by Louise Clark
She had stiffened as he spoke. Now she relaxed and her sultry smile was in evidence again as she said, "It was Frank's disappearance, of course. The papers were full of how he'd stolen a bundle and taken off to Mexico."
"That information didn't come out until later. The details about the night in the club are pretty specific. It's hard to believe that you'd remember one night of many so clearly."
Her mouth tightened and her eyes smoldered. "I do."
Quinn leaned forward. He put his elbows on the table and smiled at her. "Okay. Every minute of that night is etched in your memory. How long were Aaron and Brittany gone?"
"Gone?"
"Yeah, off into the corner having public sex."
She colored. "I don't know."
Quinn raised his brows. "Then it's possible that Aaron met Frank after having sex with Brittany, then took him out to the alley and pushed him into the trunk of the car that was used to transport him to his death."
"No!" Cara pushed back her chair and stood in one fluid, frightened movement. "Aaron was busy with Brittany that night. He couldn't have harmed Frank Jamieson."
Quinn rose too. "You've corroborated Brittany's alibi for Aaron, haven't you, Cara?"
"Of course I have, because it's true." She tossed her hair.
"That makes you party to Brittany's lies. She's dead now, but if Aaron goes to trial, you will have to testify. It will be you who is charged with perjury, not Brittany. Are you prepared to do some jail time?"
"It will never come to that," she said tightly. "Aaron is innocent." She turned away.
"How much are you being paid to do this?" he said to her retreating back.
Her steps faltered, but she didn't reply. Her back very straight, she slipped through the tables, ignoring the interested glances of the men drinking there.
Very un-Cara like, Quinn thought as he sat down again to finish his drink and consider what he'd learned.
Brittany Day had supplied Aaron DeBolt with an alibi for the night of Frank Jamieson's disappearance and death. Cara LaLonde was willing to corroborate Brittany's statement, adding substance and making it more likely that the police would drop the charges against him and release him from jail. Quinn knew that both Brittany's and Cara's statements were false. Was there anything Cara had said this afternoon that could be trusted?
Yes. Her statement that Aaron had started seeing Brittany to punish her for refusing him. Cara hadn't liked sharing Aaron, though. Now that Brittany was no longer around, she would have him all to herself once he was released. It was in her best interests to make sure Brittany's alibi stood and Aaron was freed.
His last question, accusing her of accepting a bribe to exonerate Aaron, had been a shot into the mist. He hadn't expected it to draw a reaction and he wasn't sure it had. Sure, she'd hesitated, but maybe she'd just wanted to defend herself against the slur. Or maybe she actually had been paid. If she had, then by who?
He didn't think Cara was involved in Frank's death, or in Brittany's. But she was covering for Aaron. Quinn knew that Aaron set up Frank in the alley that night. The trouble was, unless they proved Brittany had lied, Aaron would walk. And with Brittany dead and Cara LaLonde verifying the alibi Brittany had given Aaron, that wasn't going to be easy.
Chapter 10
"Homework in your backpack?" Christy said, running through the usual morning checklist with her daughter.
Noelle nodded.
"Any forms for me to sign that got missed last night?"
Noelle shook her head.
"Teeth brushed?"
Noelle's expression turned woebegone and she looked at her feet as she shook her head, no.
"Okay then," Christy said, "Do them quick before we go." As Noelle turned to scamper away, she added, "Oh, and tell Aunt Ellen that we'll be leaving in five minutes. If she wants to walk over with us she'll need to be ready."
Noelle took off, pounding up the stairs with a good deal of exuberant noise. As she loaded the dishwasher Christy heard the sound of water running in the bathroom.
The cat wandered into the kitchen and sat beside his bowl, his forelegs perfectly aligned in front of his body, his tail neatly curled around them. What's for breakfast, babe? Oh, by the way, Ellen's not likely to walk over to the school this morning. She's still wearing that gauzy thing she calls a dressing gown.
Christy opened a can of mystery meat cat food, then dumped it into the bowl. The cat stood up, inspected it with a disdainful sniff, then sat down again, his expression disapproving.
That's it?
"I have to go grocery shopping today. Those are our emergency rations. Take it or leave it."
"Are you talking to that cat again?" As Ellen drifted into the kitchen dressed in the peignoir set she had bought in Paris on her last trip there, her voice was as disapproving as the cat's expression.
Christy knew when and where the garments had been purchased because Ellen had taken great care to tell her. Not that she cared what Ellen wore as she wandered around the house in the morning. "Noelle told you we'd be leaving for school in a couple of minutes?" she said, carefully avoiding a discussion on the merits of talking to animals.
"Yes." Ellen sat down at the kitchen table and looked hopefully toward the coffeemaker. "I was awake half the night worrying. I don't have the energy to commit to any activities this morning."
It was a good thing Ellen wasn't a mother, then, Christy thought. Annoyance made her pivot sharply on her still-healing knee and it twinged, as if to remind her that moms didn't have luxury of moaning about a tough night or low energy. Or even about real health problems. They got on with life, which was what she was going to do right now. "Noelle! Time to go."
With one last, disappointed sniff, the cat turned away from his bowl, leaving his mystery meat untouched. Maybe I'll walk over to the school with you.
"I'm going to the grocery store after I drop off Noelle. I'll be another hour or so."
Ellen, assuming the comment was meant for her, sighed extravagantly. "Tell me again how to work that coffeemaker?"
"Easy," Christy said. She headed out, forcing Ellen to trail along behind to get the instructions. "Fill your cup with water then pour it into the top of the machine and put the empty cup on the heating pad. Place the coffee pod in the slot. Seal the compartment shut to punch a hole in the pod, then press the start button." Since she'd provided the same set of instructions for the last three days, she ran through them quickly as she went down the stairs to the front door.
She was slipping on her shoes when Ellen said in a defeated way, "I suppose I can manage it."
"Of course you can," Christy said heartily. She had eight years of mom training and she knew when she was being conned. Ellen was perfectly capable of brewing her own coffee. She just didn't want to.
Just like she wouldn't want to make her own breakfast.
Well, as far as Christy was concerned, Ellen could pick up a cereal box and shake the contents into a bowl, then pour in some milk all by herself. Like the cat, she might want something more exotic, but if she was starving the basics would do. "Noelle, hurry up! We're la—"
Noelle leapt down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and landed in a breathless leap on the landing. "I'm here, Mom!"
"Where's your backpack?"
That necessitated an energetic race up the stairs to retrieve the backpack from where it was stowed by the table in the kitchen, and another leaping descent to the front door. Ellen had disappeared into the kitchen to work the coffeemaker before she forgot the instructions, but Christy could still hear her tsk-tsks over Noelle's unladylike behavior. She hustled her daughter out of the house, holding the door open for the cat, and they were off to school.
She spent an hour in the grocery store, wandering up and down aisles containing goods she didn't want and would never consider buying. The store was almost empty and the quiet was bliss after the hustle to get Noelle going in the morning and the stress of Ellen's expectation that she should be waited on as long as she
was staying in Burnaby. Christy didn't want to go home and talk, but talk she would, because Ellen never seemed to stop. For a woman who lived alone, Ellen was very social.
And probably lonely, Christy thought, feeling guilty. She headed for the sole open cash desk. She shouldn't be so uncharitable.
Who was she kidding? She was thinking about Ellen Jamieson here, the aunt Frank had hated. The trustee who had never failed to criticize her behavior.
People change, Christy told herself, wanting to be positive. Ellen could change. Maybe she already had.
Ellen wouldn't make her own breakfast.
Christy paid for her groceries and headed home.
As she was unloading them from the trunk, Quinn came out of his front door. She left the grocery bags on the ground and went over to see him.
He greeted her with a kiss that had her twining her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his. "Good morning," he murmured, smiling as he raised his head after a long, delightful, couple of minutes.
She smiled back and made no attempt to pull away. "Good morning."
"You've been shopping." His voice was husky, charging the simple statement with potent sexual promise.
"Hmm," she agreed. His hands were around her ribcage, deliciously close to her breasts. She hoped he'd raise his thumbs and rub... Ahh, just like that. Her body warmed and she pressed against him until she could feel his response to her nearness.
"Minx," he said, amusement in his eyes.
"Hmm," she said again, keeping her gaze locked on his as she moved, ever so lightly, against him.
It was his turn to say, "Hmm," before he added, "Mrs. Wallace up the street just waved."
Christy would have leapt apart from him at that announcement except that Quinn still had his hands around her and his thumbs still fondled her breasts. Instead, she stiffened.
Amusement danced in his eyes. "I guess we'd better go sit on the steps, in case Mrs. Wallace decides to come and see what we're up to."
Christy laughed shakily. "Good idea." They settled onto the steps, close, but not touching, now the picture of propriety. "How did your interview with Cara LaLonde go yesterday?"
Quinn filled her in on the details. When he'd finished, Christy wrinkled her brow. "I don't get it. Was Brittany at the club that night? Did Aaron arrange to have her there to ensure he had an alibi? Or is Cara lying and part of a scam?"
"Aaron originally claimed to have been with Brianne Lymbourn. Her death meant he needed to find someone else to cover for him."
"Enter Brittany," Christy said.
Quinn nodded. "Cara told me Brittany was there that night, but I wonder?" He shrugged. "She could have been, I suppose, but she hadn't been seeing Aaron for very long before Frank was killed. Was she already so into him that she'd have public sex with him? Or did that come later?"
"Where Aaron DeBolt is concerned anything is possible," Christy said.
Quinn laughed and hugged her. She leaned into him and said with a sigh, "I guess I should put my groceries away."
"Do you have to?" he murmured.
It was her turn to laugh. "Yes." She glanced at her watch and saw it was past ten. "At least Ellen will have made herself breakfast by now. Hopefully she will have also put her dishes into the machine so I don't have to."
She stood as Quinn said, "Good luck with that."
He carried her grocery bags to her front door and was going to take them up to her kitchen, but Christy said, "Thanks, Quinn, but I'd better bring them in. The last time I saw her, Ellen was still in her nightclothes. She'd probably be mortified if you came in and she wasn't dressed yet."
He gave her a kiss, another lovely long kiss, on her front porch this time, then left her to manage her groceries by herself. She was humming as she unlocked the door and hauled the bags over the threshold. The cat raced up the porch stairs and dove through the doorway before she closed it. He must have been lurking in the bushes while she sat on the porch with Quinn.
And kissed him.
Twice.
Served Frank right if he got an eyeful, she thought as she slammed the door. He shouldn't be spying on her. If he didn't like what he was seeing, he ought to make himself known.
She picked up her collection of bags and trudged up the stairs. When she reached the living room she stopped and stared.
Ellen was sitting on the sofa, still dressed in her delicate peignoir from Paris. Right beside her sat Natalie DeBolt, her face scrubbed clean and absent of makeup, but wearing a body-hugging dress of Lycra and silk that was inappropriately sexy.
What the hell?
"I was just about to make Ellen breakfast," Natalie said, her eyes brightening as she noticed the grocery bags. "Are there eggs in there, by any chance?"
"Yes." Christy lugged the bags to the kitchen. Neither Natalie nor Ellen offered to help, though both trailed behind her into the room.
Christy put the bags on the counter, ready to be emptied, but Natalie forestalled her. She rummaged through the carriers, pushing the contents around but not unloading them, until she found the eggs, then she got to work to make the breakfast she'd promised Ellen. Christy thought uneasily that she appeared to be very familiar with the townhouse's kitchen.
Ellen sat down at the table on the far side of the large room, positioned so she was able to see Natalie at work at the stove. Her elbow on the table, her chin resting on the palm of hand, she watched. She didn't look at all disconcerted at being in her nightclothes while her friend cooked her breakfast.
"Ellen and I had a good talk while you were away," Natalie said to Christy in a chatty, make-conversation way as she melted butter into the frying pan. "She is very upset about poor Brittany."
"I am," Ellen said.
"I worry about her, you know." Natalie put whisked eggs into the pan and started to stir. "It's very hard to find a body on your terrace, especially for someone as sensitive as dear Ellen." She paused to send Ellen a speaking glance.
Ellen blinked, but didn't protest.
The cat prowled into the kitchen, looked at his dish—which still contained the despised mystery meat—then sniffed with disapproval.
Natalie tossed cheese over the scrambled eggs and waited a few seconds for it to begin to melt. She plated the eggs, added a piece of toast, which she carefully buttered, then took the plate and some cutlery over to Ellen, passing the cat on the way.
The cat sneezed as she passed. Reaching out a paw, claws extended, he swiped. The gesture was a near miss.
"Here you are, my dear. Eggs just the way you like them and your toast buttered too!" Natalie smiled, apparently unaware she'd almost had her ankle scratched by razor-sharp cat claws. She settled onto a chair near Ellen's.
"Thank you, Natalie. You're a doll," Ellen said before she dug in.
Drawn by the scent of cooked eggs—a favorite—the cat abandoned his dish, leapt up onto a chair, then onto the table. The result was immediate.
Natalie gasped and slammed her palm over her mouth in a shocked gesture as she pushed back her chair to get away.
The cat took a careful step to bring himself within snatching distance of the plate, then he sniffed appreciatively, his whiskers twitching.
Ellen screamed. "Get that beast off of the table! It's unsanitary!"
After Ellen's outburst, Natalie pried her hand away from her mouth and tossed her head. Her chin thrust out, she leveled a disdainful look at Christy. "What an abominable animal! So badly mannered."
Neither Ellen nor Natalie made any attempt to remove Stormy, so the cat took another careful step. He was now within striking distance of the eggs.
Natalie was more focused on Christy than on the cat. She added with a sniff and a sneer, "I would expect a normal person to be aware of how to control a beast like this one, Christy, but since I know you very well, I am not truly surprised that you allow the animal to act this way."
Bitch!
On the table, Stormy growled deep in his throat, perhaps in support of Frank's comment
, or more likely because he wasn't getting access to the plate of eggs.
Ellen leapt up from her chair, almost knocking her plate onto the floor. "It's rabid," she cried, and backed away.
The doorbell rang.
Christy sighed and went over to the table. Picking up the still-growling cat, she tucked him under her arm, then went to answer the door.
Chapter 11
Christy opened the door with the now-wriggling cat still under one arm. Both she and the cat froze when they saw Detective Patterson standing on the stoop.
"Good morning, Mrs. Jamieson," Patterson said. She reached out to scratch Stormy's head, but snatched her hand back when the cat hissed.
Christy sighed. "Don't mind Stormy, Detective. He and Aunt Ellen just had a confrontation and he's still annoyed."
"Ms. Jamieson isn't fond of cats?"
Christy shook her head. She could have added that Ellen also wasn't fond of nieces by marriage and nephews she considered wastrels, but she didn't. Instead she waited for Patterson to explain why she was here.
"I'd like to speak to Ms. Jamieson, if she has a moment," the detective said politely, if implacably.
Christy wasn't surprised. On the one hand, she liked Detective Patterson, who had been helpful when Frank was missing and Christy was determined to find out what had happened to him. On the other, Patterson was trying to solve Brittany Day's murder and Ellen Jamieson was, if not the chief suspect, then certainly a person of interest.
"I'll ask her, Detective, but you'll have to give me a minute." She dumped Stormy onto the porch, pointed at him and said, "Stay here." Ignoring Patterson's raised brows, she closed the door, leaving Frank to deal with the detective, and went upstairs to find Ellen.
She discovered her sitting on the sofa in the living room, close to Natalie. Their heads were together, and Natalie was whispering something in Ellen's ear. There was a smile on her face and Ellen was chewing her bottom lip as she listened.
What was going on? Christy knew this was the second or third time Natalie had been out to Burnaby to visit Ellen, but she tried to avoid Natalie, so she hadn't been home for the other meetings. Since her relationship with Ellen had always been strained, she had no way of knowing if the intimacy she sensed was normal or new. She cleared her throat and said, "Ellen, Detective Patterson wants to talk to you."
