by Louise Clark
Quinn came over carrying a tray crammed with two large, waxed paper glasses and two paper plates holding wraps. The enticing scent wafting from the food made Christy's stomach grumble again. Quinn's lips twitched as he handed her one of the plates.
"Thanks." Christy took a bite. The sauce oozed over the edge of the wrap. The chicken was moist and juicy. She closed her eyes as she savored the taste and texture of veggies and sauce sliding over her tongue. It was wonderful. She sighed with satisfaction.
When she opened her eyes again she found that Quinn had placed a waxed paper glass filled with a soft drink in front of her. He was biting into his own wrap, but over the sandwich he was watching her with amusement and an appreciation that was frankly sexual. She straightened. Putting the wrap back on the flimsy paper plate, she dabbed at her lips with a napkin. Quinn glanced away, dropping his sandwich on the plate before he picked up his soft drink and sipped. When he looked at her again, the lusty gleam was gone from his eyes. Christy wondered if she had imagined it.
"The first question we have to ask ourselves," he said, "is why a guy like Frank, who likes his comforts and who can afford them, would stay in a place like the Strand Manor?"
"He wouldn't. How much do I owe you?" Christy replied, digging through her purse.
"You don't owe me anything," Quinn said. "That's not an answer. We know Frank was traveling with Brianne. We know Brianne was staying at the Strand. Therefore the natural assumption is that Frank was the unnamed man staying with her at the Strand."
Christy squinted at the menu on the wall beside what served as the kitchen and service counter. She put a five-dollar bill in front Quinn. "That should cover it, I think. What if the natural assumption is wrong? What if Frank decided to use another hotel?"
Quinn pushed the five back to Christy. "There's still the guy staying with Brianne. If he's not Frank, then who is he?"
Christy stared at the five-dollar bill in front of her as she finished chewing a bit of her wrap. She looked at Quinn. "I can't let you buy me lunch."
"Why not?"
"Because we're not friends."
He didn't move. His expression didn't change, but the easy relaxation of a moment before was gone. Tension crackled from him.
Christy regretted her words instantly, but there was no going back. She pushed the money again. "Take it, Quinn. Please."
He picked up the bill, held it between two fingers, stared at it. Then he looked at her deliberately, coolly, before he pocketed it. "I don't think your husband is the man rooming with Brianne."
Christy winced inside at his impersonal tone, emphasized by his reference to her married state. "Okay, how do we prove Brianne has another man on her string if we can't find Brianne herself?"
"We find your husband." He nodded at her. "Come on, eat up. This is guaranteed to take a while."
For the next two hours they checked the better hotels in town, but they had no more luck than they'd had at the Strand Manor. Frank wasn't registered in any of them and no one remembered seeing him, although a few people did recognize his picture.
"Now what?" Christy asked as they emerged from their seventh hotel. She glanced at her watch as they walked. "School is out in an hour, and I've got to be there to pick up Noelle." Her feet were sore, and she was exhausted. If this was typical of Quinn's job, she didn't envy him it.
They were passing a trendy coffee shop. He pulled open the door. "Planning time. Let's have a coffee." Inside they both lined up at the counter. Quinn ordered a regular coffee. Christy chose a Café Vienna. She figured she needed the hit of sugar the chocolate would bring. They each paid for their own drink.
"We've checked most of the top hotels in the downtown core, but not all of them," Quinn said when they were seated at a little wrought iron table on uncomfortable matching chairs. "I'll take the photograph of Frank and continue asking around."
Steam rose from the coffee, bringing with it an aromatic scent that made Christy's mouth water. She blew on it, then took a sip. It burned with satisfying heat, infusing her tired body with renewed energy. "This doesn't feel right, Quinn."
There was an edge in Quinn's voice as he said, "Spending the day together or coffee with me?"
She looked at him, startled. "Neither. I'm talking about Frank just being... well, nowhere. I mean, it doesn't make sense."
Quinn searched her face for a minute, before he glanced down, studying the coffee cup. When he looked up there was no evidence of emotion in his eyes. "No, it doesn't. Though my gut tells me Frank wasn't the guy in Brianne's party of two at the Strand, I'm going to ignore my instincts and assume that he was since we haven't been able to locate him at another hotel."
"But no one recognized him at the Strand!"
"Like the desk clerk said, they see a lot of people, and in a place like that customer service is minimal and the staff aren't expected to notice guests or remember their names. It would be easy for someone to slip through."
Christy wrapped her hands around her cup. "So much for my great lead." She stared moodily into the mocha brown contents. "It's turned out to be a dead end." When Quinn didn't reply a simmering stew of annoyance and impatience bubbled up. So much for planning. He couldn't even be bothered listening to her. A little support would be nice too, even if the man was only an employee.
She looked over at him. His eyes had taken on that same abstracted look he'd had when they first emerged from the Strand Manor, as if he was looking at things, but not seeing them. Her bubbling irritation began to rock the lid that kept her boiling emotional cauldron from overflowing.
Quinn leaned back in his chair, drank some more coffee. "What we need to do is go back a step, and forward one as well."
Shocked, her eyes widened. He had been listening to her. Amazing. "You've lost me. Explain."
He gestured with his coffee cup. "We can't locate Frank in town, so we need to go back to the airport, talk to the customs employee who processed Frank's customs declaration. Find out if Frank and Brianne were actually together or just returning on the same plane. Then we go forward to where Frank might have gone if he split with Brianne after they left the hotel today." Quinn fixed a penetrating gaze on Christy. "They've been in Vancouver for a few days. Who would he contact first when he came back to town?"
There was one person he'd never abandon and who would welcome his return with delight. She said without hesitation, "Noelle. She'd be the first person he would call."
"His daughter," Quinn said.
"Our daughter." There was a snap to her voice that had nothing to do with Quinn. It stemmed from years of dealing with Aunt Ellen who called Noelle the 'youngest and best Jamieson', and the trustees, who referred to her as 'The Jamieson Heir'.
Quinn frowned. There was a thoughtful expression in his eyes. "Has he contacted her?"
Christy shook her head. "No. There have been no calls, no hang-ups, no messages. Nothing."
Quinn leaned forward. "Who else would he go to?"
She sipped her drink as she thought about that. Who would Frank contact? He'd burned a lot of bridges by stealing from his trust fund then running away to Mexico. "I suppose he'd start with the crowd he ran with. There's one person he was close to, Aaron DeBolt. He might call him. Me, I suppose, although after running off with Brianne, he must know I'd be pretty mad at him. His trustees, but again, he'd have to know they'd be angry, and even willing to turn him over to the police."
"Not a lot options," Quinn said. "Let's focus on going back first. Did the police report have the name of the customs agent who processed Frank through?"
Christy thought back to her conversation with Billie Patterson. "I think so. If not I can get it."
"Okay. We'll head out to the airport tomorrow. With luck we'll get a firm identification of Frank. We can move on from there."
Christy nodded. She glanced at her watch. "Yikes! I've got to run. I'll see you tomorrow, Quinn."
She left him sitting, apparently relaxed, with the chair tilted back on two legs, hi
s gaze abstracted, thinking the problem through.
After her first day on the job with Quinn Armstrong, she was impressed.
She didn't want to be.
* * *
"Mrs. Jamieson, do you have a moment, please?" Noelle's teacher, Mrs. Morton, was a middle-aged woman with black hair that was fading to iron grey and a brisk, no-nonsense manner.
"Of course. Hey, Noelle, why don't you go hang up your backpack while I talk to your teacher?"
Noelle nodded and gave Christy a hug, completely unconcerned by her teacher's desire to talk to her mother. She was used to her mother being a fixture at the school. She expected it.
Christy, on the other hand, stared at the teacher warily. It was the only the second week of classes, and Noelle had already pegged Mrs. Morton as grouchy and mean. Christy was prepared to be more charitable, but Mrs. Morton's lips were folded into a straight, tight line. She looked scary, to say the least.
The teacher didn't waste any time with pleasantries. "I believe Noelle's father, and your husband, is Frank Jamieson, the embezzler."
Christy blinked. The shot had come out of nowhere. "What happened to innocent until proven guilty?"
Morton dismissed that with an airy wave of her hand. "Noelle is a lovely child, very well-mannered."
"Thank you," Christy said. She waited for the 'but' to follow. With a woman like Morton, she knew there would be one.
"I believe she is repressing strong emotions relating to her father's criminal activities and her mother's—"
Christy straightened, assuming her best Jamieson snooty look. She had the satisfaction of hearing Morton's voice falter and fade. "My daughter is no different from any other child whose parents have split. Furthermore, I would appreciate it if you did not call her father an embezzler. He is not. More importantly, Noelle does not see him that way."
Out of the corner of her eye she could see that the kids were all seated. One girl leaned close to another and said something. Giggles ensued.
Mrs. Morton rallied, tilting up her chin defiantly. "Nevertheless, I am sure she knows something is wrong."
There were more giggles, louder now. Realizing their teacher's attention was elsewhere, the kids were testing authority. Christy smiled blandly at Mrs. Morton. If she didn't spit out what she wanted to say, soon, the class would erupt into pandemonium. That was something Christy would enjoy as much as the eight-year-olds would.
Mrs. Morton frowned, apparently becoming aware of the noise. "Children, please! Get out your math books and pencils. We will be working on page ten in a moment or two." She turned back to Christy. "I want you to know I will be assessing Noelle's behavior. If I believe she needs counseling, I will recommend it."
There was a shriek of painful anger. Mrs. Morton turned to face her classroom. "Children! This is no way to behave!"
"She doesn't need counseling," Christy said.
"We shall see," Mrs. Morton replied, before she steamed off to the front of the classroom. Christy followed her to Noelle's desk in the second row from the front. She gave her daughter a hug and a kiss before she marched out of the classroom. At the door she paused to check her watch. Behind her the chatter and giggles were still at full volume, with Morton's angry voice demanding order. Christy smiled with satisfaction as she hurried down the hallway and out the door of the school.
As the door thumped closed behind her, Christy stopped. Parked in the tow away zone in front of the school was a familiar gray Mercedes. Christy walked slowly down the path that lead from the front door to the street as Edward Bidwell, one of Frank's trustees, eased his bulk from the driver's seat.
She looked down at her trousers and sandals. With the short-sleeved silk blouse and linen jacket she was wearing, her clothes were proper enough to pass muster with the ultra-conservative Bidwell, who was, like the car he drove, the very essence of respectability. It was a good thing she was going to the airport with Quinn today. Her normal costume of jeans and a tee wouldn't have cut it.
Bidwell was standing on the sidewalk, scrutinizing the school building. The frown on his face said he'd noticed every weed in the lawn, every rust mark on the railings, each place where the paint had rubbed off. "Good morning, Christy. Are you satisfied with Noelle's new school?"
Nice of you to get right down to business, she thought. Edward Bidwell had intimidated her from the time she'd first met him. A partner in a law firm used by the wealthy families in the city, he was a trial lawyer and an expert at catching people out. Christy always minded her words around him. "Noelle seems to be adapting well."
"Seems?" he said.
Chapter 7
Christy cursed herself. Give Edward an opening and he'd take it. Now she'd have to face him head on. "Seems, Edward. She says she likes her teacher and she's making friends, but kids don't always know how to express their reservations about a situation, so some issues take a while to come out."
Bidwell nodded. He indicated the luxurious gray car. "May I give you a lift?"
She'd rather walk home, but politeness dictated that she accept. "Sure."
He held the door for her while she slipped inside, then he rounded the car and wedged his bulk into the driver's seat. The extra inches he was packing around the middle pressed against the steering wheel.
"I believe Noelle is very fond of Frank, despite... everything," Edward said, as he pulled away from the curb.
"She loves her daddy," Christy said. "And he is crazy about her." She winced as she heard the fierceness in her voice. She did not want to spar with Edward Bidwell. She would always come out the loser. With a sigh, she added, "Even if it doesn't seem that way since Frank took off."
Bidwell kept his eyes on the road. "Frank's activities have caused many changes in all of our lives. Does Noelle ask for him?"
"Yes." They paused at the crosswalk to allow a woman pushing a stroller to cross. Bidwell's fingers tapped on the steering wheel. Christy continued, "I've read everything I can find about how kids deal with divorce and moving to a new area..."
"Divorce!" The woman reached the other sidewalk and the Mercedes exploded forward. "What are you talking about? Are you planning to sue Frank for divorce?"
The question startled Christy. She had been so caught up in the day-to-day issues of dealing with the press, coping with the move from the mansion, and helping Noelle through her transition to a new school, that she hadn't looked far enough into the future to consider what she ought to do about her straying husband and their empty relationship. She stared out the window at the tidy suburban street and considered the potential of this frightening new vista.
"Well? Christy, I can assure you, divorce would not be a good idea."
"That's between Frank and me," Christy said stiffly. "In the meantime, Frank isn't in Noelle's life anymore, so she's dealing with some of the same issues that children of divorced couples face." She hesitated, shooting Bidwell a considering look. "In fact, that's what I'm up to today. I'm looking for Frank."
"Frank is in Mexico," Edward said.
There was something wrong here. Detective Patterson said she had spoken to the trustees. "The police tracked Frank back to Vancouver, but lost him at the airport. As far as they, or anyone else, knows he's somewhere in the Vancouver area. Isn't that why you came by today? To talk to me about his return?"
They reached an intersection. "Which way do I turn?"
"Left, then left again. My townhouse is near the end of the street."
Bidwell followed her directions. "If the police are looking for Frank you should leave the search to them."
"Normally I would, but in this case, I can't. I've been told his case is non-priority. If he comes their way the police will charge him. If he doesn't, they're not actively looking to catch him. If I want to find him so we can figure out how to handle our future without hurting Noelle, I'll have to do it myself."
Bidwell's bulgy brown eyes narrowed as he glanced at her. "Stay at home where you're needed, Christy. If Frank is back in Vancouver, I'm
sure he'll contact the Trust. We'll let you know when it's safe to meet with him."
"Safe? What are you talking about, Edward? Frank isn't dangerous. He just doesn't have a lot of scruples."
Bidwell's hands tightened on the steering wheel, then eased. The movement was so small and quick, Christy might have missed it if she hadn't been staring incredulously him. She'd struck a nerve, she thought with satisfaction. She'd caught him out on his choice of words, then called him on it. Point to her.
Bidwell was not about to be one-upped. He smiled thinly before he said, "You forget that Frank is traveling with another woman. I doubt you would want to meet Frank when he has his girlfriend by his side."
Heat burned in Christy's cheeks. She tramped it down ruthlessly. The way to beat Bidwell was to stay cool and in control—or so Frank had always told her. Of course Frank had never been particularly successful in his dealings with his trustees.
Christy decided that right now a little needling was in order. It would help boost her self-esteem a notch, no matter how it affected Edward. "I don't know about that. It would certainly bring the D word to the surface pretty quick."
She had the pleasure of seeing a flush rise in Bidwell's face. She'd gotten under his skin, and the knowledge made her want to cheer. She stifled a grin and braced herself for the lash back that was sure to come.
"The obligation of finding Frank belongs to the Trust. We can make inquiries more effectively than you. Now that you no longer have staff to handle things for you, I doubt you'd know how to go about searching for Frank."
The comment dug into her past, to the days when she'd first arrived in Vancouver, the newly-made wife of a Jamieson. Frank's Aunt Ellen and the other trustees had considered her a dumb social climber who had married Frank for the Jamieson money. I doubt you know how to... had been a constant refrain. I doubt you know how to dress for this social event or that. I doubt you know how to use the proper cutlery during a four-course banquet. I doubt you know how to manage servants. I doubt you know how to...
