The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Boxed Set

by Louise Clark

Roy nodded.

  "I'm supposed to live clean. Healthy."

  Roy nodded again.

  "If I keep to a healthy lifestyle I'll live to a hundred." He sounded like he was repeating an oft-used mantra.

  Personally, Roy thought that the odd joint should be a fundamental part of any healthy regimen, but to each his own. He nodded again and waited.

  "Hell. Who wants forty years of virtuous boredom?" Trevor said, coming to a decision and looking pleased with himself.

  Roy grinned. He pulled his ashtray out of the pottery tree then led the way back to the living room. The two men settled on the couch. Roy lit the joint, then handed it to Trevor. As he watched his friend indulge in his first glorious puff, he said, "So... pigs."

  Trevor inhaled slowly before taking a second drag. He handed the joint to Roy before he slumped a little deeper into the couch. His gaze was not quite focused. "He's a stockbroker, you know. Made a pile and got out of the market before it tanked in '08. Came over to Salt Spring to live the good life." He snorted. "The good life. Do you know how much effort it takes to raise pigs?"

  Roy shook his head. He'd never thought about raising any kind of farm animal. If he had, he'd be a vegetarian and he liked his steak too much to abandon it.

  "It's all the idiot talks about. He has dinner parties and invites the other back-to-the-land types who had perfectly good jobs in Victoria or Vancouver and now think they've got to do penance just because they've been successful."

  "Takes all kinds," Roy said. He handed the joint back to Trevor, who took another drag, savored it, then exhaled.

  "Yeah. I suppose." They smoked in silence for a while, then Trevor said, "So tell me about this dead body of yours."

  "Brittany Day, twenty-four, grad student at EBU, girlfriend to a nasty little twerp called Aaron DeBolt—"

  Trevor sat up straight, suddenly alert. "Nathan DeBolt's kid?"

  Roy raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"

  "There's not a lawyer in Vancouver who doesn't. Kid's been trouble since he first started to walk."

  "Have you ever defended him?"

  Trevor's jaw hardened. "No."

  "Good," Roy said. "Because Aaron is an accessory in the murder of Frank Jamieson and our dead body provided him with a false alibi."

  Trevor held up his hand, lawyer coming to the fore. "Whoa! How do you know it was false?"

  Roy took a drag, held it, then expelled the smoke slowly, keenly aware that Trevor watched narrow-eyed. He couldn't tell Trevor the truth—that Frank had told him—because his friend would never believe a cat could talk, even under the influence of prime stuff. "There's plenty of evidence. The point is..." He waved the joint for impact. "Brittany was killed on Ellen Jamieson's terrace. Ellen Jamieson is Frank Jamieson's aunt."

  "I know who Ellen Jamieson is."

  Was there a hint of disapproval in Trevor's voice? Just how well did Trevor know Ellen Jamieson? Roy watched his friend as he said, "The cops think Ellen offed Brittany because she wants to frame Aaron for Frank's murder."

  "Did she?"

  "She says not and I believe her," Roy said. "That's why we need your help."

  Trevor accepted the joint Roy passed him as he considered this. Then he frowned as he said, "There's more to this, isn't there?"

  Roy nodded. "Quinn and Christy—she's Frank Jamieson's widow—are out at EBU checking into the people Brittany knew there. We'll talk about what they found over dinner tonight." He'd invited everyone over to meet Trevor, including Stormy the Cat. He wondered if Frank would communicate with Trevor the way he did with Christy, Noelle and him. He grinned. He couldn't help it. He hoped the cat made the effort. It would blow Trevor right off the straight and narrow and back onto a more familiar path.

  "Will I get to meet Ellen Jamieson?"

  Roy nodded, but he raised his brows. "I thought you said you knew her?"

  Trevor shook his head. "Not me. I know of her, but we've never been introduced."

  Roy laughed. "You may not like her much. She's pretty starchy."

  Trevor took another drag of marijuana. He waved the joint around in a grandiose way as he said, "Not surprising. She's spent her life making up for her brother, the ice cream king's, sins."

  Roy thought about the three trustees who had been Frank Jamieson senior's best friends. They were all men with flaws—big, deep-fissure flaws. It made sense that Frank senior would be as morally challenged as they were.

  He eyed Trevor. Normally the man was pain-in-the-ass tight-lipped. Perhaps the weed had mellowed him. "Really? Like what?"

  Amusement leapt into Trevor's eyes.

  So not quite as mellow as all that.

  He said, "This and that. Some of his decisions at Jamieson Ice Cream don't bear scrutiny. Thing is, he died young, and Ellen Jamieson has done a good job plastering over the cracks, so people have forgotten. I'm not going to bring them up again." He paused as he handed the now mostly burned down joint back to Roy. "Unless I have to."

  Roy took a last drag and stubbed out his joint. "Let's hope you don't, then."

  Quinn arrived home shortly after five. By that time Roy had a big pot of spaghetti sauce simmering, liberally endowed with hot peppers and garlic, except for the portion he'd set aside for the cat. Frank said garlic gave the cat indigestion and Stormy wouldn't even come near a bowl of human food that included hot peppers.

  "Uncle Trevor!" Quinn said. His eyes lit up. "Good to see you." They shared a hug and back slap, then he turned to Roy. "Christy is coming over about five thirty. She's bringing Ellen and the cat. Noelle is having dinner over at the Petrofsky's."

  "Why is she bringing her cat?" Trevor asked.

  Quinn looked uncomfortable. Roy laughed. "It's a very sociable cat."

  Quinn and Trevor shared a bit of get-together chitchat, but when the conversation began to veer into the murder, Quinn went off to clean up for dinner, promising to fill them in with the details of what he and Christy had learned once they were all together.

  Christy arrived precisely at five thirty, carrying a couple of bottles of wine. She was followed by Ellen and the cat, who slithered around Ellen's ankles and bolted up the stairs to the living room where Roy and Trevor stood.

  "That cat," Ellen said, brushing past Quinn who had let them in. He closed the door and headed up the stairs behind Christy and Ellen.

  Nag, nag, nag, Frank said.

  Christy sighed. Roy chuckled. Trevor stiffened. He looked around him, eyes narrowed.

  I swear, she's done this to persecute me. Frank was on a roll, venting immediate and long-standing issues about his aunt and former guardian. Anything to make my life miserable. Anything!

  By the time Frank had finished his rant, Trevor's complexion was pale and edging toward pasty. Probably thought he was hallucinating because of the joint they'd shared earlier, Roy thought. He shot the cat a warning look and said, "A bit over the top, isn't it?" Then he turned to Ellen. "Ellen Jamieson, my friend Trevor Robinson McCullagh the Third. Trevor is retired now, but he used to be one of the top criminal lawyers in Western Canada."

  Ellen had looked at him strangely when he spoke to the cat, but at his introduction, she brightened and focused on Trevor. "The Trevor McCullagh of McCullagh, McCullagh, and Johnson?"

  Trevor recovered his aplomb and smiled winningly at her. He took her hand between both of his, as urbane and sophisticated as he'd ever been during his heyday. "The same, dear lady. I'm flattered that you know of me."

  Look at her. She's eating it up.

  Christy and Quinn had gone into the kitchen to stash the wine, and probably snatch a couple of private moments, but they were back in time to see Trevor whiten again. His eyes darted from one part of the room to the other, his expression wary. Christy picked up the cat and held him up so that they were eye to eye. "Behave." The cat meowed plaintively. She put him back on the ground, then turned to introduce herself. Trevor regained his equilibrium and order was restored. For the moment.

  By the time they'd eaten the
spaghetti and finished two bottles of wine, everyone was more relaxed. Quinn and Christy had filled Ellen, Roy, and Trevor in on what they'd learned at EBU and the conversation revolved around Brittany Day's murder.

  "I don't understand why she was found on my terrace," Ellen said, not for the first time. "I don't know the woman. I've never even met her. How can the police imagine I would invite a stranger into my apartment? I don't indulge in risky behavior and I'm not such a fool."

  "Are you sure you don't know her?" Trevor asked. He was deep in defense lawyer mode now and they were all focused on him. "That there's no connection at all, no matter how minor it is?"

  "None," Ellen said firmly.

  Trevor frowned. He rubbed the greying three-day stubble on his chin. "There has to be a connection," he said. "Bodies don't just turn up in someone's space for no reason. Our job is to discover what that reason is and make sure the police don't." When Ellen opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hand, stopping her before she started to speak. "We already know there's one connection. Brittany Day is providing one of the people accused in Frank Jamieson's murder with an alibi. Are there any others? What about the people she works with or the fellow she studies under at EBU?"

  "Her advisor, Dr. Jacob Peiling, looks pretty clean," Christy said.

  "But he was holding something back," Quinn said. "He claimed he couldn't go into details because of the privacy laws that relate to students, but it may have been that he was having a sexual relationship with Brittany as Lorne Cossi suggested." He shook his head. "To me that seems like a long shot, though. I wouldn't put the advisor high on a suspect list, but I wouldn't rule him out either."

  "How would he connect to Ellen?" Trevor said, zeroing in on the core issue.

  "Until the embezzlement, the Jamieson Trust helped to fund his program," Ellen said.

  Christy frowned at her. "I thought the Trust did an annual donation to EBU, then let the university decide how to distribute it. I didn't know they funded specific programs."

  Ellen shrugged. "Normally we didn't. Then two years ago Natalie told me programs could be supported individually. She convinced me that Peiling's program was both ecologically and socially worthwhile. When I met with Jacob I was quite impressed. I convinced the other trustees to earmark our EBU donation to support his program."

  "Interesting," said Trevor. "So Peiling knew you and I presume he knew Natalie."

  "Yes, of course. He also knew Aaron's father. Nathan DeBolt is on his steering committee, along with Roger Day, Brittany's father."

  "Yet another connection, but how would it relate to Brittany's murder?" Roy asked. He was feeding dishes into the dishwasher, but his focus was on the discussion.

  Trevor shrugged. "He might have been having an affair with Brittany as this Cossi guy suggests."

  Ellen narrowed her eyes. "Why would he bring her to my terrace to murder her?"

  "I don't know," said Trevor. "Why don't you tell me?" He stared at her, his gaze level until Ellen's cheeks flooded with color and her eyes opened wide.

  "Are you suggesting that Jacob is having an affair with me? At the same time as he was sleeping with one of his students?" She surged to her feet. "That is disgusting!"

  I'm with Aunt Ellen. Having finished his spaghetti dinner, the cat jumped up on Christy's lap then sat so that his head was above the rim of the table and he could observe the people seated there. Watch how you talk to my aunt, shyster.

  Christy looked down at Stormy, then over at Trevor, who was as red as Ellen. When she glanced at Roy, he nodded, confirming the assumption he saw in her eyes—yes, his old friend Trevor could also hear Frank speak.

  Quinn had watched this interchange and now he said, "Really? Really, are you serious?" He'd clearly realized that yet another person had tuned into the cat's mental conversation.

  "I am," Ellen said, the heat still in her face, though her tone was cold. "I will not remain here and be slandered."

  So Ellen, like Quinn, was out of the loop. Time to smooth troubled waters, Roy thought.

  Trevor beat him to it. "I am not a shyster. Nor am I trying to slander you or anyone else, Ms. Jamieson. I am merely attempting to identify the kind of connections the police are searching for at this very moment. Connections that lead to motive and are backed up by evidence. Connections that we will have to disprove, if the police arrest you for Brittany Day's murder."

  "Why would they do that?" Ellen said, her tone now arctic. She was still standing, her body stiff, her hands clenched at her sides.

  "Because she was killed on your terrace, in the pre-dawn hours of the morning. You admit to being in your apartment at the time, but claim that you did not hear anything untoward."

  "I did hear what I thought was a scuffle. When I got up to investigate I noticed some of my furniture had been broken. That was when I left the apartment and came to Burnaby to stay with my niece-by-marriage."

  Jeez, Aunt Ellen! Can't you just call Chris your niece, period? We were married for ten years!

  Trevor's brow knit into a frown and he stared at Christy. She offered him a wan smile in return. The cat flicked his tail and looked smug.

  Trevor returned his attention to Ellen. "Unfortunately, your explanation is unlikely to carry much weight. Because of where and when the murder took place, the cops will say that you killed Brittany, then came to Burnaby to provide yourself with an alibi. And if they can find a connection that provides motive, like a ménage-a-trois, they'll use it to arrest you."

  "I will not listen to this any further!" Her face flaming, Ellen stomped out of the kitchen. Her footsteps receded, then the front door opened and banged shut.

  There was a short silence, until Trevor said amicably, "Now, since Ellen appears to be the only one in this room who wasn't hearing phantom words in his or her..." he nodded at Christy, "head, just who the hell was doing the talking?"

  Chapter 9

  Quinn examined himself in the mirrored cupboard door that had been installed to make the small back bedroom appear larger. His faded jeans were fresh from the wash and snug on his body. The dark green sweater was an expensive wool-silk blend that hugged his torso, but was loose enough not to flaunt. He nodded at his image before he turned away. He didn't usually bother to check his everyday clothing choices, but today he was interviewing the kind of person who cared about appearance and style. To get the information he wanted, he had to make an impression. The right impression.

  In the living room below he could hear the low rumble voices as his father and Trevor talked. It was good to see Trevor looking so healthy. It was even better to see his father's eyes sparkle with that subversive mischief he remembered so well from his youth, when his mother was still alive and the whole damn family was involved in one good cause or another. Battling The Man gave Roy Armstrong fodder for his novels and a world-wide reputation as an outspoken social critic. It also made him happy, something decidedly lacking since Vivien Armstrong's passing.

  One voice said something, then Quinn recognized his father's laugh. He wondered if the cat was there, sitting with them and silently contributing to their conversation. He wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or amused that Uncle Trevor could also tune into Frank's mind-speak, while he, Quinn, could not.

  Admitting that Frank's consciousness had taken up residence in Stormy the family cat after his death was difficult for Quinn. He was a man who dealt in facts and he never accepted what appeared to be true at a first glance. He questioned and he dug and he looked at the issue from every side he could think of. Once he had amassed a wealth of information, he made his conclusions. Sometimes they were the same as what appeared on the surface. Sometimes they were different. For Quinn it didn't matter, as long as he had a truth that was supported by facts.

  While he helped Christy search for Frank and then for Frank's killer, he struggled with the idea that Frank's consciousness alive in the Jamiesons' cat. But Christy could talk to Frank and so could his father. Hell, Frank and Christy's kid could communicate w
ith him.

  Quinn had only known Christy few months, but those months had been intense. She was not the kind of woman who lived in a fantasy world only she could inhabit. She was grounded and practical, a down-to-earth person a man could rely on. His father, though eccentric, was as sharp as they came and he'd been the one who taught Quinn to question everything. If his father and Christy said Frank lived in the cat, then he did.

  He turned away from the mirror. Everyone thought Quinn was the odd man out because he couldn't hear Frank, but he knew better. It wasn't Quinn who was the problem. It was Frank. Frank didn't want to talk to him because Frank was jealous of Christy's attraction to Quinn. Simple as that.

  Quinn took a moment to contemplate his relationship with Christy while he dug through his closet for a jacket. They were both feeling their way through a maze of family obligations, old wounds and future opportunities. Christy's priority right now was Noelle. Keeping her daughter safe, minimizing the trauma of knowing her father had been murdered, and building a new life for them both was a big job. Quinn was prepared to give her time. To court her in an old-fashioned way that meant building respect before giving in to desire. This was new for him, since his past relationships had focused on the physical. They usually began with fiery sexual need, then simmered into liking before drifting into a lazier, easier sexual pleasure until they burned out completely.

  His reaction to Christy was different. She inspired passion, yes, but even more he wanted to cherish her, care for her, ease the burdens that were too heavy for her to carry alone. And he wanted her to feel the same way about him.

  He knew she was as attracted to him as he was to her, but he wasn't sure if she was ready yet to trust him with her heart and with her future.

  Old wounds held her back. She'd given herself to Frank Jamieson when she was young and innocent, and he'd burned her badly. She had to learn to trust again before she'd be ready to commit. It was his job to help her along that path, which was why the damned cat wouldn't talk to him. Frank would do everything in his power to hang on to Christy and his daughter as long as he could.