Let Sleeping Cats Lie: The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series, Book Four Read online

  Let Sleeping Cats Lie

  The 9 Lives Cozy Mystery Series, Book Four

  Louise Clark

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  PLEASE NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Copyright 2018 by Louise Clark. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep

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  Published by ePublishing Works!

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  eBook ISBN: 978-1-947833-56-2

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Reader Invitation

  Cat Among Fishes

  Purchase Cat Among Fishes

  Also by Louise Clark

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Roy Armstrong sat down on the porch steps in front of his Burnaby townhouse and settled his laptop on his knees. Then he opened it up and stared down at the screen, his fingers on the keyboard. To anyone looking his way, he was deep in concentration, pouring over some document or other. He was actually stewing about the arrival of Dr. Tamara Ahern, mystery woman.

  Calling her a mystery woman wasn’t exactly true, of course. He knew her name because she and his son Quinn had once been lovers. He wasn’t sure how long-lasting their relationship might have been, but he knew Quinn had been devastated by how it ended.

  He typed some gibberish into his latest work in progress, his mind far away. Quinn met Tamara in Africa, where she was working as a trauma doctor, providing medical services for civilians caught up in a vicious civil war. Quinn had been there, reporting on the atrocities that were inevitably occurring, when he met the dedicated, passionate, and determined Tamara. He’d used her in several of his stories, giving her a voice, making her the face of a cry for help from the outside world.

  The reports had gone global. The images of suffering were horrendous, Tamara’s despair at the limited services she and her team could provide, heartbreaking. Roy remembered the time and the clips vividly. His son was in the middle of a maelstrom, his beloved wife Vivien fighting a losing battle against cancer. Quinn had always been a risk-taker, and Roy had been proud of him, but at the time he’d wondered if he would ever see his son again, or if the two most important people in his life would be taken from him simultaneously. Quinn sent him e-mails and sometimes texts when he could, but those were always reassuring, telling his father he was safe and not to worry.

  Not to worry. Of course he worried. He watched each and every one of those news reports. He hated them, but he did. It didn’t take much imagination to realize that there was more between Tamara and Quinn than professional respect. Roy could see that his son had fallen hard for the beautiful and passionate Tamara. He wasn’t so sure she was as smitten, but there was something there on her part too.

  Then the unthinkable happened. The encampment where Tamara and her colleagues provided medical care was raided. The inhabitants, civilian wounded and noncombatant medical teams alike, were slaughtered. Quinn had been away at the time, filing one of his articles—thank God!—when the attack occurred. All he could do was stand by the broken and defaced bodies and report a crime against humanity. His anguish was clear for all to see.

  And now Tamara was here, very much alive and upstairs in the living room of the house Roy shared with Quinn. He knew from recent news reports that she’d been kidnapped by rebels and had spent the past three years in captivity, so after Quinn introduced them he made his excuses and left the two of them to reconnect while he came out here to the front porch to pretend to work.

  He typed some more gibberish while his mind grappled with questions. Why was she here? What did she want with Quinn? Was it love that brought her? Did she want to rekindle the passion had seemed to simmer between them in the heat of an African desert?

  The giggle of an eight-year-old soon to turn nine interrupted his thoughts. He realized he had pounded out a whole page of nonsense and shut the laptop with an annoyed click.

  Noelle Jamieson breezed past, her shadow and best friend, Mary Petrofsky, in her wake. “Hi, Roy! What are you doing?”

  “Pretending to work,” Roy said. He put his elbows on the closed laptop and rested his chin on his palms. “What are you two up to?”

  “Mary and I are telling Mom that we’re going inside.”

  “My mom wants to bake cookies,” Mary added, in her usual serious tone.

  Roy grinned. “Sounds like fun. What kind of cookies?”

  “Chocolate chip,” Mary said.

  “The best!” Noelle bounced up and down a couple of times then headed for the house. “Come on, Mary. Let’s run!”

  They galloped away, charging up the Jamieson front walk and making quick work of the porch stairs. Roy shook his head, still smiling. Noelle was a delight. Three months ago, when Quinn and Noelle’s mom, Christy, had been an item, he’d been looking forward to having her as a granddaughter he could spoil as his own. Now that too was in jeopardy. He decided Tamara Ahern wasn’t high on his popularity list at the moment.

  He heard the Jamiesons’ door slam. A few minutes later he saw the long, lithe form of Stormy the Cat wending his way toward him. He straightened, ready for whatever was to come.

  The cat stopped at the foot of the stairs and sat on his haunches, back straight, tabby striped tail wrapped around his paws. He stared at Roy, green eyes unblinking. Who’s the woman?

  The voice in Roy’s mind came from Frank Jamieson, Christy’s dead husband who had taken up residence in the cat after his murder. “Tamara Ahern. She once worked for Canadian Medical Services Abroad.”

  That’s not what I meant.

  Roy knew that. He also knew that Frank was jealous of Quinn and Christy’s burgeoning relationship, and he had done all he could to crush it. He’d succeeded, too, ba
ck in March when he’d gone quiet for a time and made them all think he had moved on to whatever existed beyond death.

  Roy shrugged. “She’s an old friend of Quinn’s.”

  Girlfriend.

  Roy didn’t answer.

  Christy’s upset. She saw Quinn hugging her.

  “They hadn’t seen each other in a long time.”

  Christy won’t talk to me about Quinn, but I know she’s sad.

  Roy glared at the cat. “If she is, it’s your fault.”

  Stormy lifted a paw and began to clean between the pads. Frank and Roy had had this conversation before. Frank didn’t like to be reminded that he was now the alter ego of a cat, no longer the good-looking bad boy who didn’t have to work at anything to get what he wanted.

  Does this Tamara Ahern want to get back together with Quinn?

  “None of your business.” Roy tapped his index finger on the laptop. “If you want to help Christy, you’ll leave this alone to play itself out.”

  The cat abandoned his paw cleaning to look at Roy once again. Roy swore he could see a devious gleam in the animal’s eyes.

  You think Christy still has a chance with Quinn?

  “I think anything is possible if we don’t interfere,” he said. He tried to sound lofty. Instead, it came across more like a lecture from an old school marm.

  The cat stood up, arched his back and stretched, then leapt up the stairs to rub against Roy’s arm. I’ll try.

  Roy scratched behind the cat’s ears. “Thanks.”

  I want what’s best for her, you know.

  Roy thought that was true, but he wasn’t sure that Frank’s version of what was best for Christy was the same as Christy’s was for herself. The Jamiesons’ front door opened, disgorging Noelle and Mary on their way back to the Petrofsky house to bake cookies. He was relieved when the cat went with them.

  He opened his laptop again and this time he did get down to work.

  Christy Jamieson leaned against her refrigerator door and watched Ellen Jamieson, her late husband Frank’s aunt, kneed a wad of dough with considerable enthusiasm and not a little satisfaction. Noelle had been and gone, with the promise that she would return for dinner. Now it was just Christy and Ellen chatting while Ellen worked her dough for home baked rolls that would accompany dinner.

  “Mrs. Morton says the end of year concert is coming together well,” Christy said. Mrs. Morton was Noelle’s classroom teacher.

  “When is it?” Ellen asked. Even though she was baking bread, her brown linen slacks were perfectly cut and the loose blouse she wore with them was silk.

  “Just before the end of school. Oh, and there’s a special assembly on the last day, a sort of year-end wrap-up. Parents are invited to attend.”

  “Good,” Ellen said. Her attention was all on the dough. A month ago she had enrolled in a personalized cooking program provided by one of Vancouver’s internationally recognized culinary institutes. Her class this morning must have been on making breads.

  “I’ll go upstairs and put the dates into my calendar,” Christy said. “That way we won’t miss them.”

  Ellen nodded. She was frowning at the dough as if it was a rival in a competition she intended to win.

  Christy slipped out of the kitchen, leaving her to it. Adding dates to her calendar was a lame excuse, and if Ellen hadn’t been so focused on her bread making, she would probably have called her on it. As it was, Christy needed some time to decompress.

  She had been coming up the road with Noelle and Mary Petrofsky, on their way home from school, when a taxi slid to a stop in front of the Armstrongs’ house and a woman got out. A young woman with pretty features and blonde hair tied in a knot at her nape. Her clothes were nothing special and they hung too loosely on her form, disguising her figure. Christy had stopped at her front walk, while Noelle and Mary bounded up the road to see what was happening at Mary’s house, and watched as the woman climbed the steps to Quinn’s front door and rang the bell.

  She shouldn’t have stood there and gawked, waiting to see what happened next. She knew that. She was snooping into Quinn’s life, something she had no right to do. But …

  Yeah, but. A few weeks ago, Roy had mentioned a woman Quinn had known in Africa had recently been released from captivity resulting from a brutal kidnapping. Her release was a good thing, Roy had said. If she was alive Quinn would no longer mourn her loss.

  As she watched the woman standing quietly at the door, her hands clasped together in front of her, Christy wondered if this was the kidnap victim. And if she was, how Quinn would react when he saw her.

  She didn’t have to wait long. The door opened; Quinn stood in the opening. His hair was black, thick and springy to the touch. His eyes were dark gray, framed by long black lashes. They opened wide now, as shock registered on his handsome face. That was followed by dawning recognition, then open, joyous delight. Christy heard him say, “Tamara,” then he stepped out the door onto the porch, opened his arms, and wrapped the woman in an embrace that spoke of familiarity and deep emotion.

  In that instant, Christy knew some things were not meant to be. Like her and Quinn Armstrong, together as a couple. Sure, they’d split a couple of months ago. She’d taken the blame at the time, because she couldn’t seem to get Frank out of her head, but now she wondered. Quinn’s reaction to the arrival of the lost Tamara was too intense to just be pleasure at seeing an old friend return safely after a harrowing experience. He was still as tied up in her as Christy was in Frank. Maybe more so.

  Reaching her room, she picked up her laptop, which was on top of her dresser, and settled in a reading chair positioned by the window. Opening her calendar, she put in all the important school dates, then scanned her emails. One was from Isabelle Pascoe at the Jamieson Trust about an upcoming event she thought a Jamieson should attend. Christy grimaced, moving on without replying. She’d toss that issue around with Ellen to see which one of them would take on the job. Ellen probably. She enjoyed the networking and socializing that went on at society events like this.

  Another message was from Harry Endicott, the forensic accountant tasked with investigating the disappearance of the Jamieson Trust. He wanted a meeting next week. She frowned. Harry was working with the awful Samuel Macklin, former Jamieson trustee turned embezzler. Macklin had accepted a plea bargain in return for ratting on his fellow trustees. Part of his sentence was to make restitution to the Jamieson Trust by finding the funds he’d help embezzle, all done under Harry’s watchful eye. Unfortunately, the money had gone through many twisted paths, not all of them ones Macklin had created. So far, the embezzled funds had proved elusive.

  So why did Harry want a meeting? To tell her the money would never be found? Or that it had been?

  A little quiver of excitement came to life in her stomach. What if Harry had good news? That he and Macklin had recovered the money? Even if it wasn’t the whole, excessive, Jamieson pile, having extra funds would make life a little easier and provide a more comfortable future for Noelle.

  She wrote Harry accepting the meeting, then she powered off the computer and headed downstairs to talk to Ellen about which of them should represent the Jamieson family at the gala.

  Chapter 2

  When the doorbell rang, Quinn was sitting at his desk in the basement of the Armstrong townhouse, deep in writing mode. He was focused on outlining a book on the murder of Vince Nunez, the rock band SledgeHammer’s late manager. The idea had come not from his friend Sledge—also known as Rob McCullagh—the leader of the popular band, but from SledgeHammer’s press agent. The murder had generated a great deal of media and fan interest, especially since Graham Gowdy—Hammer—the band’s drummer, had been a leading suspect for much of the investigation. Hammer had never been charged, and the murder was actually done by someone outside of the band, but the press agent was afraid the suspicions would stick. She hoped a book written by someone inside the investigation would go a long way to clearing Hammer’s name and reassuring Sledg
eHammer fans.

  Mitch Crosier, the record mogul whose company produced SledgeHammer’s music, was enthusiastic since the idea fit right in with his vision of cross-platform marketing for his bands. When Quinn agreed to write the story, he approached the publishing company that would soon be releasing his book on Frank Jamieson’s disappearance and death. His editor loved the idea and contracts were drawn up. All he had to do now was write it.

  And that wasn’t going to get done if he was answering the doorbell every time it rang.

  He waited somewhat irritably, listening for his father, Roy’s, footsteps on the stairs, but heard nothing. The last time he’d seen Roy, he had been sitting at the kitchen table, laptop open, and was himself deep in writing mode. Evidently his concentration was one step better than Quinn’s was.

  The doorbell rang again. Quinn waited another few moments for sounds of action, then he muttered a curse, saved his work, and headed for the front door.

  The townhouse was a multi-level structure, with the front door located on a landing between the main floor and the basement. Quinn ran lightly up the half dozen stairs from his level to the landing. He flung open the door, prepared to growl at whoever was calling, then simply stared, unbelieving.

  “Tamara?” he said at last. “Tamara Ahern, is that you?”

  She looked back at him. Her dark eyes, large and full of intelligence, were shadowed with uncertainty as she smiled rather tentatively. He hated the vulnerability he saw in that cautious smile. Tamara, his Tamara, had been fierce, demanding, bold. She dared people to give her a hard time and then fought them to a standstill if they did. This woman looked as if she needed protecting. She was too thin and those big dark eyes were full of shadows. A great wave of affection, mixed with concern, had him stepping onto the porch, then pulling her into a hug.