by Louise Clark
The refrain had never stopped. It had been said less often over the years, but the words always had the power to hurt. Christy took comfort from the scene around her: the rows of tall, narrow townhouses, the Japanese maples still in leaf, the last of the summer blooms. The middle-class neighborhood was much more her style than the fancy mansion had been. This was her turf, not the Trust's.
She raised her brows as she responded to Bidwell, a snarky expression she'd copied from one Frank used in his dealings with his trustees. "You're probably right, Edward. I do need help for this, so I got it." They had reached her street. It would only be a matter of moments now and she'd escape the poisoned atmosphere Edward Bidwell created around him. All she had to do was hold herself together for a few minutes. She could do it.
She would do it.
Bidwell looked at her with what she thought of as his fishy-eyed courtroom look. "You've taken family issues to a stranger?"
She swallowed hard and hung on to the snarky expression. "It's no big deal. I want to find Frank. I know I can't do it alone. So I found someone to work with me."
"How much is it costing you?"
"Nothing, except my time and my cooperation." Bidwell opened his mouth. Christy knew he was going to question her on what she meant by cooperation. She had no intention of answering. She said hastily, "It's that house, the second to last one on the street. Stop anywhere and I'll hop out."
Bidwell drove her to her door. As he parked he said, "Whatever agreements you have made with this individual, Christy, they are not necessary. The Trust will handle this. We are here to look after the legal and business matters affecting your life so that you can spend your valuable time ensuring that Frank's heir has an excellent childhood and receives the best possible schooling."
Christy didn't like where this was going. Instinct was telling her that Bidwell wasn't as altruistic as he was pretending to be. She held up her hand, palm forward. "The Trust, Edward, is almost broke. When Frank fled to Mexico with all the assets he could get his hands on, he changed all of our lives. The Jamieson Ice Cream shares held in the trust provide dividends that pay for our day-to-day expenses and a few extras and form the basis of a nest egg for Noelle's university tuition. In the meantime, she's going to a public school, because the Trust can no longer afford the private school she's attended since she was four years old. Why would I even consider letting the Trust take on the expense of searching for my embezzling husband?"
She'd lost it. The minute Edward Bidwell had reduced Noelle from a beloved daughter to an obligation as Frank's heir, her temper had snapped. This was one of the jerks who had raised Frank to be a scarred, hurting man with too much money and not enough to do. They would not do the same to Noelle. Christy would not allow it.
Bidwell's plump cheeks reddened and those scary brown eyes of his looked like they would pop out of his head. Christy tugged on the door handle, needing to escape. It was locked, controlled by the electronic console at the driver's fingertips.
"Perhaps I have failed to make myself clear," Bidwell said, his voice glacial. "The Trust does not feel that it is acceptable for the guardian of our heir to waste her time on a wild goose chase when she should be focusing on the child's development."
Christy held herself very still. Inside she was quivering with temper and claustrophobia. "What are you talking about, Edward? Noelle is my life and I'd do anything for her! I think we're through. Please unlock my door." They glared at each other for a minute, then Bidwell tapped a button. The lock clicked. Christy flung open the door.
As she pushed out of the car, he leaned toward her. "The Trust will seek out Frank, Christy. You concentrate on Noelle."
She slammed the door, a crack of sound in the morning quiet. Edward would be annoyed—I doubt you know how to close a car door properly, Christy. She grinned with satisfaction and hoped his irritation stayed with him all the way back to his posh, downtown office tower.
She stood at the end of her walk and watched as his car turned the corner. What had that really been about? He'd come as a representative of the Trust, but why? Because he'd learned that she'd asked Quinn Armstrong to dig up Frank for her? A likely reason, but there was no way the Trust would have heard about her decision. It was too soon.
Because Frank was in town? Christy didn't have any illusions about the trustees. They'd be delighted to have her gone from Frank's life, but why would they want to keep him from Noelle?
"Who was that and what did he want from you?"
Christy jumped, then turned. Quinn Armstrong was standing a few feet away, a frown on his face. She'd been so deep in her thoughts that she hadn't heard him close his front door or walk down his steps. She pursed her lips. "That was Edward Bidwell, the legal member of the Jamieson Trust. He wants me to stop hunting for Frank."
"Interesting. How did he know that's what you were doing?"
"I told him. He told me that the Trust would do the searching. I'm supposed to stay at home and mind the hearth fires."
Quinn laughed. After a moment, so did Christy.
"So, what do you want to do?" he asked.
She drew a deep breath. "I'm going to keep looking."
"Good, then let's go." Quinn glanced at his watch. "We're wasting time if we want to get you back here for three o'clock."
* * *
The doorbell rang. When Christy went to answer it, Noelle followed, still intrigued by the act of answering your own door. She hovered at the top of the staircase. Before Christy could throw the deadbolt and pull open the door, the bell rang again, followed by a determined pounding.
When Noelle saw the visitor was Mary Petrofsky, she ran down the stairs to greet her friend. Christy left them to chat and headed back up to the kitchen.
Moments later Noelle reappeared, followed by the other girl. "Mom, can I go over to Mary's house?"
Christy looked at the can of tomato sauce and the package of hamburger she was planning to turn into spaghetti and meatballs—for the second time that week. "It's almost dinnertime, Noelle, and it's a nice afternoon. Why don't you girls play outside until then?" Christy stifled a sigh at the pout forming on Noelle's mouth. Storms were ahead.
"Christy, can Noelle stay for dinner at my house if she comes over?" Small, with long black hair that danced in time to her quicksilver moves, Mary Petrofsky's sunny temperament was reflected in her bright brown eyes. Right now, her winning smile was an excellent counterpoint to Noelle's glower.
"Yeah, Mom, can I?"
"I don't think so, Noelle." The pout was in evidence again. "It's kind of late to expect Mrs. Petrofsky to get ready for a guest. Perhaps another night."
"Mom!"
"My mom won't mind. I've asked kids to stay over before and she's always said yes."
Then she's a better woman than I am, Christy thought. "Your mom sounds great, Mary, but she doesn't know Noelle, or me for that matter, and—"
"Then I'll go get her so she can meet you!" Mary was already on the move before the last of the words were out of Christy's mouth.
"Mary, that's not—"
"I'll go too!"
"Noelle, wait!"
The girls tore down the stairs. Christy followed, rather more slowly. At the door, she was in time to see her daughter dash down the street behind her new friend. With a sigh, she followed. If the girls were dragging Mrs. Petrofsky from her home so she could be introduced to Christy, then the least Christy could do was meet her halfway.
Rebecca Petrofsky proved to be as cheerful as her daughter. She greeted Christy warmly, welcomed her to the neighborhood, told her how much Mary liked Noelle and how well the girls got along. Then, without prompting, she invited Noelle to dinner that night. Both girls cheered. Christy muttered a few protests, but the enthusiastic children and the laid-back Rebecca overruled her. After five minutes she headed back to the house on her own.
The evening stretched before her, empty.
She hadn't had a night off since the servants had departed. So much had happened
, there had been so many changes in her life, that she wasn't sure she knew how to use that free time.
Leaning against the sink, sipping reheated coffee, she considered how she could spend the next few hours. There were books to unpack, then stack onto shelves in the family room. A load of washing needed to be done, and if she was really industrious, she could change the bedding. With Noelle out, her dinner could be something more flavorful than the child-pleaser she'd planned. Once her meal was cooked, she could watch the news while she ate, something strictly forbidden if Noelle was home.
Exciting stuff, she thought, laughing at herself. The phone rang. She set her mug on the counter as she answered.
"Hi, it's Quinn."
Transmitted over the phone line, his voice was lower, with a sexy edge that sent shivers down her spine. "Hi. What's up?"
"I've got some new information about Brianne's traveling companion. I think we ought to get together to discuss it."
Christy's heart began to beat harder. After her argument with Bidwell, their trip to the airport had been anticlimactic, another dead end. The customs agent who checked through Brianne and Frank had provided no new information. He remembered Brianne clearly because of her spectacular, blond good looks, but when shown Frank's picture he had shrugged and said, "Could be." Not a helpful reply.
Quinn continued. "Can you come over tonight? I know it's short notice, but my dad would be happy to entertain your daughter while we talk."
Christy thought about the ponytailed, award-winning author Roy Armstrong babysitting her daughter. Her brain couldn't cope with the image. "Well... uh..."
"He was the parent who stayed home while I was growing up, so he's used to having kids around. And he was great with all my friends."
There was something about that low, very male voice talking about childhood that was seductive. She wished she knew of a way to keep that sound sliding over her nerve endings for hours. She was smiling as she said, "Actually, Noelle is having dinner at the Petrofskys' house, so I'm free till about seven thirty."
"Perfect," Quinn said. "Come over now. We can get started right away."
Christy thought about laundry, book-shelving, and television. There was no contest. "Okay."
A few minutes later, after she'd let Rebecca Petrofsky know where she could be found, she was following Quinn into his kitchen. It was exactly the same as hers, except that the Armstrong kitchen was painted a vivid orange with highlights of cinnamon red and daffodil yellow while Christy's was a basic builder's white.
Quinn grinned when her eyes widened as she entered the glowing room. "My father chose the colors."
Roy Armstrong looked up from the vegetables he was chopping. "I painted the walls too," he said, glancing around him with satisfaction. "There's something about putting your own imprint on a place that's very gratifying."
Pumpkin orange was not a color Christy would have dared put on her walls, but she had to admit that it worked here. The room crackled with energy.
Quinn gestured to a pine table set in an alcove. Papers were strewn over the surface, with no apparent organization. "Have a seat. If you don't mind, I thought we'd include my dad in the discussion. He's pretty good at putting details together to make a story, so I thought he'd be able to help."
Christy laughed as she settled onto one of the ladder-backed chairs. "I'd be delighted to have Roy Armstrong's talents working on my problem. Of course I don't have any objections."
Quinn sat opposite and started rifling through the papers. "This is what we've got," he said, tapping a yellow lined pad, which was covered with bulleted points. "Your husband's passport was used one week ago at the Vancouver airport, but no one can identify his picture. At the airport he was nervous and deliberately avoided having his baggage inspected, not typical behavior for Frank Jamieson. He was known to be traveling with Brianne Lymbourn, who was staying at the Strand Manor downtown. Again, no one at the Strand can identify Frank's picture. Brianne Lymbourn has now checked out of the hotel, leaving no forwarding address, so for the moment we can't question her."
Christy nodded. Since she had been part of the gathering of this information there was nothing new here. So what about the important discovery Quinn had mentioned on the phone?
"All right, that brings us to what I found out today." He picked up the photocopy of an article and photograph that had appeared in a Vancouver daily tabloid. The page was dated four months ago, shortly before Frank's disappearance.
Christy scanned the article quickly. Sensational in tone, it was a rant about the justice system. Christy frowned a little as she read. Articles like this appeared every time there was a big trial or a gangland murder. There had even been one or two that suggested she ought to have been arrested for conspiring with her husband. She'd learned to ignore them.
The photograph, though, made her read the caption carefully. An unnamed woman was sitting on a dark sofa beside the man identified as Thaddeus 'Crack' Graham. She snuggled in the crook of his arm, her head resting against his shoulder. There was a contented, reflective smile on her lips that spoke of a comfortable, long-term intimacy. Graham himself was laughing at something happening off camera. He was a slim man, with light hair, a long face, and straight nose. Behind them was a wall covered with striped wallpaper. A potted fern had been placed beside the sofa.
The woman was Brianne Lymbourn.
She was wearing an evening dress made of some kind of silky looking fabric, the bodice cut low between her breasts and held up by narrow straps. The man, Thaddeus 'Crack' Graham, was dressed in tight-fitting pants and a long-sleeved shirt, open at the neck. Christy guessed they had been photographed at one of the better downtown hotels, probably when Brianne was attending an event of some kind. The caption suggested that Crack Graham had been there to sell dope to the well-heeled crowd.
"The photo doesn't do her justice," Christy said, staring at the picture.
"Then it is Brianne Lymbourn?"
Christy looked up. The image clearly linked Brianne to Crack Graham, but it raised as many questions as it provided answers. "Yeah, it's Brianne. Who is this guy, Crack Graham? Do you know anything about him, Quinn?"
"As the article says, he's a drug dealer. My sources in the police department tell me he's a middleman between the kingpins and the street sellers. He's known to supply a string of dealers who work the fashionable clubs and neighborhoods in town."
"Hence his link with Brianne," Christy murmured, glancing again at the picture, looking for clues, finding none.
"Could be."
"How long have they known each other, I wonder," Christy said.
"That is a good question." Quinn looked down at his own copy of the photograph. "They appear to be comfortable together."
Roy offered Christy a glass of wine. He glanced over her shoulder at the photo. "Looks like she was two-timing Frank with this guy," he said passing a second glass to Quinn.
"I'm not sure Frank was having an affair with Brianne," Christy said. "I had no indication of it until he disappeared and he was reported to have run off with her."
"That fits with what I found out today." Quinn paused and Christy raised her brows in question. "After I dug up this picture I began to wonder about a few things. Take another look, Christy. Is there anything that leaps out at you?"
She stared at the photo. No matter how hard she tried, all she could see was Brianne and Graham, blond, slim, and good-looking, seated together beside a potted fern. "I don't know..."
"If someone asked you to paint a verbal picture of Frank, how would you describe him? Five-two? Brown hair?"
Christy laughed. "Frank was six feet, slim build, blond hair, blue eyes, no distinguishing marks on his features." Her breath caught. "Are you suggesting that this man could pretend to be Frank?"
Quinn nodded. "His police description has him as six feet tall, blond hair, blue eyes, lean build. Change the picture in Frank's passport and this guy could pass for him."
"Particularly if Brianne was al
ong to vouch for him." Christy frowned at Quinn. "Is this possible?"
Quinn nodded. "I took this photo down to the Strand. The desk clerk and the girl at the coffee bar immediately identified Graham as the guy with Brianne."
"But—does that mean he used Frank's passport?"
"Could be."
"Oh man," Christy said, taking a big gulp of wine. "Then where's Frank?"
Chapter 8
The sound of a car door slamming drew Noelle into the kitchen to look out the window instead of getting ready to leave for school. "It's Uncle Gerry!" she squealed. She rushed for the front door.
"Hold it!" Christy yelled. "Shoes and backpack on first. We can meet Uncle Gerry outside."
Noelle tied her shoes in half the time it usually took her, resulting in short bows and trailing laces sure to be snagged loose. She grabbed her backpack from the cupboard and wrenched open the door at the same moment the bell rang. "Uncle Gerry!" She flung herself into the arms of corporate mogul and senior trustee, Gerald Fisher, with an unselfconscious abandon that made Christy smile.
A big man, well over six feet, with a heavy build that he kept toned by working out, Gerry swirled Noelle around as if she weighed nothing at all, then kissed her loudly on the cheek. "How's my girl?" he said, putting her back on her feet. "Do you like your new school?"
Noelle's fearsome pout appeared. "It's okay. It's school, after all."
Gerry and Christy laughed. "Good point," Christy said. "And if we don't get going you'll be late. Gerry, do you have time to walk over to the school with us?"
"With two such lovely ladies as my companions, it will be my pleasure," he said. He extended his hand.
Noelle beamed at him and took hold. "My school's really different, Uncle Gerry. It's in a new building and it doesn't have a fence around it like the VRA did. And I don't have to wear a uniform anymore!"
Gerry Fisher, head of Fisher Disposal, a waste disposal company that had expanded so rapidly in the past fifteen years that it now controlled landfill sites in all ten provinces and over thirty states, smiled at Noelle and said, "That clinches it. Your mother made the right choice taking you out of VRA." He made a point of scrutinizing her clothing. "A T-shirt and pants looks like a very comfortable way to dress for school."
