by Louise Clark
"A few thousand," Ellen said, contemplating the teacup. "It is quite lovely."
Christy put her palms flat on her thighs and pressed hard to hide her shaking. She didn't know why Ellen was on the attack—perhaps the woman was just in a mood—but it frightened her, badly. "I'm sure you didn't come to discuss a tea set."
"No," Gerry said quickly. He appeared uncomfortable, but resigned.
Christy wondered if he and Ellen were playing good cop, bad cop. If they were, something big was up. She began to sweat.
Gerry drank his coffee, in no hurry despite his hasty reply. Ellen said impatiently, "We are both very worried about you, Christy."
"Worried?"
"Natalie DeBolt called me last evening," Ellen said.
"She did?"
"She told me you harassed Aaron at the IHTF fundraiser."
Gerry frowned, as if he wasn't comfortable with what Ellen was saying, but was willing to go along with it for the moment.
Ellen put the fragile cup and saucer on the coffee table with a careless snap. "She claims that your date—what was his name?" She waved her hand in dismissal even as she asked the question. "Doesn't matter. She said he attacked Aaron. Is this true, Christy?"
Christy groaned silently. When she'd told Quinn that Aaron would find a way to get him, she hadn't expected it would be through her. "I'm sure Natalie took great pleasure in complaining about me."
"Natalie DeBolt is one of my dearest friends!" Ellen said hotly. "She wasn't complaining. She was advising me of a serious problem."
Gerry said, "The man's behavior shows a considerable lack of judgment, Christy."
Ellen clasped her hands in her lap. "To say nothing of poor manners."
Christy dug her teeth into her lower lip. "Aaron was being vile to me, calling me names, making insinuations."
"Nonsense," Ellen said. "Aaron DeBolt is your husband's best friend. I doubt he likes you—few of Frank's friends do—but he would not allow that to influence his behavior. You should at least be civil to him."
Christy stared at Ellen. This was unbelievable. She was being called to account because Quinn had defended her against a nasty, spoiled brat of a man whose idea of fun was insulting people. What happened to loyalty to family? Except the trustees weren't family, or, at least, Gerry wasn't. There was no excuse for Ellen. "Aaron and I have never gotten along. I don't defend Quinn's actions—"
"I'm glad to hear that, Christy," Gerry said heartily. "Aaron DeBolt's parents are important people. His father is the CEO of the largest lumber company in the province. His mother sits on a dozen charitable boards and chairs three of them." He hesitated. Disappointment crept into his voice and onto his face. "I would seriously question your suitability as a guardian for Noelle if I believed that you had any part in Armstrong's violent action."
This was worse than anything Christy could have imagined. "Come again?"
Ellen made a sneering sound in her throat. She stood up impatiently. "I think you understand, Christy. As Noelle's trustees, we have an obligation to ensure that she receives the best care possible during her formative years."
"She is receiving the best, Ellen." Christy rose too. Her hands bunched into fists.
Ellen looked pointedly at them, her brows raised. Christy blushed and straightened her fingers. Ellen said haughtily, "As her aunt I believe Noelle has a duty to the Jamieson name. She needs to be brought up understanding the expectations and responsibilities of her heritage."
"This is outrageous!" Christy cried. "Are you suggesting that I'm trying to turn Noelle away from her family?"
Even Gerry Fisher was standing now. He patted her on the shoulder. "I know you love Noelle, Christy—"
"But you're not a Jamieson," Ellen said. "And you can't show her how a Jamieson should behave. You proved that on Thursday night."
"Because my date was rough with Aaron?"
"Because you chose Quinn Armstrong to be your date," Gerry said, his voice hard.
"Quinn is helping me find Frank. I asked him to the fundraiser so we could talk to some of Frank's friends to see if they'd heard from him."
"Ah. Another example of your lack of judgment," Ellen said, sniffing.
"I told you, Christy, you shouldn't bother with that investigation nonsense." Gerry said. "The trustees will deal with the rumors that Frank has returned."
Christy wiped sweaty palms on her pant legs and hoped neither Gerry or Ellen would notice. No such luck. After a pointed look Ellen pursed her lips and sighed. Christy swallowed hard. "Noelle asks about her daddy. She worries about why he left. She wants to know when he's coming home. I don't have the luxury of waiting for Frank to show up, or hoping someone else will find him. I need to reassure my daughter. I need to find my husband." She gestured toward the stairs. Enough was enough. "Thank you for coming. I'll consider what you said." She followed them down to the door.
Outside, standing beside the sleek gray car, Gerry said, "Christy, I know you won't take this personally—"
"How can I not? Come on, Gerry."
"Is that Roy Armstrong?" Ellen asked, excitement—no awe—making her voice squeak.
Christy frowned. She looked over in the direction Ellen was pointing. A smile twitched her lips. "Yes, it is."
Roy was standing in front of his spacious planter box. One hand was wrapped firmly around the trunk of a thin bush that looked like a rose of some kind. In the other was a spade. He was contemplating the box with the same intensity she'd seen when he charged from her townhouse on Thursday evening. From the rumpled look of his jeans and checked, western-style shirt, not to mention the way strands of gray hair had escaped from his ponytail, it looked as though he'd recently emerged from his self-imposed writing retreat.
"Oh, I love his books. I've read every one," Ellen said, reverence in her tone. "Armstrong. Weren't we just talking about an Armstrong?"
"Quinn is his son," Christy said.
There was a moment when shocked disbelief widened Ellen's eyes, then a calculating look snuck into her gaze. "You know Roy Armstrong?"
She sounded like a teenager who had just been told she could meet her favorite pop idol.
"He's a social activist who uses his dubious celebrity to destroy legitimate businesses," Gerry said.
"I love his work! He writes such beautiful stories. His words are almost poetry. Perhaps we've been too hasty in condemning his son's behavior."
"Absolutely not! Quinn Armstrong is no better than his father." Gerry fixed cold blue eyes on Christy. "Quinn Armstrong is not the only one at fault. It goes without saying that as a married woman you should not be dating."
"I'm not dating Quinn."
Roy made use of the spade to dig a shallow hole before he folded himself down onto his knees. He plopped the bush into the hole, then scooped the earth around it with his hands.
"I'm glad to hear that, Christy," Gerry said, his eyes cold, the hint of a threat in his icy tone. He opened the car door for Ellen.
Roy patted down the softened earth.
"Come, Ellen," Gerry said. "I think we've done all we need to here."
Roy stood. Ellen, who had been watching him avidly while he gardened, ignored Gerry. She turned to Christy. "Can I meet him?"
Christy didn't have to ask whom.
* * *
"Thank you for talking to Frank's aunt, Roy."
Roy poured water on his rose bush. "Not a problem."
Christy sighed. "Watching her was painful. Is it always like that? Do people usually gush the way Ellen did when they meet you?"
Roy laughed. "Not always. Sometimes they critique my work and tell me how they think my books should be written. Frankly, I like the Ellens of the world much better."
Christy shuddered. She rubbed her arms to chase away a cold that had settled on her at Ellen's name.
Roy frowned. "What's the matter?"
"Ellen likes you a whole bunch more than she likes me. She doesn't think I'm a good mother."
Roy snorted. "So Ms. Ja
mieson is the voice of experience, is she? I wouldn't have thought it."
Christy rubbed harder. "She has opinions about everything."
Roy studied Christy for a moment, then he plopped down on to his porch stairs and patted the space beside him. Christy sat, cradling her chin in hands, feeling glum.
"Is that why the two of them stopped by?" he asked.
Christy nodded. "They wanted me to know that they would take Noelle from me if they chose to."
"Ridiculous. You're her mother." He rubbed his chin. "I don't trust Gerry Fisher, though he claims to be a reformed character. Did they suggest why they'd take such a radical step?"
"They claim it's because Quinn roughed up Aaron DeBolt on Thursday night—"
"Quinn? My Quinn?" Roy sat up straight.
Christy might have laughed at the startled expression on his face, if she wasn't so very frightened.
"Quinn doesn't rough up people. He pries their secrets out of them, then lets them have it with words if they're not so nice. What did this guy, DeBolt, do that fired him up?"
"He was insulting to me."
Roy regarded her for a long, silent minute. "Really."
Christy nodded. Roy was staring at her with a puzzled expression on his face. He looked like a man who had been given the answer, but couldn't quite fit the clues together to get the result he knew was correct.
"I can't let them take Noelle away from me..."
Christy heard a loud yawn. A sense of hunger and a definite desire for food immediately followed. Christy frowned. She was staring at Roy Armstrong, who wasn't yawning, and he was the only other person around.
He raised bushy white brows. "Breakfast time," he said.
Damn straight, old man.
Christy's eyes widened. She'd heard Roy Armstrong speaking. His voice had been normal, coming from outside her head. The second voice, the one that had yawned, seemed to be inside her mind, but that wasn't possible.
"Breakfast will have to wait," Roy said. "I've got more important things to do."
"If you want to go in for breakfast, please go ahead," Christy said.
"I don't want breakfast," Roy said. "I ate hours ago. Somewhere around three a.m., I think. No, it's the cat who wants breakfast."
"The cat."
"Yeah. A stray Quinn picked up a few weeks ago. He took off on a quest, but now he's back. Cat," he added, addressing the doorway. "Come out and meet Miss Christy."
Christy laughed. She didn't know if Roy was trying to cheer her up, but there was something delightfully absurd in the way he addressed an animal that was just a pet, as if the creature was a person. She remembered Quinn saying his father was an animal activist and guessed that conversations with cats were probably pretty normal in the Armstrong household.
A sense of annoyance washed over her. Not her own annoyance—she was feeling scared and upset, with a little overlay of hope—but a generally pissed off feeling, as if the owner of the emotion had been forced to do a great deal of useless activity for absolutely no reward.
And now he had to wait for breakfast.
Where were those thoughts and emotions coming from? Christy asked herself. She'd had breakfast; Roy said he'd had breakfast. Who was so anxious to get his breakfast?
You want me to wait? I haven't eaten in two days, and my last meal was a crummy little mouse with a grasshopper chaser. Yuck. Give me canned tuna any day.
Christy shivered. She was so stressed her mind was playing tricks on her. The voice in her head had graduated from sounds to actual words that created really nasty images in her brain.
"I don't have any canned tuna," Roy said. "Stop grumbling and come out here, will you?"
Christy stared at him. She wanted to ask him if he was hearing the voice in his head too, but she couldn't. That would mean admitting her anxiety had pushed her over the edge. She wasn't ready for that.
A cat appeared on the porch, moving with the lithe grace of a tiger. "Would you look at that? It could be Stormy," Christy said.
"Stormy?" said Roy.
"Our cat. Actually, my husband and daughter's cat. He never took to me. Stormy was gray and black with tabby stripes. He looked a lot like this cat."
That's because he is this cat.
"Well, that solves that problem," Roy said.
You moved. Why did you move?
The voice was annoyed and critical, the tone complaining. Christy blinked at Roy. "Excuse me?"
"The cat was on a quest to find his owners. He said he couldn't."
"You... you're talking to the cat?"
So are you. This time the voice was amused.
"Really?" Roy regarded her in an interested way. "I thought the pot had opened up my mind so I was able to hear his voice. Seems I was wrong."
Speaking of pot, I could use a few puffs. After breakfast.
"There's no tuna," Roy said.
"I have a can," Christy said. She wanted to escape into her kitchen and hide until she'd dealt with the stress that put this hallucination into her brain.
Don't go, Chris, the voice said. It's taken me long enough to find you. I don't want to lose you again.
As she stood up, Christy looked down. Roy's eyes were bright, his expression keenly interested. The cat was staring at her intently, jade green eyes demanding, body tense, ready to spring. "I'm only going into my house." She turned away from those insistent green eyes and headed for her home.
The cat followed.
Roy said, "I might as well come too."
The cat bounded up the stairs after Christy, but he stopped just inside the front door. It's the same as your place, old man.
"The carpet's a different color," Roy said.
You sold the mansion so you could move into this? I can't believe you'd do that. Why?
Halfway up the stairs, Christy stopped. She stared down at the cat who stared back at her. There was a challenge in his eyes, or at least Christy thought there was a challenge. This was a first for her. She didn't usually attribute human characteristics to animals. Clearly the stress was warping her mind.
It was my home, and you dumped it as soon as I was gone. How callous is that?
"Frank?" Christy and Roy said at exactly the same moment.
Chapter 12
"The cat can't be Frank," Quinn said. He was glaring at Stormy who was busy chasing a ball Noelle had thrown. Noelle was squealing happily, delighted at the return of her beloved pet.
"Why not?" Roy said amicably.
They were sitting out on the patio behind Christy's house, sharing a pre-dinner glass of wine. Stormy pounced on the ball, grabbed it in his front paws, and rolled with it. His strong back legs jerked, his claws catching the edge of the ball and shredding it. Christy shivered. If the ball had been a bird or a mouse, it wouldn't have had much of a chance.
Laughing and chiding the cat, Noelle charged up to grab the ball for another throw. There was a moment when Stormy glared at her, then he surrendered the toy. Standing up, his tail twitching, the cat stood tensed, waiting for the next throw.
Quinn watched this scene moodily. "Because he's a cat, Dad! He can't be a person too."
"Why not?" Roy said again.
"Come on, Dad! People don't suddenly turn into cats."
A lot he knows.
Roy laughed.
Christy sighed. Frank had been making snarky comments about Quinn since he'd first started communicating with her that morning.
"What?" Quinn said.
"Stormy disagrees," Christy said. "He says he's Frank and that Frank's human body is dead."
"Frank is probably still in Mexico, very much alive, but minus his passport. He's just lying low." Quinn's jaw was set and his voice was firm. He'd made his decision and he wasn't prepared to back down.
"You're too rigid, boy. That's why you're the only one who can't hear the cat talking. You're closed to the infinite possibilities of the cosmos." Roy gestured with his wine glass. "Relax. Go with the flow. Open your mind. Let him in."
&n
bsp; Quinn shot his father an impatient look. He jumped to his feet and began to pace, like a lion locked in a holding pen. He certainly didn't look like a man prepared to relax any time soon. "Okay, Dad. I've opened my mind. There's nothing out there. The cat is just a cat."
Stormy, busy eviscerating the ball, laughed. So did Christy and Roy.
Quinn's jaw flexed. "This is stupid." He sat down again and drank some wine.
His father topped up his glass.
Christy decided that Quinn Armstrong was a very sexy man. Not only did he move with the easy grace of a big cat, but he had a way of narrowing his eyes and looking straight into a situation. Physical control tied together with a quick intelligence was a potent combination that she needed to ignore. She'd already shown him that she responded to his kisses. She didn't want him thinking she was mooning over him every minute they were together. Not only was she still married to Frank, but she was very much aware that Quinn was a successful journalist. Everything she said would eventually find its way into the media, including her belief that her husband was living inside Stormy the Cat. Wouldn't that look great in big black type on white newsprint? Embezzler's Wife Decides Husband Is a Cat.
Time to follow Quinn's lead and solve this puzzle in a logical way. "Let's step back and see what we've got so far. We know Frank's passport was used by a person traveling to and from Mexico. That individual fit Frank's physical description. He could have been Frank, or someone else. Last week, the person using Frank's passport returned to Canada along with Brianne Lymbourn, the woman Frank was reported to be with in Mexico. On arrival in Vancouver, Brianne took a room at the Strand Manor. The man with her did not register, but apparently stayed in the hotel. Both of them have now disappeared. In fact, no one has seen Frank or spoken to him in months."
"No one here." Quinn was now slouched in a lawn chair, one long jean-clad leg propped on the other. His hand was wrapped around the goblet of his wineglass, which he'd just raised to his lips.
