by Louise Clark
"Did he ask how long you've been planning this?"
"No. He just told me that Noelle deserved to have both of her parents raising her." She looked down at her feet. "It's a reasonable point of view, but so is the concept of a divorce. Frank was an addict. I wanted him to get treatment, but he wouldn't or couldn't. Frank and I bickered about his drug use for at least a year before he disappeared. I told him his habit was interfering with Noelle's life and mine, and that if he didn't stop, I'd leave him and take Noelle with me."
"But you didn't."
She shook her head, staring, not at Quinn, but at the house across the way. It was painted a different color from hers, but the trim was white, just as it was on her unit. "He kept promising he'd change, and I kept saying if he didn't I'd leave. Every time we argued a little part of my love for him died. Every time Noelle said, 'Where's Daddy tonight, Mommy?' I bled for her and cursed her father, until there was nothing left of what I'd felt when I married him. I suppose on the surface we seemed to have a stable marriage. That's why guys like Gerry Fisher are surprised when I mention divorce."
"Living with a drug addict must be tough."
Quinn's matter-of-fact tone was a balm. She glanced over at him with a smile. Then her heart stopped at the intensity in his eyes.
Hey babe! What's up?
Christy dragged her gaze away from Quinn's intriguing expression to see Stormy the Cat emerge from some bushes and trot up the road. In his mouth was a mouse. A dead mouse. She hoped. "What have you done?"
Quinn frowned, clearly puzzled.
Christy shook her head and pointed. "Not you, Quinn, the cat. What's he got in his mouth?"
His brows snapped together in a frown. "Looks like Stormy is a mouser."
"Frank! Make Stormy take that poor creature back into the bushes and bury it. Immediately."
Stormy reached the bottom of her stairs. He spat out the mouse then sat down and licked each front paw in turn. The cat is pleased with himself. I don't think burying the mouse is in the cards, Chris.
"Ugh," Christy said. "Are you going to eat it?"
There was a mental sigh.
"I'll find some tuna," Christy said a little desperately. The cat raised his chin and fixed wide green eyes on her.
"The mention of tuna seems to have struck a chord," Quinn said.
"I think I'm being blackmailed," Christy said. She shook her finger at the cat. "No tuna unless you give that poor creature a proper burial."
The cat stared at her, unblinking.
He's reluctant. He wants the mouse and the tuna too. I'm working on him.
"The deal's off if the mouse isn't buried."
The cat scrutinized her for another minute, then picked up the mouse and trotted off down the road. When it disappeared into the shrubbery Quinn said, "That almost makes me believe the cat is communicating with you."
She smiled. "And if you believe the cat is communicating, will you also believe he's a reincarnation of Frank?"
Quinn's mouth quirked. "A hallucination, maybe."
Christy stood up, ready to fulfill her part of the bargain. "It sure would fit in with his lifestyle."
* * *
"My findings are not conclusive, you understand."
Harry Endicott, the auditor supplied by Billie Patterson, was a middle-aged man, overweight and on his way to a big gut. His face was round, and the extra flesh at his jawline sagged into a second chin that jiggled as he talked. His tie was unloosened and he wasn't wearing a jacket, a sensible precaution, for his office was in an old building that featured heritage construction and a furnace that pumped out heat like fuel oil was still at 1950s prices. There was no ventilation system. The old-fashioned sash windows were supposed to be used to supply fresh air, but they had been painted shut long before, and even though it was October the rooms were hot and stuffy.
Endicott brushed his hand over an abundant mustache then continued, "A forensic audit can take months or even years to complete."
"We don't have years," Billie Patterson said. She was sitting, apparently relaxed, in one of the hard chairs that Endicott provided for his visitors. One leg was crossed over the other knee and she slouched a little, as if she had all the time in the world to listen to Endicott's assessment.
Christy did not. It was one fifteen and she had to pick up Noelle at two forty-five. Since Endicott seemed willing to chat forever about the philosophy behind auditing, it was time to cut to the chase and hear what he had to report. "Did you discover how my husband removed money from his family trust without the trustees knowing?"
"If he did," Billie said.
Endicott played with his mustache again. "Mrs. Jamieson, did your husband have any direct access to the funds, beyond what the trustees dispensed to him?"
Christy shook her head. "That was one of the conflicts between Frank and the trustees. He thought the trust should have been wound down years ago. The trustees claimed that it was his father's choice to end the trust when Frank was thirty-five, not earlier, and that was that. Frank thought their decision meant they didn't believe in him. He was angry and always trying to find ways to poke at them or get around their rules."
Endicott shook his head. "A sad story, but it fits with my findings. There were at least three individuals involved in this embezzlement, but I do not see how your husband could have been one of them."
Christy sat forward on her hard wooden chair. "After Frank disappeared and the money was gone, everyone believed he was the one who took it."
"Possibly because he'd said in front of witnesses, more than once, that the money was his and he didn't think it was fair that a bunch of old geezers should be keeping it from him," Patterson said.
"There can be no doubt that there were an inordinate number of expensive charges against the trust, run up by your husband, Mrs. Jamieson. It is my belief that he deliberately overspent his quarterly allowance and used credit to acquire the extras he wanted. He knew that the trust would pay his debts. That is reprehensible, but hardly illegal. However, unless he is a banker or in the financial management field, I think it unlikely he would have the expertise to transfer funds from a bank in this country to one in the Far East."
Christy shifted uneasily in her chair. She wished Harry Endicott had offered her a cup of coffee or a glass of water before they began. She needed something to hold. "Frank was a man full of talent and too much money," she said at last. "I think he would have been happy if he'd been able to manage his father's business—"
"Ah, yes, the Ice Cream King. I have wonderful memories of Jamieson Ice Cream." Endicott sighed reflectively and smiled at no one in particular. "One of their dairies was near my house. On hot summer evenings they would stay open late to serve ice cream. My parents would buy my brother and me triple scoop cones, each scoop a different flavor." Endicott rubbed his ample belly. "I buy Jamieson Ice Cream in the carton now, as a special treat." He beamed at them, energized by the memories.
Christy stared at him, grappling with the image of Harry Endicott as a child. She glanced over at Billie Patterson, who looked as astounded as Christy was feeling. "Okay. Well, as I was saying, Frank wanted to work at Jamiesons, but Gerry Fisher insisted he needed to learn the business from the bottom up because he had no experience. It was an ongoing issue between them. On the day Frank disappeared, Gerry called to say he'd set up an internship. Frank absolutely refused to participate."
"So you're saying Frank was smart enough to have done the money transfers," Patterson said.
Christy nodded.
"That's what the embezzler is counting on us believing." Patterson's tone was decisive, in contrast to her slumped, lazy position. She shook her head. "Hell, it almost worked. If that drug dealer using Jamieson's passport had stayed away, we'd never have considered anyone else."
"Three anyone else's," Harry said. He looked from Patterson to Christy. "There were definitely three minds doing the embezzlement. I could see that in the way the transactions were buried. Detective, I do not be
lieve the clerical and secretarial staff are implicated. These transactions were done by people in a position of control."
Billie Patterson sat up straight. "The trustees?"
Harry Endicott's eyes gleamed. Very slowly he tipped his head in a nod.
* * *
You're sad.
The cat rubbed against Christy's arm, then pushed his head under her hand. Absently, she scratched behind his ears. A loud purring erupted.
"I'm not sad, not really. I'm upset. I'm worried, but not sad."
The cat beat a circle on her lap, then settled into a comfortable position that allowed continued petting. Tell me about it, babe. I was never around when you needed me before, but a guy can change.
Christy laughed. "I hope you are truly in there, Frank, because otherwise I'm telling my troubles to a cat and hoping for an answer."
She heard the ghost of laughter. It's hard to get used to, isn't it?
"Oh, yeah." She sighed. Her hand stroked rhythmically along Stormy's back. "Quinn doesn't think you're Frank."
There was a mental snort. Quinn's a decent guy, but he's focused on the real world. He's closed his mind to things that can't be proven.
"Maybe that's a good thing." Stroking Stormy seemed to be a good thing too. The cat was purring, filling Christy with an absurd sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. "He's going to freak when I tell him about the auditor's report."
Every one of Stormy's muscles tensed. It's done? So quickly?
"Yeah." Christy peered down at the cat. If nothing else, that sudden tightening would have told her Stormy was more than a normal cat. "Harry Endicott, the auditor, hasn't figured everything out yet, but he's found out enough to know that there were three people embezzling from your trust. He can't tell us who, but he's working on it."
Stormy relaxed. He put his head under Christy's hand again, inviting more petting. Well, yeah. I was blackmailing them.
Christy surged to her feet, bouncing the cat off her lap. "What?"
Stormy twisted into an elegant arch so he landed on his feet. Careful!
"You were blackmailing someone? Someones? Frank!"
The cat turned his back on her and busied himself with cleaning behind his ears by licking one paw then rubbing it over his head.
Christy circled round him, so they were again face-to-face. "Frank, who were you blackmailing? Three people, your trustees? Tell Stormy to stop cleaning himself and talk to me!"
The cat glared at her, but after a final rub, he stopped preening and paid attention.
"That's better. Frank, why didn't you tell me about this before?"
There was a mental shrug, and the answer was laced with defiance. You would have reacted the same way you did just now. We've been getting on pretty well and I thought... I didn't want you to be upset.
"Not upset? Frank!"
The telephone rang. Christy looked toward the sound, debating whether she should answer or have this out with Frank now. Stormy decided the issue by heading down the stairs toward his litter box. Christy went for the phone. "Hello?"
"Christy, it's Gerry Fisher."
Oh God, not now, not when she'd just learned that her husband might have been blackmailing the man on the other end of the phone line. "Uh, hi, Gerry. What's up?"
"We, the other trustees and I, need to see you. We expect you at Jamieson Ice Cream in an hour."
"But—"
"Be there." Gerry hung up the phone.
Christy stared at the handset, listening to the buzzing dial tone, thinking furiously. The Trust had an office in the Jamieson Ice Cream building on Georgia. This had to be about the audit, and about the blackmailing. Dear heavens, Frank was blackmailing three of his trustees. Was it possible? Which ones?
In the way of cats, Stormy trotted back into the living room as if nothing untoward had happened. Christy rounded on him. "Why?"
Frank didn't pretend to misunderstand. They were keeping me on a short leash, Chris. Even though I asked, they wouldn't increase my allowance. I wanted more. I deserved more. Hell, it was my trust fund! So I made them give it to me.
Christy could imagine the charming smile Frank would have used as he said those words. His rueful, little boy grin that had helped him avoid far too much in his lifetime. "Not good enough, Frank! You were blackmailing people. That's illegal."
It was my trust fund.
The tone was petulant, the excuse self-serving. Christy had heard that note of self-righteous indignation many times before, particularly when she criticized Frank for partying too much or doing drugs. This particular attitude was a showstopper because not only did it mean that Frank had no intention of explaining any further, but it also made her abandon the argument with a growl of frustration. This time was no exception. She made an irritated sound in her throat and headed up the stairs.
Stormy followed. Where are you going?
"I have to go downtown to see the Trustees."
What? You can't!
Christy stopped in her bedroom doorway and faced her cat. "I have to. That was Gerry Fisher on the phone and he summoned me, now."
Don't go!
Thoroughly annoyed at both Frank and Gerry Fisher, Christy said, "Gerry didn't offer me a choice. I have to go."
This is not good, Chris. Ignore him. What can he do to you if you don't show up?
"I don't know! And I don't want to find out." She slammed the door in the cat's face. Stormy whined a few times and scratched on the panel, but inside the room, Christy ignored him as she hastily changed out of her sweatshirt and jeans into a ribbed top and mini-skirt that made her look stylish and feel good about herself. A quick brush of her layered brown hair and a flick with her lipstick and she was ready.
When she came out the hall was empty. That suited her just fine. She checked her watch, saw she had a scant half hour to get to the city and ran down the stairs. Grabbing her purse, she headed outside.
There she found Roy Armstrong, peacefully sitting on her front steps with Stormy beside him. A joint drooped between his fingers. Smoke curled from the glowing end. "The cat doesn't think it's a good idea for you to go to this meeting."
"The cat doesn't have a say."
Roy shot her an amused look as he nodded. He took a drag, savored the smoke, slowly exhaled, then dropped the butt onto the pavement and ground it out with his foot. "I thought you'd say that." He picked up the squashed butt, dug a little hole in the soft earth in the garden box, and buried it. "Still, it seems to me that if you go, you should have back up." He picked up a backpack that was sitting on the steps.
"And that would be you?"
Roy grinned. "That would be me. Armed with my laptop, cell phone, and my dubious celebrity as an award-winning author."
Christy stood stock-still, staring at him. "Come again?"
"Cell phone to connect to Quinn and have him meet us there so we don't just disappear, laptop to remind your trustees that my pen can be lethal, and my fame to convince them that I can hang them out in front of a huge audience."
There was a light in his eyes that Christy could only describe as pleasurable excitement. "You've done this before."
Roy laughed. "What's the good of having power if you don't bother to use it?"
Chapter 16
"Who's he?" Indignation laced Edward Bidwell's tone, and his long features were screwed up into a frown as he pointed at Roy Armstrong, who had settled himself on a cream colored leather chair in the sumptuous reception area.
Christy looked at Roy, viewing him through Bidwell's eyes. What she saw was a middle-aged man, pushing senior citizen, dressed in worn jeans, a checked shirt, and running shoes. A leather bomber jacket was casually open over the checked shirt. His face was shaven, but his iron-gray hair hadn't been cut in a long while and was tied back in a ponytail. Though he was clean, he looked far from prosperous and totally out of place against the thick pile carpet and wood-lined walls of the Jamieson Trust office suite in the Jamieson Ice Cream building.
"Edward Bi
dwell, this is my neighbor and friend, Roy Armstrong. Roy, Edward is one of trustees of the Jamieson Trust." Roy cast Bidwell a long, hard look as he nodded acknowledgement. While Bidwell turned purple with annoyance, Roy rummaged through his backpack, which he'd dumped on the floor beside him. He pulled out a laptop, flipped open the lid, and pressed the power button. The screen flickered, then came alive.
"Roy, how delightful to see you again." Ellen Jamieson advanced with both hands outstretched.
Bidwell snorted. Roy moved the laptop to a nearby table and stood.
Ellen took advantage of the moment to take both of Roy's hands and sneak in a continental greeting. Roy managed to kiss air through the process. Ellen achieved two very real kisses as they brushed cheeks. "Edward, Gerry has met Roy, but I don't think you have had the opportunity. He is a fabulous writer and quite my favorite author. He wins awards and his books are made into the most haunting movies." Ellen beamed at the assembled company. Roy blushed.
"So what is a famous author doing in the Trust's office at exactly the same time as we have a meeting with Christy?" Edward asked, eying Roy through narrowed eyes.
"As Christy mentioned, he's her neighbor," Gerry Fisher said. He made no effort to shake Roy's hand or even greet him directly.
Bidwell glanced from Gerry to Roy, then back to Gerry again. The two men exchanged looks. "I see," Bidwell said, sounding as if he'd just learned the prosecution's star witness had shoplifted as a kid.
"I can work pretty much anywhere." Roy smiled as if he wasn't aware of the tension in the room, or the annoyance. "Christy needed company, and I wanted a fresh perspective, so here we are."
"It's so exciting to see an author at work." It didn't seem to matter to Ellen that Roy wasn't doing anything except talk at the moment. The expression in her eyes really did indicate Roy and his creative process fascinated her. "Do you have a new book coming out soon?"
"I'm working on a family saga of missing relatives, embezzlement, and redemption," Roy said blandly. "I expect to turn it in to my editor in a month or two."
