The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

by Louise Clark

  She hit a wall, a solid, warm, human wall. An arm wrapped around her, pulling her hard against that wall. Holding her close. She screamed and struggled.

  Behind her she heard Fisher laugh. It was a gloating laugh that rubbed her on the raw. It told her he wanted her to fight her captor.

  It told her it was time to stop and take stock.

  She looked up into Quinn's face, and she stilled.

  "Back off, Fisher," he said. "The cops are on the way."

  Gerry Fisher wasn't about to listen to anyone, certainly not to a man with his arm full of terrified woman. He laughed, that sneering, arrogant laugh. As Christy turned in Quinn's embrace to face her assailant, Fisher took a menacing step forward.

  Christy cried out, then covered her mouth with her hand in a frightened gesture. Quinn put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a gun. He pointed it at Gerry Fisher with a calm that astounded Christy.

  "Like I said, Fisher, the cops are on the way, so you just stay where you are until they get here."

  Fisher stood poised. He stared at the gun, then at Quinn, that wild look still in his eyes. A siren sounded, coming close. Fisher's gaze shifted. His body tensed.

  "Watch out," Christy cried. "He's going to pounce!"

  "I don't think so," Quinn said. Then, as Fisher made a move, he fired.

  Chapter 29

  The bullet went nowhere near Fisher, but it shocked him into stillness. He froze in place, poised to run, but motionless. That was the way the police found him.

  The cops relieved Quinn of the gun, put handcuffs on Fisher and called for an ambulance for Eve Fisher. They bore Christy's angry denunciation when they patted down Quinn, then let him hold her as she gave her explanation of the morning's events. Billie Patterson arrived at the same time as the paramedics. As a stretcher was wheeled up the Fishers' walkway, she told Quinn to take Christy home.

  Outside the police perimeter, a crowd had gathered. Christy could see camera crews from the local television stations and photographers toting still cameras with enormous lenses and heavy bags of accessories. Reporters were less easy to pick out, but she knew they would be there, working with the cameramen, holding microphones, ready to thrust them into her face.

  She watched Billie Patterson read Gerry Fisher his rights, then nudge him into a squad car. Cameras clicked madly, capturing the scene. They were focused on Fisher's arrest right now, but when she appeared they'd swarm her in exactly the same way. She swallowed hard. "I'm not ready to face the gauntlet."

  Quinn understood immediately. He smiled at her and rubbed her cheek with his knuckle. "So you won't. We'll figure out a way of getting you out of here incognito."

  She sighed and nodded. Reaction set in and along with it came the chill of a brisk morning. She shivered. "Gerry pulled off my jacket when we were fighting. It must be over by the porch somewhere. I'd better find it. It's got my cell phone and wallet in the pocket." She headed back toward the porch. Every step was an effort as her body began to ache in more and more places.

  "Christy."

  She turned to see Quinn frowning at her. "What's up?"

  "You're limping."

  "I am?" She looked down. Her pants were filthy, but otherwise okay. Now that Quinn mentioned it, though, one leg was beginning to throb. She wondered how that happened and thought about it for a minute. "Oh, yeah. I hit my knee when Gerry and I tumbled down the stairs."

  He made a sound that was half laughing, half disapproving, then said, "Stay put."

  She blinked. It was such an odd thing to say, particularly when she should be looking for her jacket—

  He scooped her up, carrying her over to the porch steps where he set her down. After retrieving her jacket, he raised her pant leg so he could take a look at her knee. It was swollen and reddened. He probed gently.

  In the act of thrusting an arm into her coat, Christy froze. "Ouch!"

  "I think we should have the paramedics take you along with them."

  "To the hospital?" She finished putting on the jacket. "It's not that bad, Quinn." Her knee hurt like hell, but she wasn't prepared to admit it. She crossed her arms over her chest and hunched her shoulders, trying to banish the cold.

  "Maybe not, but I'd like to have you checked out anyway."

  The paramedics came out, carefully maneuvering the stretcher down the stairs from the porch to the walk. Eve's form lay still and pale on the white surface. Christy had a vivid visual image of her crashing against the desk as her body absorbed Gerry's vicious blow. She must have made a sound of distress, for the paramedics paused and one detached herself from her place at the end of the stretcher. Quinn spoke to her, then she crouched beside Christy. She examined Christy's knee, then suggested she ride with them to the hospital.

  "I'm okay. Really."

  The paramedic looked at Quinn, who was now sitting beside Christy on the stairs, holding her hand. He said, "It's a good idea, Chris."

  She frowned, feeling mutinous.

  Quinn smiled and rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. "There is an added benefit, you know."

  Figuring out what that cryptic comment meant was way beyond her. Right now she had more important things to think about. She reached in her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. "I wonder if it still works?"

  He gently turned her face toward him with his fingertips on her cheek. His smile was warm, kind of amused, but there was concern in his eyes. She wasn't sure why.

  "If you go to the hospital in the ambulance, we can get you out of here without facing the press."

  "Oh." She stared at him. "Oh! I hadn't thought." She pondered the idea for a moment, without making much headway.

  "Say yes," Quinn said, smiling at her.

  Put that way, it seemed like a good idea. "Yeah, okay. I'll go."

  "I'll meet you there."

  She looked at him and smiled. "Yes, please."

  * * *

  The arrest of Gerry Fisher for the murder of Brianne Lymbourn and Frank Jamieson produced a media frenzy. The details of Frank's disappearance were hauled out and re-examined. Christy became a heroine, a loving wife desperately trying to find her husband, then courageously facing a murderer to reveal the truth.

  Within a week the media had moved on to other stories, but the arrest of Gerry Fisher, occurring the day before Halloween, meant that Noelle spent the thirty-first inside, away from prying eyes. Christy regretted that. She'd always enjoyed trick or treating and Noelle's experience as the Jamieson heir had been sedate, well managed parties. Noelle didn't seem to mind missing the new experience, though, so Christy told herself not to worry.

  Though much ink had been used and videotape wasted on the Jamieson-Lymbourn murders, no one had put the whole story together. Elements were missing. Elements Christy knew. Elements Quinn knew.

  Of all of the stories that were filed about Gerry Fisher's crime, not one was by Quinn Armstrong. Weeks ago they had made a deal: when the mystery was solved, Christy would provide Quinn with an interview and he would write his article. Somewhere along the way he'd come to understand why she avoided media attention. Now, even though he was part of the biggest story the area had seen for months, he hadn't used his insider information. He wouldn't write his account because he cared about her, and he didn't want to hurt her.

  Because he loved her.

  All Christy had to do was to get him to admit it.

  She chose her timing carefully. On a Saturday evening she waited until Noelle was in bed, with the cat asleep beside her, then she carefully shut the door to her daughter's room. She changed from the sweatshirt she'd worn all day into a silk shirt that slithered over her skin and emphasized the shape of her breasts. She paired that with form-fitting jeans that clung to her hips.

  Then she called Quinn. "Hi. Have you got a few minutes? Can you come over?"

  There was a slight hesitation before he said, "Sure."

  Christy hardly had time to dim the lights and touch a match to the candles she had arranged in the living room befo
re she heard the bell.

  He paused at the top of the stairs. "This looks like a seduction."

  Christy smiled a slow, pleased smile. "Would it be so bad if it was?"

  The intensity in his eyes made her heart thump. "You don't have to seduce me, Christy."

  "No." She gestured toward the living room. "It's not really a seduction. The candles are for... tenderness. Mellowness anyway." He sat on the couch. As she sank down beside him, she said, "I asked you over, Quinn, because I want to give you a gift."

  He reached over to draw her close. "Your body?"

  She laughed at his half-teasing suggestion and leaned her cheek on his shoulder. He was wearing a v-necked sweater that was scratchy under her skin. "You wish."

  He laughed too, then bent his head. He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, until she was pliant against him. When he drew away she wanted more.

  It would have to wait. She cleared her throat. "Quinn, I need to know. Are you writing an article about Frank's life? About his murder?"

  His fingers fiddled with her hair. "Christy," he began. Then he shook his head and said simply, "There won't be a story."

  "Why not?"

  "I couldn't put you through that."

  Catching his hand, she raised it to her lips. "Thank you."

  He smiled.

  "But not telling the story isn't an option."

  He sat up. "Hold on a second—"

  She was shaking her head before he had even finished. "No. Listen to me, Quinn. You're the only journalist who knows the full story. I want you to write it. I don't care whether it's an article, or a documentary, or a book. I just want you to do it. And I'll provide you with whatever details you need, no strings attached."

  He stared at her, frowning. "What happened to your dislike of the media and your desire for privacy?"

  She laid her hand against his cheek. "Nothing's changed, Quinn, except my feelings for you. I trust you to tell my story. I also know that you won't write it unless I ask you to. So I'm asking you now, please write the story, Quinn. For Frank, for Noelle, but mainly for me."

  * * *

  Quinn stared at her. She was smiling at him in a way that was almost mischievous, as if she knew how shocked he was. The gift she had given him was incredible. The potential in the story of the Jamieson Trust was massive. There would be articles, a book, a television documentary, perhaps a movie deal. The story could fuel his creative energies for months. Afterward he would be able to pick any assignment he wanted, anywhere in the world.

  Anywhere in the world sounded pretty bleak without family around him.

  He looked at Christy consideringly. "Before I accept your gift, I need the answer to a question."

  "Okay." She sounded cautious. That was good. He wanted her to think carefully about this.

  "Your gift may be given out of trust, but I think it was also given with love. Am I right?"

  She traced the shape of his mouth with her finger. "Yes."

  He raised his brows. "That's it? Just yes?"

  She laughed, a light-hearted sound that filled him with joy. "I love you, Quinn. How's that?"

  She would not be an easy woman to be with. She was headstrong, independent, and managing. She didn't hide away from problems. Instead, she faced them down, not always in the most sensible of ways. She would be far more inclined to chase after a threat than to try to avoid it. "Sounds pretty good to me." He cupped her cheek with his hand. "You scared the hell out of me last week, running off to Fisher's place. Promise me you won't do anything like that again."

  "I promise." She crossed her heart solemnly.

  "Okay. Since you promised, can I kiss you now?"

  She laughed. "Sounds good to me."

  The End

  Page forward for

  THE CAT'S PAW

  The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series

  Book Two

  The Cat's Paw

  The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series

  Book Two

  by

  Louise Clark

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a book is never a solo project and I want to thank several people who took a critical look at this story and helped me to make it better. Any errors, of course, are mine, because in the end I'm the one who makes the decisions on what to and what not to change.

  I asked Patricia Spice to review the text from a lawyer's point of view. She identified several scenes that needed amending, then was kind enough to back and forth with me until I got it sorted out in a way that worked to both our satisfaction. "After all," she said, "if you're going to write about the Canadian legal system, you may as well get it right." Yup, and a very good point!

  Mary MacGregor, an avid mystery reader and an academic whiz, pointed out that no academic advisor would be so much into a student's life as Dr. Peiling was involved in Brittany Day's. Her comments made me dig deeper into why Peiling acted the way he did. Thank you for that, Mary!

  Thanks also to my excellent editor, Alethea Spiridon, who edited both this book and The Cat Came Back, the first volume in the 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series. I love the way Alethea edits. She leaves my style alone, but catches my mistakes. The best kind of editor!

  Finally, I'm sending hugs and major thanks out to my family—Dave, Forrest and Alex—for their patience and for not complaining about the piles in the living room... and the dining room... and the kitchen... and the hallway... and... and... You get the picture. You're the best!

  Chapter 1

  At six forty-five on a Wednesday morning in November, Christy Jamieson was standing staring at the coffee machine in her kitchen. She was wearing a fluffy tiger-striped dressing gown her late husband Frank had given her two Christmases before, because he said it would help her bond with Stormy the Cat. Her hair was sleep-tousled and uncombed. Her mind dozed as she waited for the single brew coffee to drip into her cup. When the doorbell sounded, she frowned. She was not at her best before her first cup of coffee, but she was the mom of an active eight-year-old, so she was surprisingly good at switching on awareness when needed.

  Doorbells at six forty-five in the morning did not bode well.

  She cast a last, longing look at the dripping coffee and headed for the door, speculating on who was on the other side of it as she went.

  She hoped it would not be the obnoxious social worker, Joan Shively. The woman claimed she had the right to drop in at any time to ensure that Christy's daughter, Noelle, was being properly cared for, but at six forty-five? If she thought she could barge into the house for an inspection, she had another thing coming.

  Could be Quinn Armstrong, her neighbor and... friend. Since they had only known each other a short two months, Christy wasn't sure she was ready to call him her boyfriend, but they were close and getting closer. Quinn understood her need for an early morning hit of caffeine, so he rarely came by before Noelle was in school. She did a quick finger-comb of her hair and hoped the layered ends would fall into place, just in case he had decided to drop in. She smiled to herself. If he'd changed his pattern today she wouldn't be upset. They could chat over coffee.

  The route from her townhouse kitchen to the front door was through the living room and down half a flight of stairs. She'd hardly finished her happy daydream about a quiet morning visit with Quinn when she reached the shallow landing. She hauled open the door, then stared.

  Standing in front of her, looking annoyed, was not the child services lady or Quinn. It was Noelle's great-aunt, Ellen Jamieson, dressed in an expensive suit with a pencil skirt and a man-tailored jacket. The cloth was finely woven and charcoal in color. The blouse underneath was pearl gray. The outfit had probably cost Ellen a fortune.

  Christy blinked, wondering if she had dozed off in front of the coffeemaker. Ellen Jamieson didn't come to visit. She hardly spoke to Christy and only to Noelle when she thought it was necessary to convey family traditions, or to show Jamieson solidarity.

  What was she doing on Christy's Burnaby doorstep?

  "Well," said E
llen. "Are you going to invite me in?"

  An errant defiance, born of Christy's recent success in thwarting the embezzlement plans of one of Ellen's longtime friends and a trustee of Noelle's inheritance, blew away the fog of a pre-caffeine morning and teased a smile onto Christy's lips. "It's rather early for a social call, Ellen. I have to get Noelle ready for school. Why don't you come back later? Shall we say—ten forty-five?" Ten forty-five came out of nowhere. Probably the forty-five reflected in the current time. Why ten? Who knew? It didn't matter, Christy thought, as she watched Ellen's eyes widen with surprise.

  Then those brown, gimlet-hard eyes narrowed.

  Uh-oh, Christy thought. Trouble ahead.

  "This is not a social call!" Ellen announced, drama injected into every word. "I am here to claim sanctuary."

  Okay, maybe she was asleep. Sanctuary? Ellen?

  At that point Stormy the Cat sauntered down the stairs, probably alerted that something unusual was up by the sound of the doorbell. Cats were naturally curious creatures, always interested in the smallest detail, but Stormy shared his body with Christy's late husband, Frank Jamieson, and Frank liked to poke his nose into everything. As Ellen made her dramatic announcement, Stormy reached the top of the half-flight of stairs. He hissed and all the hair on his back stood on end as he arched.

  It's six forty-five in the morning. What the hell is she doing here?

  "Claiming sanctuary," Christy said. With Frank now on the scene and loudly broadcasting his aversion to his aunt, things were about to get complicated. "You'd better come in, Ellen," she said, holding the door wider.

  No way! Indignation shivered through the words.

  The front door opened onto a landing that had half staircases leading both up and down. It was small space so Christy turned and led the way up, leaving Ellen to handle the front door. She resisted the urge to sigh as she scooped up the hostile cat when she reached the top of the stairs. She wanted him out of Ellen's way when she finally made it up the stairs. With Stormy in her arms, she turned to see that Ellen was manhandling a large suitcase onto the landing.