by Louise Clark
Leaving Christy shaken and furious.
So she glared at Patterson and waited for the detective to respond. She didn’t.
Christy drew a deep breath. Patterson’s silence and her refusal to meet Christy’s eyes added unease to her anger. “You asked me to be involved, Detective Patterson.”
At that, Patterson finally dragged her gaze away from the dramatic vista of tree-clad mountains bisected by the silver gleam of the ocean fiord. Her expression was troubled as she met Christy’s eyes. “Things have been moving quickly.”
“Too quickly,” Christy snapped. She stopped. She pursed her lips in an effort to control her emotions, to give herself time to think. “You asked me to look for suspects in Fred Jarvis’ personal life. I can do that, but I need time. I’m scheduled to go to the man’s funeral tomorrow. His family will be there. That’s how I’ll start.”
“The funeral is generating a lot of media interest, and that is putting pressure on Fortier,” Patterson said. “He wants a suspect in custody before the funeral so Jarvis can be buried in peace.”
The implication of that ratcheted Christy’s temper up another notch. “So he’s railroading a good man and a vulnerable woman?”
“He believes the murder is politically motivated.”
Patterson sounded defensive. Well she should. Fortier might outrank her, but this was her home turf and she was a respected officer. She could make her voice heard. “Olivia Waters was Fred Jarvis’ mistress thirty years ago. Maybe he’s had others since. Olivia plans to attend his funeral. Perhaps the others will be there too, even if they’ve been dumped. A scorned woman can be a very angry woman.”
Patterson shook her head. “This wasn’t an act of passion. Jarvis was deliberately targeted. He was shot through the head. A precision shot by an expert.”
Christy raised her brows. “You’ve come round to the taskforce’s way of thinking.”
Patterson’s lips parted as if to reply, then she firmed her mouth into a straight line. Looking away, she stared again at the glorious vista before them. “The evidence doesn’t lie.”
Christy turned. Like Patterson she looked out across the Burrard Inlet to the mountains beyond. “I don’t suppose it does. The interpretation of it might, though.”
“What do you mean?”
She felt Patterson’s quick, sharp glance and shifted to meet it. “Experts can be hired if you have the money to spend.”
“Money, not fanaticism,” Patterson murmured.
“Quinn had a handgun. You took it away from him when he shot at my attacker last year. When he missed my attacker.”
Patterson smiled faintly.
Encouraged, Christy said, “Quite apart from the fact that I don’t think he has it in him to shoot someone in cold blood, he never replaced the gun.”
“So he says.”
Christy nodded. “Yeah, he says. You’ll check that out, but you won’t find a gun, because there isn’t one.”
“Okay. Fortier over stepped. He shouldn’t have taken Quinn Armstrong in for interrogation. Tamara Ahern, on the other hand? There is ample evidence that she’s been turned.”
“Like what?”
Patterson shook her head. “I can’t say.”
Christy had gotten a lot further than she expected and her anger was now at a simmer, not a boil. She smiled thinly at Patterson and said, “I can guess. How’s this? Tamara spent almost three years in the hands of terrorists. She has PTSD. The father she never knew and was desperate to find turned out to be a total jerk who wanted to use her to further his political ends.” She hardened her voice and narrowed her eyes. “This is the kind of proof Trevor McCullagh would call circumstantial.”
“Perhaps, but you’ve outlined some pretty good motives for murder, Mrs. Jamieson,” Patterson said. A muscle twitched in her jaw. “She also had opportunity.”
“Yeah. She was alone at the time of his death.”
“Don’t sound so scornful. She says she was walking in Stanley Park. She has no one who can place her there.”
Christy lifted her chin in challenge. “Did she have the means to do the murder? Is she a crack shot? Does she own the same kind of gun as the murder weapon?” When Patterson was silent, she said, “I’m sure you’ve searched her hotel room and the one she used at the Armstrong’s house. Did you find a weapon?”
“The murder weapon hasn’t been found yet,” Patterson said. She bit the words out. Her expression was annoyed. “All right, you’ve made your point. Go to the funeral. Dig up what you can on Jarvis’ friends and family.”
“Quinn is innocent,” Christy said, sending her a level stare.
“I’ll do what I can to spring him, but Fortier thinks Ahern was working with someone and he likes Armstrong for it.”
Indignation merged with annoyance and chose her words as Christy said, “Has this idiot man actually looked into the actions of anyone other than Quinn and Tamara?”
Patterson laughed. “His job is national security. It’s natural that he’d search for political reasons first.”
“And he found them.”
“Yeah, he did.” Patterson pulled away from the fence and started to walk, back toward the parking lot. “Look, Mrs. Jamieson, he’s managed a thorough investigation. Jarvis’ political and office staff have been investigated and they all have alibies.”
“How big was his staff?” Christy asked. They were walking slowly, finishing up a conversation that hadn’t—in her opinion, anyway—been particularly useful.
“The key players are his campaign manager, Harold Cowan, his secretary, Teresa Atkinson, his communications manager, Joyce Crothers, and his event planner, Phoebe Beck. Her husband, Russell Beck, was one of Jarvis’ security detail. Cowan and Crothers were with Jarvis at his Yaletown office, working on campaign details on that Saturday afternoon. The Becks were at a party in the same area. Teresa Atkinson was at home, hosting a family get together which included her in-laws. Who have never liked her, she says.” Patterson shrugged. “They confirm her statement, which makes it pretty solid.”
They had reached the parking lot. At her car, Patterson stopped and faced Christy. “You’ll be in touch.”
Christy allowed herself a small, tight smile. “You bet I will.”
Patterson nodded and slipped into the car. Christy stood beside her van and watched while the detective drove away.
Solving this mystery was up to the amateurs now, Christy and the little band of friends she’d made since moving into her Burnaby townhouse.
There was no way Quinn and his Tamara were going to be convicted of this crime.
Not if she could help it.
Chapter 14
While she watched Patterson drive away she put out a call to Ellen, Trevor, and Roy, asking them to meet for a strategy session after dinner. Ellen was downtown, at her condo, where she’d gone to pick up a dress for the funeral the next day, but she was planning to return to Burnaby for dinner anyway. Trevor and Roy were also out—at the police station where Trevor was trying to force Fortier to let him speak to Quinn and Tamara, and Roy was doing his best to persuade the members of the taskforce that the power of the written word would produce a hideous backlash on them if Quinn was wrongfully charged.
Trevor sounded harassed when he talked to her. Christy got the impression that part of his mission was to keep Roy from doing something that would lead to his being arrested too. He promised to send Sledge to the meeting in his stead and rang off.
Another quick call, this time to Rebecca Petrofsky, ensured that Noelle could stay at the Petrofskys’ until the meeting was over, relieving Christy’s concern that her daughter shouldn’t be listening-in on a conference on searching for a murderer. Then she headed home to prep.
Since it would only be her, Ellen and Sledge, she figured she might as well combine the meeting with supper. She was busy putting together a poor man’s Stroganoff, made with hamburger instead of steak, when Stormy sauntered into the kitchen, yawning widely. Hey, babe. Wh
ere were you?
“I was up at Burnaby Mountain Park talking to Patterson about Fred Jarvis’ death.”
Stormy headed to his food dish and sniffed the empty bowl. He looked up and meowed at Christy.
“I’ll feed you once I’ve got the meal organized,” she said.
The cat’s tail shivered with annoyance, but he turned his attention to his water bowl and began to lap.
The sound of a car outside had Christy heading to the window and peeking out. A taxi was parked in front of their walk. “Ellen’s arrived. I wonder how long Sledge will be.”
We’re having a meeting?
Christy nodded as she moved away from the window.
About what?
“Fred Jarvis’ murder. Fortier and his taskforce believe Tamara is the killer and Quinn is her accomplice.”
Downstairs the front door opened and Ellen called, “I’m here. Where are you, Christy?”
“In the kitchen with Frank.”
Ellen’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. She appeared in the opening between the living room and the kitchen. She was holding a small suitcase. “I’ll take this upstairs and hang up my clothes before we begin.”
Christy nodded. “Trevor and Roy are down at the police station, but Sledge is coming. I’ll call you when he arrives.”
Ellen nodded and disappeared. Christy set about laying the table, then putting together a salad. She had just finished filling Stormy’s food bowl when she heard the sound of a car engine again. It was rapidly followed by the doorbell.
Ellen poked her head through the kitchen doorway. “I’ll get it.” She sniffed. “Something smells good.”
Sledge’s expression was somber when he entered the kitchen. He came over to Christy, wrapped his arm around her shoulders in a quick hug and kissed her cheek. Christy smiled at him and ignored Ellen’s speculative expression and raised brows. “Hi Sledge. Thanks for coming.”
He nodded and released her. She offered him a plate and told the others to help themselves to noodles and stroganoff, then waited until they’d finished before serving herself.
“Dad’s worried,” Sledge said, as she sat down at the table.
“He should be,” Christy said, giving her outrage a little taste of freedom. “Patterson says Fortier has decided the murder has international roots that implicate Tamara and because of her, Quinn.”
Sledge scooped noodles and stroganoff onto his fork and ate. His eyes lit up. “What is this? It’s really good.”
“Thanks,” Christy said. “It’s an easy supper my mom makes.” She smiled faintly. “A childhood favorite.” Sobering, she said, “But getting back to the murder. Did Trevor say anything else?”
Sledge shook his head, even as he added more stroganoff to his fork. “Only that Fortier insists that Tamara is a person of interest and that he hasn’t charged her yet.”
“Not yet, but there’s a good chance he will.”
“What does Patterson have to say about Fortier’s handling of the case?” Ellen asked. She raised her brows in a haughty way. “After all, she was the one who asked you to look into the family and friends aspect of it.”
Christy pushed a mushroom to one side of her plate. “The taskforce has investigated the alibis of the family members as well as Jarvis’ staff, and they are all solid. She wants me to back off.”
Stormy finished his meal and leapt up onto the last chair, the one opposite Christy. He sat down in his usual tidy position, body straight, tail wrapped around his paws. His nose, eyes, and ears were just visible over the edge of the tabletop.
Sledge frowned. “Does she think Tamara and Quinn are the perps?” He grinned suddenly, as if using Hollywood cop show slang gave him a little rush of fun.
Ellen shot him a disapproving look. She didn’t like nicknames or shortened forms of perfectly good words.
“She isn’t certain,” Christy said. “I got the impression Fortier is persuasive, that people listen to him and accept what he thinks. Patterson may have her own suspicions, but she’s keeping them to herself.”
“Why doesn’t she speak up?” Ellen asked. She pursed her lips and her nostrils flared in an expression of disdain. She’d never forgive the detective for once arresting her.
Christy shrugged. “Cop politics? Game playing? Fortier isn’t listening because he’s a misogynistic male or just a jealous one? Patterson was being very circumspect when we talked, so she didn’t specify. Whatever the reason, Tamara and Quinn are being interrogated by cops intent on scoring a big arrest, and Roy is doing his best to make the taskforce pay attention to him so they’ll stop focusing on his son. It’s a mess.”
Ellen nodded gloomily. Sledge shot Christy a compassionate look. Frank said nothing.
Christy drew a deep breath. She’d let her outrage slip, turning her explanation into something close to a rant. She needed to let it fuel her determination, give her an edge, but she had to keep it under control or she’d come across as another emotional female. “The investigation is now on us. If she can, Patterson will use anything we find, but she’s not actively looking for new suspects.” She paused to sip from the wine Sledge had poured her. “The funeral is tomorrow. I want to have a plan. Let’s start with who we believe will be there and what we know about their relationship with Jarvis. Then we can move on to who might attend and do the same thing.”
Ellen had brought her leather binder, stocked with fancy letterhead, to the kitchen. With it were the fountain pens filled with vivid colors she used to keep track of the information they discovered. She moved her plate to one side and nodded as she opened the binder. “Excellent idea.” She made a note using a pen with aquamarine ink. “I’ll start. As I mentioned when we first heard of the murder, I have a passing acquaintance with Letitia Jarvis, the victim’s wife. She comes from an old establishment family and she is very much the politician’s wife. She never worked—she didn’t have to. Her father owns a manufacturing empire that supplies house brand products for hardware stores. She has two children with Jarvis. Colin, the boy, is the eldest. He and his father were always at odds when he was a teenager. Colin also has political interests, but he has never worked for his father, because of their personal differences. Their daughter is Candis. She married George Blais right out of university. She had a child nine months later.”
“I didn’t know that,” Christy said. She made a face. “I would never have suspected Candis of taking a risk with her reputation. When I worked with her on the parent committee at Noelle’s old school she was always so very prim and proper. Every rule enforced, unless it meant that her dear little daughter didn’t get to be first at some activity.” Christy paused and lifted a hand in a dismissive wave. “I think she had a pretty good relationship with her father, though. He was certainly interested in his granddaughter’s education. I saw him around the school quite often.” She laughed softly. “Hilda Toutov, the principal at RVA, and a total dragon, was always pleasant to him. Warm and friendly, in fact.”
Sledge raised his eyebrows. “To the point of flirting with him?”
Christy frowned. “You think she was having an affair with him?”
“Why not?” He shrugged.
You obviously never met Hilda Toutov. She doesn’t flirt. Chris says she is a dragon. I’d call her an iron maiden.
“It’s an interesting thought, though,” Ellen said. She played with her pen, moving it back and forth between her fingers. “We know he had an affair with Olivia Waters. Who is to say that was his only one?”
“Why would a woman with Letitia Jarvis’ connections put up with a husband who constantly strayed?” Christy asked.
Ellen shot her a long look. “Her father had the reputation of being a player and her parents never divorced. If she was brought up to believe that marriage was an alliance rather than a partnership, she might be willing to overlook serial philandering.”
“Until a child she’d never known about showed up,” Christy said.
Ellen nodded. “That could be m
ore than she was willing to accept.”
“Okay, so we have a wife who might feel her position is being undercut, a son who was at odds with his father, and a daughter who—what? Does Candis have a motive?”
“You said Jarvis spent a lot of time at his granddaughter’s school. Sounds like his relationship with Candis was close. Maybe she was jealous of a half-sister she’d never heard of before. Especially a half-sister who was something of a heroine.”
Good one, Sledge!
Sledge shot the cat a bemused look. “Thanks.”
“Any other family members we’ll see there?” Christy asked, ignoring Frank’s gushing comment. He was a long-time fan of SledgeHammer and he hadn’t quite got over the excitement of knowing one of the band members personally.
“Letitia’s family may attend. Her parents live back East, though, so I can’t be sure,” Ellen said. “Her sister will certainly be there as she lives in West Vancouver.”
“That’s Sharon Conroy, isn’t it?” Ellen nodded and Christy continued. “Candis once let out that her father and aunt didn’t speak. There’s been some kind of family spat. It happened years ago, but the estrangement never healed.”
“She kept in touch with Letitia, even if she refused to talk to Fred,” Ellen said. “I’ve seen them having lunch together. I’m sure Sharon will be there to support Letitia.”
“Anyone from the Jarvis side?”
“His brother and his family will probably attend. They live in Calgary, though, so they are unlikely suspects.” Ellen added to the list she’d been busily compiling. “Still, I’ll include them. You never know.”
“The funeral is being held downtown. I’ve heard a big crowd is expected,” Sledge said. “The premier and his cabinet are attending, as well as a bunch of other political figures.”
