by Louise Clark
Christy knew that Frank was getting better and better at projecting his thoughts. She hadn’t yet seen him connect with strangers, though, and she found it disconcerting.
“I remember you from the funeral,” Phoebe said. “This is your cat?”
Christy nodded.
Phoebe stroked Stormy’s soft fur. “He helped me get through the service. Mrs. Jarvis told me I couldn’t cry. That it wouldn’t be appropriate. Hearing him promise that Fred’s—Minister Jarvis’—killer would be found gave me so much comfort.”
“Really,” Christy said, eying the cat.
I told Letitia you were on the case and you always got your man. I guess Phoebe was the one who heard.
Christy was oddly touched by Frank’s statement. There was more than a hint of pride in it. Pride she’d never heard when he had been alive and living with her.
Phoebe stroked the cat. “What do you need to know?” she asked, looking up at Christy.
“We have—” Christy hesitated, uncertain how blunt she could be with Phoebe, then decided to go for broke. “Evidence that Fred had a mistress in the months before his death.” Phoebe sniffed and swallowed hard. Christy knew she was on the right track. “Was that you?”
“Yes.” Her hand trailed along the cat’s back, slowly, with a sensuous grace Stormy, who had begun to purr, clearly appreciated. Sniffing again, she said, “I didn’t plan for it to happen. Barry—” She indicated the main part of the office with a jerk of her head. “Barry is a friend. He knew I needed work.” She sighed. “My husband was in the military, but he was invalided out after his last tour in Afghanistan. He had a disability pension, but it wasn’t enough. I was laid off my last job and we were in debt. Barry was the office manager for the campaign, so when Fred said he needed a dedicated event planner, Barry recommended me. As soon as Fred and I met, we felt a connection. But he was married and so was I.”
It happens.
Phoebe’s mouth dropped unhappily and her eyes were clouded. Her hand moved rhythmically over the cat’s body, but it was an automatic gesture. Christy had the sense that Phoebe still harbored some guilt over the affair. “Go on,” she said as gently as she could.
Phoebe sniffed. “Russell, that’s my husband, was deployed overseas three months after our wedding. He was gone for nearly year. We had one holiday together while he was overseas.” Her mouth curled up at the edges, but her gaze remained melancholy. “In Paris. It was lovely. Then he went back to Afghanistan and I came home.”
She stopped her absentminded stroking. Stormy chirped, butted her chin with his head, then settled back on her lap, this time on his back. It was a clear invitation for her to rub his stomach. Phoebe laughed.
She began stroking him again. Stormy’s purr rumbled in the quiet. Finally, Phoebe picked up her story once more. “When Russell came back to Canada, he’d changed. He wouldn’t talk to me and everything I did made him irritable or angry. I didn’t know what to do. I thought our marriage was over. They said it was PTSD and he was getting therapy, but he hated being out of the army and he was ashamed, like he’d done something wrong. I worked late, a lot, because it was easier than going home. Sometimes, Russell was okay with that, others he wasn’t. I never knew exactly how he’d react. One night when I called, he yelled at me and told me not to come home. Fred found me here, alone in the office, crying. We talked and he invited me to stay with him that night.” Her gaze skittered from Christy to Ellen, then she looked down at the cat on her lap. “I shouldn’t have gone, but I was so lonely. So lost!”
“You became lovers,” Christy said.
Phoebe shook her head emphatically. “No. No, he took me to his home. Mrs. Jarvis made a bed up in their spare room.” Her nose wrinkled. “That night, as I was getting ready for bed, I heard them arguing about me staying in their house, but in the morning, she was very kind.”
“You weren’t lovers?” Ellen asked. Her eyebrows were sky high with disbelief.
“Not then, but yes, eventually. A few weeks later, in fact. Fred had arranged for Russell to see a topnotch specialist and Russell was doing better, but he still didn’t want me, you know?”
No sex.
Phoebe blushed and nodded. “Fred was thoughtful and kind, and when he kissed me, well, I responded.” She gulped and rubbed her eyes. “I told him it would only be one time, and he agreed, but … ” She shrugged. “It wasn’t.”
“Russell must have been furious,” Christy said.
Phoebe shook her head. “He never knew. He liked Fred. Fred helped him get a job as well as paying for his therapy. Working again, being needed, gave him a sense of accomplishment, of still being a capable person.” A smile trembled on her lips. “For a while things went smoothly. We were a couple again, and Russell was closer to the man I married than he had been since he returned.”
For a while … This sounded ominous. Christy glanced at Ellen who gave her a small nod. Evidently, she was thinking the same thing. “What happened?” Christy asked.
“We had to go out of town for the campaign. I worked long hours, often out of Fred’s suite and often alone. Russell did as well, but our hours off rarely coincided. When we came back to Vancouver he was grumpy again, snapping at anything I said. I asked him to go back into therapy and that made him even more angry. Fred helped me to understand that it was the illness reoccurring and that he needed to heal, then he’d be better again. And he was. He’s fine now.” She sighed. “Fred was so important, to both of us. And now he’s gone.”
It was Ellen who said what Christy was thinking. “You both worked for Fred Jarvis’ campaign?” Her tone said this was even weirder than Fred Jarvis’ usual strange relationships.
Phoebe’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Yes, of course. Russell was part of Fred’s security team.”
Chapter 28
“Sergeant Russell Beck, retired, served two tours in Afghanistan. In between postings he married Phoebe Cummings.” Quinn was reading from notes he’d made on his iPad.
They were in Christy’s kitchen—Christy, Ellen, Roy, Quinn, Trevor, and Sledge—discussing the latest opening in the case. Stormy had taken up a post by his food dish.
Quinn paused to scroll forward, then continued. “During his second posting Beck was injured and was unable to return to duty. He was diagnosed with PTSD after he left the service, for which he received some treatment. He began working for a high-end security firm and was assigned as one of Fred Jarvis’ personal security team.” Quinn looked up from the tablet and around at the group gathered at Christy’s kitchen table. “That’s it. His record is excellent. He has no red flags against his name.”
“He was part of Fred’s security at Fred’s request, I imagine,” Ellen said. She shook her head disapprovingly. “The more I learn of this man, the more I think he was the architect of his own demise.”
Roy rubbed his chin as he scrutinized Ellen. “You and Christy think this Russell Beck killed Jarvis?”
Ellen nodded. “Yes. He had access. He had weapons training. He is unstable. His wife was having an affair with Fred.”
“As were a lot of other women,” Sledge said. He’d tagged along to the strategy session with his father, who was nodding.
“Fred had a way of minimizing the reactions of the men in their lives. He must have felt he could trust the man when he had Beck put on his personal security team.”
This time he got it wrong. Stormy pawed at his food bowl, which contained only the crumbs of his crunchy kibble. When’s dinner? The cat’s hungry.
“Not yet,” Christy said. Quinn shot her a look and she smiled and shrugged. Conversations with Frank were part of her life. Quinn knew that. “Ellen and I think the men involved with Fred’s most recent mistresses didn’t buy into his ‘family’ network idea. Leslie Bankes’ boyfriend split with her, even though Fred offered to help his advancement within his law firm.”
“Were you able to find where the man worked, Trevor?” Ellen asked.
Christy noticed that she was s
miling in a hopeful—no, approving—way at Trevor, as if she expected him to have succeeded in finding a man whose name they didn’t know, working for an unidentified law firm. When Trevor straightened and cleared his throat, she figured that matters between Trevor and Ellen were progressing nicely. She almost laughed when Sledge’s eyes widened.
“I did.” Trevor caught his son’s gaze, but looked away quickly. His cheeks reddened. “The boyfriend’s name is Kevin Howarth. He is employed by the firm that handled Fred’s legal work. The firm also contributed to Fred’s leadership campaign. While Kevin Howarth may have split with Leslie Bankes and refused Fred’s career help, it hasn’t stopped the firm from believing that he’s Fred’s protégé. He’s being fast tracked for a partnership position.”
Roy stirred uneasily. “If he and Leslie had split, I wonder why Fred continued to help him?”
“Perhaps Fred thought Leslie and Kevin would get back together once his affair with her was over,” Ellen suggested.
Roy pursed his lips thoughtfully as he nodded. “Could be.”
“It’s a networking thing,” Sledge said. When the others looked at him, he shrugged. “You help with a problem here. Say a quiet word in an ear there. Put this person who’s looking for work together with a company that needs his skillset. The more you can help people out, particularly when you don’t get anything immediate out of it, the stronger the relationships become. Vince used to do it all the time and he didn’t have the weird sexual stuff happening. It worked too. When he needed to call in favors to give SledgeHammer a boost, they were there.”
Since SledgeHammer was the most successful Canadian band in the last decade, his observation had weight.
“You think Fred helped Kevin even though he knew Kevin had left Leslie,” Roy said.
Sledge nodded.
“That kind of networking works if everybody buys in,” Trevor said. He tapped his finger on the table. “Until I told him, Kevin Howarth was unaware that Jarvis had identified him as a protégé. He was furious. He told me he suspected Leslie was having an affair with one of the parents at her school. He thought it was unethical on her part, but he had no proof. Then one night he canceled on a dinner date with her because he had to work late. He finished earlier than he expected, so he dropped by her place. He found Fred Jarvis there and realized that there was something going on between them.”
Christy made a face. “That must have been creepy to walk in on your girlfriend in bed with an older man.”
“Any man,” Quinn said.
Christy shot him a questioning glance. He met it with a serious one of his own. A shiver prickled down her spine. She knew that Quinn had split with her because he thought she was still in love with Frank. She assumed, particularly after Tamara arrived, that there was no hope for them.
But that serious look—did it mean Quinn still had feelings for her? That he wasn’t gladly walking back into Tamara’s arms?
The thought enticed and for a minute she lost the thread of the conversation. Then she shook herself back to attention. This was an idea she needed to ponder when she had quiet and privacy.
“They weren’t in bed, at least not when Kevin walked in,” Trevor was saying. “He could tell that there was something going on from the way Fred touched Leslie and how she smiled at him. He said he knew at once. Then Fred started talking to him, asking what he did, where he worked. He said it was odd, like he and Fred were friends, or had the potential to be really close friends. He got out as soon as he could and split with Leslie the next day.”
“Jarvis never actually spelled the situation out—I’m sleeping with your girlfriend, but that’s okay because I’m going to put your career into overdrive and we’ll help each other get ahead,” Quinn said.
Trevor shook his head. “No. Like I said, Kevin had no idea. He swore that if he’d known he would have told Fred to take a hike.”
“Maybe,” Roy said. “Maybe not.” He sipped coffee and his raised eyebrows said that he was the ultimate cynic.
Quinn glanced at his father, then looked at Trevor. “Does Howarth have an alibi?”
Trevor sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Too bad,” Quinn said.
Christy shifted uneasily in her chair. She held a coffee mug in her hands, but she wasn’t drinking. “Which brings us back to the most recent girlfriend and her husband, Phoebe and Russell Beck. What if Russell was like Kevin and didn’t realize that his new job and his position on Fred’s security team was all because Fred was having an affair with his wife? What do you think he’d do if he found out?”
“I know what I’d do,” Quinn said grimly.
Sledge stirred. “Russell was caught between two really important parts of his life. Which does he choose? Wife or job? He’d have to make a decision.”
“I think he did,” Ellen said, nodding briskly. “Phoebe says she never told him about the affair, so she assumes he doesn’t know, but she said their relationship was rocky for a while. I think he found out and reacted.”
Christy added, “Phoebe told us that things between them are good again, and they probably are. For now. Fred is gone, and Russell still has both his job at the security firm, and his wife. From his point of view, he’s been incredibly successful. But by Phoebe’s own admission, he’s volatile and unpredictable. His mood could change.” Christy grimaced. “Especially if Phoebe continues to grieve over Fred’s death.” She looked around the table. “I think she’s in danger.”
Quinn eyed her steadily. “I hope you’re not suggesting some kind of intervention.”
“Well … ”
“Christy!”
“Quinn, all I was planned to do was talk to Patterson.” Still, his concern gave her a warm feeling and had a smile hovering, almost ready to break free.
He nodded. “Not a bad idea. I’ll come with you. If Russell Beck is the killer, I want to make sure they release Tamara as quickly as possible.”
“Right. Tamara.” The smile died, unborn. “I’ll call Patterson and make the arrangements.”
They met Patterson at Burnaby Mountain Park. The day was overcast, but not raining. Clouds wreathed the peaks of the North Shore Mountains. The threat of rain kept the temperature cool and added a softness to the air.
Patterson’s car was already parked at the edge of the big parking lot when they arrived. She got out as Christy drew her van up beside the car. The detective was rounding the back of her car when Christy and Quinn emerged from the van. “Mrs. Jamieson,” she said, nodding a greeting. She raised her brows at Quinn. “Mr. Armstrong. I did not expect to see you here.”
“We have your killer,” he said. His voice was heavy with what Christy knew was frustration and worry. She wondered, though, if Patterson would hear a threat in the rough tones.
Patterson leaned against the trunk of her car. She crossed her arms and said, “Do you now?”
Quinn frowned at the challenge in her voice. There was a hard gleam in his eyes. “Yeah, we do and it’s not Tamara.”
Christy didn’t give Patterson a chance to reply. An exchange of hostilities was not what was needed at this moment. “You were right, Detective, when you said the killer was in his family circle. Or I should say, his extended family.”
Patterson narrowed her eyes and said, “Extended family. You’re talking about his mistresses?”
Christy nodded.
Patterson raised her brows and looked at Quinn. “Tamara Ahern was part of his extended family.”
A muscle leapt in Quinn’s jaw, but all he said was, “Tamara is not the killer.”
Patterson shrugged. “Perhaps not. So what are we talking about, Mrs. Jamieson? If not Tamara Ahern, then who?”
“We uncovered five mistresses,” Quinn said.
“I’ve spoken to four of them, but we think there may have been more,” Christy added.
“Five? I know about a couple but who are the others?”
“The first was Olivia Waters. The next one we know about is Marian Flemin
g, who seems to be the most long lasting of Fred’s women. Then there was the principal of his son’s high school—I didn’t speak to her, nor do I have her name, but Colin Jarvis can probably provide it. The next woman we know about is Leslie Bankes, head teacher at Vancouver Royal Academy.”
Patterson’s jaw dropped and she uttered a little sound of disbelief, cutting Christy off. “The posh private school for girls? Why would he get involved with a teacher?”
“Feathering his granddaughter’s nest,” Quinn said. There was amusement in his eyes. He was enjoying Patterson’s discomfort.
Christy nodded. “To make sure his granddaughter got the richest school experience possible—the lead in school productions, field trips that were perfect for her, the best teachers at her school.”
Patterson was now standing very still. She reminded Christy of Stormy when he stalked the squirrel that was his nemesis—focused, still, ready to pounce, but patiently waiting for the perfect moment. “Are you suggesting this teacher killed Jarvis? Because if you are, I don’t buy it.”
Christy shook her head. “No. I mention Leslie because she was younger than the earlier mistresses, a different generation. She was as deeply involved with Fred as the earlier women. What was new was that her boyfriend didn’t buy into Fred’s extended alliances concept the way Archie Fleming did. Instead, he refused Fred’s help and split with Leslie.”
Patterson rubbed her scar, a sure sign that she was thinking deeply and that she considered the information significant. “You think the boyfriend killed Jarvis?” She shook her head. “I can’t see it.”
Christy glanced at Quinn, then looked back to Patterson. “Leslie wasn’t Fred’s most recent mistress. They split up when Leslie became head teacher at VRA.”
“His current woman was Phoebe Beck,” Quinn said. He watched Patterson, narrow-eyed.
“The event planner?” The detective’s gaze turned inward. “She’d know his schedule, but … ” She shook her head. “It doesn’t wash. Jarvis was at his Yaletown office, in a meeting with his senior people—his communications guy, his strategist, his campaign manager. He got a phone call and said he had to take it privately. He exited the office and didn’t return. Half an hour later he was found in the parking garage, not far from the elevators, dead from a clean head shot. Phoebe Beck might have known about the strategy session, but she wouldn’t have known about his unplanned trip to the garage. Besides, she has an alibi for the time of death.”
