by Louise Clark
Chapter 20
By the time Christy and Ellen were parked and out of the car, there was an argument going on at the Armstrong’s driveway.
“It will be an interview,” Quinn was saying.
“It won’t. You’re not an impartial observer. You’re involved.” That was Mallory Tait, the hotshot lawyer from Trevor’s firm. She sounded annoyed.
Christy raised her brows and shared a glance with Ellen. The cat appeared out of nowhere and rubbed against her ankles. She reached down and picked him up. He purred as she scratched behind his ears.
Quinn’s upset. He wants to interrogate Archie Fleming. He says Fleming is the key.
“Does he, now?” Ellen murmured. “I wonder why that is?”
He’s bought into the idea that the killing was politically motivated. Who else could it be, but The Competition?
“Fleming could also be implicated if it was personal,” Christy said. She was thinking about Marian’s day-long paean to Fred Jarvis. Surely such devotion to a lover would be hard for a husband to bear. What Marian believed and what the real emotions were might be very different.
“Fortier has Tamara all but hung, drawn, and quartered,” Quinn said. His expression was grim. “He’s stopped looking for the killer. He figures he has her. He’s wrong. I know it. So if he won’t keep searching, someone else has to.”
“And that would be you?” Mallory asked, a sneer liberally mixed into the annoyance in her voice.
“No. That would be us,” Christy said as she reached the little group.
Mallory frowned at the interruption, but ignored it, keeping her focus on Quinn. When she spoke, it was clear she was determined to stop him from meeting with Archie Fleming. “How do you expect to get a private meeting with him? Not only are you still a person of interest in the case, but he’s a politician on the campaign trail. He may have taken time off after Fred Jarvis’s death, but his days will be filled with events and meetings.”
Quinn’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m a journalist. Politicians love us. If he doesn’t respond right away, I’ll try again. If he won’t see me I’ll camp on his doorstep. Whatever happens, I’ll get in to see him somehow.”
“Listen to me, Quinn! That’s harassment. It’s not good strategy—”
Christy lowered the cat to the ground. He twined around Mallory’s ankles, distracting her. Christy ignored Mallory and looked at Quinn. “I may be able to help with that. Ellen and I have come from shopping with Marian Fleming. I’ll call her and see if I can arrange through her for you to meet with Archie.”
Mallory frowned as she gave Christy a thorough onceover. Her expression said she found it difficult to equate schmoozing with the wife of a national politician and a modest Burnaby townhouse complex. Evidently she hadn’t received the memo that not only did a world-renowned author and his journalist son live in the townhouse complex, but so did the two senior members of the powerful Jamieson family. Mallory’s frown deepened as she met Ellen’s imperious stare, but she was made of tough stuff. She wasn’t about to back down from her primary goal. “It doesn’t matter how you get the interview. It’s still a bad idea. Fleming will be hostile. He won’t speak freely to you, which means you won’t get the information you think he’s hiding.”
Ellen laughed, which made Mallory turn her glare on her. “You clearly don’t know Fred Jarvis or the bizarre relationships he formed.”
Mallory’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean?”
“Fred had a way of creating extended family through his lovers,” Christy said. “I think Marian has picked up the habit. I’m her friend now, so my friends are her friends.”
“And her friends are Archie’s friends,” Ellen added.
Quinn’s gaze burned into Christy’s. “Go for it,” he said. “If you can get Archie to agree to meet with me just tell me when and where and I’ll be there.”
When and where turned out to be the Fleming’s house that evening. “After dinner drinks,” Christy had said when she called to let him know. “Wear a suit.”
So here he was, standing beside Christy outside the Fleming’s British Properties home in West Vancouver, wearing a suit and being frisked by one of Archie Fleming’s security detail. Finally, they were waved through the security perimeter and allowed to proceed to the front door. Marian Fleming opened it herself.
“Darling!” she said to Christy as if they were the best friends in all the world. The two women engaged in the air kisses ritual, barely touching cheeks, smiling all the while. He’d always known Christy was smart and capable, but he was impressed—and not a little saddened—by how quickly she’d adapted to being the senior Jamieson and the family representative.
The air kisses ritual over, Marian turned to scrutinize him. “And this must be your Quinn,” she said as she looked him up and down. He fancied he saw approval in her smile as she reached for his hand. She clasped it strongly, giving it a little squeeze to go with the warm smile. It was the kind of grasp you gave a friend you liked, perhaps even cared for, but hadn’t seen in a long time.
“It is,” Christy said as she performed proper introductions. She didn’t indicate what she’d said to Marian to convince her Quinn was okay. He could wonder, even guess, but he didn’t really want to know the exact details. It would confuse an already confused situation and bring up emotions he wasn’t prepared to deal with now while he was with Christy.
Marian ushered them into a spacious central hall. The floor was tiled with natural slate, the walls wood paneled and gleaming with a rich patina of care and age. Above the paneling, the walls were painted a mellow ivory and hung with fine examples of West Coast native art. A console table made of teak, with the spare clean lines of mid-century modern design, was set against one wall. Chairs in the same style were arranged on either side of the table, and on one corner was a large painted bowl in West Coast First Nations style, apparently used to hold keys. At the other end, was a silver tray with the hallmarks of the Georgian era. On it were several envelopes, old-fashioned snail mail, either on the way in or out. A chandelier hung from the high ceiling, casting a mellow glow over the entire space.
“What a lovely house,” Christy said, smiling.
Marian beamed. “We bought it fifteen years ago when Archie first won the riding.” She shuddered theatrically. “I thought the price was horrendous then, but now? We had it evaluated recently and I was shocked at how much it had appreciated. Of course, we had to do extensive redecoration. The old couple who originally owned it were lovely people, but the interior was so outdated.”
Christy made a pleasant reply, encouraging Marian to expound on the history of the house and the changes she’d made as she led them through an archway and down a corridor to a snug room decorated with the same mix of traditional and modern. Archie Fleming was waiting inside and it soon became clear that the coming interview was expected to be private.
Once the introductions were made, Marian kissed her husband on the cheek and said, “Enjoy your talk, you two. Christy and I are going to indulge in a glass of wine and a chat in the family room.”
Archie watched his wife gently close the door. “I don’t know what Mrs. Jamieson did, but Marian came back from their shopping trip more cheerful than I’ve seen her since Fred died. So thank you.” He turned away, moving over to a built-in drinks cabinet. “What would you like?”
Normally, Quinn didn’t drink on the job, but he wasn’t interviewing Fleming with the intention of doing an article, so he said, “Scotch, neat, please.”
Archie nodded and poured himself a whisky as well. He handed Quinn a glass. “You want to know about Fred.”
“I don’t think Tamara Ahern killed him.” Best to put where he stood out in the open. If Fleming didn’t like it, he could end the interview and tell Quinn to go.
Archie indicated a chair beside an unlit fireplace. Quinn sat. Fleming eased into the second of the matching pair, opposite. “Why?”
Quinn frowned. “Why what?”
“Why do you think Fred’s daughter is innocent? Inspector Fortier believes she’s—if not the killer, then at least the instigator of the crime. Letitia Jarvis agrees with him.”
Quinn watched the Scotch swirl as he tilted his glass from side-to-side while he gathered his thoughts. This was supposed to be about him questioning Archie Fleming, not the other way around. Still … He looked up and met the Fleming’s gaze. “I think Fortier has one thing right. The person who killed Fred Jarvis was a professional. The cops showed me pictures of the victim while I was being interrogated. The shot was too precise, too clean, to have been done by someone not familiar with firearms. The next step is to wonder who hired a hitman to eliminate Jarvis. A professional hit implies planning, motivation, and money. Tamara doesn’t tick any of those boxes.”
Archie raised his brows. “Fortier thinks she does.”
Quinn kept eye contact as he shook his head. “He’s wrong. Planning? How could she organize a hit when she didn’t know Fred Jarvis was her father until Olivia Waters introduced him to her two days before his murder? Motivation? Why kill him? Okay, their first meeting went badly and she didn’t like him, but to murder him? He wasn’t part of her life. It would be easy to walk away and not look back. Money? None there. The only real money in her life came from the trust fund Olivia Waters created for her and there’s no evidence she has accessed it since before her kidnapping.”
Archie watched Quinn as he spoke, sipping whisky and listening carefully. “Good points,” he said in reply. “But the people who kidnapped Dr. Ahern could have found out about her relationship to Fred.”
“How?” Quinn hadn’t intended to bark out the word, but that was how it sounded.
It didn’t faze Archie. He smiled faintly and said, “Dr. Ahern’s parentage may not have been widely known, but was it a close kept secret? Letitia knew Olivia was pregnant. Hell, that’s why Fred broke off with her all those years ago. Sure, he assumed Olivia had an abortion, but if you knew she’d been pregnant, it would be possible to trace the links and discover that she had carried the child to term.”
“Not likely, given the circumstances.”
Archie shrugged and sipped his whisky. “You’re a journalist, Armstrong. You know there’s always another story buried under the surface.”
“Yes, I do. And I think that’s the story here. If you buy into the idea of Tamara as the center of an international terrorist conspiracy, then it’s easy to assume she was put in place to gain access to Jarvis, then lead him into a trap where he could be assassinated. But that’s the surface. When you start asking why, you realize the picture is hazy, and if you keep asking questions the image starts to shimmer, then break up.”
“What’s the new picture you see emerging?” Archie’s eyes were watchful as he waited for Quinn to reply.
“I see it as still being political, just not the kind of political that involves an international terrorist conspiracy.”
Archie lowered his glass. He looked and sounded incredulous. “Are you accusing me of arranging Fred’s death?”
Quinn raised his brows. “Did you?” He expected Archie to react with outrage, anger, perhaps insult in response to his question. What the man actually did surprised Quinn.
He laughed. “My God! I thought your Christy had explained the situation.”
Quinn stiffened. Resisting the urge to say, she’s not my Christy, not anymore, he said instead, “What situation?”
Still chuckling, Archie shook his head. “Heavens, Fred would have laughed if he’d been here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Fred and I were competitors, yes. We both knew one of us would win the leadership. We also knew that we were stronger together, as a team, than as individuals. So we had an agreement. Whichever one of us won, the other would become his most senior minister. If Fred won, I was going to take Finance. If I won, Fred wanted Foreign Affairs.”
He paused to stand up and move over to the drinks cabinet. He poured whisky into his own glass, then held up the bottle, offering Quinn a top up. Quinn shook his head and Archie sat down again. “Initially, we’d be in opposition, of course, but once the party won the general election, together we’d lead the country to a greater strength and prosperity than we’ve had in decades. It didn’t matter to either of us who won. What mattered was the party and the country.”
Quinn stared at him and wondered if Archie Fleming really believed the rhetoric he was spouting. “Sounds very high-minded.” He knew his tone was cynical and perhaps even snarky. He made an effort to moderate his voice. “It’s easy to say now, when Jarvis is gone. But what if he’d lived, if he won the leadership, not you? Here’s a guy who took your wife and now he’s grabbed the top job. How would you feel? Do you really believe you would have been satisfied as the second banana?”
“Ah,” said Archie. “I detect an element of disapproval in that question. A Puritanical attitude to the roles of men and women in relationships.” He wagged his finger at Quinn. “Let me tell you this, young man. Since Marian became involved with Fred, my personal life has blossomed and my career has taken off. I have nothing to complain about. And I trusted Fred. We were allies in a tough business. He had my back. Always.”
“Still, if he won—”
Archie made a little sound of impatience. “He wasn’t going to win. I was! We both knew it. Fred was a presence in the provincial wing, but I represent this riding in Ottawa and I am a senior member of the national party. Sure, there was a possibility Fred would win, but it was unlikely. We both knew it. We both accepted it.” He tossed off the last of the whisky in his glass and gathered himself. “Look, I didn’t kill Fred or arrange his murder. Nor did Marian. We both loved the man in our own way.” Compassion sounded in his voice. “I know you are looking for a way to exonerate Dr. Ahern, but you won’t find it here.”
Chapter 21
Burnaby Mountain Park was quiet, the parking lot virtually deserted, as it had been the first time Christy met Detective Patterson here. That day the sun had been out and the mountains across Burrard Inlet rose high in a vivid blue sky. Today, clouds wreathed their tops, a heavy gray covering that brought the heavens down to earth. A misty drizzle was falling as Christy parked her van beside Patterson’s car, but she hardly noticed as she stepped out.
Patterson came round her car. She was holding two paper cups in her hands. She offered one to Christy. “You drink your coffee black, right? I brought extra sugar and cream if I guessed wrong.”
Raising a brow, Christy said, “When I’m not indulging in super sweet concoctions that are more dessert than coffee, I do. Thanks, Detective.” She accepted the offered cup and took a sip.
“You said you had info for me when you phoned.”
Christy looked at the detective over the rim of her cup. “I do and I don’t.”
Patterson didn’t say anything. She drank her coffee and leaned against her car, a woman who had all the time in the world. Though of course she didn’t. Christy took another sip of coffee then put the cup on the roof of Patterson’s car. She reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out several pieces of paper. Patterson’s brows rose.
The pages were the result of a brainstorming she and Ellen had done that morning. Ellen, in her self-nominated role as secretary and recorder of the Jamieson-Armstrong detection group, had made notes from the session. She used her expensive blue letterhead and her many fountain pens, each filled with a different color of ink. Her handwriting was a flowing copperplate that suited the writing implements and paper.
When Ellen wrote the document, the paper had been crisp and smooth. Now, after being wadded up in Christy’s pocket, it was crumpled, but still elegant. Christy held it up in evidence. “Details and questions,” she said. “Frederick Jarvis led a very interesting life.”
“Interesting as in visiting new places and meeting new people is fun and exciting. Or interesting as in yikes, this is weird and scary.”
Christy met her eyes.
“Weird. I’m not sure about scary.”
Patterson sighed. “I was afraid of that. Okay, what have you got?”
Christy crumpled the papers further and reached for her coffee. She took a sip as she gave herself time to organize her thoughts. She needed to present what she’d found coherently, or else Patterson would think she was making it all up. “Fred Jarvis had mistresses.”
“We know that,” Patterson said with a shrug. “Tamara Ahern is his daughter from Olivia Waters, his mistress.”
“She is,” Christy said. “I guess it wouldn’t surprise you if I told you that Marian Fleming was also his mistress.”
That statement was greeted with silence as Patterson stared at her through narrowed eyes. “Marian Fleming, as in Archie Fleming’s wife.”
Christy nodded. “The same.”
Patterson said curtly, “I don’t believe that.”
“Marian admits it freely. Ellen and I had a very interesting shopping excursion with her where we cruised the lingerie department at Holts and she told us exactly what Fred liked to see her wearing.”
About to take a sip, Patterson slowly lowered her cup. “Seriously?”
Christy nodded. “It gets better, Detective. Marian said that her husband not only knew about the relationship, but was okay with it. She says Archie and Fred were best friends.”
“Oh, hell,” Patterson said.
Christy imagined the detective was envisioning the kind of political fallout that would occur if it came out that two of Canada’s most popular politicians were entangled in some kind of sexual triangle. “Marian gave us no indication that Archie was involved in Fred’s sexual activities with her. She made it clear the men were friends, allies, and competitors who respected each other.”
“Even so,” Patterson said. She’d recovered enough to gulp down more coffee.
