by Louise Clark
"She thought I had my earbuds in, but I didn't. I'd taken them out a few minutes before because they were hurting my ears. I heard her say that she wouldn't go to his place. That he had to come to her, because she didn't like waking up in a man's bed." Rochelle's face was now scarlet. "Then she said, 'It will cost you. Yes, that's the price.'" Shuddering, Rochelle added, "I was shocked. I didn't expect it of Brittany."
"Why?"
"Because she was gorgeous." The words were a simple statement of fact. Quinn guessed that Brittany had the looks Rochelle always wanted, and to Rochelle's mind, Brittany had misused them. "And because she was rich. She didn't need the money and she certainly didn't need to worry about finding men."
Quinn knew all about the heirs of very wealthy people who had no money to speak of. Frank Jamieson had been one and he'd gone to extreme measures to get his hands on ready cash. Aaron DeBolt was another. Perhaps Brittany Day suffered from the same complaint. "DeBolt did a lot of drugs. Maybe Brittany was into them too and needed more cash than she could lay her hands on in order to keep up with him."
Rochelle's shoulders shifted again and she stared out the window past the parking lot to the gleam of ocean beyond. "Maybe. Lorne thought so. And he should know."
An interesting way to phrase that thought. Quinn said nothing and waited for her to elaborate.
Rochelle sat down at her desk. She flipped open her laptop, hesitated, then turned in her seat to face Quinn. "I don't like to admit this, but she went to the bathroom one day and left her phone here. A text came in while she was gone and, well, I read it."
"What did it say?" Quinn asked. He kept his expression interested and his tone neutral. Rochelle Dasovic had been snooping and she was feeling guilty. He wanted to pry as much as he could out of her before she decided that she was doing more damage to herself than to Brittany by telling him what she'd found.
"It was part of a whole dirty conversation. I couldn't tell who the other person was, but he—I think it was a he—was telling her what he would do to her body the next time they were together. I think he liked rough sex. And from her replies, I think Brittany liked it too."
"What happened when she came back to the office?"
"She saw me paging through the conversation." Rochelle's lips thinned. "She got really mad and started shouting. She became so abusive I had to leave." She set her jaw, as if she was shutting a door. She clearly wasn't going any further on that subject.
"How was Brittany as a student?"
"If you mean, how much did she contribute to the program, not much. She did her turn at the lab from time to time, but usually she got Brad to take her place. He's such a sap. He had the hots for her so bad he'd do anything she asked." She glanced at Quinn, then away. "Now, I'm sorry, I've got some calculations I need to work on."
"Thanks for your time," he said.
She nodded and settled in to her work. She didn't turn around as he left the office.
On his way back to his car, Quinn thought about Rochelle Dasovic. Unless he missed his mark she was envious of Brittany's looks, her money, and her way with men. That envy had hardened into a nasty jealousy that influenced her interactions with Brittany and colored her perception of the other woman to the point that they'd fought, at least verbally. The question was, had her jealousy gone from dislike and open hostility to the kind of passionate anger that lead to violence?
Chapter 7
Christy made it back to Burnaby with time enough time to stop in at the townhouse and drop off her purse before she had to pick Noelle up from school. Unfortunately she'd forgotten that Natalie DeBolt was lunching with Ellen.
At her house. In her kitchen. In her space.
She was rudely reminded of Natalie's continued presence as she climbed the steps to the front door.
She's still in there.
Crouched in a corner of the small porch was Stormy the Cat. His body was tense and his tail lashed. He looked ready to launch himself at anything that moved. She wondered aloud if Frank was goading the cat to attack Natalie when she finally emerged from the townhouse.
No, I'm not. Frank sounded testy. Irritated that she would even think such a thing of him.
Like the cat she hovered on the porch, debating whether or not to go inside. She didn't have to drop her purse before picking up Noelle. She could just tromp back down the stairs and continue on to the school. She'd be a bit early, but that was okay. It would show Mrs. Morton, Noelle's prickly teacher—who still wasn't convinced that Christy was the proper person to have the care and responsibility of a child—that she was diligent and conscientious.
Yeah, she liked that idea. Flaunt her good behavior at the same time as she avoided an encounter with one of the people she liked least in the world. She turned to head back down the steps.
The cat bounded to its feet. Where are you going, Chris? Never mind, it doesn't matter. I'll come with you.
Not exactly what she had in mind, but... She knelt down, opened her large, hobo-style purse and said, "Hop in."
Stormy, who didn't like confined spaces, considered this for a moment. Then, apparently encouraged by Frank, he slowly, with picky deliberation, stepped into the bag.
It was their mutual downfall. Christy was straightening, the purse full of cat tucked under one arm, when the door opened and Natalie DeBolt emerged. She was wearing killer heels and a flirty dress with a tight bodice that boasted a plunging neckline that exposed the tops of her breasts. A short skirt hugged a firm butt and exposed long legs. It wasn't the kind of dress Christy would have chosen for an at-home lunch with a friend, but she and Natalie rarely agreed on any subject, so she told herself not to be judgmental. Ellen followed Natalie onto the porch. Her pantsuit was a miracle of tailored elegance, from the crisply pressed slacks to the slim-fitting jacket that mimicked the cut of a man's suit. Another example of an outfit Christy wouldn't have chosen.
Frank swore and the cat's head disappeared inside the purse. Natalie blinked, looking confused as if she wasn't sure she'd seen what she just saw.
Ellen's mouth tightened. "That cat!"
"Hello, Natalie," Christy said. She didn't add a polite nice to see you again because it wasn't. "Ellen, I was just on my way to pick up Noelle. I'll be back in about half an hour." She'd take Noelle and whatever friends she wanted to bring along to the park. Anything to avoid time spent with Natalie DeBolt.
"Darling!" Natalie said effusively, with unexpected delight. "We do not see enough of you!" She leaned toward Christy, at the last minute trading her usual air kiss for an actual embrace and kiss on Christy's cheek.
Christy stiffened and inside the purse, Stormy growled.
Natalie pulled away to perform the same hug and cheek kiss with Ellen. "I must run, darling. Thank you so much for lunch and showing me this quaint little house. So cute!"
Ellen embraced her back. "Are you sure you can't stay longer, Natalie? I feel adrift out here in the suburbs."
The fashionable sneer in Ellen's voice rubbed Christy the wrong way. "Don't worry, Ellen. Your condo will be cleaned soon, then you'll be able to return to it." She smiled the empty smile she'd perfected over the years as the wife of the Jamieson heir. Okay, she was being mean and shouldn't have said what she'd said, but she couldn't resist. If Ellen didn't like it here on Burnaby Mountain, she could always move out.
Ellen shot her a cool glance. "I will never live in that dwelling again. Besides," she added, almost as an afterthought, "I've been traumatized. I need family around me."
"Of course you do, darling! Have I told you how brave I think you are? Poor Brittany. Such a sweet thing. So refreshingly innocent."
Brittany Day? The grad student into drugs and wild sex with multiple partners she had been learning about at EBU today? "Are you talking about the Brittany Day who was Aaron's girlfriend, Natalie?" Christy asked.
Natalie's expression twisted into distress. She nodded. "Yes. She was with Aaron—thank God!—the day poor Frank... Well, anyway, she was able to reassure the
police that Aaron was with her that night and not out harming Frank as he's been accused of. I don't know what will happen now. I am so afraid that Aaron will be wrongly convicted because she's gone."
In a minute the damned woman would start to cry. Revulsion flooded Christy and urged her to get going. Then the cat's head popped out of her bag. She could feel outrage in every tense muscle and clutched the purse more tightly. As she held the cat still, intent on keeping it from leaping out of the purse, Frank's fury vibrated through the animal's body.
Her bastard of a son helped murder me and she dares—DARES—to deny it in my house? In front of me? To my aunt? To my wife?!
The cat's legs began to churn and he hissed. Christy held on more tightly, afraid Stormy would burst from the bag and attack Natalie the way he'd attacked Aaron just a few weeks ago during her search to prove that Frank had been murdered.
Natalie stepped away, looking horrified. The cat's hiss turned into a yowl of rage. Christy moved to one side of the porch to let Natalie escape down the stairs.
As she passed, she shot Christy a look, much more like the ones Christy was used to receiving from her. When she reached the walk, she paused and said, "Aaron mentioned that your cat was rabid. I see that he didn't exaggerate." She minced off, hips swinging in a sashaying stride that was all woman, heading toward the visitor's parking on the far side of the complex.
"That display was inexcusable," Ellen said, watching her go, outrage in her voice.
Christy glanced at her watch. "And I'm going to be late if I don't hustle." She opened the bag and set it down. "Do you want to stay or come with me?"
Ellen took this question to be addressed to her. She sniffed. "Although it is hardly a warm invitation, I will come with you. I would like to see Noelle's school."
The cat shook himself all over and jumped out of the bag. If she's coming, I'm not. Besides, Stormy is upset. He wants to hunt for mice. Or birds, but he never catches birds. Mice are dumb.
"Right." Christy resisted the urge to add, have fun. Ellen wouldn't understand. So she simply said, "Let's go."
There was a little fuss while Ellen locked up, but they still reached the school before the kids were released for the day. Bonus, Christy thought, waiting for Noelle's classroom door to open. It always made a good impression on the teacher when the parents arrived early.
When the door opened a minute later and the kids piled out, Christy couldn't help a sinking feeling when she didn't see Noelle in the doorway. She waited for the torrent to ebb, then she motioned for Ellen. "Noelle must still be inside."
"Of course she is," Ellen said briskly. "She's a Jamieson. She wouldn't indulge in the kind of undisciplined behavior these little..."
A word hovered on her tongue, unspoken. Christy could almost hear it. Savages. Barbarians. Peasants. Hooligans. Any would do. She waited for Ellen to blurt it out.
"Children," Ellen said with a commendable show of restraint. "These little children are behaving rather wildly, don't you think?"
Christy shrugged. "No, I don't. They've been cooped up all afternoon. They just want to stretch their legs and let off some steam." She didn't wait for an answer or bother to see if Ellen followed her as she headed inside.
There she found Noelle sitting at her desk, a long-suffering look on her face. "Mommy. The social services lady came to visit again. And she told me I had to wait here for you. Again."
Joan Shively, the child services worker, stepped forward from the desk at the head of the classroom where she had been talking to Mrs. Morton. She smiled thinly. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Jamieson."
Christy frowned at her. "I thought I'd cleared up the charges against me. They were bogus, laid by the very people who were embezzling my late husband's trust fund." She didn't look at Ellen. She hoped her ears were burning. Ellen had been part of that scam and she'd almost succeeded in tearing Christy and Noelle apart.
Shively sniffed. "You know we have to be careful, Mrs. Jamieson. The documents you provided were quite detailed—"
"They were conclusive!" Christy said, indignant.
"Perhaps." When Christy glared at her and opened her mouth to rebut, Shively said hastily, "Probably! But when children's lives are at stake, we have to be sure! I will be monitoring your family for at least several months. You need to be aware of that."
Mrs. Morton said, "I, for one, applaud the policy. You can never be too careful when it comes to children's happiness."
There wasn't much Christy could retort to that, so she merely nodded.
Ellen, who had been an observer of the conversation to this point, chose to intervene. "Happiness may be something we all wish for children, but it is not the school's duty to impart it. Schools are places of learning. And discipline." She fixed the teacher with a steely look. "The children I observed evacuating your classroom were not disciplined in any way. I see that as a failure. Your failure."
Christy saw Noelle's eyes widen and her mouth open in an "O" of fascinated approval. At the same time the teacher's expression turned to offended disbelief. Shively's mouth hardened and her eyes narrowed.
Time to get out of here while she still could. "Come on, kiddo," Christy said. "Is your backpack ready to go?" Noelle nodded, still wide-eyed. "Good." She held out her hand and Noelle took it. "Ellen?" she said with more than a hint of command in her voice.
"Who are you?" Shively said.
"I am Ellen Jamieson. Christy should have introduced me." She shot Christy a look of disapproval.
Christy ignored it. "Let's go, everyone."
"You're one of the trustees," Shively said. "You laid the claim against Mrs. Jamieson." She sounded excited, as if she'd just struck a mother lode of golden information.
Ellen must have heard that almost avaricious glee as well, for she raised her head a little higher and assumed the kind of look that usually made people quite aware that they were dirt under her feet. "I certainly did not. That was done by my co-trustees, Edward Bidwell and Gerry Fisher. I was not informed of the action."
"Ha!" said Shively.
Ellen's eyes narrowed. "You don't believe me."
"I do not."
Ellen raised a brow, curled her lip and looked down her nose at the unfortunate Joan Shively. "I am not surprised. You do not appear to be a perceptive woman. Or, indeed, an intelligent one. Christy! Is Noelle ready to leave yet?"
Already on her feet, Noelle said, "Yes, Aunt Ellen!" She was grinning hugely. Clearly this was the best entertainment she'd had all day.
Anxious to be gone before the battle worsened, Christy said, "Good-bye, Ms. Shively. I promise you, I am taking good care of Noelle. Goodnight, Mrs. Morton." She grabbed Noelle's hand and headed for the door without waiting to see if Ellen followed.
Chapter 8
Roy Armstrong clapped his old friend on the shoulder as the pair indulged in a manly hug in the small front hall of his townhouse. "Thanks for coming, Three."
Trevor Robinson McCullagh the Third, known only to Roy Armstrong as "Three," returned the hug and back slap. "My pleasure," he said. His voice was raspy, the casualty of years of courtroom dramatics, too many cigarettes, and an over-indulgence in strong liquors.
The greetings completed, they both stepped back. Roy took a moment to inspect his old friend. Trevor was looking healthier than he had in years. His hair was longer than it used to be. More silver than black now, it was still thick and there was a healthy sheen to it. His blue eyes were clear, his color good under the three-day-old stubble that was more a result of not bothering to shave than a fashion statement. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and a plaid shirt under a leather bomber jacket, an outfit that was similar to Roy's black jeans and dark blue shirt.
He looked, Roy thought, at peace. "Granola culture agrees with you," he said, grinning.
Trevor shot him a frowning look that said more than words. "Flakes can be amusing in small doses and when they're in conflict with suits, but en masse? They do good works and raise pigs."
Cancer had d
riven Trevor into an early retirement and the relative quiet of Salt Spring Island four years before. The rural life might have sent his illness into remission, but he evidently had never acclimatized to the alternative viewpoints of the other refugees from the city who populated his new island home.
"Pigs?" Roy proceeded up the half staircase that led into living room. "Bedroom's upstairs, but why don't you drop your bag here and we'll have a coffee?"
"Pigs," Trevor said firmly as he deposited his suitcase against the wall at the top of the stairs. "My next-door neighbor has a perfectly nice five-acre property that includes a beautifully renovated century home and a barn that was converted into a garage."
"Where do the pigs come in?" Roy asked as he entered in the kitchen; Trevor was a few steps behind.
"The madman converted the garage back to a barn and added pigs."
There was a story here, Roy thought, and it didn't deserve coffee. He went over to the counter area that housed a set of canisters his wife once used to store flour and other similar kitchen staples. They were pottery, whimsically designed in the shape of trees, the trunks providing the storage and the leafy branches the lids. They had been given to Vivien by a grateful tree hugger she'd defended back in their protect-the-rainforest days. He lifted the lid on the jar marked "Tea" and drew out the makings for a joint. He stashed his weed there because Quinn never drank tea. It was the perfect hiding place.
He turned and showed the items to Trevor, raising his brows in question.
"This is how you make coffee?" Trevor said.
He sounded incredulous. Affronted, even. Had life on Salt Spring changed him that much?
"I can make coffee... if that's what you want." Roy proceeded to roll a joint. He was going to indulge, even if Trevor stuck to the straight and narrow.
"I quit when I went to Salt Spring," Trevor said, eying the joint Roy had rolled.
