by Louise Clark
She looked up. Her face was white, her eyes huge. "Frank is hurt."
He crouched down beside her. She seemed to expect him to do something about the cat, so he touched it gently. It was warm, its chest rising and falling in a steady motion. "Frank will be fine," he said. He had no idea if that was true or not, but it seemed to be the right thing to say. "Dad's phoning the police right now. When he's through he'll come over. He can take the cat to the vet."
Christy nodded. "Hear that, kiddo?" she said to the child in her arms. "Daddy will be okay."
Noelle sniffed. Christy began to rock again. "I didn't know vets stayed open in the middle of the night."
"There's a twenty-four hour emergency hospital on Boundary." Quinn touched her cheek gently with his knuckles. "Christy, what happened?"
"There was a man—" She gulped and shuddered. "He was masked. It was dark. He came up. I hit him, but he kept on coming. Frank jumped on him. Then Frank was hurt and he ran away." She was shaking when she finished her broken recital and Noelle was crying. "Oh, baby, don't cry. Don't cry, baby."
Quinn sat down. His back was against the wall, the injured cat on one side of him. He stretched his legs across the narrow hallway, then he tugged Christy down against him. He helped her settle Noelle on her lap before he wrapped his arm around Christy and pulled her close. He was crooning soft words of comfort when he heard his father shout his name. "Up here, Dad!"
Roy made no attempt to be quiet. "Quinn! The cops will be here any time. They said we shouldn't..." He reached the top of the stairs, took in the vision of his son snuggling both Jamieson females, and finished with just the barest hesitation, "...take any chances."
Christy lifted her head from Quinn's shoulder. "Roy, Frank's hurt. Help him. Please."
Quinn leaned his head against the wall. "Can you get him to the vet, Dad? Both Noelle and Christy are worried about him." He shot his father a look that he hoped Roy would understand. The cat hadn't moved since he'd reached the scene and he feared the animal would not survive.
Roy crouched beside the cat and stroked the soft tiger striped fur. He nodded at Christy and Noelle. "What happened?"
"There seems to have been an intruder," Quinn said. His gut clenched as he thought of Christy in danger.
"As in a burglar or a home invader?" Roy asked.
"He wore a mask," Christy said.
Roy looked around the scene. He pointed to the wall where there were dark red smudges. "Frank's work?"
Christy nodded. "Frank jumped him once downstairs, then he followed him up. I was hitting him with the pillow—"
"You mean the one Quinn's sitting on?" Roy said, a laugh in his voice.
"Yes," Christy said. "He caught it and pulled it away from me. Frank jumped on him and dug in his claws. The intruder shook him off, but not before Frank raked him pretty badly."
"Yea, Daddy," Noelle said.
Quinn laughed. "You're a bloodthirsty pair."
Noelle giggled. Christy cuddled closer. Quinn thought how much he liked that.
"Okay," Roy said. "I think I've got at least some of the picture." He gently scooped up the cat. "I'll take care of Frank."
The police arrived a few minutes after Roy had left. Quinn heard the sirens and then the officers entering, but he didn't move. He called out, "We're upstairs!" and let the policemen work out the details for themselves.
There were two cops and their visit lasted about an hour. They took statements from Christy and from Noelle. When she told them she had stayed hidden in her room while the altercation went on outside her door they praised her, telling her she'd done exactly as she should. They eyed Christy dubiously as she described the battle with the pillow.
"Have you ever been given a real good whack with a pillow, officer? It hurts," she said with as much dignity as a woman wearing her dressing gown in the middle of a crowd of strange men could possibly have. "I didn't have many options. I used what I could."
After the police had finished taking statements, Christy and Noelle went to bed, leaving Quinn to deal with locking up. That done, he went upstairs and found Christy cuddled with Noelle, sound asleep in her double bed. He stood looking at them for a time, feeling the shock of the evening settle over him.
He'd been asleep when Roy had burst into his room, shaking him roughly awake with the news that he'd seen someone stumble out of Christy's house and stagger down their quiet street toward the main road. He was calling the police, Roy had said. Quinn needed to go to Christy.
Taking only enough time to pull on a pair of jeans, he'd rushed to her house. He would never forget the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stared at her open doorway, uncertain what he would find inside, desperately afraid that whatever it was would include blood and broken bodies. He'd seen that kind of carnage all too often and raged helplessly against the mindless violence of it, then done what he could to describe it to the world.
This time he had no plans to describe what he saw. He stepped back, out of Christy's room, and closed the door behind him. He'd already decided not to do an interview with Christy or write the story of Frank Jamieson's disappearance and the embezzlement of the Jamieson Trust. She deserved her privacy. He could not steal it from her.
He was in the living room, brooding about the night's events and women who took on impossible situations, when the doorbell rang. He checked his watch. It was three a.m.
At the door he looked through the spyhole. His father stood there, grinning widely and holding the cat.
Relief flooded Quinn as he let Roy inside. They took the cat up to the living room and laid it on an armchair. Then they both sat on the sofa and watched the animal sleep.
"So is he going to be okay?" Quinn asked.
Roy nodded. "One of his back legs is hurt. The vet couldn't find any break, so he figures it's bruising and maybe a pulled tendon. He's got a concussion as well. I'm supposed to wake him every so often to test his reactions and make sure there's no swelling in the brain."
Quinn looked at his father suspiciously. "Dad, you didn't tell the vet you could talk to the cat, did you?"
"It made things simpler," Roy said. "He thought I was drunk at first, but he couldn't smell any booze on my breath, so I expect he decided I was stoned. Once I'd convinced him that I was harmless, he accepted my descriptions of the cat's symptoms. We got on pretty well in the end."
Quinn yawned. "What a family."
Roy laughed softly. "Works for me."
Chapter 26
Thursday morning brought the locksmith and an argument about whether Noelle should go to school or not. Christy wanted to keep Noelle home, Roy thought she should go if she felt up to it, while Quinn offered the suggestion that kids are resilient and that he'd seen them cope in worse situations. It was Frank who decided the issue. He limped off to spend some quiet time with Noelle, and when he came back he told them she was okay with going to school. It was tonight that had her worried.
When it came time to walk to school, they all went, including the cat who made the journey nestled securely in Noelle's backpack. Mrs. Morton, the teacher, was immediately concerned about security for Noelle. After some discussion, it was decided that Noelle would stay in at recess, along with her best friends, and that she would have lunch with Christy.
It wasn't until Christy and the Armstrongs were halfway home that Christy realized that the cat was still in Noelle's backpack at school. There was nothing she could do about it, however, as she had just enough time to gather the papers she needed then get to Joan Shively's office in time for their meeting.
"This is very serious." Shively was frowning as she read document after document. "Edward Bidwell assured me that the Trust was disclosing all papers relevant to this case."
Christy's breath caught. "Edward was the one who made the accusations against me?"
Shively looked up from the papers, then resumed reading without answering. Evidently the mention of Bidwell's name had been an accidental slip. "Edward Bidwell is not above
lying in order to achieve the goals he's set for himself."
Shively straightened. She drew a deep breath, puffing up her torso. Her mouth was a hard, annoyed line. "One of the reasons we do not disclose the identities of those who report the mistreatment of a child is the name calling and retaliatory accusations by the accused parent in an effort to turn the investigation away from them."
Christy flushed. Battle, she thought, was fairly joined. Exhilaration shot through her. Last night when she'd faced an intruder who was bigger and stronger, she'd held her ground and forced him to flee. Joan Shively personified danger of another kind, but hers was no less real. "I believe you will find that I am not simply name calling, Ms. Shively. I suggest you talk to Detective Billie Patterson of the Vancouver police, who is investigating the Jamieson Trust and the trustees for embezzlement and worse crimes. I might add that Edward Bidwell has a past that is not above reproach."
Joan Shively frowned. Indecision dawned on her face, followed by curiosity.
Satisfied that she'd won this little skirmish, Christy added, "I won't gossip over the details. Should it be necessary to disclose them, I will. However, I believe the documents you have in front of you will be enough to prove that the allegations against me are untrue."
"This case may take some time to conclude," the social worker said, fingering the paper beneath her hand. It happened to be a letter from the Trust to Christy stating that they had purchased a townhouse in Burnaby for Christy and Noelle to live in since the mansion had been sold by Frank Jamieson Jr. It directly contradicted the letter supplied by Edward Bidwell.
Christy said, "I'll ask Detective Patterson to contact you. Perhaps that will help move things along."
Shively flushed. "I have a heavy case load, Mrs. Jamieson—"
Christy glanced at her watch. "And I have to pick up my daughter for lunch. Will you photocopy the documents, please? I have just enough time to get back."
At the school, she found Noelle holding her backpack, ready to go. She had a big grin on her face. Christy's heart lightened. One of her lingering terrors was that the danger they'd been through would scar Noelle. She knew it was early days yet, but she figured the big grin was a good sign.
By way of greeting, Noelle said, "Mrs. Morton thinks Stormy should come home with me at lunch."
The teacher said, "I gather the cat is something of a hero, Mrs. Jamieson. One who was wounded as a result of its bravery."
The voice said sleepily, She's got that right. I'm not sure about the stuff she's teaching my kid, though. Have you ever heard of a planet out beyond Pluto?
"Stormy was very helpful," Christy said, on tenterhooks whenever Noelle talked about the cat, in case she mentioned his special qualities. "I hope Stormy wasn't a problem. Noelle wanted to bring him along this morning, but we didn't intend to leave him behind."
Mrs. Morton said with a sniff, "He caused a sensation when his head popped out of her backpack just after recess. However, it gave Noelle the chance to describe the events of the night and the rest of the class the opportunity to discuss them. It was very healthy for all of us."
They didn't do this kind of stuff where I went to school. You should have seen these kids. Hugging each other. Telling Noelle how brave she was. Talking about what you should do if you're in danger. Amazing.
Christy agreed with Frank. The response to the incident had been amazing. "Okay, kiddo. Let's have lunch. We'll see you later, Mrs. Morton."
Once Noelle was back at school that afternoon, this time without the cat, Christy had her first opportunity of the day to simply sit. Doubts crept in, concerns that she hadn't handled the situation with Shively in the best way possible, worry that Noelle was in danger, fear that she couldn't keep her daughter safe.
Roy arrived with his laptop and said that he was going to babysit Frank, then Quinn showed up with an extra set of keys for the new locks that had been installed. Christy realized they were giving her space, but they weren't going to let her brood. She smiled gratefully as she took the keys from Quinn's hand. He smiled back, caught her hand in his, and raised it to his lips.
The doorbell rang. They all froze. Finally Frank said, So who's going to answer it?
Christy stood at the top of the stairs, looking down, but it was Quinn who went to the door. He put his body squarely in front of the opening, his feet planted wide apart, ready for anything. From Christy's vantage point he looked big, strong, and tough. His presence was reassuring.
The woman at the door flashed a badge. Quinn stepped back. "Detective Patterson, come in."
Billie Patterson had come to gather further information about the break-in with the hopes of linking it to Frank's disappearance. She looked curiously around the living room. "Doesn't look like anything much was taken. Or did you spend the morning cleaning up the mess?" She sat on the sofa opposite the chair where the cat was resting. There was a clear view of Roy working at the kitchen table, but it was the cat that her eyes rested on for a thoughtful minute.
Billie's lips twitched as Quinn parked himself on the arm of the cat's chair. She turned to Christy, who had settled beside her. "I can see that you've surrounded yourself with friends, Mrs. Jamieson. This is good."
Christy flashed Quinn a quick, intimate smile, then she identified Roy, who paid no attention to the group in the living room. Christy said, "Nothing was taken, Detective Patterson. I think I surprised the intruder when I woke up."
"The uniforms who responded to the call mentioned that the locks weren't broken. Does this suggest anything to you?"
Christy's lips tightened. "I didn't realize that. Quinn, did you notice?"
"Yeah," he said.
She frowned. "Is that why you stayed over last night?"
"I didn't see any reason to take chances. I didn't think the guy would be back, but you never know."
Christy shivered. "We had the locks replaced this morning."
"Who has keys to this house, Mrs. Jamieson?"
"I do. And the Trust. The house belongs to the Trust, you see, so they have to have a set of keys." She set her jaw. "Or they did. They won't now."
Billie made a note. "Where would those keys be kept?"
"At Jamieson Ice Cream, where the Trust has offices, I suppose. The staff or any of the trustees could have had access to them."
Billie tapped her notebook with her pen. "We picked up Crack Graham yesterday evening on suspicion of the murder of Brianne Lymbourn. He's got a lawyer and he's not talking. Yet. We can link him to Aaron DeBolt though, through Ms. Lymbourn. We detained DeBolt this morning. He claims he doesn't know anything about Lymbourn's death and he denies being involved in your husband's death. He also has a lawyer, but he's scared."
I'm not surprised. Aaron never did believe he'd get caught.
"I want to hit him with everything I can," Billie said, unaware that there'd been any kind of interruption. "Is there any possibility that DeBolt was your intruder?"
Aaron? He doesn't have the guts.
"I don't think so. The body shape was wrong. The intruder was bigger, broader, and heavier, than Aaron. But there's one way to find out for sure."
Billie snapped her notebook closed. "The cat scratches. Unfortunately, he doesn't have any." She moved the book thoughtfully as she stood up. "Well, it was a long shot. We'll speak to the trustees and maybe DeBolt will give us something substantial. In the meantime, Mrs. Jamieson, don't open the door until you're sure you know who it is."
"That won't be a problem," Quinn said. "I'm not about to leave her on her own."
* * *
Christy kept seeing the intruder in her mind's eye as her subconscious played with information her conscious mind refused to contemplate. After Noelle went to sleep in the big master bed, with Stormy curled protectively against her, Christy sat on the living room couch with Quinn, reviewing all that had happened. Roy worked at the kitchen table, revising his current work-in-progress with a focus that blocked out the activities of those around him.
"If the po
lice picked up Crack Graham last night, the intruder couldn't have been him. And Aaron DeBolt is the wrong body type. So that means that the intruder was one of the trustees," Christy said, thinking aloud.
"Not necessarily." Quinn slipped his arm around her waist, holding her securely against him. "You're assuming the intruder is somehow associated with Frank's disappearance and Brianne's death. It could have been an ordinary break and enter."
Christy laid her head on his shoulder. "But the lock wasn't broken, Quinn. The door was opened with a key. A burglar wouldn't have access to the house key. It's got to be one of the trustees." She swallowed hard. "But which one, and why?"
"Dad still thinks it's Bidwell." He shifted her so that she was on his lap and they could maintain eye contact as well as stay close.
With her head resting on his shoulder, Christy reached up and shaped Quinn's face with her fingertip. His short, dark hair was silky to her touch, his skin warm. "Edward appears to be the one who forged the documents that Joan Shively has. He wasn't the one who entered my house, though. He's too fat and he's out of shape." Her finger trailed down Quinn's jawline to the tip of his chin. "I can't imagine Bidwell creeping into my house in the middle of the night to do—what?"
Quinn nipped her fingertip. Christy laughed.
"If it wasn't Bidwell then it must have been Macklin or Fisher," Quinn said. "Or someone the killer hired. Which would mean it could have been any of them."
Christy moved restlessly. "I don't think he was a professional thief. He wasn't wearing the right clothes."
Quinn laughed. "So what kind of clothes does the well-dressed criminal wear these days?"
Christy shot him a 'well-duh' look. "Jeans, cargo pants, casual stuff. This man was wearing trousers with a knife-edge crease and the gloves he had on were hand-sewn, supple leather."
