate her position as a trustee, and indeed, her life. It was clear she resented Macklin’s presence here, as Christy herself did.

  When Harry finished his dissertation, Patterson said, “Eve Fisher refuses to admit that any of the Jamieson money was laundered through Fisher Disposal. She’s adamant that her husband is innocent of the charges against him. We know he used some of the money to buy Fisher Disposal shares, but we suspect there’s more. We need the details before he comes to trial.”

  “Retrieving all of it won’t be easy, but the money is there,” Macklin said. “I wasn’t the one who moved the cash, so I don’t know the details of how it was done. I’ll keep digging. We’ll find it all, eventually.”

  Ellen’s features froze into a pinched expression that had her lips tight and her jaw set. She stared straight ahead, not looking at Macklin, who was glancing around at the others in the meeting as if he was one of them, a victim of the embezzlement scam. Christy saw Trevor squeeze Ellen’s hand and was again glad he’d come. Like Ellen, she didn’t acknowledge Macklin’s comment. Instead, she turned to Patterson and said, “What do you need me to do, Detective? Ellen and I want to help in any way we can.”

  A slow smile lifted the corner of Patterson’s mouth. Apart from a scar that marred one side of her face, running down her jaw, she was a beautiful woman, even though she downplayed her looks. Now a rueful amusement warmed dark eyes, rimmed with lush black lashes. “You’ll have to testify against the trustees, but you already knew that. Otherwise, hang on to your fortune this time, Mrs. Jamieson.”

  Christy nodded. Her stomach twisted at the reminder. She wasn’t looking forward to taking the stand.

  “Harry will need to keep meticulous records of what he and Mr. Macklin find, but then he always does,” Patterson’s smile widened as she tipped her head in Endicott’s direction. “He’ll write a detailed report hundreds of pages long, but so clear that defense counsel will have a hard time refuting it.”

  “We’ll have to reconstruct the Trust,” Ellen said. There was no emotion in her voice, nor did she look at Macklin. She turned to Christy. “We should do it before the money is returned.”

  “Good idea,” Patterson said. She didn’t add that they should choose the new trustees carefully. She didn’t have to. Christy felt the burden without hearing the words. Since the embezzlement had been revealed, the Trust’s office manager had been managing the money that remained, but the amount was small—a nest egg rather a fortune. On Trevor’s advice, Ellen had petitioned the courts to have the trustees who had participated in the embezzlement removed from office, leaving Ellen the sole remaining trustee. She had often said how relieved she was that she didn’t have to manage vast sums that made up the Jamieson fortune. Christy was willing to help, but as a secondary recipient of the Trust—first as Frank’s wife, now as Noelle’s mother—she wasn’t sure if the terms of the Trust would allow her to become one of the trustees.

  Harry beamed and nodded. “I will be happy to offer any assistance I can, Mrs. Jamieson. Do not hesitate to call me at any time.”

  She smiled at the accountant, and nodded, but she couldn’t think of a single question to ask. She was still reeling from the scope of his news. “Thank you, Mr. Endicott. I’ll be in touch.”

  Endicott nodded and stood. He stretched out his hand. “It has been a pleasure, Mrs. Jamieson. As always.”

  Christy stood and took his hand. The others rose as well and Harry went through the same ritual with each of them. She expected Patterson to stay and confer further with Endicott and Macklin while she, Ellen, and Trevor left. To her surprise, the detective followed them out of the small office.

  She closed the door firmly behind her and said, “Mrs. Jamieson, if I might have a word?”

  Christy paused in the middle of the hallway and half turned toward her.

  Ellen said, “Trevor and I will meet you at the car.”

  Christy frowned, but she nodded and turned back to the detective.

  Patterson waited until Ellen and Trevor were at the elevators and well out of earshot before she spoke. “You’ve heard about the murder of Fredrick Jarvis?”

  Warning bells went off in Christy’s head. She nodded cautiously. “It was the topic of a discussion at a recent social gathering I was at.” A fancy way to describe one of the Armstrongs’ backyard barbeques, but she was still in her Jamieson princess persona. Fancy was the norm, not the exception. “Is it one of your cases?”

  Patterson nodded, then surprisingly her expression twisted into one of derision and she shrugged.

  Christy raised her brows. This was certainly odd behavior for the usually impassive and professional cop.

  Patterson made an effort to pull herself back into control. “It is and it isn’t, Mrs. Jamieson.” There was annoyance in the words and in her tone of voice. “Fredrick Jarvis was a national figure. His death is being considered in the context of his position as a member of the provincial government and his current campaign for the national leadership of his party.”

  Christy nodded. “The news broadcasts are full of speculation on who might have killed him. I’ve heard some reports that he was murdered by an international terror group. Others suggest it was one of the other leadership candidates. Even the possibility of a disgruntled constituent has been mentioned.”

  “All of those options have been raised. A joint taskforce made up of federal and city police has been appointed.” Patterson hesitated and Christy thought she was choosing her words carefully. “With the assumption that Mr. Jarvis’ death was politically motivated, the investigator leading the ta
skforce is Inspector Fortier from Ottawa.”

  “I see,” Christy said. Though she didn’t, not really. Patterson was clearly annoyed that the feds were guiding the taskforce, not someone from the Vancouver police department, but why had she deliberately chosen to talk to Christy?

  Patterson nodded. Again, she hesitated. “Fortier is focused on Mr. Jarvis’ public life. He’s looking at anyone who has ever disagreed with him politically, the people who protested his policies, his competitors in the current leadership campaign, anyone with international connections.”

  Christy stared at Patterson. She heard Roy’s voice reminiscing about the protests he’d participated in while Jarvis was minister of the environment and his still-firm view that Jarvis was dead wrong in his policies. She thought about Tamara, held captive by radicals, and so newly returned to Canada.

  And Quinn, Tamara’s former, and possibly current, lover. A journalist who spent years in war zones, interviewing friends—and when he could arrange it—foes, alike.

  The cold of stark fear washed over her. “Everyone?”

  Patterson raised her brows as she nodded. “I don’t believe Mr. Jarvis was killed by an international terrorist. I think he was murdered for one of the usual reasons—money, revenge, jealousy, fear. I think his killer is close to home. But I’m a lone voice.”

  Which meant that Roy and Quinn, possibly even Trevor, were in danger. “I wish she had never come here,” Christy said fiercely.

  Patterson knew exactly who Christy meant. She nodded. “Dr. Ahern is certainly a suspect. Do you know why she chose this moment to visit Vancouver?”

  “She claims it was to find her birth parents.”

  “And she’d never shown any interest in them before?”

  Christy decided she didn’t mind sacrificing Tamara if it meant taking the heat off Quinn and Roy. “Not from what I’ve heard.”

  “You can see why the taskforce is focusing on her actions.”

  Christy nodded. She felt sick inside, devastated by the turn the conversation had taken.

  Patterson watched her carefully. “If Dr. Ahern was planning an assassination, she’d need a local contact. Someone she could trust.”

  Anger ripped through Christy. Patterson had conned her, drawing her out, getting her to say what she didn’t mean. She wrapped her Jamieson manner around her like a protective cloak, and said, “If you’re implying Quinn Armstrong is that person, Detective, you’re wrong. He would never participate in a killing, for either political or personal reasons.”

  Amusement gleamed in Patterson’s eyes, though her features remained impassive. “Bravo, Mrs. Jamieson. I like your style.”

  “I meant what I said, Detective,” she snapped. “Quinn is guilty of nothing but being a good friend to a woman who has been through three years of hell.”

  “I think you’re right, Mrs. Jamieson. I’ve heard rumors that Fredrick Jarvis had enemies. The personal kind, not political ones.”

  “Well then?”

  “Jarvis was killed by a precision gunshot to the head. Fortier thinks it was a sniper shot done by a professional assassin.”

  “What does that mean?” That hollow sense of fear was building again, because, although she’d asked the question, Christy already knew the answer.

  “It means I don’t have the time or manpower to dig deep into the lives of the people in Frederick Jarvis’s personal life, because Fortier has the taskforce focused on the national and international connection.” Patterson’s expression hardened and there was an edge of threat in her voice. “He’ll put Dr. Ahern’s life under a spotlight. It will shine on everyone around her. The glare will be intense.”

  Christy knew all about that public spotlight. She knew how it could distort even the most innocent of actions. She’d lived with it for months after her husband disappeared. “And if Fortier is wrong? If it isn’t Tamara?”

  Patterson shrugged. Her jaw was set. “There’s a lot of pressure to find Mr. Jarvis’ murderer.”

  “If you believe Jarvis was killed for personal reasons, why don’t you investigate that angle?”

  “Like I said, Mrs. Jamieson, the taskforce is focused. And I am part of it. Everyone involved is working flat out to sift through a mountain of data. I had to get special permission to come to the meeting this afternoon.”

  Christy frowned. “You came to warn me Quinn might be under investigation?”

  Patterson didn’t immediately reply. Again, Christy had the sense that she was wrestling with herself. Finally, she said, “Mr. Jarvis moved in the kind of social circles the Jamiesons play in. I’m sure you, or your aunt, know his wife and children. You might even be on a first name basis with them.”

  “His daughter was on one of the committees I belonged to before Frank died, but—” Horrified realization dawned. “You want me to investigate Fred Jarvis’ family?”

  “Ears, eyes and feet, Mrs. Jamieson. You can go where I cannot.”

  Patterson wanted her to be a confidential informant, someone who could get close to a suspect, gather information, then report back. “Detective, this is a big request. I’m not sure … ”

  Patterson’s gaze was steady on hers, but she didn’t speak. She just let Christy stew about spotlights, and consequences, and danger to those she loved.

  “All right,” Christy said at last. “Give me the names on your suspect list.”

  Chapter 7

  “I cannot remain as a trustee,” Ellen said, for the umpteenth time.

  She, Trevor, and Christy had talked about how to restructure the Trust on the way home from Harry Endicott’s stuffy little downtown office. They had identified the kind of skills the new trustees should have, but not the names. The discussion provided Christy with time to assess the disturbing conversation she’d had with Patterson. She knew Ellen and Trevor were both curious about what the detective wanted, but they assumed it had to do with the Trust, so they didn’t push. Then Ellen had dropped the bombshell about resigning her position, and she had to focus on this new crisis.

  The discussion turned into an argument that didn’t abate until Christy turned into the townhouse driveway, and then only to bid good-bye to Trevor, who took the opportunity to bow out by heading over to the Armstrong house.

  Ellen now sat stiffly on one corner of the sofa in Christy’s living room, determined, inflexible. Her face still wore the frown she’d had through most of the meeting at Harry Endicott’s office. She was not going to budge.

  Seated on the other end of the couch, Christy picked up the antique silver urn resting on the coffee table and poured coffee into a fragile cup from the Jamieson bone china service. She rarely used the delicate china, preferring more practical stoneware, but with the news that the Jamieson fortune was to be restored, it seemed appropriate. “Since Frank wasn’t at the meeting or in the van coming home, explain again why you are so adamant that you should not remain as one of the trustees.” She handed the cup to Ellen as she finished speaking.

  Ellen accepted the coffee, but didn’t seem to notice the cup, although she stared at it while she stirred in cream and sugar. “I am not qualified.”

  Stormy was perched between them on the sofa, his tail curled around his front paws in his usual neat and tidy way. Of course you’re qualified! You’ve been a trustee since my parents died.

  “Exactly,” Ellen said. She sipped her coffee, still refusing to look at Christy or the cat.

  Regrets, Aunt Ellen?

  Her hand shook and she put the cup onto the coffee table in front of her. “You have always been able to pinpoint my weaknesses. Yes, Frank, I have regrets and far too many of them.”

  “Ellen,” Christy said gently. She thought that at last they were getting to the heart of the problem.

  Ellen shook her head, then leaned over and put her hand on Christy’s. “These past months have shown me how little faith I had in my own nephew, a man I raised. I chose strangers over family. I believed when the other trustees said Frank was beyond help. Beyond ho
pe. I assumed you didn’t love Frank, that you married him for his money and the Jamieson name. I accepted that because Gerry Fisher told me it was true. Gerry was wrong. I know that now. I didn’t ask the kind of questions I should have. So, yes, I regret those years and the hurt I caused.”

  Ellen’s voice shook with emotion barely restrained and Christy found herself responding. When Ellen had turned up on her doorstep eight months ago she would never have believed she would hear Frank’s aunt utter these words, but in the subsequent months, Ellen had settled into the little household and become Christy’s partner in raising Noelle.

  Part of Christy wanted to take the easy way out and simply say everything was okay now, then move on. Another part realized that Ellen needed to cleanse the wound before she could go forward. She drew a deep breath. “I was lonely a lot of the time. Frank … Frank was often not there for me.”

  Stormy tensed, then hunkered down into a crouch. His tail lashed back and forth. Frank didn’t speak.

  “I could have used your support then. I admit it,” Christy said. “But I don’t bear a grudge. In the past months, you’ve made up for those years and I think we’ve become friends.”

  Ellen nodded. “Yes.”

  “I think we should put the past where it belongs. Behind us.”

  Ellen put her hand to her throat. Her fingers fiddled with the rope of natural pearls she wore. After a moment, she nodded and opened her mouth. But it wasn’t Ellen who spoke, but Frank. I can’t.

  Both women looked at the cat, still hunched down on his part of the sofa.

  I promised you I would always look after you, Chris, and I failed.

  “You were murdered, Frank.”

  You’re right. I wasn’t there for you. I want to be there now.

  Christy stared at the cat. Stormy’s head was up now, staring at her, big green eyes unblinking, body crouched, muscles tense. Was this why Frank was still here, camping in Stormy’s body? Because he needed to atone for the sins of his past? “Frank—”