by Louise Clark
"No." They could agree on that at least. "Everyone has the right to protest government decisions, but at some point common sense should take over."
"Common sense." The curl of Syd's lips was derisive now. "The excuse of the fat, stupid, majority."
Quinn shrugged. "Self preservation, then. Reverend Wigle must surely bear responsibility for his own actions and some for the actions he pushed others into doing."
Syd sat back. "Reverend Wigle died a saint," he said, his voice flat.
The Reverend Wigle's church had deplored the violence that led to his death, but they had also apologized for his actions, saying that he had taken his protest too far. The press release had stopped short of stating that he got what he deserved, but the implication was there. "You miss him," Quinn said.
Some of the tension leached from Syd's shoulders. "I and everyone else on the East Side. He was a light for all of us and I can't tell you how many, like me, he saved from themselves. How many he was a father to, because their own had abandoned them."
Syd Haynes clearly had daddy issues. Was it worth looking into before he wrote the story? Maybe. He'd let the idea percolate in the back of his mind while he and Christy and Noelle were at Disneyland. "What do you think about the redevelopment now that it's actually happened? I passed the building on my way here and I noticed that the façade has been restored as close to the original as possible. I hear the lobby is lovely and that there is a fantastic roof garden." The description was courtesy of Christy, who'd given him a thorough briefing before he came down today.
Syd glowered at him. "I wouldn't know. They don't let the riff-raff from the area inside."
"You didn't continue Reverend Wigle's struggle after he died?" The tent city had come down after the riots. It was as if Wigle's death had taken the heart out of the movement.
"Reverend Wigle couldn't be replaced," Syd said. He made it sound as if there was a virtue in doing nothing. He moved his beautiful executive chair back, a sure sign that he was planning on ending the interview.
Quinn took the hint and uncrossed his legs. As he leaned forward, reaching for his phone, he grinned at Syd in a friendly way. "Did you ever think way back when we were teens that we'd end up here?"
He'd meant the question to be an unthreatening way of referencing their shared past and keeping the door open for follow-up interviews. It backfired.
"You mean back in the day when Rob and Graham and I were creating SledgeHammer? When they were leaning on me for my business sense? Before Vince Nunez stole them away from me with his promises of fame and success? You mean back in those days?"
Quinn didn't usually argue with those he interviewed. He let them talk and he didn't impose his views, in the questions or in the article that he wrote. But this? He couldn't let this pass. "You were into Ecstasy and coke before Rob met Hammer. You got into heroin and dropped out before SledgeHammer had been around long enough to have a sound or a presence."
"I was the brains behind SledgeHammer," Syd said. "I developed the sound, the image. The style! Rob and Graham left me behind because Vince seduced them with his promises. But not me. I had integrity. I stood my ground."
Quinn frowned. "I'm surprised. You sound angry, but when I saw you at the concert last week, you seemed to be at peace with the past."
Syd gestured toward his desk. "I'm sorry. My phone is blinking. I'm afraid I have to get back to work."
He'd morphed in a moment from an angry, bitter man to one who was in charge of his world and comfortable with it. The abrupt change had Quinn rising from the wing chair, leaving his phone recording for the moment. "Of course. A pity about that girl."
"What girl?"
"The one who worked our suite, who was killed after the concert." Quinn shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and hitched his hip onto the beautiful desk. He shook his head. "The cops have been all over it. They've questioned everyone in the suite as if we were all potential killers."
"The detective did speak to me," Syd said grudgingly. "I told her the girl was still in the suite cleaning up when I left."
"You didn't come backstage to the meet and greet." Quinn curled his mouth into a sympathetic smile. "Now I understand why."
"No," Syd said. His tone was curt. "I joined the rest of the audience and left through the front doors. Now," he pointed to his desk. "I do have to get back to work."
"Of course." Quinn held out his hand. "Thanks for seeing me, Syd. I'll let you know when the article will appear."
For a moment Syd stared at him blankly and Quinn thought the man wouldn't shake his hand or accept the polite end to the interview. Then Syd smiled and this time his handshake was hearty.
His eyes were cold though, as he ushered Quinn out of his office.
Chapter 10
"Bathing suit, shorts, tops, jeans..." Christy ran through her packing list, mentally ticking off each item as she said the word. "...sunscreen. Okay, we're done. Noelle, have you got your carryon packed for the plane? Paper and pencil crayons? Felts? iPad? Sleeper for tonight in case our luggage is delayed?"
"Got it, Mom." She held up her backpack and shook it enthusiastically so that Christy would be sure to hear the rattle of moving parts inside.
"Good." Christy smiled at her daughter. They were in Christy's bedroom. Her suitcase was open on the bed, its contents neatly stacked, the lid ready to be closed. Noelle was hopping from foot to foot in anticipation. If they didn't get started soon, she'd shift from excitement to panic and by the time they got to the airport she'd be frantic that they'd miss their plane.
The doorbell rang. "It's time!" Noelle shrieked and bolted for the stairs.
Christy took a moment to peak out the window. Below her she saw Roy leaning against the side of the Armstrong car. As she watched, Ellen came down the walk and stood by Roy. She said something and Roy replied. The sound of their voices floated up, though Christy couldn't make out the words. Noelle was right. Since Roy was driving them to the airport, it must be Quinn at the door, here to pick them up. She went back to the case, did her quick mental run through again, then started to close the lid.
At that moment, the cat jumped onto the bed, then hopped into the suitcase. Time, babe.
"I know," Christy said. She picked up Stormy and lifted him out of the case and on to the bed. "I saw Roy through the window." She shut the lid. The cat jumped up on the top of the case as she zipped it shut. He crouched down and dug his claws into the surface, as he looked at her with mournful green eyes.
"Frank."
Stormy doesn't want you to go.
"Right." She took a moment to sit down beside the case and stroke the cat's soft fur. He began to purr and rolled onto his side to give her access to his belly.
You'll look after Noelle, won't you?
"You know I will." She kept her pats slow and soothing. Stormy might be possessive about family, but it was Frank who was worried about the trip. "Noelle knows the drill. She'll stick close. And there are two of us, Frank. Quinn's going to look out for her too."
There was a mental grunt at that. Then, I was looking forward to Noelle growing up so we could do stuff like this. Disneyland. Paris when she's sweet sixteen. London. New York.
The trips would never have happened. Even if most of the assets of the Jamieson Trust hadn't been embezzled, Frank's drug usage meant that he had been drawing further and further away from his family in the years before his death. She doubted he would have been capable of father-daughter travel, no matter what Noelle's age. "I don't think Noelle minds, Frank. She's closer to you now than ever before. I think she's happy."
The cat nipped her finger, though he didn't break the skin, then rolled and stood upright. He shook himself before he jumped from the case to the bed.
"Ow. What was that for?" The nip was the old Stormy, the cat who had put Frank first, Noelle second, then her dead last after mice and spiders when they lived in the Jamieson mansion and Frank had been alive.
Stormy jumped off the bed, head an
d tail up, the picture of disdain. You don't understand.
Annoyed, Christy said, "Try me."
I'm dead, Chris. Another man is taking my kid to Disneyland. Another man will harass her first boyfriend. Another man will walk her down the aisle. Another man will hold my grandchild. The cat paused in the doorway. He looked over his shoulder, green eyes hard and unwavering. Another man has you.
The cat disappeared out the door. Christy flopped down onto the bed as if someone had stuck a knife in her and she'd deflated. "Way to take the fun out of a vacation, Frank," she muttered. She heard footsteps, then a cat hiss. Moments later Quinn appeared in the doorway.
He smiled at her. "I've come for your suitcase. All packed?" His good cheer quickly turned into concern. "What's the matter?"
She shook her head as Quinn came toward her. "Nothing distance can't solve."
He reached out and caught her hands, then he drew her to her feet. "Frank's upset we're going away." Christy nodded. He slid his arm around her waist and brought her against him, so that she cuddled into him. "Bound to happen," he said, stroking the hair at her temple in a soothing way.
He didn't add that Frank would get over it. Christy appreciated that, because she knew it wasn't true. Frank might deal with his current situation, but he couldn't just brush it away and move on.
"I'd be pretty upset, too, if I was in his place. Let's get going. If we leave quickly and don't draw this out it will be easier on him."
Christy sniffed and nodded against Quinn's chest. He gave her another hug, then he let her go. She rubbed the heel of her hand against her eyes to wipe away moisture she hadn't expected to be there. Quinn hefted the suitcase and said, "Noelle's case is in her room?"
Christy nodded. He collected it, then they both headed downstairs, Christy first. By the time they reached the front door, Noelle was outside. Her best friend Mary Petrofsky had come to see her off, so she and Mary were rushing here and there, squealing, giggling, jumping, and generally expending nervous energy. Ellen was standing by the car, observing this with a frown, while Roy ignored it completely. Stormy was sitting on the porch, tail tucked neatly around his paws, watching the girls.
While Quinn loaded the suitcases into the car, Christy sat down beside Stormy. "You be good," she said.
The cat slid her a look.
"Listen to Aunt Ellen and mind what she says."
Another long look. Shades of my unlamented childhood.
"We'll be gone a week. That's all."
Stormy tipped his chin up and looked away.
Roy came over and gave him a quick scratch behind the ears. "Stormy will be fine. I've got some excursions planned."
Ellen came over too. She frowned at the cat. "Excursions? What kind of excursions?"
Mischief twinkled in Roy's eyes. "Stormy's going to help me interview suspects."
Ellen gaped at him. "Interview—how?"
The cat yawned and cleaned a paw. Don't confuse the old broad. She doesn't listen. To me, especially.
The twinkle in Roy's eyes deepened. "Cats are icebreakers. A cat on a leash is a showstopper."
Stormy leapt to his feet and hissed. A leash! Not in your lifetime. He turned, shot Christy a furious look. See what you've caused? Then he bolted back into the house.
Christy stared after him. She didn't want to part with Frank this way. She consoled herself with the thought that it was only a week. When she got back he would be fine.
Ellen frowned as the cat's tail disappeared into the house. "You would almost think the animal understood what you were saying, Roy."
"I wouldn't be surprised," Roy said. "He's a smart cat."
"Cases are in the trunk, Dad," Quinn said, coming up to them. "Come on, Christy. Let's round up Noelle and get this show on the road. We don't want to have to rush at the airport."
Ellen went off, calling Noelle to say good-bye. Roy winked at Christy. "Don't worry, he'll settle down."
"A leash, Roy? Really?" Christy said.
"Sounds like a plan to me," Quinn said.
"Can you imagine Stormy on a leash?" Roy shook his head. "Not going to happen."
Christy laughed and gave him a hug. Quinn said, "Too bad. It was a sight I wanted to see."
Christy rolled her eyes, laughed again, and focused on getting her daughter and herself into the car.
* * *
Ellen stood on the walk as the car drove up the hill. When it disappeared around the corner she turned back toward the house. She should have gone with them to the airport to see her family off.
The thought had her pausing in the doorway. Her family. She hadn't consciously identified herself with Christy and Noelle before now, and the thought shocked her. Frank was her family, certainly. He was her brother's son. Her parents' grandchild. He was family. By that yardstick, Noelle was also family, she supposed. Christy, however, had always been an interloper. As such her flaws were to be accentuated and her good points ignored.
Until Brittany Day's murder had sent Ellen to Burnaby. She'd claimed sanctuary that morning when she showed up at the townhouse and Christy had given it to her. Not many people who had been as put upon as Christy had would do that.
The cat came down the stairs, moving slowly, hopping stiff-legged down one step at a time. Are they gone?
Ellen closed the door. "I watched the car drive away and I felt sad. That was so unexpected."
The cat stopped two steps from the bottom. Can you hear me?
Ellen stared down at him. "Christy is a good woman."
Yeah, well, I know that.
"She's been treated badly by this family."
You can hear me!
She started up the stairs, moving around the immobile cat, heading for the kitchen. As she put a coffee pod into the brewer, she said, "She was very patient teaching me how to use this machine so I could fend for myself. I'd turned into something of a princess, I think. Stupid of me."
How long have you known? Did I say anything that, well, insulted you?
The machine gurgled as water boiled and coffee began to drip into her cup. "She's a good mother. Firm, but reasonable. Noelle does chores!" Ellen shook her head and picked up the now full mug. "I do chores!" She laughed at that as she circled the counter and went over to the table.
There were no servants here in Burnaby, even though Ellen had the money to hire as many as the household needed. Christy had told her quietly one evening after Noelle had gone to bed that the child wouldn't have the Jamieson fortune behind her as Frank had, and Ellen too for that matter. Noelle would have to fend for herself and that meant knowing how to wash her laundry, keep her living quarters clean and tidy, and cook her own meals.
Ellen sat down at the table and set the cup in front of her. The best way for Noelle to learn how to do all these things was to have adult role models, Christy had said. As Christy smiled pointedly at her, Ellen realized that Christy considered her to be a role model. "So I learned to do chores along with Noelle."
Ellen shook her head, still mildly surprised that she didn't mind vacuuming the carpet, or taking her turn with the laundry and cooking. A couple of weeks ago she'd even washed windows along with Christy, Noelle, and Quinn as part of Christy's spring cleaning rituals.
"I've been domesticated," she said. The cat hopped onto the table. She shook her finger at him. "And so should you." She picked him up, holding him just behind his front legs, then put him on the floor. "No jumping on the table while I'm here on my own."
So you can't hear me. That's a relief. I think.
The cat sat where she'd put him and stared up at her through unblinking green eyes. The look was unsettling, almost as if the beast was taunting her. Daring her to do something. She shook her finger at him again, and said, "Bad enough that I'll have to clean out your litter box."
The cat yawned. Ellen drank her coffee and told herself that she didn't miss Noelle's energy and Christy's quiet kindness. "He's in love with her, I think." He being Quinn. "And she with him. I'm not sure how I feel
about that." Frank was dead and Christy had a right to get on with her life, but she'd raised Frank and if Christy moved on, it would make Frank's death more final somehow.
You're not the only one. The cat licked his paw and contrived to look uninterested in what Ellen was doing and saying. I should be happy for her. Quinn's a better guy than I ever was. But... I don't want to let her go.
Ellen sighed and drank her coffee. Stormy gave himself a complete body wash. They both jumped when the telephone rang.
Ellen stared at the handset parked in its charger on the counter, then she got up to answer. One of the new behaviors she'd learned while living here in Burnaby—answering the house phone if you were nearby, because somebody in the family had to do it. The call was from Trevor. He'd spoken to Detective Patterson and he wondered if Ellen would like to have dinner with him tonight? They could discuss the case while they ate.
Ellen's flagging spirits rose and she agreed to be ready for six o'clock. She headed up to her room to inspect her closet and decide what to wear.
Chapter 11
Having dropped Quinn, Christy, and Noelle at the airport, Roy was at a loose end. He could head home, but he didn't feel like working on the story that was his current project. It had reached the revision and polish stage and, since he'd now read it at least a dozen times, he was totally bored with it. He could do some household chores. Someone had to clean the toilets after all and since he'd be the only one using them over the next week, it was clearly up to him.
The idea of cleaning toilets didn't light a fire in his belly. Briefly, he considered smoking a joint, then cleaning the toilets, but even that didn't entertain. He turned the car onto Boundary Road and headed up the hill from Marine Drive. He realized he was already half way home and he was driving on autopilot. If he kept this up, he'd be turning onto his street still without a plan for the rest of his day.
Gloom settled over him. He'd end up cleaning the damn toilets.
A SledgeHammer song came on the car radio. He turned it up for maximum audio impact and his mind drifted to the concert and the tragic aftermath. He'd been cornered by that pompous idiot, Mitch Crosier. Even then, having just met the man, he had realized that Crosier was one of those people who talked you into agreeing to things you didn't want to. He'd made sure to stay focused on what the guy was saying, so he'd missed a lot of the action before the concert.
