by Louise Clark
The Cat's Paw
The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series
Book Two
by
Louise Clark
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-907-8
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Table of Contents
Cover
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Meet the Author
Acknowledgements
Writing a book is never a solo project and I want to thank several people who took a critical look at this story and helped me to make it better. Any errors, of course, are mine, because in the end I'm the one who makes the decisions on what to and what not to change.
I asked Patricia Spice to review the text from a lawyer's point of view. She identified several scenes that needed amending, then was kind enough to back and forth with me until I got it sorted out in a way that worked to both our satisfaction. "After all," she said, "if you're going to write about the Canadian legal system, you may as well get it right." Yup, and a very good point!
Mary MacGregor, an avid mystery reader and an academic whiz, pointed out that no academic advisor would be so much into a student's life as Dr. Peiling was involved in Brittany Day's. Her comments made me dig deeper into why Peiling acted the way he did. Thank you for that, Mary!
Thanks also to my excellent editor, Alethea Spiridon, who edited both this book and The Cat Came Back, the first volume in the 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series. I love the way Alethea edits. She leaves my style alone, but catches my mistakes. The best kind of editor!
Finally, I'm sending hugs and major thanks out to my family—Dave, Forrest and Alex—for their patience and for not complaining about the piles in the living room... and the dining room... and the kitchen... and the hallway... and... and... You get the picture. You're the best!
Chapter 1
At six forty-five on a Wednesday morning in November, Christy Jamieson was standing staring at the coffee machine in her kitchen. She was wearing a fluffy tiger-striped dressing gown her late husband Frank had given her two Christmases before, because he said it would help her bond with Stormy the Cat. Her hair was sleep-tousled and uncombed. Her mind dozed as she waited for the single brew coffee to drip into her cup. When the doorbell sounded, she frowned. She was not at her best before her first cup of coffee, but she was the mom of an active eight-year-old, so she was surprisingly good at switching on awareness when needed.
Doorbells at six forty-five in the morning did not bode well.
She cast a last, longing look at the dripping coffee and headed for the door, speculating on who was on the other side of it as she went.
She hoped it would not be the obnoxious social worker, Joan Shively. The woman claimed she had the right to drop in at any time to ensure that Christy's daughter, Noelle, was being properly cared for, but at six forty-five? If she thought she could barge into the house for an inspection, she had another thing coming.
Could be Quinn Armstrong, her neighbor and... friend. Since they had only known each other a short two months, Christy wasn't sure she was ready to call him her boyfriend, but they were close and getting closer. Quinn understood her need for an early morning hit of caffeine, so he rarely came by before Noelle was in school. She did a quick finger-comb of her hair and hoped the layered ends would fall into place, just in case he had decided to drop in. She smiled to herself. If he'd changed his pattern today she wouldn't be upset. They could chat over coffee.
The route from her townhouse kitchen to the front door was through the living room and down half a flight of stairs. She'd hardly finished her happy daydream about a quiet morning visit with Quinn when she reached the shallow landing. She hauled open the door, then stared.
Standing in front of her, looking annoyed, was not the child services lady or Quinn. It was Noelle's great-aunt, Ellen Jamieson, dressed in an expensive suit with a pencil skirt and a man-tailored jacket. The cloth was finely woven and charcoal in color. The blouse underneath was pearl gray. The outfit had probably cost Ellen a fortune.
Christy blinked, wondering if she had dozed off in front of the coffeemaker. Ellen Jamieson didn't come to visit. She hardly spoke to Christy and only to Noelle when she thought it was necessary to convey family traditions, or to show Jamieson solidarity.
What was she doing on Christy's Burnaby doorstep?
"Well," said Ellen. "Are you going to invite me in?"
An errant defiance, born of Christy's recent success in thwarting the embezzlement plans of one of Ellen's longtime friends and a trustee of Noelle's inheritance, blew away the fog of a pre-caffeine morning and teased a smile onto Christy's lips. "It's rather early for a social call, Ellen. I have to get Noelle ready for school. Why don't you come back later? Shall we say—ten forty-five?" Ten forty-five came out of nowhere. Probably the forty-five reflected in the current time. Why ten? Who knew? It didn't matter, Christy thought, as she watched Ellen's eyes widen with surprise.
Then those brown, gimlet-hard eyes narrowed.
Uh-oh, Christy thought. Trouble ahead.
"This is not a social call!" Ellen announced, drama injected into every word. "I am here to claim sanctuary."
Okay, maybe she was asleep. Sanctuary? Ellen?
At that point Stormy the Cat sauntered down the stairs, probably alerted that something unusual was up by the sound of the doorbell. Cats were naturally curious creatures, always interested in the smallest detail, but Stormy shared his body with Christy's late husband, Frank Jamieson, and Frank liked to poke his nose into everything. As Ellen made her dramatic announcement, Stormy reached the top of the half-flight of stairs. He hissed and all the hair on his back stood on end as he arched.
It's six forty-five in the morning. What the hell is she doi
ng here?
"Claiming sanctuary," Christy said. With Frank now on the scene and loudly broadcasting his aversion to his aunt, things were about to get complicated. "You'd better come in, Ellen," she said, holding the door wider.
No way! Indignation shivered through the words.
The front door opened onto a landing that had half staircases leading both up and down. It was small space so Christy turned and led the way up, leaving Ellen to handle the front door. She resisted the urge to sigh as she scooped up the hostile cat when she reached the top of the stairs. She wanted him out of Ellen's way when she finally made it up the stairs. With Stormy in her arms, she turned to see that Ellen was manhandling a large suitcase onto the landing.
Frank noticed at the same time. The cat stiffened in her arms and began to wiggle. After what she's done she figures she can move in? I don't think so!
"Ellen."
Ellen succeeded in getting her suitcase into the house. She looked up at Christy as she closed the door.
"Why do you have a suitcase?"
"I told you," Ellen said impatiently. "I need sanctuary. Now, if you will show me to my room—"
Furious, Stormy fought Christy's hold. He extended his claws and tried to scramble free. Christy was a seasoned cat owner, however. She shifted her grasp so that she had both hands around the cat's ribcage, just below his front legs. Holding him tightly and away from her body, there wasn't much the cat could do to escape. He slumped, his limp body extended to its full length. Subdued, but not defeated.
Still at the bottom of the stairs, Ellen observed them with a frown. "I trust you will cage that beast while I am in residence."
Over my dead—
"Yes, well. Ellen, you have a perfectly good condo in a great location downtown. Why are you here, in Burnaby?" Burnaby was one of Vancouver's suburb municipalities, the next town over and about half an hour from downtown by car, but a suburb nonetheless. Ellen didn't do suburbs.
"My condo has been robbed. I have been violated!"
Christy sucked in her breath. Even the resistance leached out of the cat. "You'd better come up then. Have you called the police?"
"Yes," Ellen said, abandoning the suitcase in front of the door as she climbed the stairs.
Christy dropped the cat onto the floor then led the way into the kitchen, where the coffee had finished dripping into the cup. With a pang, she passed the mug to Ellen, who accepted it, then set up the brewer to make a second cup for her. "What did the police say?"
"Nothing," Ellen said bitterly. "I haven't seen them. The 9-1-1 operator said a constable would visit later in the day, since the burglars had already left. I told them my housekeeper would let them into the apartment. I wasn't remaining, to wait on their convenience."
She's crying wolf, Frank said, with considerable disgust. What's all this bull about being violated?
The coffeemaker hissed and gurgled, then spat coffee into Christy's cup. While she waited for it to finish brewing she went to the pantry cupboard to grab a can of cat food for Stormy.
"Why don't you tell me exactly what happened," Christy said, opening the can and dishing the contents into Stormy's bowl. Frank seemed to get as much pleasure out of Stormy eating as Stormy did, so she hoped that if she provided food, Frank would forget about Ellen. For the moment, anyway.
"I woke up just before dawn thinking I heard some strange noises," Ellen said. "Where do you keep your sugar?"
Christy pulled a spoon out of a drawer and used it to point to a bowl on the kitchen table. Ellen took the spoon, her cup and herself over to the table. She liberally scooped sugar into the cup, then sat down facing Christy who still stood by the coffeemaker.
"What kind of noises?" Christy asked as the machine finished and she picked up her mug. She took a large, revivifying gulp of coffee. This conversation wasn't one she should be having before finishing her first cup of the day.
Ellen sniffed, both hands around the mug. "The kind that shouldn't be there at five thirty in the morning. Thumps. Footsteps. Grunts. I lay there, listening, but I was half asleep and not sure that what I thought I heard, I actually did hear."
Ellen's description was close enough to the sounds Christy had heard when her home was broken into just a few weeks before that she shivered.
She's grandstanding. Always has to one up me and mine. Pay no attention to her, Chris.
"If you didn't hear the sounds again, what makes you think you were broken into?" Christy asked, ignoring Frank.
For once, Ellen looked uncertain. "I must have drifted off to sleep, but I dreamed I heard voices. That startled me and I came completely awake. I got up and that's when I discovered that the mirror in the hall was broken, as well as one of the legs on the little console table below it. I realized then that I hadn't been dreaming or imagining the sounds I heard. Someone had been in my home!"
The distress in her voice and on her face was very real. Christy said gently, "That's when you called the police."
"That's when I packed a suitcase," Ellen said grimly. "Whether the police came in minutes or the hours it will apparently take them, I wasn't staying."
Stormy's nose was still deep in his food bowl, but Christy's ploy to keep Frank out of the conversation wasn't working. She's not staying with us. Period.
"Why come here?" Christy asked. "Why not a hotel? There are lots of good ones in the city."
"Jamiesons don't live in hotels," Ellen said.
"Live? Not stay?"
"I am not going to return to that apartment," Ellen said, thrusting up her chin.
"But surely... after the mess has been cleaned up—"
"I will be putting the condo up for sale," Ellen finished smoothly. She lifted the cup and sipped. When she put it back down on the table her voice was decisive. "I will not live there again."
Stormy finished his breakfast and licked his chops, before settling in to clean face and chin with tongue and paws. Frank's mental protest came with a gritty edge that expressed both anger and desperation. She is not moving in. This is our home, not hers. She can't stay.
"I get that," Christy snapped. She gulped more coffee.
Ellen stared at her, brows raised. "There is no need for hostility. This house is part of the Jamieson Trust. As such I have as much right live here as you do."
The cat's tail was swishing angrily from side to side as he stood defensively over his bowl, staring at Ellen. If she stays, I go.
"We'll see what the police have to say. Once we've heard from them, we can make a decision."
Ellen sniffed as Frank broadcast an equally dubious sound. Christy resisted the urge to sigh. The role of the peacemaker was never smooth. "Have you eaten, Ellen? I'm about to make bacon and eggs for Noelle. Would you like some?"
"Yes," said Ellen and Frank at the same time.
* * *
By eleven o'clock Christy was exhausted. Her usual smooth morning schedule, honed to a nanosecond, had gone completely off the rails. As a result, she'd rushed breakfast, shoved her body into the first clean clothes she could find (jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt) and she and Noelle had to run all the way to the school to make sure Noelle was in her classroom before the start bell rang. Back home, she discovered that Ellen expected help settling into the spare bedroom. They argued—again—about Ellen's decision to move in until Ellen announced that she was emotionally drained and would be taking a nap. Relieved, Christy retreated to her front steps, where she sat in the mid-morning quiet in the hopes of soothing her frazzled nerves.
The weather was no brighter than her emotions. A solid bank of gray clouds covered the sky. It wasn't raining yet, but it was November and in British Columbia's lower mainland, November and a solid mass of cloud meant that it soon would be. In the flower box beside her front walk the Shasta daisies drooped, their bright heads heavy on stalks that were no longer putting energy into new growth, and the Japanese cherry tree had shed its purple-red leaves.
Several pale yellow birds with big bills and black mas
ks landed in the tree and went to work on the remaining few small, bitter fruits, swallowing them whole. Christy watched their energetic fluttering and thought with a kind of rueful amusement that she had been flitting around with the same kind of energy as the birds since Ellen's arrival, but a lot less efficiently.
She'd only been sitting there five minutes when Quinn settled in beside her. She sighed and put her head on his shoulder as he slipped his arm around her waist.
Quinn Armstrong had begun as her enemy, then became her ally and now was a friend and, she very much hoped, eventually her lover. He'd helped her prove that her husband, Frank Jamieson—heir to the Jamieson Ice Cream fortune—had not abandoned her and their daughter, Noelle, but was actually dead. During that investigation she had discovered Quinn was a man who was both sexy and honorable, a combination that touched her emotions even as his dark-lashed gray eyes and kissable mouth had her thinking thoughts she wasn't quite ready to act on.
"I hear Ellen Jamieson has come for a visit," he said. He rubbed his cheek against her hair and moved a little closer.
"Let me guess. Frank told your father."
She felt Quinn's chest rise and fall in a sigh. Frank communicated telepathically with Christy, Noelle and Roy, Quinn's father and a bestselling novelist, but for some reason Quinn couldn't hear him. Frank swore it was Quinn's fault, and maybe it was since Quinn was very much a grounded, facts-oriented kind of person. But Frank had a possessive streak when he was alive. Christy wouldn't rule out the possibility that Frank was deliberately excluding Quinn because of her attraction to him.
"Yeah. Dad said he came over to vent because he couldn't do anything to stop her." Quinn kissed the hair he had just nuzzled, making it very clear that he was more interested in how Christy was taking the arrival of Ellen, than what Frank was feeling.
