The Cat's Paw

by Louise Clark

  "Her advisor, Dr. Jacob Peiling, looks pretty clean," Christy said.

  "But he was holding something back," Quinn said. "He claimed he couldn't go into details because of the privacy laws that relate to students, but it may have been that he was having a sexual relationship with Brittany as Lorne Cossi suggested." He shook his head. "To me that seems like a long shot, though. I wouldn't put the advisor high on a suspect list, but I wouldn't rule him out either."

  "How would he connect to Ellen?" Trevor said, zeroing in on the core issue.

  "Until the embezzlement, the Jamieson Trust helped to fund his program," Ellen said.

  Christy frowned at her. "I thought the Trust did an annual donation to EBU, then let the university decide how to distribute it. I didn't know they funded specific programs."

  Ellen shrugged. "Normally we didn't. Then two years ago Natalie told me programs could be supported individually. She convinced me that Peiling's program was both ecologically and socially worthwhile. When I met with Jacob I was quite impressed. I convinced the other trustees to earmark our EBU donation to support his program."

  "Interesting," said Trevor. "So Peiling knew you and I presume he knew Natalie."

  "Yes, of course. He also knew Aaron's father. Nathan DeBolt is on his steering committee, along with Roger Day, Brittany's father."

  "Yet another connection, but how would it relate to Brittany's murder?" Roy asked. He was feeding dishes into the dishwasher, but his focus was on the discussion.

  Trevor shrugged. "He might have been having an affair with Brittany as this Cossi guy suggests."

  Ellen narrowed her eyes. "Why would he bring her to my terrace to murder her?"

  "I don't know," said Trevor. "Why don't you tell me?" He stared at her, his gaze level until Ellen's cheeks flooded with color and her eyes opened wide.

  "Are you suggesting that Jacob is having an affair with me? At the same time as he was sleeping with one of his students?" She surged to her feet. "That is disgusting!"

  I'm with Aunt Ellen. Having finished his spaghetti dinner, the cat jumped up on Christy's lap then sat so that his head was above the rim of the table and he could observe the people seated there. Watch how you talk to my aunt, shyster.

  Christy looked down at Stormy, then over at Trevor, who was as red as Ellen. When she glanced at Roy, he nodded, confirming the assumption he saw in her eyes—yes, his old friend Trevor could also hear Frank speak.

  Quinn had watched this interchange and now he said, "Really? Really, are you serious?" He'd clearly realized that yet another person had tuned into the cat's mental conversation.

  "I am," Ellen said, the heat still in her face, though her tone was cold. "I will not remain here and be slandered."

  So Ellen, like Quinn, was out of the loop. Time to smooth troubled waters, Roy thought.

  Trevor beat him to it. "I am not a shyster. Nor am I trying to slander you or anyone else, Ms. Jamieson. I am merely attempting to identify the kind of connections the police are searching for at this very moment. Connections that lead to motive and are backed up by evidence. Connections that we will have to disprove, if the police arrest you for Brittany Day's murder."

  "Why would they do that?" Ellen said, her tone now arctic. She was still standing, her body stiff, her hands clenched at her sides.

  "Because she was killed on your terrace, in the pre-dawn hours of the morning. You admit to being in your apartment at the time, but claim that you did not hear anything untoward."

  "I did hear what I thought was a scuffle. When I got up to investigate I noticed some of my furniture had been broken. That was when I left the apartment and came to Burnaby to stay with my niece-by-marriage."

  Jeez, Aunt Ellen! Can't you just call Chris your niece, period? We were married for ten years!

  Trevor's brow knit into a frown and he stared at Christy. She offered him a wan smile in return. The cat flicked his tail and looked smug.

  Trevor returned his attention to Ellen. "Unfortunately, your explanation is unlikely to carry much weight. Because of where and when the murder took place, the cops will say that you killed Brittany, then came to Burnaby to provide yourself with an alibi. And if they can find a connection that provides motive, like a ménage-a-trois, they'll use it to arrest you."

  "I will not listen to this any further!" Her face flaming, Ellen stomped out of the kitchen. Her footsteps receded, then the front door opened and banged shut.

  There was a short silence, until Trevor said amicably, "Now, since Ellen appears to be the only one in this room who wasn't hearing phantom words in his or her..." he nodded at Christy, "head, just who the hell was doing the talking?"

  Chapter 9

  Quinn examined himself in the mirrored cupboard door that had been installed to make the small back bedroom appear larger. His faded jeans were fresh from the wash and snug on his body. The dark green sweater was an expensive wool-silk blend that hugged his torso, but was loose enough not to flaunt. He nodded at his image before he turned away. He didn't usually bother to check his everyday clothing choices, but today he was interviewing the kind of person who cared about appearance and style. To get the information he wanted, he had to make an impression. The right impression.

  In the living room below he could hear the low rumble voices as his father and Trevor talked. It was good to see Trevor looking so healthy. It was even better to see his father's eyes sparkle with that subversive mischief he remembered so well from his youth, when his mother was still alive and the whole damn family was involved in one good cause or another. Battling The Man gave Roy Armstrong fodder for his novels and a world-wide reputation as an outspoken social critic. It also made him happy, something decidedly lacking since Vivien Armstrong's passing.

  One voice said something, then Quinn recognized his father's laugh. He wondered if the cat was there, sitting with them and silently contributing to their conversation. He wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or amused that Uncle Trevor could also tune into Frank's mind-speak, while he, Quinn, could not.

  Admitting that Frank's consciousness had taken up residence in Stormy the family cat after his death was difficult for Quinn. He was a man who dealt in facts and he never accepted what appeared to be true at a first glance. He questioned and he dug and he looked at the issue from every side he could think of. Once he had amassed a wealth of information, he made his conclusions. Sometimes they were the same as what appeared on the surface. Sometimes they were different. For Quinn it didn't matter, as long as he had a truth that was supported by facts.

  While he helped Christy search for Frank and then for Frank's killer, he struggled with the idea that Frank's consciousness alive in the Jamiesons' cat. But Christy could talk to Frank and so could his father. Hell, Frank and Christy's kid could communicate with him.

  Quinn had only known Christy few months, but those months had been intense. She was not the kind of woman who lived in a fantasy world only she could inhabit. She was grounded and practical, a down-to-earth person a man could rely on. His father, though eccentric, was as sharp as they came and he'd been the one who taught Quinn to question everything. If his father and Christy said Frank lived in the cat, then he did.

  He turned away from the mirror. Everyone thought Quinn was the odd man out because he couldn't hear Frank, but he knew better. It wasn't Quinn who was the problem. It was Frank. Frank didn't want to talk to him because Frank was jealous of Christy's attraction to Quinn. Simple as that.

  Quinn took a moment to contemplate his relationship with Christy while he dug through his closet for a jacket. They were both feeling their way through a maze of family obligations, old wounds and future opportunities. Christy's priority right now was Noelle. Keeping her daughter safe, minimizing the trauma of knowing her father had been murdered, and building a new life for them both was a big job. Quinn was prepared to give her time. To court her in an old-fashioned way that meant building respect before giving in to desire. This was new for him, since his past relationships ha
d focused on the physical. They usually began with fiery sexual need, then simmered into liking before drifting into a lazier, easier sexual pleasure until they burned out completely.

  His reaction to Christy was different. She inspired passion, yes, but even more he wanted to cherish her, care for her, ease the burdens that were too heavy for her to carry alone. And he wanted her to feel the same way about him.

  He knew she was as attracted to him as he was to her, but he wasn't sure if she was ready yet to trust him with her heart and with her future.

  Old wounds held her back. She'd given herself to Frank Jamieson when she was young and innocent, and he'd burned her badly. She had to learn to trust again before she'd be ready to commit. It was his job to help her along that path, which was why the damned cat wouldn't talk to him. Frank would do everything in his power to hang on to Christy and his daughter as long as he could.

  Quinn found the leather jacket he wanted and pulled it out of the closet. He shrugged it on, then headed downstairs. He found his father and Trevor sitting together on the sofa in the living room. Between them, as he'd suspected, squatted the cat. Trevor was absently stroking its back while his father rubbed the spot just above its tail. Stormy's eyes were half-shut slits and his tail was arched. Quinn raised his brows. "The lap of luxury," he said.

  Trevor laughed. Quinn wasn't sure if it was because of what he'd said, or if the cat had made some sarcastic comment. Trevor cocked a brow. "You look like you've dressed to impress. Going somewhere special tonight?"

  Quinn put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the newel post. "I have an appointment to interview Cara LaLonde."

  His father's brows snapped together into a frown. "Who's she?"

  "One of Aaron DeBolt's babes." He remembered her vividly from the night of the IHTF gala when he'd let his temper push DeBolt against a wall because the bastard had insulted Christy. Cara LaLonde had been the dark-haired beauty who'd rubbed against him as she slithered past. She'd shot him a look promised sex and said she was ready when he was. He'd used that invitation to persuade her to meet him this afternoon. "I want to see what she remembers from the night Frank was killed."

  Trevor's hand stilled. "Be careful with that, Quinn."

  He pushed away from the post. "What do you mean?"

  "We all know that Brittany Day gave false testimony when she provided Aaron DeBolt with an alibi."

  Clearly Frank had been filling Trevor in on the details of his case. Great. "So what's wrong with proving that to the satisfaction of the police?"

  "Because it will look like Brittany's death is directly related to Frank's murder and Aaron's alibi. That will focus police attention on Ellen Jamieson. She's already a suspect because of where Brittany's body was found. Tying Brittany's death to her nephew's murder will only make the cops suspect Ellen more strongly. Our best hope is to shed light on other parts of Brittany's life and show that Ellen wasn't the only one with a motive to kill her."

  The purpose of a good defense lawyer wasn't to prove innocence, but to force the prosecution to establish guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt, Quinn thought. And Trevor McCullagh the Third had been one of the best. "Unfortunately, I'm not the only one who will be talking to Cara LaLonde about Brittany's alibi. I'm sure the cops are already on it." He shook his head as the cat rolled over on its back, all four feet in the air, begging to have its stomach rubbed. Roy chuckled at something Frank said and Trevor started to rub the cat's belly.

  Quinn shrugged and went on his way to the front door. He'd been dismissed.

  Cara LaLonde was as he remembered her: great body, long beautiful hair, sharp pretty features, eyes that were cold and calculating. He'd invited her to meet him for a drink at the bar of one of the better hotels; a public place he assumed would have the ambience to impress her.

  He was right.

  He arrived ten minutes before the arranged time and found a table with a view of the doors. She was late and made an entrance, pausing just inside the entry, apparently to look around for him, in reality to allow every male eye to observe her.

  And they did. Quinn was amused to see two guys at the bar wearing business suits, ties loosened, slouching at the end of the day, straighten in an encouraging way the minute they saw her. Another group shifted to let Cara see the empty chair at their table.

  Her gaze swept the room, flicked over the group at the table, lingered on the men at the bar, then came to rest on Quinn. She smiled a slow seductive smile that had the rest of her audience glaring at Quinn as she sashayed his way. She was on the hunt and he'd been singled out.

  He stood as she neared and held a chair for her.

  She smiled slowly. Approvingly. "Mr. Armstrong. Quinn. I can call you Quinn, can't I?"

  "Sure."

  Her smile warmed. Her voice was sultry. "Quinn. I'm glad you called." She observed him from beneath her thick, artificially enhanced, lashes. "You said you were working on an article about Aaron's part in Frank Jamieson's death."

  He nodded. "You must miss him now that he's in jail awaiting trial."

  She pouted. Prettily. "Poor Aaron! That awful Detective Patterson has been hounding me about him! First to find out if I knew what he was doing the night Frank Jamieson disappeared. Then she wants to know what poor Brittany Day was up to that night."

  The waitress came to take their order. Quinn chose Scotch, neat. Brittany requested a crantini.

  "I understand Brittany provided Aaron with an alibi for that evening," Quinn said. He grimaced, playing up to her assumptions. "If Aaron wasn't in that alley with Jamieson, I'm going to have to rework my whole piece."

  "Poor you!" Cara said. She didn't sound sympathetic.

  Quinn pretended she did and let her think she was snowing him. "I'm hoping you will be able to clarify what went on that night."

  The drinks came, giving Cara time to construct her answer. As Quinn paid the tab, he watched her features from the corner of his eye and he thought she was considering exactly what she planned to say. He decided he should be ready for evasions and outright fabrications.

  She sipped her cranberry martini, watching him over the edge of the glass, making play with her eyes. He smiled at her as if he was bowled over by a beautiful, sexy woman and when she put her glass back down, she leaned toward him, ever so slightly, implying intimacy but not really supplying it. "I met Brittany and Aaron at the club around nine o'clock. Aaron was supposed to meet Frank Jamieson about then, but Frank was late and Aaron was annoyed. He took Brittany off to a corner to have sex while he waited."

  That wasn't what Quinn expected to hear. He raised his brows. "You saw them do it?"

  Cara shot him a flirtatious look that was half pout, half amused. "Of course not! But I knew Brittany and I know Aaron. He gets off on doing it in risky places. I suspect he found some quiet corner where they were likely to be interrupted and teased her into letting him screw her."

  Quinn frowned. "My editor has had me looking into Brittany's murder. I talked to her advisor out at EBU and to some of the students she worked with. She didn't come across as a mindless sex toy."

  Cara sipped her drink. This time when she set it down, her look was knowing. "Once upon a time, Brittany Day was a sweet little girl from the ranchlands of Alberta with a bright future in the grad program she came to Vancouver to attend." Cara shrugged. "Then she met Aaron and everything changed."

  Quinn drank some scotch. Her timing was right. From all they'd discovered so far, Brittany's grades had started to suffer about the same time she became one of Aaron's babes. "You aren't very complimentary."

  Cara contemplated her rapidly dwindling drink, twirling the glass and watching the liquid slide up and down the sides. When she looked back at Quinn she said briskly, "Aaron seduced Brittany because I wouldn't play his games. I don't like sex in corners, not even with the enticement of free coke. He got Brittany hooked on drugs, then he convinced her that the only way he'd supply her was for sex. Anywhere. On demand." Her face twisted, showing contempt
and compassion. "Poor stupid, silly little cowgirl. She had no idea what she was getting into when she met Aaron."

  She raised the glass and downed the remainder of the martini. Quinn signaled their waiter for a refill. "I understand Brittany's father is a power in the oil industry. I'd have thought that she was prepared to handle rich playboys like Aaron DeBolt."

  "She thought she was, but Aaron is in a class by himself."

  The second martini arrived. Quinn paid for it, then looked thoughtfully at Cara LaLonde. "So Brittany disappears and you think that means she was with Aaron somewhere having sex."

  She ate the dried cranberries that garnished the drink, sliding them off the cocktail spear with lips and teeth. Once the fruit was in her mouth she licked her top lip with the tip of her tongue. "Oh, yes." The words were little more than a low, sultry breath of sound.

  Quinn watched, more amused than intrigued. She was playing him. But were the seductive techniques simply her regular behavior with an available male? Or was she trying to distract him, so he'd swallow her Brittany and Aaron story whole?

  Call him cynical, but he'd put odds on the distraction motive.

  He sat back in his chair, one hand on his drink, the other in his pocket. He smiled at Cara, waited until she smiled back, then pounced. "Frank Jamieson was murdered over six months ago. Why is it you remember that night so clearly?"

  Cara frowned, her first unguarded look of the evening. "What do you mean?" She sounded wary.

  He shrugged. "At the time there would have been nothing to fix the night in your mind. Frank went out to the alley, apparently to buy drugs, but that was nothing new. From what you said, Aaron taking Brittany off to a corner to have public sex was nothing new either. People remember incidents that are different, or important to them. What made that night stick in your mind so clearly?"