by Louise Clark
Patterson said, "I am only here to discover the facts of the case, Ms. Jamieson. Your burglary is now an open homicide investigation. Questions need to be asked and we are starting with you, because the body was discovered on your premises."
"Who..." Christy paused to clear her throat. "Who was killed?"
"A young woman by the name of Brittany Day." Patterson looked from Christy to Ellen. "Do you know her?"
Ellen sniffed. Christy said in a low voice, "I do. She was a friend of Aaron DeBolt."
Ellen peered at her. "Aaron? Are you sure?"
"Yes. She was one of his harem of babes who always trailed him around."
"Something more than that, Mrs. Jamieson," Patterson said. "Ms. Day was a grad student at English Bay University. Her father is the president of a petro-chemical company in Calgary. And..." Here she paused, deliberately stretching out the moment. "Brittany Day was with Aaron DeBolt on the night your husband was alleged to have been murdered. That means DeBolt has—had now—an alibi for that night."
Christy stared at the detective, feeling sick. She knew her husband Frank had been murdered, because his essence had taken up residence in the body of Stormy the Cat after his death. Frank had told her that Aaron lured him into an alley, where he was clubbed and pushed into the trunk of a car for a drive that ultimately led to his death. But Frank only communicated with a few select people. Patterson and the police department didn't have access to his thoughts and information. Real physical proof had to be gathered. An alibi from a living human being would go a long way toward clearing Aaron.
Now the woman who was providing the alibi had been murdered. On Ellen Jamieson's terrace. And Ellen, as Frank's oldest living relative, could be expected to have a stake in seeing those who were accused of killing him brought to justice. That meant she had a very good motive for murdering Brittany Day, the one person who could prove Aaron's innocence.
Ellen was right. She was in deep, deep trouble.
"I think, Detective Patterson, that you should leave now," Christy said. "Ellen won't answer any more questions unless she has a lawyer present."
Chapter 3
Patterson didn't go without asking a few more questions, but Christy managed to keep Ellen from blurting out anything that came to mind. Ellen was clearly shocked by the realization that her burglary had resulted in a death. Christy wasn't sure she actually understood that she was currently the prime suspect in that death.
As she saw Patterson out, Stormy the Cat hopped up the front stairs.
Is the cop here about Aunt Ellen's home invasion?
"I hope you are not seriously considering Ellen for Brittany's murder, Detective," Christy said. She didn't look at the cat. Patterson already thought there was something odd about Stormy. She didn't want to increase her speculation by talking directly to him.
There was a moment of silence after she finished speaking, then Stormy hissed and arched his back, puffing up his fur and generally doing his best to look dangerous. Patterson raised her brows—at the cat's antics or her question, Christy couldn't be sure—and said, "We have to follow all avenues in an inquiry, Mrs. Jamieson. I'm sorry you feel it is important for Ellen Jamieson to have representation before she can speak to us."
Good call, babe, Frank said. Fill me in on what's going on after this chick leaves.
Christy had an absurd desire to laugh. Detective Patterson was about as far from a "chick" as a woman could get.
The cat shot Patterson one more baleful look, then stalked into the house. Christy said, "Detective Patterson, you used the same phrase on me when I was a suspect in Frank's disappearance. You were wrong then and you are wrong now. Ellen Jamieson isn't any more guilty of this murder than I was of helping Frank embezzle from his trust fund."
Patterson grimaced, then shrugged. "I'll be in touch, Mrs. Jamieson."
Christy watched her run lightly down the steps then on to her car. She waited until Patterson's vehicle had driven away before she headed back into the house.
In the living room she found the cat sitting on the couch beside Ellen, eyeballing the platter full of sandwiches. "Off," Christy said. She picked up Stormy and placed him on the floor near the kitchen doorway. "Eat your own food. The sandwiches are egg salad. You know they give you indigestion."
I smelled ham. The voice sounded miffed. Ham was one of Stormy's favorites.
Christy grinned and was about to reply when she saw Ellen staring at her oddly.
"You know when your cat has indigestion?" Ellen said.
"Some foods give him gas," Christy said hastily. "It's easy to figure out."
"Really." Ellen shot a disapproving look at the cat.
Thanks for getting me into trouble, babe, Frank said grumpily. Stormy sat on his haunches and licked a paw.
Christy turned to Ellen. "Patterson will be back. You should get yourself a lawyer as soon as you can."
"Normally I would go to Edward Bidwell," Ellen said. "But..."
But Edward Bidwell was one of the discredited trustees from the Jamieson Trust. Not only was he charged with embezzlement from the Trust, but the law firm where he had once been a partner had forced him to resign. Edward Bidwell was no longer a useful connection in a time of trouble.
"I'll talk to Quinn. He and Roy probably know someone you can contact."
Ellen perked up at the sound of Roy Armstrong's name. "An excellent idea." Christy began gathering up the used cups and plates. She almost dropped them when Ellen added, "That way whoever you choose will be comfortable working with you and that reporter son of his." Her lip curled as she said the word, reporter. There were some things Ellen couldn't let go, even if her life depended on it. Hostility toward the media was one of them. "You can all work together to clear my name."
Very carefully, Christy placed the fragile china back onto the silver tray. The cat sashayed over to the couch, then jumped onto it and sat down, paws primly together, tail neatly tucked around them.
"Ellen, I'm not a private investigator," Christy said cautiously.
You figured out who killed me. That was pretty good work. If that cop thinks Aunt Ellen murdered someone, she really does need a private dick.
"No, of course not. But Quinn Armstrong is reputed to be excellent at his job. He'll know how to proceed," Ellen said. "You can help him."
Aunt Ellen can be clueless about some things, but when it comes to self-preservation she's pretty sharp.
"Ellen, Brittany Day was murdered. I don't want to get involved."
"I'm involved," Ellen said. "Your husband's aunt. Your daughter's great-aunt. That woman is determined to charge me with murder. And if she does, the media will have a feeding frenzy. Do you want them here, camping out on your doorstep? Here, where there are no gates and no security guards to protect you?"
No, she did not.
But she also didn't want to go hunting a murderer. Her final confrontation with Frank's killer was still fresh in her mind and the knee she'd twisted as she tried to escape his furious rage still twinged if she pushed herself too hard—a constant reminder that she wasn't trained for confrontations with killers.
"Ellen, I..."
"Please, Christy. I must have been there when the murder happened. I was in my bed, asleep, but who would believe that I could sleep through someone's death? Patterson thinks I'm guilty, I'm certain of it. I'm not, but I have no way of proving it. I need help."
Christy had never heard panic in Ellen's voice before, but it was there now. She was surprised how deeply Ellen's vulnerability moved her.
Ellen's right, without you and Quinn she's toast. I hate to say it, but you've got to help her, babe.
"Please," Ellen said again.
With a sigh, Christy caved. "All right. I'll ask a few questions and see what I can find out. But just a few questions! I'm not chasing murderers."
Ellen nodded and whispered, "Thank you."
The cat licked her hand and began to purr.
* * *
When Christy pick
ed Noelle up at school about an hour later, Mary Petrofsky, Noelle's best friend, announced that this was her mother's day off and Noelle should come to her house to play then stay for dinner. Noelle was enthusiastic, so Christy agreed, provided Mary's mother was okay with it. They waited at the school for Mary's mother to arrive, then, with the playdate and dinner confirmed, the two girls and their mothers walked home together. Christy liked Mary and her mother, Rebecca, so she cheerfully kissed Noelle when they neared the Petrofsky house and waved her good-bye. Then she went inside her townhouse and called Quinn to tell him about the developments. He suggested a strategy session. In the background Christy could hear Roy suggesting dinner and offering to cook. Christy said she and Ellen would be there at five thirty.
The cat came too, of course.
Ellen insisted they change for dinner, so Christy put on a pretty teal-colored dress with a V-neck, long sleeves, and a skirt that came well up her thighs. Ellen's choice was a flirty number that showed she had a great figure for a woman in her fifties. They had both dressed for the Armstrong men, Christy noted with amusement when she saw Ellen. She thought Quinn would notice and approve, but she wasn't sure how much of an impression Ellen would make on Roy.
When Frank saw her she heard a wolf whistle in her mind as he pretended she'd chosen the dress for him. As they left the house, she thought it was a good thing Quinn and the cat couldn't communicate.
They assembled in the Armstrongs' vivid orange kitchen, Ellen and Christy at the table with glasses of wine, while Roy presided over the cooking area and Quinn did a stint as host, organizing pre-dinner nibbles as well as the drinks. Ellen was clearly bemused that they had centered themselves in the kitchen for the discussion, which amused Quinn, but Roy simply ignored it.
"What do we know about this girl, Brittany Day?" Quinn asked, his eyes lingering with approval on Christy after he had set a bowl of tortilla chips and another of store-bought salsa in the center of the table.
The cat, curled up on Christy's lap, popped his head up over the tabletop and eyed the bowls. "No. Not for you," Christy said. Frank projected a distinctly annoyed sound. Roy laughed.
Ellen said, "That animal!" and shook her head.
Quinn raised his brows and looked at Christy. She shrugged and cocked her head at Ellen. Quinn grinned, evidently pleased that he was no longer the only one who couldn't hear Frank.
Ellen took a chip and gingerly dipped it in the salsa, before she nibbled delicately at the edges.
"Brittany Day," Christy said, dunking her own chip in the salsa, "was one of the girls with Aaron DeBolt the night of the Infant Heart Transplant Foundation Gala. Do you remember, Quinn?"
"They were smoking weed," Quinn said. "Yeah, I remember. I figured DeBolt had some kind of kinky sex thing going on with the two of them."
"Kinky sex?" Ellen said, her voice disapproving. "Aaron DeBolt? Why, he is a fine young man from a good family. He wouldn't indulge in such behavior."
"Maybe not when he's sober," Christy said. When Ellen frowned at her, she added gently, "He deals drugs, Ellen, and uses them. He was almost always stoned when I met him with Frank." She crunched her chip, enjoying the bite of the spicy salsa on her tongue.
Ellen stared at her. "Impossible. I will not believe it."
Don't forget, Natalie DeBolt is her best bud. My dear Aunt Ellen can be loyal when she wants. Just not to me, her nephew and the kid she helped to raise.
Christy lifted her wineglass and sipped. She wasn't going to acknowledge Frank's rather bitter comment. Nor was she going to argue with Ellen about Aaron DeBolt. Their discussion tonight centered on the murder victim. Time to get back on topic. "Detective Patterson said that Brittany Day came from Calgary and she was an EBU student. Her dad is apparently the president of a petrochemical company, so it sounds like there's money in her background."
"There, you see?" Ellen was clearly not going to let the issue of Aaron's respectability go.
Christy resisted the urge to sigh.
"EBU is the place to start, then," Quinn said. He pulled out one of the empty chairs at the table—the one nearest Christy—and sat down. "We'll begin with the registrar's office and see if we can find out who her professors were. Then we go and talk to them. It may take some time, though. EBU has a huge undergrad population."
"It may not be that much of a problem, because she was a grad student." Christy said. She scooped up more salsa with a chip. "But privacy laws are pretty strict about what information can be released about students," she added, thinking of conversations she'd heard between her parents, who were both practicing academics. "The registrar's department may not be cooperative."
"Good point," Quinn said. He shot her a look of approval that warmed her all the way to her toes. "We'll start with social media, then. See if we can discover any clues online. If we can find out what grad program she was in, it shouldn't be too difficult to find her advisor."
"Okay. I'll get going on the computer research tomorrow morning, after Noelle is at school."
Quinn nodded acknowledgement, then his gaze drifted to Ellen. "Even if we find out Brittany's role at EBU, it's only one element. The more important issue is why would she be in your apartment so early in the morning, Ellen?"
"I have no idea," Ellen said stiffly. She pursed her lips. "That is what I asked Christy to help me find out."
Quinn smiled disarmingly and nodded. "I understand, but Patterson is a smart detective. She's going to be focused on that why and digging into the how, if she hasn't started already. What kind of answer do you think she'll come up with?"
"I don't know! I doubt I ever met the girl! I certainly would question how she got my address. And why the daughter of a Calgary oil man would stoop to breaking into my apartment."
"Maybe she didn't break in." Quinn's low, quiet voice slashed through Ellen's rant, leaving her gaping.
Then she rallied. Her voice was cold when she said, "What are you suggesting?"
"Nothing. Everything. Would Brittany Day, daughter of a prominent family, EBU grad student, have the skills to pick a lock?"
"Probably not," Christy said. "Which means someone helped her."
"Or opened the door when she rang," Quinn said, his gaze still focused on Ellen's face.
Her brows snapped together in a frown. "What you are suggesting is absurd. Why would I admit this young woman to my apartment in the pre-dawn hours?"
Quinn drank wine, regarding her over the rim of his glass. "Maybe you admitted her the night before—"
Ellen gasped and her cheeks flushed scarlet. "That's disgusting! You know nothing about me. You have no right to speculate about my private life."
"And maybe you wanted to break off your relationship with her and she threatened to expose you. She was, what? Half your age? Maybe thirty years younger?"
The cat, who had been curled in Christy's lap, sat up. He's on the wrong track. Aunt Ellen's straight as they come. His whiskers twitched, distracting him. Is that shrimp I smell?
"Yes," Roy said. "It's almost ready."
"For your information, Mr. Armstrong, I am not gay," Ellen said. Her voice was steel. "Nor do I seek romantic partners who are the age of my friends' children." She stood up. "I think it best if I leave now. If you will excuse me?"
"Sit down, Ellen," said Roy, who was dishing the fresh shrimp into a large bowl. "Quinn, come here and cut the bread for me, will you?" He brought the bowl of shrimp to the table and set it down in the center. Then he took both of Ellen's hands in his and looked deep into her eyes. "My son means well, even if he is a little heavy-handed."
Quinn, now on the other side of the counter cutting a loaf of fresh Italian bread, snorted. The cat, whiskers twitching, cautiously put a paw on the edge of the table. Roy ignored them both.
"Quinn is trying to show you the kind of danger you're in, Ellen. And if you think Quinn's questions and assumptions are intrusive, you'll find the questions the police ask unbearable. Better to face them here, amongst friends, and decide how
to deal with them."
Ellen said nothing for a moment. Her eyes searched his, while her expression went from hot anger to a vulnerable fear. Then she nodded. "I understand," she said in a voice that had the hint of a shake to it. Slowly she sat back down.
Roy smiled, nodded and turned to the cat, who now had both front paws on the table and was squirming in Christy's grasp. "No filching from the table. I've got a plate set aside for you."
Stormy wriggled free and did a nosedive onto the floor. Thanks old man. The cat figured there was too much talk and not enough food. I didn't know how long I could hold him. Nice work with Aunt Ellen. By the way, you know she's got the hots for you, don't you?
Roy went beet red and Christy choked back a laugh. Ellen eyed them both curiously and Quinn sighed as he placed the plate of freshly sliced bread onto the table. Roy put down the plate of shrimp for the cat, had Quinn refill wine glasses and brought two bowls of salad to the table. By the time he said, "Dig in, everyone," Ellen appeared to have forgotten the odd behavior.
"Does Natalie DeBolt know much about her son's friends?" Roy asked as he ladled shrimp onto his plate.
"She and Aaron are quite close, so I would assume so," Ellen said. She pointed to the seafood on Roy's plate. "The shrimp haven't been shelled."
Roy liked to go down to the docks in the old fishing village of Steveston and buy shrimp fresh off the fishing boats tied up there. A quick steam and the shrimp were ready to eat. Add freshly baked bread and you had a feast. In Ellen's world, the Jamieson world, shrimp were used in fine cuisine; cleaned, beheaded, and sauced. "You can eat the shells, and the heads too," Christy said, deciding to be helpful.
Ellen opened her mouth, on the verge of saying something disapproving, Christy thought, then closed it and visibly changed tack.
"Really?" She scooped up three shrimp and put them on her plate. Then she added a piece of bread and a great deal of salad. She eyed the shrimp, but dug into the salad.
