by Louise Clark
Quinn stared. "What is so funny?"
"Stormy and Frank had an argument about the mouse. Stormy brought it as a present for Christy and he apparently was hard to convince that it should be taken away," Roy said. "We only heard Frank's side, so it was a little goofy."
"You okay, Noelle?" Christy's eyes searched her daughter's face.
Noelle nodded.
"All of you can hear the da—the cat talking?" Quinn demanded incredulously.
Christy nodded, but stayed focused on her daughter. "Do you want to stay here? Or play with Mary?"
Noelle sniffed. "If I play with Mary will you sit here, where I can see you?"
Christy's jaw hardened for a minute, then she smiled and nodded. "You bet, kiddo."
"Okay. I'll see if Mary still wants to come out." Noelle gave Christy a kiss and a hug, then she ran off, looking back several times along the way. Just before she reached Mary Petrofsky's house, the cat appeared from some bushes. She stopped to give it a pat as it twined about her legs. Then she ran on while the cat trotted back to Christy's walkway.
"This has got to end," Christy said, watching her daughter. "I don't care what it takes. Whoever killed Frank and embezzled from the trust must be exposed. Now."
Quinn sat down beside her on the steps. He wished she'd lean against him and let him comfort her, but she was sitting with her arms around her knees, contained within herself. Her features were set in an expression that was not angry, but determined. "Christy—"
She shook her head. "Tell me what you know, Quinn. Frank," she said to the cat, now sauntering up the walk, "don't hold anything back. We need everything you remember. I will not let these people take our daughter."
"Clearly it's one of the trustees," Roy said. He ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging more graying locks from his ponytail in the process.
For the first time since he'd arrived home Quinn took a good look at his father. "Have you had any sleep in the last twenty-four hours, Dad?"
"No," Roy said simply. "I was on a roll. I finished my rough draft." He grinned. "I've never tried a murder mystery before, and it's harder than it looks, but Frank's been helping me."
"You mean the cat's been feeding you information and keeping it from the rest of us?" Quinn asked, absolutely furious.
Roy stared at him, aghast. "No! Not at all. Frank has been talking to me about what happened and I've been... speculating. Plotting. Building scenarios. I don't know if I'm right or not, but I have a heck of a good story."
"Dad!"
"So who do you think did it, Roy?" Christy asked.
"In my story Edward Bidwell, the lawyer, did it. I didn't call him by name, of course, because he'd sue me, but he's the one."
"Why?" she said, her voice flat, her eyes hard.
"Well, lots of reasons, actually. Frank was blackmailing him because he's a bigamist, so not only was his marriage on the line, but so was his professional reputation. Through his wife, Bidwell has had access to clients with money and status. It's his client list that has provided him with a partnership in one of the city's oldest and most prestigious law firms. If his wife ever found out that he was already married when she married him she'd be furious. If she discovered the marriage had never ended, well... So even though neither he, nor the girl he married down in Mexico, want to acknowledge their marriage, he'd still have much to lose if it ever came out."
"I don't know, Dad. What about Aaron DeBolt? How would he tie into Bidwell? The only trustee he knew about was Gerry Fisher."
"Ah," Roy said, waving his forefinger, "that's the kicker. Frank doesn't know whether he told DeBolt about Bidwell or not. The night he blurted out the details of his blackmail scheme, he and Aaron were drinking and doing dope. They got mellow. He was bragging. He remembers talking about Fisher, then nothing. Frank could have spilled the goods about what he had on each of the trustees. He doesn't know. If DeBolt was a little less stoned than Frank was, he might have remembered everything."
"Then that means any one of the trustees could be behind this," Christy said.
"I still like Bidwell," Roy said. "He's got a lot to lose."
"They've all got a lot to lose," Quinn said. "But you're right. Marriage, social standing, career, money, Edward Bidwell would lose it all if it came out that he was a bigamist."
"It's not just Frank, anymore," Christy said. "Someone killed Brianne. Is there any way of connecting Edward Bidwell to her death?"
"Bidwell has a client with a property about thirty miles from Kamloops. He flew there for a meeting around that time. He rented a car and put way more miles on it than a round trip to the client's estate would account for." Quinn felt himself coloring as Christy looked at him with surprise. "Look, I didn't spend the day just verbally abusing other reporters. I also did some digging."
Christy smiled faintly. "What else did you find out?"
Heartened by this evidence of thawing, Quinn said, "Ellen Jamieson was in the area too. She's on the board of a charity that funds halfway houses for women. One opened in Kamloops about the time Brianne was killed. Ellen was there for the official ceremony. Gerry Fisher was looking at a new site for a newspaper recycling plant. He flew to the city, then was escorted from location to location by the mayor and the town council. There was a civic dinner and a public meeting before he flew back to Vancouver."
"Frank just pointed out that none of them could have taken Brianne there," Christy said. "So who did?"
"Crack Graham," Roy said. "Obviously. She must have met him somewhere near her apartment, in Yaletown probably, expecting that they were going out for the evening. He may have killed her here in Vancouver, or at the landfill. But I'll bet he's the one who did it."
"So the trustee who is behind all this didn't necessarily have to be in the area where Brianne's body turned up." Christy sighed. "We're really no further ahead."
"I still vote for Bidwell," Roy said.
"He's not a bad choice," Quinn said.
"Frank agrees," Christy said. She shook her head. "But Bidwell is only a guess. We need proof."
"When the police find Graham, they'll get the proof we need," Roy said.
Christy shook her head. "I can't wait. I need to know now. I have a meeting with that social worker on Thursday morning. Until then I think Noelle is safe, but who knows what is going to happen next? And on Thursday I'm going to have to work real hard to convince Joan Shively that somebody is setting me up. I need proof that somebody is one of the trustees. So, I am going to get that proof."
"How?" Quinn said. Alarm bells were going off in his head.
"I'm going to talk to each of them about Frank's blackmailing. I'm going to let them know that their secret isn't safe, not any more.
* * *
She started with Ellen Jamieson. The three males in her life had all argued that she shouldn't do this alone, but Christy had been adamant. She knew the trustees better than anyone, other than Frank. Since Frank only seemed able to communicate with certain people, he couldn't talk to them directly, so that meant Christy was the one to do it.
She brushed aside Quinn's claim that his interview skills would serve the purpose better. This was her show. She had to do it herself.
Ellen agreed to meet her that evening in the lobby bar of the venerable Hotel Vancouver. Christy rushed through dinner and didn't bother changing from her jeans and plain white shirt, so she arrived first. She found a table with a good view of the entryway and sat with her back to the wall.
Then she waited for half an hour.
When Ellen arrived, she made a grand entrance. Dressed in a sumptuous evening gown that sparkled in the light, she swept up the low staircase into the bar area. Pausing, she glanced at a jeweled watch on her wrist before she scanned the tables. In that moment her resemblance to Frank was so strong that raw emotion squeezed Christy's heart. Along with grief was pity for a family so dysfunctional that she was actually considering her husband's aunt might also be his murderer.
Ellen's gaze flick
ed over Christy, then moved on. Christy didn't wave to catch her attention. She knew Ellen had seen her. The woman was just making a statement about how unimportant this meeting was to her. Well, let her play her little games. Ellen Jamieson was in for a shock.
Ellen tossed her blond head, and glided over to the table where Christy sat. "I'm running late, and I'm the guest of honor at private function. Say what you have to quickly. I have no time for this."
"I'm looking for a murderer, Ellen, and you're on my list."
For a moment she stared wordlessly at Christy, her expression blank, then she laughed and shook her head. "What nonsense!"
Christy's heart was pounding and her hands were sweating with nerves, but she was outwardly cool. She'd learned how to be a Jamieson. "Someone killed Brianne Lymbourn outside of Kamloops, where you opened a women's shelter about the same time."
Ellen gasped. "Are you accusing me of killing Frank's girlfriend? How dare you! You're only doing this to shift suspicion away from yourself. You have good reason to be jealous of Brianne."
"No, I don't, Ellen."
"Of course you do. After all, Brianne has been living with the husband who abandoned you. Even if you didn't love Frank—and I've always doubted that you did—pride would provide a good reason for resenting Brianne."
"Frank was never in Mexico with Brianne," Christy said steadily.
Ellen laughed. "Lord, I thought you were more of a realist than that. Frank was never the man my brother was. He was weak. He didn't deserve that beautiful little girl you gave him. Look how he treated her, abandoning her for a money and a gold digger like Brianne Lymbourn."
"Frank didn't abandon us, Ellen. He was murdered, like Brianne. Both his body and Brianne's were buried in Gerry Fisher's dump sites."
Ellen jerked in her seat and her face paled as the impact of Christy's statement shook her composure, but she recovered quickly. "Christy, what nonsense is this? My nephew is one of those people who always gets what he wants. He's good to look at and fun to be around. No one takes him seriously, and no one would bother killing him. He's just not worth it."
* * *
Samuel Macklin saw Christy in his office at the national accounting firm where he was a partner. The firm's offices were twenty floors up in a modern tower on West Georgia, but Macklin's office was paneled in dark wood that harkened back to the decorating style of a century earlier.
He shut the door behind her with a decided click. "I suppose you've come to beg," he said.
Christy walked to the windows. Though they stretched from floor to ceiling, the dark wood had been used to frame the panes so there appeared to be three separate windows along the wall. Silk curtains draped the glass, adding to the illusion, but the view of the very modern Vancouver harbor, with the North Shore mountains beyond, broke it.
Christy turned her back on the faux windows and real view. "Are you gloating, Samuel?"
He laughed. "If I am, are you surprised? Your auditor made allegations against me I didn't like. Now you're the one facing accusations. How's it feel?"
"Not good," she said evenly. "You know, Samuel, Frank blackmailed you for money. I have proof of that."
"So? He forced me to provide him with some extra funds from the trust. So what?"
"What did he blackmail you with, Samuel?"
Macklin threw back his head and laughed. "You expect me to confide in you?"
Christy smiled faintly. "Put that way it sounds pretty stupid, doesn't it? Almost as stupid as the actions you took when you were a university student. Remember that summer you worked for a small company in Victoria? The responsibility they gave you, the trust? How you responded to that trust? Let me see now..." Christy tapped her chin as she stared up at the ceiling, noting the ordinary ceiling tiles, drawing out the moment. "Didn't you fiddle the books and steal thousands of dollars? Enough cash to ensure your university fees were paid for? And how about responsibility? When the loss was discovered it was blamed on a permanent employee. That man went to prison. You continued on at university and built a career based on your complete honesty."
Macklin stood very still while she spoke. "You can't prove any of that."
"I can use the same method Frank did."
Sweat broke out on Macklin's forehead. "The diary was stolen from the mansion after Frank took off. You can't have seen it."
"Who says I didn't see it before Frank disappeared?"
"I don't believe you." Macklin's eyes narrowed. His face was twisted with rage. "If you'd known about the diary you would have said something."
Christy took an involuntary step backward. "I can prove that you've embezzled from the trust."
"I did that because your husband blackmailed me!" Macklin shouted. He took a step toward Christy.
"Were you being blackmailed by Aaron DeBolt as well?"
That stopped Macklin. "Who? DeBolt? That friend of Frank's?"
Macklin's frown indicated he really didn't know that Aaron had been blackmailing at least some of the trustees. Christy wondered what else Samuel Macklin didn't know about. "Someone sent the bulk of the funds in the trust to a bank in Indonesia then on to a numbered account in Brazil. I'm betting that someone was you."
"Well, you'd be wrong. I wasn't involved. One of the others did it."
"You knew that the other trustees were being blackmailed?"
"Of course. I supervise the accounting at the Jamieson Trust. When the first irregularities appeared I knew immediately a person on the inside was stealing from the trust."
"You mean someone other than yourself."
His jaw hardened dangerously before he continued. "Your husband wasn't blackmailing me then. I looked into irregularities and found out about the diary Frank senior kept while we were in university together. We all knew what the others had done, but my pal Frank was the only one stupid enough to write it down. I was furious when I discovered that his son was using the diary against one of us, but I never imagined the little upstart would blackmail me! When I think of all we did for that kid and how he's paid us back it makes me furious." He put his hand on the doorknob. "Your husband deserves whatever hassles he gets." Opening the door, he added, "And you do too."
* * *
Hell of a way to start off the day, Christy thought, as she rode down the elevator. She had rushed straight from dropping Noelle at school to her appointment with Samuel Macklin. She had two days left before she saw Joan Shively again and she was not really any further ahead.
She had arranged to meet Gerry Fisher at eleven o'clock in his office at Fisher Disposal. She didn't expect much from that interview either. The really tough one would be Edward Bidwell, tomorrow at ten o'clock.
The Fisher Disposal building was located in an industrial park in Richmond. Traffic was good, so she arrived about fifteen minutes early. She had her first inkling that the circle was closing her out when the receptionist told her that Gerry Fisher's secretary had no record of a meeting with her. Not only that, but when contacted, the secretary announced that Gerry had said he didn't have time to see Christy this week.
The same thing happened the next morning. She had dressed carefully for her appointment with Edward Bidwell in a tailored, teal-blue suit and black pumps. Beneath the jacket she was wearing a simple white silk shell. A string of pink pearls completed the outfit, providing a timeless look of understated wealth. When Christy arrived at Bidwell's office, the receptionist announced she had no record of an appointment, and that Mr. Bidwell had left a message that he had no time for a discussion now, or in the future.
Christy smiled and thanked the receptionist, then she walked out of the office. After Gerry's refusal to see her she'd expected Bidwell to do the same thing and she'd worked out a strategy. Standing in the reception area making a scene wouldn't work—they'd just throw her out. No, she'd catch Bidwell where he was vulnerable, in a public place where he couldn't avoid her.
After being turned away at Bidwell's office, she bided her time until twelve thirty, then she went to
a restaurant she knew to be one of his favorite haunts.
She stood for a moment allowing her eyes to adjust to the muted lighting. The décor was old-fashioned: dark wood, dark carpets, heavy furniture. She'd been here before, with Frank and the trustees. The food was mainly beef and lots of it. The prices were astronomical. She remembered one evening when Frank had complained, saying he hated the place, claiming the food gave him indigestion. Edward Bidwell had jeered at him, calling him a wimp who didn't understand the good life. She shuddered at the memory now that she was seeing Frank's relations with his trustees in a new light.
The maître d' noticed her immediately. She smiled at him and said, "I'm meeting Edward Bidwell for lunch. Has he arrived yet?"
At Bidwell's name the man smiled. "Of course! He did not tell me he was expecting another guest, but I will take you to his table."
Great. What if he was with a client? "Oh! Edward didn't mention that we would have company."
The maître d' hesitated. "It is Mr. Fisher, an old friend."
Christy smiled and allowed herself to gush. "Gerry's here? How wonderful. I haven't seen him in ages."
A smile broke over the maître d's stiff features. "It is a family party then, Madam?" he said, as he led her to Bidwell's table.
Christy crossed her fingers and breathed deeply to quell the butterflies in her stomach. "That's exactly what it is." Seeing both Fisher and Bidwell together would save time, but they would have each other as allies. She had no illusion that this would be easy.
They were sitting at a table for four next to the wall at the far end of the room. Both men had drinks in front of them. Gerry was just raising his to his lips when he caught sight of Christy. She saw him put his glass down as he spoke to Edward Bidwell, who swiveled in his seat to take a look.
The maître d' hesitated. Christy brushed past him, marched up to the table. "Gentlemen, how nice to see you both together."
The maître d' rushed up. "Mr. Bidwell, is everything all right? Madam Jamieson said you expected her..."
