Monday morning began cloudy, dull and grey, but to Margaret, walking from the parking lot she had discovered just a block from the office, it seemed, to the contrary, to herald the start of another exciting day. She slipped her key into the lock but found the door already open. Her boss was ahead of her.
“Hi,” Southby said. “Don’t take your coat off.”
“Why not?”
“We’re going to visit your favourite client.” He zippered up his windbreaker.
“Are you, by any chance, talking about Ernie Bradshaw?” she retorted and continued taking her coat off. “If so, you don’t need me.”
“Well, he left an odd message with my answering service.” He took the coat from her and then held it out again.
“What do you mean odd?”
“He said he’s got some information—worth money, as he put it.”
“Couldn’t you just call him?”
“Tried that several times. No answer.”
“Why do you need me? Perhaps he’s just away for the weekend,” she said, reluctantly slipping her arms back into the coat.
“Old Ernie? He never goes away.” He held the door open for her. “Come on.”
“Hasn’t he got any relatives, children or something?” she asked over her shoulder as she led the way down the stairs.
“He’s got one daughter that I am aware of, a Mrs. Read, but she lives over on Vancouver Island someplace.”
“Then perhaps he’s gone there.”
“Nah. He wouldn’t spend the money for the ferry or leave his precious cat. He opened the outside door. “Here, we’ll take my car.”
Maggie slid into the passenger seat of the battered old Chevy. “You still haven’t explained why you want me along.”
“I just know how much you like Ernie,” he laughed as he caught the expression on her face. “And since you started The Case of the Missing Cat, it’s only right you should be in on the end of it.”
Ernie’s house looked even dingier in the dull morning light. Emily, fluffy tail flying high, walked down the path to greet them.
“Hello, Emily old girl.” She bent down and stroked the cat’s wet coat. “Been locked out?” Emily, purring ingratiatingly, stood on her hind legs and reached up to cling to Maggie’s leg. “Down you go; your feet are wet.” Gently, she pushed the cat off and followed her boss to the front door.
He knocked loudly on the door. “Come on, Bradshaw, open up.” He tried the handle but the door wouldn’t budge. He banged again, to no avail. “I’m going to look around the back, Maggie.”
She followed him around the side of the house, and the cat followed her.
The detective stretched up to see through the window, but the dirty net curtains did their job well. “There seems to be a light on in there.” He tapped on the window. “Ernie?”
Maggie tried the back door. “Here, Mr. Southby. It’s open.” She pushed it a bit wider and the cat slipped between her feet into the utility room. “Mr. Bradshaw,” she called. She turned to her boss. “Do you think he’s sick?”
Emily was sitting outside the closed kitchen door, waiting for someone to open it for her. Maggie scooped the cat up and turned the handle. The place was a shambles—table, chairs, crockery all smashed or overturned—and amidst the mess lay Ernie Bradshaw, face down.
“Mr. Southby,” she cried out in horror. “It’s Mr. Bradshaw!” Nat Southby pushed past her and knelt beside Ernie to feel for a pulse. “Is he . . . is he dead?”
“Afraid so.” He stood up, pulling his frightened assistant toward him. “The skin’s cold. He’s been dead for some time.” One of the old man’s arms was stretched out above him, the stiff claw-like fingers seeming to be reaching for some unknown object. The back of his head was completely caved in, and although the wound was crusted with blood, the detective immediately noted that there was none on the floor. “Curious!” he muttered.
Maggie made a small whimpering sound, and to her boss’ consternation, he felt her slipping out of his grasp. Putting his arm around her, he guided her to the small living room at the front of the house. “Sit here, Maggie. I’ll get you some water.” He was back within seconds, and holding her head tightly, he got her to sip from the glass.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment, leaning back against the chair. “Who could’ve done such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” he replied grimly. “But we’ll do our best to find out.” He stood looking down at her. “Will you be okay while I phone the police?”
The wait seemed interminable to her. Nat Southby spent the time prowling the rest of the house. He found two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. One bedroom, obviously Ernie’s, included an unmade bed, a dresser, its open drawers spilling clothes onto the floor, and a closet, where clothes had been roughly pulled off their hangers. The whole room looked as if it had been given a thorough going-over. The second bedroom, used for storage, contained a single bed, boxes of books, broken appliances, stacks of old newspapers and magazines, and a closet full of men’s and women’s clothes. Nat retraced his steps downstairs and stood in the doorway of the kitchen, looking over the mess. He felt Maggie come up beside him and place her hand on his arm. “Contrived!” he said. “That’s it. It’s just too damn contrived.”
“What do you mean—contrived?”
“Take a look. At first glance you’d think there’d been a fierce fight, but it’s only the back of Ernie’s head that’s bashed in.” He felt Maggie give a violent shiver, and he began guiding her back to the living room. “You see,” he continued, “if Ernie had been in a fight, he would have had other bruises and abrasions, but as far as I can tell without moving him, he hasn’t.” There was a sound of a siren in the distance, and he went over to the window. “Even the mess is too neat—if you can understand what I mean.”
She nodded, though still somewhat unsure. “What’s it like upstairs?”
“The same. I very much doubt if anything of value was taken,” he finished, as a police cruiser drew up to the house. “We won’t pass on my theories to our friends,” he said as he walked to the front door. “Let ’em find out for themselves.”
From the kitchen doorway, they watched the police officers kneel beside the body. “He’s dead,” said the shorter of the two. “We’d better call in.” He turned to the waiting pair. “You the one that found him?”
Nat nodded. “Yes. Along with Mrs. Spencer here.”
“You touch anything?”
“Only Ernie, just to make sure he was dead.”
“Who are you? And what are you doing here?” the cop asked, taking out his notebook. “Let’s join your lady friend in the other room and you can both do some talking.”
To Maggie, the rest of the morning passed like a bad dream. The only time she’d had any dealings with the police had been over a speeding ticket, and Harry had made enough fuss over that. My God, what will he say when he finds out that I’m mixed up in a murder?
The cop’s name turned out to be MacKenzie King, and Maggie wondered if his mother had been politically motivated. But she refrained from asking, since he didn’t look like the joking kind. Soon after their interview, where everything they’d said seemed to be suspect, a police doctor and photographer arrived, and again Maggie and Nat were kept waiting in the stuffy living room.
“How long will they keep us here?” Nervous, she got up and looked out the window. A sizable crowd had already gathered on the sidewalk. “Look at them. What makes people relish trouble?”
Her boss joined her at the window. “Makes their humdrum lives a bit more interesting, I suppose. Also, it’s happening to someone else.”
As if to reinforce his words, the noise of the crowd intensified as an ambulance and another police car drew up.
“Oh, shit!” he exclaimed as they watched two plainclothes officers follow the ambulance attendants up the path.
“Why? What is it?”
“The one in the front, that’s Farthing. He was brown-nosing his way to the top when I quit the force. And there’s no love lost between us,” he added grimly.
“What the hell are you doing here, Southby?” Mark Farthing looked incredulously at Nat and a very pale Maggie. “Been interfering again? Stay put. I’ll talk to you later.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
“He didn’t seem very happy to see you,” she said as she sank once again into the easy chair.
Nat Southby shrugged. “That’s life.”
It was almost noon before Mark Farthing returned to the living room. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“Bradshaw left a message that he wanted to see me,” the detective explained. “We found him dead.”
“When did he call you?”
“My answering service took the call sometime over the weekend. Saturday, I think she said.”
“Why call you? Did you know him?”
Nat Southby looked uncomfortable. “I . . . uh . . . sort of found his cat for him.”
“His cat?” There wasn’t even the ghost of a smile on Farthing’s face.
“It was sort of a favour.”
“I still don’t understand what you’re doing here. He lose the animal again?”
“No. Not as far as I know. Just said he wanted to see me. Maggie came along for the ride.”
“Maggie?”
“Yes. My assistant. Mrs. Spencer here.”
“I see,” Farthing answered, but she didn’t think he did. “Did you try to call him on the phone?” he persisted.
“Of course I did. Several times. Maggie thought he might have fallen or something, so we decided we’d better come and see if he was okay.” He looked over at Maggie, whose mouth was open in astonishment. “You were right to be worried, weren’t you, Maggie?”
She managed to compose her face before Farthing turned to her.
“Yes. He is . . . uh . . . was rather old and sort of tottery, you know.”
“Mmm. Yes, I see.”
“He didn’t look at all well . . .” Maggie found herself prattling on.
“Well, you can go now, but you know the drill, Southby. Be prepared for us to call on you.” He started for the kitchen. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Spencer.”
Maggie picked up her handbag from the floor just as Emily walked into the room. “Oh, Sergeant Farthing?”
“Yes.” Farthing turned.
“The cat. What are you going to do with the cat?”
“What cat? Oh, that cat. Take it to the pound, I suppose. Why?”
“I know someone who’d look after her until Ernie’s daughter can be located. Would it be okay to take her?”
“Don’t see why not. One less thing for us to look after.” He turned to Nat. “Oh, and just a word of warning, Southby—this is a police matter now, and just remember that you’re not one of Mulligan’s bright boys anymore. Don’t interfere. Is that clear?”
“What’s he mean—Mulligan’s bright boys?” Maggie asked, scooping up Emily on the way out to the car. “You weren’t mixed up in all that scandal, were you?”
“One of the reasons I left the force,” he answered tersely. “Come on, let’s get that damned cat into the car. And who,” he continued, watching Maggie struggling with the animal, “is this wonderful person that’s going to look after the prime suspect here?”
“Why, Violet Larkfield, of course,” she answered with a wicked smile.
“You must be joking,” he said, grinning back at her. “I thought you said you wouldn’t go back there for love or money.”
“Do you have any other suggestions?” she replied. “Your place, for instance?”
“No, Violet it is. But I’ll wait in the car.”
When they reached the Larkfield house a few minutes later, Maggie turned to her employer. “You’re a coward, Mr. Southby.” She got out of the passenger seat, holding the squirming Emily tightly to her, but before pushing the gate open, she paused to look at the garden with its trees and shrubs. There’s something quite creepy about this place. She took a big breath and a firmer hold on the cat as she approached the porch.
Violet Larkfield flung open the front door. “What do you want this time?”
Definitely not a good start. “Mrs. Larkfield, we wondered . . . uh . . . Mr. Southby wondered if you could look after Emily for awhile?”
“Why?” Violet stepped past Maggie and peered down the path toward Nat’s car.
“It’s Ernie. He seems to . . .”
Violet Larkfield interrupted. “I suppose you’d better bring her in.”
In the hallway, she took the cat gently into her arms and stroked its head. Emily immediately responded by pushing herself against the woman’s scrawny neck and purring in ecstasy. “That’s my pet then,” Violet said lovingly. She turned her back on Maggie. “So why bring her to me?”
“Ernie Bradshaw has met with an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“Well—he’s dead.”
“Dead? His heart give out?”
“No, not his heart. He seems to have been murdered. We . . . Mr. Southby and I . . . found him a short while ago.”
“How come you found him?”
“It’s a long story. Most likely it was a robbery.” Maggie shifted uncomfortably. “You can blame me for bringing Emily to you. I know she likes it here and you do seem to like cats . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Violet looked hard at her. “How long do you expect me to keep her this time?” she said, putting Emily down on the floor.
“Until we contact Ernie’s daughter, if that’s alright with you?” Maggie watched Emily pad over to sniff the wicker cat basket that was on the floor. “Oh, I see Mr. Bradshaw brought your cat basket back.”
“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.”
“But isn’t that it over there?” Maggie said, pointing to it.
“No, I’ve got several of them.” She opened the door. “You’d better go. Your boss is waiting.”
“Everything okay?” he said as she slid into her seat.
“I suppose so,” she answered absently. “It was just a little strange.”
He put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. “Violet’s always strange.”
“Yes. I mean no . . . It’s just that I asked her if Ernie had returned the cat basket and she said he hadn’t.”
“Knowing Ernie, I can understand that.”
“But I saw it there.”
“She must have more than one.”
“Yes, that’s what she said, only . . . Mr. Southby, I recognized that particular basket. It’s the same one I used the other day.”
“You sure?”
“The opening wouldn’t stay closed and I had a problem keeping Emily inside. Eventually, I jammed it shut with a bobby pin. I always have a few in my handbag.”
“And?” he prompted.
“The basket in her hallway still had the bobby pin in it.”
“So that means she either collected it herself or Ernie was there sometime between Friday and noon yesterday.”
“Why yesterday?”
“By the look of him, he’d been dead for at least ten or twelve hours.”
They drove the rest of the way back to the office in silence. “There has to be a logical explanation,” she said as she got out of the car. “He probably left the basket on her doorstep.
Didn’t want to face her.”
“Possibly,” Nat said. “But why deny it’s the same one?” “Didn’t want to get involved?”
He bent down and locked the car doors. “I guess you want to go home?”
“Yes, I think I will. My car’s parked in the lot on the next street.” She stepped off the curb. “Oh, by the way, did you hear any more from Phillip Collins?”
“No. He was supposed to call me. He may have left a message with the answering service.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then. And please, no more murders.”
Nat Southby laughed. “I’ll do my best. Go on. Go home and put your feet up and try and forget old Ernie. We’ve a busy day tomorrow.”
If Maggie had bothered to glance back at her employer as she crossed the road, she would have seen a strange, bemused expression on his face as he watched her every movement. Back in his office, he relit his half-smoked cigar, leaned back in his leather chair and closed his eyes. A fit of coughing brought him abruptly upright. “Damn it,” he muttered. He stubbed out the offending cigar in an oversized glass ashtray and then drew a lined pad toward him. “Gotta give those things up.” He started to write.
Maggie, on the other hand, was doing her best to follow her boss’ advice and put the morning’s horror firmly out of her mind. A cup of tea, a long hot bath and the rest of the day with my feet up. Slipping her coat off and hanging it in the hall closet, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. And a touch of makeup, she amended.
The bath did wonders, and after lighting the living room fire, she put an LP on the turntable and then looked through a pile of library books. It’s definitely not the time for a whodunit, she thought, and chose a light romance called A Shining Morning. She snuggled down into her old terry cloth robe. Thank God, Harry won’t be home for supper tonight.
It was the insistent ringing of the doorbell that woke her.
“Blast! Who can that be?” She struggled from the chair and walked to the window. “Barbara—today of all days!”
Tall and slim, Barbara stood waiting for her mother to open the door. A gust of wind blew a strand of blonde hair into her eyes and she brushed it away with an impatient gesture.
“Barbara, how nice to see you.” Margaret tried to put some enthusiasm into her voice. “Come on in, dear.”
Barbara studied her mother. “Are you sick or something?”
“No, just having a rest.” She led the way into the room. “Sit down by the fire. I’ll make some tea and you can tell me your news.”
“Can’t stay long.” Barbara slipped her coat off and laid it beside her on the sofa. “I called before, but there was no answer. Were you out?”
“Yes,” her mother said. “I was out. Now just relax. I’ll only be a minute.” When Margaret returned with the tea, she saw her daughter still sitting tensely upright. If only she’d loosen up a bit, Margaret thought. She’s every inch her father.
“Dad’s worried about you,” Barbara said in her abrupt manner.
Margaret paused in the act of passing her a cup. “Whatever for? There’s lemon on the tray.”
“I can see why he’s worried. Just look at you! The middle of the afternoon and you’re not even dressed.”
“But . . .”
“Just because he’s out of town doesn’t mean that you should let yourself go.”
“When did he tell you he was worried?” Margaret tried to hold onto her temper. “He never mentioned it on the phone last night.”
“He called me right after speaking to you. He said you were distracted. Didn’t take in anything he said.” She took a sip of tea. “He says that you never listen to him these days.”
He hasn’t said anything worth listening to. Instantly, Margaret felt guilty for the thought.
The telephone gave a welcome jangle.
“I’ll get it.” Barbara reached over the back of the sofa and picked up the telephone. “I’m sorry, I think you must have the wrong number,” she said. “Yes, this is 8876 . . . Yes . . .”
She turned to her mother. “Some man wants to speak to . . . Maggie!”
Margaret couldn’t help grinning at the expression on her daughter’s face. “That’s me,” she said, taking the receiver. “Hello, Mr. Southby!” She listened for awhile, then said, “Okay. I’ll see you at 9:30. Bentley Street Police Station. Yes, I’ve got it . . . I know where it is. No, there’s no need to pick me up. Bye.” She replaced the phone. Barbara sat with a look of astonishment on her face.
“Who was that? What’s that about a police station?”
“It was just a friend. I . . . uh . . . we were witnesses to an accident today. We have to make a statement.” To Margaret’s chagrin, the lie came easily.
“Oh! Is that all?” Barbara replied. But the look on her face made Margaret realize that she had only raised a new spectre in her daughter’s mind.
“What time does Charles get home?” Margaret asked, to change the subject.
Barbara took the bait. “Six. Oh dear, I didn’t know it was so late.”
“Give him my love,” Margaret said as she helped her daughter into her coat. “You’d better come over for dinner when your dad gets back.”
After Barbara left, Margaret closed the door and leaned against it. That’s it. I’ve got to tell Harry. She returned to the living room and sank into her chair, but her peace of mind had gone and she started to go over and over the events of the day.
• • •
AFTER TOSSING AND TURNING for hours, Margaret eventually fell into a troubled sleep, and then the weird dreams began. She found herself following the white cat along a dark, tree-lined path that suddenly opened out into a unkempt baseball field with tall grass rippling like waves in the wind. In the distance she could see a coffin with its lid open. She was terrified but felt compelled to walk toward it. As she neared the coffin, she could see the cat circling the bier. Standing on tiptoe, she looked down into the casket. Harry lay there, his eyes wide open and staring right at her. “Margaret!” he said in an authoritative voice, “Where have you been?” Then, abruptly, he sat up and reached toward her. She tried to scream, but as in most dreams, no sound came. Turning from the coffin, she began running blindly back the way she had come. But there was no escape. The heavy footsteps pounded behind her, getting closer and closer. Back through the tunnel of trees she ran, but the path was even darker now and there were golden cat’s eyes glinting at her from the low branches. Suddenly, a large black Siamese, its blue eyes gleaming with hate, leapt from a branch toward her. She awoke, her mouth open in a scream, but it was the noise from the alarm clock that was ringing in her ears. She reached over to shut it off and lay back onto her pillow, heart thumping. But this time she didn’t close her eyes. “I can’t go on like this.”
By the time the darkness made way for the day, Margaret, now showered, dressed and with a cup of coffee in hand, allowed herself to think about the impending visit to the police station. Even though she was a law-abiding citizen, the prospect of the forthcoming interrogation was appalling to her, perhaps all the more so because of the lack of familiarity. And to make matters worse, it was another rainy day!
Her boss was waiting for her outside the precinct, and she followed him up a flight of stairs and along a dusty corridor to Mark Farthing’s office. “Chin up, this is going to be rough,” he said as he knocked and then opened the door.
“Ah, Southby. On time, I see. And you too, Mrs. Spencer.” He reached across his very tidy desk and shook her hand. “Sit down and I’ll call the steno in.” He reached for the phone. After the steno arrived, Farthing led them bit by bit through the events of the two previous days. “And you still maintain you know nothing of what he wanted?”
“I’ve no idea,” Nat Southby answered.
“Why did you wait until yesterday before you tried to call him?” Farthing persisted.
“I didn’t pick up the weekend’s messages until yesterday morning.”
Farthing turned to Maggie. “You met Bradshaw. Did you think he had something serious on his mind when he came to your office?”
“Other than finding his cat, no.”
“How long have you been working for Mr. Southby?”
“I started last week.”
“And you feel you could make that assumption on such a short acquaintance?”
“Yes, I feel I could make that assumption, Sergeant Farthing. He was a very self-centred and bad-tempered old man. All he was interested in was his cat.”
“Given that he was a bad-tempered man,” he said, turning to Nat, “what made you two run over there so promptly?”
“For God’s sake, Mark!” Nat exploded. “What makes anyone of us do such things? Call it a hunch, if you like.” He stood up and glared down at Farthing. “How the hell were we to know he’d been murdered?”
“My name’s Sergeant Farthing, if you don’t mind,” he said, glaring back. “Now cool down. You two have got yourself into this mess and you’ll answer any damn questions I please to ask.” He turned curtly to the steno, who was sitting with his mouth open. “You can type up those statements and have them ready for their signatures. And after you two have signed them, you’re free to go.”
“Have you any idea who did it?” Maggie asked as she stood up to leave.
“At this minute—no,” Farthing replied. “But we’ll be the ones finding out. Is that clear?” He reached for the telephone. “I take it you know where the duty office is?”
“Jackass!” Nat Southby said under his breath as they walked down the dark corridor.
“He certainly seems to have it in for you,” Maggie answered quietly.
“Yeah! I can’t quite figure out why, though. After all, he stepped into a damn good job when I left. Think he’d be pleased.”
• • •
PHILLIP COLLINS WAS WAITING for them when they arrived back at the office. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”
Nat led the way inside. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve decided to call off your investigation.”
“You’ve found your boat?”
“No, but my wife feels that Larry will turn up soon. Like he always does.”
“Well, it’s up to you, Collins. But the boat’s been missing now for nearly ten days. That’s a helluva spree, isn’t it?”
“I’ll pay you for your time so far.”
“What did you say your boat’s worth? Twenty grand? And you’re suddenly not worried about it?”
“That’s none of your business,” Collins answered. “I said I want to drop the case.” He arose from his chair and took out his cheque book and a gold pen. “How much do I owe you?” Nat named his figure, Collins wrote out a cheque and was gone a few moments later.
From the window they watched him get into his car.
“Of course!” she cried suddenly. “That’s what’s been bothering me.”
“What?”
“The car. Collins’ car. I’ve seen it before.”
“Of course you have. It’s the same one he was driving last week.”
“I know that. But it was also at Violet Larkfield’s. You know, last Friday when I went to her house. That car was in the driveway.”
“There have to be a dozen Jaguars in this town.”
“Not silver-grey ones. I’m sure that’s the same car I saw leaving Violet Larkfield’s driveway.”
“Are you sure? Listen, Maggie, you’ve been through a rough few days,” he said in a placating tone that only infuriated her. “You could be a mite overwrought and getting things a bit mixed up.”
“Mister Southby,” Maggie said witheringly, “I saw that car at Violet Larkfield’s, and, by the way, I also saw the cat basket that Ernie had returned.” She turned, sat down at her typewriter and began pounding furiously.
• • •
THAT EVENING MARGARET WAITED until she’d finished washing the supper dishes and she and Harry were seated by the living room fire, having coffee, before she told him about her job.
“But I don’t understand, Margaret. Why?”
“There has to be something more to life than this, Harry.”
“I’ve tried to give you everything you wanted, haven’t I?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“I’ve spent the last twenty-five years trying to make you happy.” Harry slowly stirred his coffee and raised the cup to his trembling lips, and then put it down again. “Look at all the gadgets I’ve bought you for the kitchen. Even a car of your own.”
“Listen, Harry, please just listen to me, for God’s sake. I need more than gadgets. I need to use my brain.”
“What about volunteer work? The Girl Guides are always short of leaders.” He picked up his cup and raised it to his lips again. “Look at Fuller’s wife; she rolls bandages or something for the cancer people and helps part-time mending books in the library. Sometimes, according to Fuller, they even have her reading to the little ones. You could make yourself useful like that, couldn’t you?”
“I like what I’m doing. I get paid, too.” She couldn’t help slipping that in, but regretted it a moment later as Harry’s face went a mottled red. It’s funny how fair-skinned men show their emotions so easily, she thought.
“Are you trying to tell me I don’t provide for you adequately?”
Margaret looked at him sitting in his chair, complete bewilderment on his face. He really couldn’t see what was wrong with their life. My God, we are so polite with each other. We can’t even have a real mud-slinging, loud row. Even our sex life has become polite. For a brief moment she felt sorry for him, but that was snuffed when he said, “What will they say at the firm? And they’re bound to find out that my wife . . . of all people, my wife,” he spluttered, “is working in a sleazy rundown detective agency.”
“Actually, Harry,” she said, as she scooped up the cups from the coffee table, “I don’t give a damn! And neither should you!” And she marched out the door. In the kitchen, she took a few deep breaths before she began putting the dishes away on the shelves, banging a few cupboard doors for good measure. And I’m sure as hell not going to give up my job!