The Cat's Paw

by Louise Clark

  It was Christy's turn to sigh—hers with pleasure. She loved the feeling of having a man to lean against, a man whose first concern was for her.

  "Frank says that she was burgled. Is that true?"

  Christy straightened reluctantly. She needed to look into Quinn's eyes and she couldn't do it cuddled up against his chest. Quinn, being an award-winning journalist, would be able to make sense of Ellen's dramatic announcement. "She claimed it happened while she was in bed, asleep or half-asleep. Which," Christy said, a frown puckering her forehead, "makes it a home invasion, not a burglary, I guess."

  Quinn frowned too. "Is she sure it actually happened?"

  "There was a broken mirror and table, so, yeah, it happened."

  "Frank was not clear on that point," Quinn said. "He thought the story was an excuse so she could move in and make his life miserable."

  A little bubble of amusement welled up inside Christy. "She doesn't like cats. She told me to lock Stormy into a room."

  Quinn laughed. "That must have gone over well."

  "I was relieved when Frank slipped away just after breakfast. By that time Noelle was down. She must have opened the door for him while I was trying to convince Ellen that she didn't want to sell her condo because of a little break-in."

  "Anything stolen?" Quinn asked.

  "Not that Ellen noticed." Christy searched his face, basking in the warmth—and yes, worry—in his eyes. "Quinn, why would someone break in, shatter a mirror and a table, but steal nothing?"

  "Noise," he said promptly. "The sound made by the breaking mirror and furniture would be loud in the predawn quiet. The thieves were probably frightened they would be discovered and took off."

  "Maybe," Christy said.

  Quinn stroked Christy's red brown hair away from her face. "I came over to see if you were okay."

  He was afraid Ellen's burglary would remind her of the home invasion she'd fought off here in her own home so very recently. Stormy had been injured, but she and Noelle had been fine.

  And Quinn had come to her rescue, while his father had taken the injured cat to the twenty-four hour vet. She smiled at him, leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. "I'm fine," she whispered.

  He changed the kiss into a more intimate one. At least, as intimate as two people could get while seated on the front porch of a small townhouse located in a high-density development in the suburbs. When he drew away he murmured against her lips, "I worry about you, you know."

  She did know and it warmed her all over. As he straightened, his gaze a caress, she said firmly, "Ellen will get tired of living here and she'll hire a service to thoroughly clean her condo, then move back there. It won't take her long."

  His caressing gaze morphed into one of amused disbelief. "Are we talking about the woman who said she'd been violated because someone came into her condo and broke a mirror?"

  "I know Ellen Jamieson. A townhouse in the burbs won't cut it. She'll be gone within days." Christy heard the ragged edge of desperation in her voice and hoped Quinn hadn't.

  But he was laughing at her now, his eyes bright with affectionate mirth. "If you say so."

  She had the unfortunate feeling that he'd nailed it and Ellen Jamieson was here to stay.

  Chapter 2

  They called her because a Jamieson was involved.

  Detective Billie Patterson of the Vancouver Police Department eased her car to a stop in front of the modern, glass-and-steel building which housed Ellen Jamieson's condo. Located close to English Bay and a short walk to the Granville Island Ferry, the low-rise structure featured large open terraces on the top three floors. Jamieson's apartment was on the fifth floor; not quite a penthouse, but pretty damn close.

  The building access included a doorman, apparently there to help owners with parcels and to vet guests during the day and evening, and a reasonable, but not state-of-the-art security system in the underground parking garage. Patterson took note of that and added the information to her growing mental case file.

  On the fifth floor, a patrolman greeted her at the condo entrance. "The body's on the terrace, Detective. You enter it through the living room."

  "I'll look around first." If she hadn't already been aware of the Jamieson wealth, Ellen Jamieson's apartment would have alerted her to it. The flooring was real wood, a dark walnut that gleamed with a high-gloss finish. The area rugs strewn throughout were authentic Persian carpets, with intricately woven patterns in vivid blues and reds, lovely to look at and expensive to buy. The furniture was antique, most of it solid Victorian pieces built by top craftsmen. Even though she poked through the entire apartment, there wasn't a recliner, or modern squishy, comfortable, sofa in sight.

  Starchy, proper, and stiff. That's what she remembered of Ellen Jamieson from her investigations into the disappearance and later death of Frank Jamieson, and her apartment confirmed it.

  So what was she doing with a dead body on her terrace?

  Jamieson had claimed she heard the sounds of a scuffle, glass shattering and then voices. When she'd discovered the broken mirror and table, she had called 9-1-1 then vacated the premises. The bedroom testified to her hurried departure. The bed was unmade and the cupboard doors were open. Clothes were strewn over the bed and a small reading chair by the window—evidence she had packed, and had done it quickly.

  Patterson swung back to the entryway with the broken mirror and ruined console table. The patrolman guarding the door straightened. "Do we have a name yet?" she asked, referring to the victim on the terrace.

  He nodded. "Brittany Day," he said quickly. Then he pulled out a notebook. "Of Calgary. Currently studying at English Bay University."

  Brittany Day, Patterson thought. Well, well, well. Wasn't that interesting?

  "Who found the body?"

  "I did, sir. As a result of a 9-1-1 call, I was sent to check the residence. The occupant, a Ms. Jamieson, had left the premises, but had authorized the doorman to access the apartment. He unlocked the door and I came in to assess the damage. In my inspection of the unit, I found the woman's body on the terrace. She was already dead and had been for some time."

  Patterson nodded, then headed out to the crime scene.

  The terrace was designed to be outdoor living space. Flower boxes held an assortment of annual plantings that must have been beautiful during the summer months, providing vivid color against the elegant slate flooring. An awning covered a modern patio set—six padded chairs around a rectangular, granite-topped table. Near the furniture grouping was an outdoor heater, further proof that this area was meant to be used pretty much year-round.

  Not surprising, Patterson thought. The view of English Bay and beyond was spectacular. She could imagine sitting here after a shift to chill out and let the beauty of the area flush away all the crap she brought home with her. It would be awesome.

  She doubted Ellen Jamieson had a lot of crap to flush out at the end of her day, though. And she probably hardly ever used the terrace. Ironically, the outdoor furniture looked to be the most comfortable in the whole apartment and Jamieson didn't seem the type to appreciate comfort, if the rest of the furniture was any indication.

  The terrace buzzed with crime scene techs taking evidence, but most of them were around the body, which was wedged behind the patio heater.

  She cornered the medical examiner for time of death first. "Early this morning," he said.

  He was a burly man who had once been a linebacker during his university days. He looked like the kind of guy who would say only what needed to be said, but she knew that if she got him started, he'd talk her ear off. She didn't want to get him started. "How early is early?"

  He shrugged, but his expression was thoughtful. "I can't be certain from the kind of cursory examination I can give on the scene, of course, but—"

  Yeah, yeah. Spit it out, Patterson thought, careful to allow no evidence of her impatience into her expression. That only made him worse.

  Miraculously he actually came to the po
int. "I'd say no earlier than five o'clock and no later than eight."

  "Great," Patterson muttered. "That gives me nothing."

  "Detective, you know my process. I am thorough, and I do not make mistakes. I will not commit unless I am certain."

  Yeah, yeah, Patterson thought again, but she nodded politely. The guy pissed her off, but he was right. He did good work.

  She stared down at the earthly remains of a young woman with brown hair, matted and darkened with blood from a head wound, and a curvy figure that had probably had labeled her as sexy in life. She was wearing a tank top and a pair of buttercup yellow pants, made of some sort of flowing material. Patterson crouched down to feel the texture.

  Long-legged and lean, the detective was dressed in dark slacks, a simple cotton shirt and a brown leather jacket. She liked the pants, so she was careful to keep away from the puddle of blood near the victim's head. She rubbed the fabric between her fingers. It was soft, with almost a silky feel to it. Not a normal material for street clothes. More like the kind used for pajama bottoms or lounging pants.

  She looked over at the medical examiner. "Was she wearing a coat or a jacket of some kind?"

  He shook his head. "What you see is what you get."

  Patterson grunted, resisting the urge to run her fingers through her hair, which was pulled back from her face. Instead she rubbed the scar that ran down one side, from eye to jaw, and frowned.

  Jamieson murders tended to be brutal and involved head wounds. Though they hadn't yet found Frank Jamieson's body, he was reported to have been bashed on the back of the head before being bundled into the trunk of a car, then taken for what amounted to an execution.

  Whoever had killed this girl wanted to be sure she did not survive the assault. She'd bled copiously from the head wound and the indent in her skull was clearly visible. As Patterson studied the body, she thought that the injuries looked almost... personal. She grimaced and stood up.

  Of course it was personal. Brittany Day was one of Aaron DeBolt's girlfriends. DeBolt had been charged as an accessory in the murder of Frank Jamieson and he was currently being held without bail because he was considered a flight risk due to his links with Vancouver's seedy underbelly of crime lords and drug kings. His socialite mother and respectable, old-money father had tried to convince the judge that bail should be granted, but to no avail. DeBolt was still in lockup and would remain there until his trial.

  If there was a trial. Patterson shoved her hands into the pockets of her brown leather jacket as she stared moodily down at the body of the once-pretty victim.

  A week ago, Brittany Day had come forward claiming that DeBolt had been with her on the night of Frank Jamieson's death. Patterson didn't believe the alibi was true, but she had to investigate it all the same. So far, everything she'd learned fit and the alibi held up. It looked like DeBolt would walk, even though Patterson's gut told her that the man was guilty as sin.

  Now Brittany Day was dead and it seemed that someone—probably Ellen Jamieson since this was her apartment—wanted to make sure that DeBolt didn't weasel out of doing hard time for his part in Frank Jamieson's murder. The blunt object and the energy used to wield it indicated anger, and maybe fear. Powerful emotions that would push a person into violent acts he or she would never normally consider.

  Patterson gazed down at Brittany's face and wondered why the woman had come to Ellen Jamieson's apartment in the first place, dressed so casually. Had Ellen offered her a bribe to retract her statement that she had been with Aaron DeBolt on the night in question? Had it been Brittany who offered to change her testimony for a generous payment? Had she come to the apartment to pick up her cash?

  Either was possible, Patterson thought. Ellen Jamieson's fortune didn't come from the Jamieson Trust, currently on the cusp of bankruptcy. No, her wealth came from family money and investments in the Jamieson Ice Cream Company, and since Jamieson Ice Cream was still a thriving business, she had plenty of cash to spare.

  Patterson looked around the open terrace, glad the November day was mild and it wasn't raining. She could leave the crime scene geeks here and in the apartment to do their work collecting every scrap of evidence they could find while she followed Ellen Jamieson out to Burnaby where she'd retreated after she'd heard the break-in earlier today.

  At that thought Patterson grinned, the smile adding a mischievous glow to her attractive features as it warmed her brown eyes. She'd bet that Christy Jamieson wasn't happy just about now, not with having her husband's aunt descending on her. From what Patterson knew of the complicated Jamieson family relationships, Christy and Ellen didn't get along. Not surprising, considering Ellen Jamieson was one of the four trustees whose hostility had made Christy's married life miserable.

  She suspected the coming interview would make for an entertaining afternoon.

  * * *

  "Hi, Mrs. Jamieson. Is Ms. Ellen Jamieson here by any chance?"

  Christy stared at Detective Patterson. She looked like an ordinary twenty-something attractive woman, smartly dressed in a leather jacket, crisp black slacks and a tailored shirt, her sand-brown hair drawn back in a stylish French braid. She had what Christy thought of as her "cop face" on, though: serious, to the point of being unreadable. Why would the police force send a plainclothes officer to Burnaby to talk to Ellen about the burglary at her condo? Surely an ordinary constable would be appropriate. "Sure," she said. "Ellen's in the living room. Come on up." She stepped aside to let Patterson enter, then led the way up the stairs.

  Ellen Jamieson was sitting on the sofa, her back to the big bay window and the view of the greenbelt behind the townhouse. On the coffee table in front of her resided a rectangular tray containing a china tea set that had been a gift to Frank's parents on their tenth anniversary. The china was eggshell-thin and patterned with roses, daisies and other flowers. On the tray were a teapot, teacup and saucer, desert plate and a platter of small sandwiches. She was in the act of pouring tea for one when Christy and Detective Patterson entered the living room.

  She set down the pot carefully and frowned. "Who is this, Christy?"

  "You remember Detective Patterson from the police department," Christy said. She kept her voice even and careful. She and Ellen had been rubbing against each other since Ellen had shown up and her temper was wearing thin. She had a healthy respect for Patterson's deductive capabilities, though, and didn't want to parade family squabbles in front of her.

  Ellen raised her brows in a way that could only be called haughty. She made a deliberate show of checking her watch before she said, "It is one forty-five in the afternoon, Detective. I contacted the police before six this morning."

  "There have been developments in the case, Ms. Jamieson," Patterson said. Her voice was even, her eyes assessing.

  Christy thought that if she'd walked into a house and been greeted with the kind of hostility Ellen was producing, her tone would be a lot sharper than Patterson's was. "Detective Patterson, would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?"

  Patterson smiled at her in a friendly way and said, "If coffee isn't too much trouble, I'd prefer that, Mrs. Jamieson."

  "Of course." As Christy headed into the kitchen she thought that there had been amusement in Patterson's eyes and maybe even a trace of sympathy. She set about brewing the coffee, at the same time resisting the urge to sigh. Hopefully Patterson brought good news that would send Ellen back to her condo sooner rather than later. She tuned out the quiet hum of voices from the living room until she returned there with Patterson's coffee, plus a plate and napkin so the detective could share the sandwiches.

  The voices stopped as she entered the room, so she said cheerfully, "I brought a plate for you, Detective Patterson. The sandwiches on the tray are egg salad or ham." Ellen had wanted watercress. Christy didn't stock watercress in her fridge and she'd resisted Ellen's demand that she immediately rush to the grocery store to pick up several bunches.

  "Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Jamieson," Patterson said, ac
cepting the sturdy mug Christy handed her, "but I finished a sandwich before I came."

  "Not a problem," Christy said. She smiled at Patterson, then glanced at Ellen. She was frowning, but her expression wasn't the usual grim disapproval she aimed at people who didn't meet her exacting standards. There was dismay and an edge of fear in the expression. Christy resisted the urge to ask what the problem was. Instead she said, "I'll leave you to your discussion, then. I'll be outside in the garden, if you need me."

  "Stay," Ellen said.

  Patterson wrapped both hands around the coffee mug as she raised it to her lips. Over the rim her eyes were watchful.

  Christy hesitated. "But—"

  Ellen raised her arm and pointed. "This policeman—"

  "Person," Patterson said.

  "Is making unthinkable suggestions. I want a witness to the answers I give to the questions she is asking."

  Christy put the unwanted plate on the coffee table as she sank down on one end of the sofa. Ellen was far from her favorite person, but she knew all about how devastating allegations and innuendoes could be. "What's going on?"

  "A body was found on my terrace and she—" Ellen pointed dramatically at Patterson. "Believes I put it there."

  "A body?" Christy said. She could feel her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open. "You mean, like a human body? A dead body?"

  Patterson nodded and Ellen said, "Yes!"

  "What's a body doing on your terrace?" Christy asked, staring at Ellen.

  "An excellent question," Patterson said. She drank more coffee and watched the interplay between Christy and Ellen.

  Ellen quivered with anger. "Are you helping this person, Christy? Are you so abandoned to your responsibilities to your family that you would take the authorities' side and help them railroad me into prison?"

  "Whoa! Wait a minute," Christy said. She held out a hand, palm up in the classic "stop" position. The statement was typical of Ellen, caustic, self-centered, dramatic. She shouldn't be shocked by it, but she was.