by Louise Clark
"Then the pen would be nearby. On his desk, perhaps. Certainly somewhere in plain sight and within easy reach."
"An allergic reaction isn't like the impact of a bullet, or being hit by a car. The person has a few minutes to respond before shock sets in. Why didn't Peiling use his EpiPen and give himself a shot?" Quinn asked. "He sounds like he was almost paranoid about the issue. He'd know the symptoms. As soon as he felt them, he'd act."
Quinn's speculation had the rest glancing at each other and nodding. Christy said, "Maybe he couldn't find his pen."
"Then he'd call 9-1-1," Ellen said. "I saw him do that once at a party when he thought he'd eaten something toxic."
"So we need to find out if there was a 9-1-1 call and if the paramedics weren't able to get to him in time." Quinn looked thoughtfully at Ellen. "Do you have any idea who might know about his allergy?"
"Anyone who has ever eaten a meal with him, or who has ever been at one of his social events," she said promptly. Then she frowned. "Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen him eat a takeout meal. At least, not from a fast-food place."
"Two good points," Quinn said. "First, where did the food that killed him come from? If not from one of his preferred restaurants, then why did he choose this particular vendor? And secondly, which of our suspects have been with him at a social event where food was served? Or have shared a meal with him?"
"That could be a lot of people," Christy said. "All of the students. His advisory board. Those who donated to his program."
Quinn nodded. "It's a long list, but I don't see how Peiling's death can be an accident. He was murdered. So we go back to EBU and we talk to people, starting with Lorne Cossi, who has a bad rep with his female students."
"We should also look at Rochelle Dasovic," Christy said. "She plagiarized a friend's paper to get into Peiling's program. If Brittany found out, she might have been blackmailing Dasovic, causing Dasovic to snap. When Quinn and I talked to Dr. Peiling, we discovered that he didn't know what she'd done. He might have accosted her about it after our visit. If she'd already killed Brittany to keep her secret, she'd be capable of killing her advisor too."
"We also need to talk to Roger Day. He might be able to shed more light on who was blackmailing Brittany or who she was blackmailing."
"I think he's back in Calgary by now," Christy said.
Roy's eyes brightened. "Trevor and I can Skype him."
Ellen frowned. Evidently computers and video conferencing weren't her thing.
"We need to talk to Patterson too," Trevor said. "I can do that."
Quinn shook his head. "Not the best idea. Your relationship with her is confrontational. Christy should do it. Patterson respects her. She can be cagey, but she'll open up more to Christy than any of us."
Great. We've got a plan. The cat stood up and stretched. Time to celebrate. Break open the tuna, old man, and let's eat.
Chapter 23
"Don't you have a desk, Armstrong?" Trevor said as he frowned at the laptop on the kitchen table. He and Roy were searching out the best place to position the computer for the video conference call they were going to make to Roger Day. Their plan was to have Trevor make the call and be the one to interview Day. They both thought Roy should be able to see Day's expression and body language throughout the conversation, though, so they needed spot where Roy could view the screen, but not be in the picture. They'd decided the kitchen table had both, plus a good, large flat surface on which to place the laptop.
"Never used a desk," Roy said. "If you have a desk you have an office. If you have an office you have paper. If you have paper there's always clutter. If you have clutter you can never find what you want when you need it. I prefer the kitchen table. Nothing gets lost that way."
Trevor absorbed this as he looked around the room. It was spacious, well lit and tidy. But it was a kitchen. There was only one blank wall that would provide a plain backdrop for Trevor's image. Unfortunately the wall was a bright, pumpkin orange. He pointed to it. "The color clashes with my suit."
That was certainly true. The suit was a charcoal gray, the fabric a smooth, wool/silk blend. The tailoring was expert. It should have been at the price Trevor had paid for it.
"And my tie." He'd paired the suit with a crisp white shirt and a Mediterranean-blue silk tie. There was no possible way he could sit in front of an orange wall and look professional. "What about the Jamieson place?"
"Christy doesn't have an office either. Her kitchen wall is a nice yellow." Roy looked dubiously at the charcoal-gray suit. "I think it would be worse than my orange."
Trevor grimaced and raised his hand to run his fingers through his hair, but stopped before he made contact. He'd had his shaggy hair cut—styled, actually—at a salon rather than cut by a barber, to emphasize the power look he'd donned with the expensive suit. Running his fingers through it wasn't in the cards.
"What about McCullagh, McCullagh, and Johnson? Think they'd have a spare office?" Roy asked. "Or maybe they'd lend you a boardroom?"
Trevor's brightened. "Good idea! Technically they don't have to provide me with space since I'm retired, but I do consult with them on some of their high-profile cases from time to time." He punched numbers into his phone. "You know, I didn't really feel comfortable calling someone of Roger Day's status from a kitchen," he said over the sound of ringing. It stopped and was followed by the mumble of a voice. "Good morning. Trevor McCullagh here. I'm fine, thank you. Yes, I was wondering if..."
A few minutes later they had a conference room booked, a space with far more sophisticated video conferencing capabilities than Roy's laptop. Trevor had also arranged for a secretary to book a meeting time with Roger Day using the official McCullagh, McCullagh, and Johnson phone system.
"Very professional," Trevor said with satisfaction as they hurried out the door, heading for the carport.
"Frank," Roy yelled, as they descended the porch stairs. "Hustle up. We're calling Day from Trevor's office."
"We're bringing the cat?"
Roy nodded. "Frank likes the odd excursion. Christy usually puts him in a tote bag or a backpack, but I'll just carry him."
Stormy trotted up. He'd been sitting at the foot of the big oak that graced the bottom of the street, staring up at something he'd treed, his tail lashing. Climbing didn't come easily to him due to his size and heavy bone structure. The local wildlife had already figured out that the tops of trees were a much better refuge than going to ground.
Stormy is pissed. He wanted to outwait the squirrel he treed. I thought you were going to Skype from the kitchen?
"Change of plans," Roy said. He eyed the cat dubiously. "If Stormy is in a mood maybe I should get a backpack."
They reached the car. I'll sit on Three's lap.
"No way!" Trevor said. "The cat will shed."
"Backseat or backpack. Take your pick," Roy said, opening the car's rear door.
Fine. Stormy hopped into the back while Trevor and Roy got in the front.
McCullagh, McCullagh, and Johnson was on the eighteenth floor of a glass-and-steel tower on West Georgia Street. It was a power address for a firm that had a reputation of being tough in corporate law and rarely losing in the courtroom. Trevor fit right in with his expensive suit and pricey haircut. Roy, dressed in jeans, a sweater, and a leather jacket, his long hair tied into a tail at the back, and holding a large cat under one arm, did not.
Or maybe he did, Roy thought with inner amusement. McCullagh, McCullagh, and Johnson's clients came from all walks of life. All they needed was a bank account that stretched to lots of zeros and a problem that needed to be fixed. He grinned at the receptionist. She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering longest on the cat, though her polite, uncritical expression didn't change. Trevor never broke stride. He simply asked where Johnson had put him as he passed the reception desk. The girl had to leap to her feet, then race to keep up as she babbled directions. Roy slouched along behind, enjoying the show.
The conferenc
e room at McCullagh, McCullagh, and Johnson was tastefully decorated in creams and browns. The large oval table was a rich walnut, polished to a high gloss, the swivel chairs were upholstered in chocolate brown leather that was butter-soft to touch, and the carpet was a sandy brown that tied together the darker colors and the cream walls. Trevor sat down in the chair at the head of the table. Frank took the tabletop, while Roy settled in on one of the chairs a little way down from Trevor. The receptionist returned to her desk. She was replaced by a secretary, who brought coffee service for two, then set up the camera so that it focused on Trevor and not on Roy and Frank. To her credit she seemed not at all surprised to see that a cat had accompanied the two men.
"Mr. Day, thank you for taking my call. My condolences on the loss of your daughter," Trevor said as the connection to Calgary came up.
While the camera in the room focused on Trevor, Roger Day's image was projected onto a wall screen so that Frank and Roy were both able to see him.
Day nodded. His expression was bleak, his eyes tired, as if he wasn't sleeping. "I know of your reputation, Mr. McCullagh. I understand your firm will be providing the defense for Ellen Jamieson?"
"We will," Trevor said. "Although I am fairly confident the charges against her will be dropped."
Day raised his brows and for a moment curiosity lit his eyes. "When I left Vancouver, the police seemed pretty sure they had their culprit."
"The situation has changed. You knew Dr. Jacob Peiling as more than just your daughter's program advisor, I understand."
"I did. Look, what's this about, McCullagh?"
"Dr. Peiling's death."
"I thought the police had ruled Jacob's death accidental." Day frowned. "Are you saying that it was not?"
"It's a working theory," Trevor said. His expression was tightly controlled, giving nothing away.
Roger Day was not as cagey. His expression changed from grim acceptance to a frowning concentration. He leaned forward in his expensive leather executive's chair and put his elbows on the table in front of him. "Are you implying that Jacob's death is related to Brittany's?" There was urgency in the way he bit off his words, and in the tension in his body. Roy wondered why.
"I am," Trevor said.
Day remained still for a moment, then slowly he nodded. He sat back in his chair, not quite limp, but as if he'd been relieved of a burden and could now relax. "I think so too. Jacob phoned me on the afternoon he died. He said he had a lead on why Brittany was killed. He wouldn't tell me what he'd found out, though. He said it was big and ugly and he needed proof before he said anything."
"Have you told Detective Patterson this?"
The look Day shot the camera was derisive. "Of course."
Trevor thought for a moment, then he too leaned forward, clasping his hands together and placing his forearms on the tabletop. His expression and tone of voice were persuasive. "Can you think of a reason why Dr. Peiling would be so secretive?"
Day laughed. It was a hollow sound that held no amusement. "Jacob was always careful about what he said. He never made a definitive statement unless he had the facts to back it up. That's what made him such a good researcher. And why he always had trouble finding funding. He refused to speculate and he'd never lie for appearance's sake." Day shook his head and sighed. "When he called, Jacob was upset. No, he was dismayed, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to believe what he'd discovered. He said he'd know for certain that night and he'd call me with the details, probably in the morning if he ran late into the evening."
"And he never called."
Day shook his head.
Trevor pondered that for a moment, then he said, "Did you know Dr. Peiling had a food allergy?"
Day grimaced. "Sure. I shared a house with him and Nathan DeBolt when we were all at university. Before I met Jacob, peanut butter was one of my staple foods. After, I never touched the stuff."
Roy's eyes popped open at the mention of Nathan. He wrote furiously for a minute, then he held up the piece of paper so Trevor could see. He roomed with DeBolt? How well does he know him?
"You three were close then?" Trevor said mildly, looking interested, but not excited.
"Jacob and I were," Day said. "He was Brittany's godfather—which was why I asked him to keep an eye on her for me. Nathan was closer to Frank Jamieson and the pack he ran with."
My dad and the trustees. Who knew?
"Does Jacob's death relate to Ellen Jamieson and the case against her?" Day asked, unaware of Frank's comment.
"If Dr. Peiling was murdered, it does," Trevor said. "Ms. Jamieson has a rock-solid alibi for the time he died. If his death and your daughter's are linked, then Ms. Jamieson did not kill Brittany."
Roger Day sighed. "I can't believe Jacob would be so stupid as to eat food from an unknown source and not have his EpiPen nearby."
"You think someone laced the food with peanut oil?"
"Wouldn't take much," Day said. "Jacob was hypersensitive to it."
Trevor thanked Day, then broke the connection. He looked at Roy and the cat. "What do you think?"
"The murderer figured out Peiling knew something that would incriminate him, so he or she laced his food with peanut oil and kept him from using his EpiPen," Roy said. He shook his head. "Easy enough to do, but horrible to watch a man die a slow death in front of you."
"Who do you think did it?" Trevor asked.
Figure out what Peiling discovered and you know who the killer is.
"I'm with Frank," Roy said. "Peiling learned why Brittany was killed. And because he knew the why, he thought he knew the who."
Trevor rubbed his smoothly shaven chin thoughtfully. "He may have feared he'd be sued if he suggested the person as the killer, so he wanted to have iron-clad proof before he spoke."
Roy nodded. "But did the reason she was murdered relate to the alibi or something going on at the university?"
Chapter 24
The long hallway, loaded with little offices, most masked by closed doors, was the same as the last time Christy and Quinn had come to EBU. As they headed toward the office Brittany had shared with the other TAs, Christy could feel Stormy squirming in the tote bag she carried slung over her shoulder.
The cat wants out. He doesn't like closed zippers.
"Soon," Christy said.
Quinn looked at her, brows raised. "Frank's getting restless?"
"No. Stormy."
The cat has no sense of timing. He always rushes his moment. That's why he can't catch the squirrel that's driving him crazy.
Christy thought that Stormy wasn't the only one who was edgy. The three of them had come to EBU to re-interview Lorne Cossi as part of their quest to prove Jacob Peiling had been murdered and to link his death to Brittany Day's. Christy was taking the lead on this fact-finding mission. She figured Cossi would underestimate her because she was a woman and they would find out more than they would if Trevor or Quinn interviewed him.
There had been a lot of discussion about that and it had taken her some quick talking, but eventually she'd persuaded the men in her life to see it her way. Quinn insisted he needed to be nearby and Frank made a fuss too. In the end they both accompanied her to the university. Quinn would wait in the hallway, out of sight of the doorway but able to hear everything, while Frank went with her into the office, tucked safely in the tote carryall.
Quinn had insisted on another precaution as well. Before Christy went into the office, she set her phone to record, so that everything Cossi said was taped. Christy wasn't sure if the recording could be used in a court, but if it could be used as a deterrent if Cossi misbehaved and made Quinn's mind easier, that was enough for her.
Lorne Cossi had office hours in the afternoon, so Roy, Trevor, and Ellen were collecting Noelle from school. Then the four of them were all going Christmas tree shopping. Roy had a favorite cut-your-own lot out in Langley he was taking them too and he promised Noelle she could pick the tree. Christy wasn't sure what she was going to find when she eventual
ly returned home. Noelle was used to giant trees, well suited to the great hall of a mansion, but not the living room of a townhouse.
Lorne Cossi was alone in the office when Christy knocked on the half-open door. He looked up as she shoved it wide and moved into the room. "Hi," she said, fixing a tentative smile on her face.
A frown appeared between his arched black brows and dark blue eyes. It did nothing to minimize the impact of the beautifully sculpted features. Lorne Cossi was flat-out gorgeous.
And he didn't remember her. She might be able to make use of that.
She moved deeper into the room, letting the smile morph into a pout. "You can't place me, can you?" When he raised his brows, she made play with her eyes, drawing him in.
His gaze assessed her. "Are you in one of my lectures?"
She laughed, making sure the sound was full of promise, throaty with allure.
Interest sparked in his eyes and he rose to her bait. "Tell me which class it is. I bet you're one of the top students. Ninety-fifth percentile, for sure."
Flirting with Cossi and pretending she was attracted to his authority wasn't how Christy had planned to start her questioning, but she thought she'd let it play out and see if it gave her any kind of an edge. Secured inside the tote bag, and trapped between her arm and her body, she could feel the cat move restlessly. Frank evidently didn't like her strategy. She wondered how Quinn was doing outside the door, hearing every word.
"I'm not," she said, pitching her voice low. "But I... I'd heard that you were willing to provide... um... one-on-one tutoring."
Cossi's blindingly beautiful smile flashed. "Only for students I think are worthy of the help."
"Worthy?" She added a squeak to the word, which wasn't hard. Frank wanted out and Stormy was using powerful hind feet to set the tote-break in motion.
Cossi stood up. He headed toward her in all his tight abs, lean hips, and male beauty. He didn't walk when he moved, he sauntered, a sensual promise in every step. Christy figured that if she were truly an undergrad only looking for help, she'd be absolutely terrified right now. If she was an undergrad willing to barter a night of hot sex for top marks, well, she'd be meeting him halfway.
