by Louise Clark
Frank noticed at the same time. The cat stiffened in her arms and began to wiggle. After what she's done she figures she can move in? I don't think so!
"Ellen."
Ellen succeeded in getting her suitcase into the house. She looked up at Christy as she closed the door.
"Why do you have a suitcase?"
"I told you," Ellen said impatiently. "I need sanctuary. Now, if you will show me to my room—"
Furious, Stormy fought Christy's hold. He extended his claws and tried to scramble free. Christy was a seasoned cat owner, however. She shifted her grasp so that she had both hands around the cat's ribcage, just below his front legs. Holding him tightly and away from her body, there wasn't much the cat could do to escape. He slumped, his limp body extended to its full length. Subdued, but not defeated.
Still at the bottom of the stairs, Ellen observed them with a frown. "I trust you will cage that beast while I am in residence."
Over my dead—
"Yes, well. Ellen, you have a perfectly good condo in a great location downtown. Why are you here, in Burnaby?" Burnaby was one of Vancouver's suburb municipalities, the next town over and about half an hour from downtown by car, but a suburb nonetheless. Ellen didn't do suburbs.
"My condo has been robbed. I have been violated!"
Christy sucked in her breath. Even the resistance leached out of the cat. "You'd better come up then. Have you called the police?"
"Yes," Ellen said, abandoning the suitcase in front of the door as she climbed the stairs.
Christy dropped the cat onto the floor then led the way into the kitchen, where the coffee had finished dripping into the cup. With a pang, she passed the mug to Ellen, who accepted it, then set up the brewer to make a second cup for her. "What did the police say?"
"Nothing," Ellen said bitterly. "I haven't seen them. The 9-1-1 operator said a constable would visit later in the day, since the burglars had already left. I told them my housekeeper would let them into the apartment. I wasn't remaining, to wait on their convenience."
She's crying wolf, Frank said, with considerable disgust. What's all this bull about being violated?
The coffeemaker hissed and gurgled, then spat coffee into Christy's cup. While she waited for it to finish brewing she went to the pantry cupboard to grab a can of cat food for Stormy.
"Why don't you tell me exactly what happened," Christy said, opening the can and dishing the contents into Stormy's bowl. Frank seemed to get as much pleasure out of Stormy eating as Stormy did, so she hoped that if she provided food, Frank would forget about Ellen. For the moment, anyway.
"I woke up just before dawn thinking I heard some strange noises," Ellen said. "Where do you keep your sugar?"
Christy pulled a spoon out of a drawer and used it to point to a bowl on the kitchen table. Ellen took the spoon, her cup and herself over to the table. She liberally scooped sugar into the cup, then sat down facing Christy who still stood by the coffeemaker.
"What kind of noises?" Christy asked as the machine finished and she picked up her mug. She took a large, revivifying gulp of coffee. This conversation wasn't one she should be having before finishing her first cup of the day.
Ellen sniffed, both hands around the mug. "The kind that shouldn't be there at five thirty in the morning. Thumps. Footsteps. Grunts. I lay there, listening, but I was half asleep and not sure that what I thought I heard, I actually did hear."
Ellen's description was close enough to the sounds Christy had heard when her home was broken into just a few weeks before that she shivered.
She's grandstanding. Always has to one up me and mine. Pay no attention to her, Chris.
"If you didn't hear the sounds again, what makes you think you were broken into?" Christy asked, ignoring Frank.
For once, Ellen looked uncertain. "I must have drifted off to sleep, but I dreamed I heard voices. That startled me and I came completely awake. I got up and that's when I discovered that the mirror in the hall was broken, as well as one of the legs on the little console table below it. I realized then that I hadn't been dreaming or imagining the sounds I heard. Someone had been in my home!"
The distress in her voice and on her face was very real. Christy said gently, "That's when you called the police."
"That's when I packed a suitcase," Ellen said grimly. "Whether the police came in minutes or the hours it will apparently take them, I wasn't staying."
Stormy's nose was still deep in his food bowl, but Christy's ploy to keep Frank out of the conversation wasn't working. She's not staying with us. Period.
"Why come here?" Christy asked. "Why not a hotel? There are lots of good ones in the city."
"Jamiesons don't live in hotels," Ellen said.
"Live? Not stay?"
"I am not going to return to that apartment," Ellen said, thrusting up her chin.
"But surely... after the mess has been cleaned up—"
"I will be putting the condo up for sale," Ellen finished smoothly. She lifted the cup and sipped. When she put it back down on the table her voice was decisive. "I will not live there again."
Stormy finished his breakfast and licked his chops, before settling in to clean face and chin with tongue and paws. Frank's mental protest came with a gritty edge that expressed both anger and desperation. She is not moving in. This is our home, not hers. She can't stay.
"I get that," Christy snapped. She gulped more coffee.
Ellen stared at her, brows raised. "There is no need for hostility. This house is part of the Jamieson Trust. As such I have as much right live here as you do."
The cat's tail was swishing angrily from side to side as he stood defensively over his bowl, staring at Ellen. If she stays, I go.
"We'll see what the police have to say. Once we've heard from them, we can make a decision."
Ellen sniffed as Frank broadcast an equally dubious sound. Christy resisted the urge to sigh. The role of the peacemaker was never smooth. "Have you eaten, Ellen? I'm about to make bacon and eggs for Noelle. Would you like some?"
"Yes," said Ellen and Frank at the same time.
* * *
By eleven o'clock Christy was exhausted. Her usual smooth morning schedule, honed to a nanosecond, had gone completely off the rails. As a result, she'd rushed breakfast, shoved her body into the first clean clothes she could find (jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt) and she and Noelle had to run all the way to the school to make sure Noelle was in her classroom before the start bell rang. Back home, she discovered that Ellen expected help settling into the spare bedroom. They argued—again—about Ellen's decision to move in until Ellen announced that she was emotionally drained and would be taking a nap. Relieved, Christy retreated to her front steps, where she sat in the mid-morning quiet in the hopes of soothing her frazzled nerves.
The weather was no brighter than her emotions. A solid bank of gray clouds covered the sky. It wasn't raining yet, but it was November and in British Columbia's lower mainland, November and a solid mass of cloud meant that it soon would be. In the flower box beside her front walk the Shasta daisies drooped, their bright heads heavy on stalks that were no longer putting energy into new growth, and the Japanese cherry tree had shed its purple-red leaves.
Several pale yellow birds with big bills and black masks landed in the tree and went to work on the remaining few small, bitter fruits, swallowing them whole. Christy watched their energetic fluttering and thought with a kind of rueful amusement that she had been flitting around with the same kind of energy as the birds since Ellen's arrival, but a lot less efficiently.
She'd only been sitting there five minutes when Quinn settled in beside her. She sighed and put her head on his shoulder as he slipped his arm around her waist.
Quinn Armstrong had begun as her enemy, then became her ally and now was a friend and, she very much hoped, eventually her lover. He'd helped her prove that her husband, Frank Jamieson—heir to the Jamieson Ice Cream fortune—had not abandoned her and their daughter, Noelle, bu
t was actually dead. During that investigation she had discovered Quinn was a man who was both sexy and honorable, a combination that touched her emotions even as his dark-lashed gray eyes and kissable mouth had her thinking thoughts she wasn't quite ready to act on.
"I hear Ellen Jamieson has come for a visit," he said. He rubbed his cheek against her hair and moved a little closer.
"Let me guess. Frank told your father."
She felt Quinn's chest rise and fall in a sigh. Frank communicated telepathically with Christy, Noelle and Roy, Quinn's father and a bestselling novelist, but for some reason Quinn couldn't hear him. Frank swore it was Quinn's fault, and maybe it was since Quinn was very much a grounded, facts-oriented kind of person. But Frank had a possessive streak when he was alive. Christy wouldn't rule out the possibility that Frank was deliberately excluding Quinn because of her attraction to him.
"Yeah. Dad said he came over to vent because he couldn't do anything to stop her." Quinn kissed the hair he had just nuzzled, making it very clear that he was more interested in how Christy was taking the arrival of Ellen, than what Frank was feeling.
It was Christy's turn to sigh—hers with pleasure. She loved the feeling of having a man to lean against, a man whose first concern was for her.
"Frank says that she was burgled. Is that true?"
Christy straightened reluctantly. She needed to look into Quinn's eyes and she couldn't do it cuddled up against his chest. Quinn, being an award-winning journalist, would be able to make sense of Ellen's dramatic announcement. "She claimed it happened while she was in bed, asleep or half-asleep. Which," Christy said, a frown puckering her forehead, "makes it a home invasion, not a burglary, I guess."
Quinn frowned too. "Is she sure it actually happened?"
"There was a broken mirror and table, so, yeah, it happened."
"Frank was not clear on that point," Quinn said. "He thought the story was an excuse so she could move in and make his life miserable."
A little bubble of amusement welled up inside Christy. "She doesn't like cats. She told me to lock Stormy into a room."
Quinn laughed. "That must have gone over well."
"I was relieved when Frank slipped away just after breakfast. By that time Noelle was down. She must have opened the door for him while I was trying to convince Ellen that she didn't want to sell her condo because of a little break-in."
"Anything stolen?" Quinn asked.
"Not that Ellen noticed." Christy searched his face, basking in the warmth—and yes, worry—in his eyes. "Quinn, why would someone break in, shatter a mirror and a table, but steal nothing?"
"Noise," he said promptly. "The sound made by the breaking mirror and furniture would be loud in the predawn quiet. The thieves were probably frightened they would be discovered and took off."
"Maybe," Christy said.
Quinn stroked Christy's red brown hair away from her face. "I came over to see if you were okay."
He was afraid Ellen's burglary would remind her of the home invasion she'd fought off here in her own home so very recently. Stormy had been injured, but she and Noelle had been fine.
And Quinn had come to her rescue, while his father had taken the injured cat to the twenty-four hour vet. She smiled at him, leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. "I'm fine," she whispered.
He changed the kiss into a more intimate one. At least, as intimate as two people could get while seated on the front porch of a small townhouse located in a high-density development in the suburbs. When he drew away he murmured against her lips, "I worry about you, you know."
She did know and it warmed her all over. As he straightened, his gaze a caress, she said firmly, "Ellen will get tired of living here and she'll hire a service to thoroughly clean her condo, then move back there. It won't take her long."
His caressing gaze morphed into one of amused disbelief. "Are we talking about the woman who said she'd been violated because someone came into her condo and broke a mirror?"
"I know Ellen Jamieson. A townhouse in the burbs won't cut it. She'll be gone within days." Christy heard the ragged edge of desperation in her voice and hoped Quinn hadn't.
But he was laughing at her now, his eyes bright with affectionate mirth. "If you say so."
She had the unfortunate feeling that he'd nailed it and Ellen Jamieson was here to stay.
Chapter 2
They called her because a Jamieson was involved.
Detective Billie Patterson of the Vancouver Police Department eased her car to a stop in front of the modern, glass-and-steel building which housed Ellen Jamieson's condo. Located close to English Bay and a short walk to the Granville Island Ferry, the low-rise structure featured large open terraces on the top three floors. Jamieson's apartment was on the fifth floor; not quite a penthouse, but pretty damn close.
The building access included a doorman, apparently there to help owners with parcels and to vet guests during the day and evening, and a reasonable, but not state-of-the-art security system in the underground parking garage. Patterson took note of that and added the information to her growing mental case file.
On the fifth floor, a patrolman greeted her at the condo entrance. "The body's on the terrace, Detective. You enter it through the living room."
"I'll look around first." If she hadn't already been aware of the Jamieson wealth, Ellen Jamieson's apartment would have alerted her to it. The flooring was real wood, a dark walnut that gleamed with a high-gloss finish. The area rugs strewn throughout were authentic Persian carpets, with intricately woven patterns in vivid blues and reds, lovely to look at and expensive to buy. The furniture was antique, most of it solid Victorian pieces built by top craftsmen. Even though she poked through the entire apartment, there wasn't a recliner, or modern squishy, comfortable, sofa in sight.
Starchy, proper, and stiff. That's what she remembered of Ellen Jamieson from her investigations into the disappearance and later death of Frank Jamieson, and her apartment confirmed it.
So what was she doing with a dead body on her terrace?
Jamieson had claimed she heard the sounds of a scuffle, glass shattering and then voices. When she'd discovered the broken mirror and table, she had called 9-1-1 then vacated the premises. The bedroom testified to her hurried departure. The bed was unmade and the cupboard doors were open. Clothes were strewn over the bed and a small reading chair by the window—evidence she had packed, and had done it quickly.
Patterson swung back to the entryway with the broken mirror and ruined console table. The patrolman guarding the door straightened. "Do we have a name yet?" she asked, referring to the victim on the terrace.
He nodded. "Brittany Day," he said quickly. Then he pulled out a notebook. "Of Calgary. Currently studying at English Bay University."
Brittany Day, Patterson thought. Well, well, well. Wasn't that interesting?
"Who found the body?"
"I did, sir. As a result of a 9-1-1 call, I was sent to check the residence. The occupant, a Ms. Jamieson, had left the premises, but had authorized the doorman to access the apartment. He unlocked the door and I came in to assess the damage. In my inspection of the unit, I found the woman's body on the terrace. She was already dead and had been for some time."
Patterson nodded, then headed out to the crime scene.
The terrace was designed to be outdoor living space. Flower boxes held an assortment of annual plantings that must have been beautiful during the summer months, providing vivid color against the elegant slate flooring. An awning covered a modern patio set—six padded chairs around a rectangular, granite-topped table. Near the furniture grouping was an outdoor heater, further proof that this area was meant to be used pretty much year-round.
Not surprising, Patterson thought. The view of English Bay and beyond was spectacular. She could imagine sitting here after a shift to chill out and let the beauty of the area flush away all the crap she brought home with her. It would be awesome.
She doubted Ellen Jamieson had
a lot of crap to flush out at the end of her day, though. And she probably hardly ever used the terrace. Ironically, the outdoor furniture looked to be the most comfortable in the whole apartment and Jamieson didn't seem the type to appreciate comfort, if the rest of the furniture was any indication.
The terrace buzzed with crime scene techs taking evidence, but most of them were around the body, which was wedged behind the patio heater.
She cornered the medical examiner for time of death first. "Early this morning," he said.
He was a burly man who had once been a linebacker during his university days. He looked like the kind of guy who would say only what needed to be said, but she knew that if she got him started, he'd talk her ear off. She didn't want to get him started. "How early is early?"
He shrugged, but his expression was thoughtful. "I can't be certain from the kind of cursory examination I can give on the scene, of course, but—"
Yeah, yeah. Spit it out, Patterson thought, careful to allow no evidence of her impatience into her expression. That only made him worse.
Miraculously he actually came to the point. "I'd say no earlier than five o'clock and no later than eight."
"Great," Patterson muttered. "That gives me nothing."
"Detective, you know my process. I am thorough, and I do not make mistakes. I will not commit unless I am certain."
Yeah, yeah, Patterson thought again, but she nodded politely. The guy pissed her off, but he was right. He did good work.
She stared down at the earthly remains of a young woman with brown hair, matted and darkened with blood from a head wound, and a curvy figure that had probably had labeled her as sexy in life. She was wearing a tank top and a pair of buttercup yellow pants, made of some sort of flowing material. Patterson crouched down to feel the texture.
Long-legged and lean, the detective was dressed in dark slacks, a simple cotton shirt and a brown leather jacket. She liked the pants, so she was careful to keep away from the puddle of blood near the victim's head. She rubbed the fabric between her fingers. It was soft, with almost a silky feel to it. Not a normal material for street clothes. More like the kind used for pajama bottoms or lounging pants.
