Well, Mrs. Spencer, how did your weekend go?” Nat Southby asked as he cruised through the office door, throwing his hat in the general direction of the coat tree.
Bending down to retrieve the hat, Maggie thought of the rotten two days she’d spent with her very stone-faced husband. “Can’t say anything exciting happened.”
“Is anything the matter?”
“If you can call a husband who doesn’t want me to work the mat . . .”
His face dropped. “You mean here? He doesn’t want you to work here?”
“Anywhere.”
“You’re not going to quit, I hope?”
She stared at her typewriter for a moment. “No,” she replied, picking up a piece of paper and rolling it into the machine. “Like it or not, Mr. Southby, I’m here to stay.” She gave him a lopsided grin. “And when are you going to get this office an electric typewriter?”
“Good God, woman, you had me worried there for a bit.” He touched her lightly on the shoulder as he passed on his way to his office. “As to the electric typewriter, we’ll get that when you’ve proved your worth,” he said, and ducked as an eraser came flying toward him.
She was on her hands and knees, sorting piles of papers, when the outer door opened to admit an unsmiling Mark Farthing, accompanied by his carbon copy. Both men were dressed in beige trench coats, black shoes and socks, and sported five-dollar haircuts.
Farthing gave her a curt nod. “Mrs. Spencer, my partner, Constable Stan Haddock. Southby in?”
She clambered to her feet, pulling her skirt down to cover her knees. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”
“Don’t bother.” He walked over to Nat’s door, rapped and opened it.
“Well, if it’s not Sergeant Farthing and friend,” she heard Nat say. “What can I do for you boys?”
The two men entered the room and closed the door.
“I understand you were hired by a man named Phillip Collins recently?” Farthing asked, taking the only available chair.
“He’d lost a boat.”
“Find it?”
“Come off it, Mark. You know as well as I do that it’s been found smashed up.” Nat watched in exasperation as Haddock, finding nowhere to sit, entertained himself by picking things up from the desk, looking at them and putting them down again. “I’ll get Maggie to bring you a chair.”
“No, I’m fine.” Haddock walked to the window and peered between the slats of the Venetian blinds.
“Anyway, Mark,” Nat said, “what’s it to you? You’re on homicide detail, not lost and found.”
“How far did you get with your investigation?”
“Not far.” Nat leaned forward to stub out a cigarette in his overflowing ashtray. “Given up cigars,” he said with a grin.
Haddock stopped fiddling with the blind and faced Nat. “What do you mean, not far?”
“Why?” Farthing fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a small notebook and flipped it open.
“Collins decided his wife’s brother had taken it and gone on a spree. Paid me and called off the investigation.”
Farthing gave an exasperated look at his partner, who was trying to get the wrapper off a stick of gum. “We know you were ferreting around down at the marina,” he said. “What did you find out?”
Haddock, having won the battle with the wrapper, had now turned his attention to the foil. “Did you hear anything about the two of them having a set-to?” he said as he rolled the foil into
a ball.
Nat watched Haddock in fascination as he slowly folded the gum into his mouth. “Yeah, but my source said he was too far away to know what it was all about.” He turned at Mark Farthing. “What gives, Mark? There’s more to this than a smashed-up boat, isn’t there?”
“Larry Longhurst seems to be missing.”
“But how does homicide get into this? You did say missing, not murdered.”
Farthing looked down at his notebook. “I hear you were looking over Collins’ boat yourself on Friday.”
“We tried to, but we were warned off.”
“You sure there’s nothing else to tell us?”
Nat shook his head. “Like I said, I was taken off the case.”
“And you believed Collins’ explanation?”
“Why not?” Nat said. “It made sense.”
Farthing got up from his chair and gave a nod to Haddock. “That’s all for the present. As I said before, Southby, this is police business and I want it to stay that way.” He opened the office door. “You do understand?”
“I look after my business,” Nat said. “You look after yours.” He followed them into the outer office.
“Maybe you should stick to divorce cases, Southby. Oh, wait, I forgot, being on the take is more your style, isn’t it?” Farthing said, dripping sarcasm. “By the way, how is your ex? Haven’t seen her around town lately,” he added as a parting shot.
“On the take? What the hell are you talking about, Farthing?” Nat demanded. “Come back here, dammit!”
“You forget, Southby,” Farthing replied with a smirk as he grabbed the handle of the outer door. “I not only took over your desk when you left, but I got all its contents too.”
“What the hell are you talking about . . . ?” Nat yelled. But the two men had exited smartly and were by now clattering down the stairs.
“What in heavens name was that all about?” Maggie asked in a shocked voice.
“Beats me,” he answered. “I haven’t a clue what he meant.”
“Why did he come in the first place?” she asked.
“A fishing expedition, Maggie. Just ferreting. Knew I’d been to look at Collins’ boat,” he answered. “Hoped I’d let something slip, I suppose.”
• • •
MAGGIE WAS HALFWAY HOME that afternoon when she changed her mind, turned the car around and drove back to Violet Larkfield’s house. Parking the car, she walked up the path and rang the bell. The front door was opened abruptly by Violet.
“You again!” she said, looking down at Maggie. “What do you want this time?”
“Uh . . . I wondered how Ernie’s cat was.” It seemed such a lame excuse that she was sure the woman would see through it.
“A lot better than if she’d stayed with that old man.” She started to close the door.
Maggie thought quickly. “Could I see her?”
“What for? I told you she’s okay.”
“It’s just that . . . I like her . . . and cats . . .” she finished lamely. “I sort of feel sorry for her.”
A thin smile appeared on the woman’s lips, and to Maggie’s surprise, she said, “Is that so? Well then, I suppose you can come in.”
The smell of cat still permeated the house and Maggie was sure it was the same Siamese that had previously attacked her sitting on the top perch, watching her every move.
“I’ll try to find Emily for you. You can sit down.” Violet Larkfield indicated the cretonne-covered sofa. “She prefers the outdoors.”
Maggie realized that she had only a short time before Violet would be back. But what to look for? How to start? The desk under the window seemed a good place. She looked nervously up at the cats, all seated on their perches and staring silently at her with their green and amber eyes. The desk had several drawers, all locked, of course. Quickly, she flicked through a pile of letters and papers on the desktop. Nothing unusual, mostly bills. She was turning away from the desk when she saw an open film envelope. Picking it up, she tipped the contents out onto the desk and scanned the photos. One of the snaps showed Phillip Collins and his wife standing beside the silver Jaguar. Maggie heard the sound of a door banging, and she reached for her handbag from the sofa and slipped the photo into it. Then, willing herself not to panic, she stuffed the rest of the photos back into the envelope and sat down, just before Violet, with Emily in her arms, came back into the room.
“Here,” she said, dumping the cat into Maggie’s lap.
The animal struggled to get away. “Nice pussy,” Maggie forced out, gamely holding on to the cat and stroking the fur furiously. But Emily had other ideas. “Damn you!” Maggie yelled suddenly as she felt the sharp claws digging into her leg. Emily gave her a disdainful look, swished her tail, jumped down onto the floor and stalked, with dignity, out of the room.
Maggie lifted her skirt and looked at the blood running down her leg. “Vicious little beast!”
“Well,” laughed Violet, “I thought you liked cats.”
Maggie, needing a Kleenex to clean the blood off her ruined stockings, looked around for her handbag.
“Funny,” the sarcastic voice carried on, “first my Satan attacked you and now Emily. Cats know. People you can fool. Cats—never. And if you’re looking for your purse, you left it on my desk. Now get out!”
• • •
MAGGIE WAS MAKING coffee the next morning when Nat came in. She handed him the picture as he went past on his way to his office. A moment later he was back. “Where’d you get this, Maggie?”
“From Violet. I went to see her yesterday afternoon.” She sat and pulled the cover off the typewriter.
“Maggie,” Nat said with a worried look, “as you yourself reminded me, I hired you to be a secretary, not an operative.”
She took her hands off the keys and stared at him in disbelief. “You didn’t mind sending me off on errands last week!” she said haughtily.
“Well, that was different. That was just to take the cat back . . .”
Maggie was silent.
“What in hell did you think you’d find out?”
“When you’ve calmed down, Mister Southby, maybe I’ll tell you.”
Nat groaned. “All right, Maggie, I’m calm now. Honest. So you’d better tell me everything from the beginning.”
“I was at her desk, you see. And there was this photograph of Collins,” she added excitedly. “Everything was going quite well,” Maggie looked up to see how he was taking her explanation, “until Violet came back in the room before I could look any further . . .”
“Didn’t you realize the risk you were taking? Did she see you at her desk?”
“No, no, she couldn’t have. She came in and dumped the cat on my lap, and then the little beast dug its claws into me. But I was right,” she ended triumphantly. “There is a connection between Collins and Violet.”
He studied the snapshot more closely. “And what happens when she finds it’s gone?” he asked.
“She’ll think she’s mislaid it, I hope.”
“So do I, for your sake.” Photo in hand, he walked toward his office. “I hate to dash your great detective instincts,” he said over his shoulder, “but you know, Maggie,” he waved the snapshot at her, “this doesn’t prove a thing.”
“Of course it does. We’ve been looking for Collins’ boat, his brother-in-law’s missing, Violet’s related to him in some way and . . .” she paused for breath, “and she’s somehow connected to Ernie’s death, too.”
“Oh come on, Maggie, that’s pushing it. How can you connect her to his death?”
“Ernie knew where to look for his cat when it went missing. And he must have been out looking for the damn thing when he was killed.” She sat silent for a moment. “He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
• • •
THE REGISTERED LETTER DEMANDING Margaret Spencer’s attendance at the coroner’s inquest into Ernie Bradshaw’s death happened to arrive at the Spencer household at the same moment that Harry, concerned that he had a cold coming on, had arrived home for lunch. Since he had to sign for the letter, he felt it was his right to open it.
Margaret arrived home a short while later to be met by an angry and ashen-faced Harry.
“This came for you,” he said stonily, handing the envelope over to her.
“You’ve opened it!”
“Anything that concerns you concerns me, Margaret.”
“But you had no right to open my mail,” Margaret said furiously.
Harry pursed his lips. “I saw the official address on it. And besides, I signed for it.”
“Meaning, I suppose, that you’re the only one important enough to receive official letters?”
“That is beside the point, Margaret.” He took the envelope out of her hands and opened it again. “It says here,” and he pointed to a line in the document, “that you are being summoned to attend an inquest on the murder of somebody called Ernest Bradshaw on Thursday, April 2. I want to know who this man is . . . uh . . . was?”
“He was a client of the agency.”
“But why do you have to attend? You’re not the detective or whatever it is he calls himself.”
“It’s quite simple, Harry. We discovered the body together.”
“You what?” Harry exploded.
“I was on the case,” Margaret answered, trying her best not to smile.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“Why would I tell you? You’ve made it very clear you’re not interested in my job.”
“Your job! What kind of man takes you to places where there are dead bodies?”
“Oh, Harry, be reasonable. How would he know that the man was dead when we went to the house?”
“You had no right to be traipsing around town with a strange man.”
“Strange? I work for him, for God’s sake.”
Harry looked shocked. “You never used to swear.”
“I’ll be swearing a lot more if you keep this up.”
“Well,” Harry said in his important voice, “it’s too late for me to try to fix things.”
“Fix things! What are you talking about?”
“If I’d known this inquest was coming up, I’d have fixed it so you wouldn’t have to appear.”
“Harry,” she replied quietly, “you are a corporate lawyer, not a criminal one. You couldn’t have fixed it even if I’d wanted you to.”
“Let me remind you that I’ve a good standing in this community,” he shot back at her. “There are ways to do these things.”
“I’ve news for you, Harry,” she said, taking the letter back from him. “I found the body and I’m going to the inquest.”
• • •
THE NEXT MORNING, Nat called Maggie into his office. “Listen to this,” he said, and began reading from the newspaper spread over his desk.
The body of a young girl was discovered washed up on Tumbo Island yesterday by a party of birdwatchers. The identity of the young woman has not been released pending notification of next of kin. According to eyewitnesses, the girl appeared to be in advanced pregnancy. When found, she was wearing a life jacket with the name Seagull printed on it. Cause of death has not been disclosed by the RCMP officer in charge of the case.
“What about Larry Longhurst?” Maggie exclaimed. “Is he still missing?”
“So far as I know. But what was a pregnant girl doing in Collins’ boat?” Nat mused.
“Perhaps Mark Farthing will let something slip,” Maggie said. “He’s bound to be at the inquest.”
“My God! The inquest,” Nat said, jumping up. “We’re going to be late.”
To Maggie’s surprise, it was over very quickly. Once again Maggie and Nat were taken step-by-step through their discovery of the body, told to make themselves available for further questioning by the police, and were allowed to leave. The enquiry was adjourned for an additional four weeks, pending further investigation. And Farthing was nowhere in sight when they finally emerged from the building.
• • •
“THAT SHOULD BE the end of that,” Harry said that evening, when Margaret finished explaining what had happened. “Bradshaw must have disturbed a bunch of young toughs. Nobody’s safe these days.”
Margaret, knowing that it wasn’t the end of it at all, just nodded. Keep the peace. After all, Harry would be off on his trip in a few days.
• • •
ALTHOUGH THE RAIN WAS HEAVY the day after Harry’s departure for Toronto, Maggie found herself once again, without quite knowing why, turning onto Larch Street on her way home from work. Nearing Violet’s house, she spotted a girl who was struggling to open the Larkfield gate, and she pulled over to the side of the road to watch her. The girl put down the overnight case she was carrying so that she could use both hands. Once she had the gate open, Maggie noticed that she seemed to have difficulty bending down to retrieve the case. It was then she realized that the girl was very pregnant. The front door opened abruptly to the girl’s knock, and the last Maggie saw of her was Violet yanking her inside.
“Curious,” Maggie said aloud as she slipped the car into gear again.
Thoughts in tumult, she reached home and put the car in the garage. “A coincidence?” she asked herself. “Pregnant girl in Collins’ boat and another visiting Violet?” She made herself a sandwich and considered calling Nat, but decided to wait until the morning.
But the next morning, before she had time to tell him about Violet’s young visitor, he was bursting to tell her his own bit of news.
“Thought you’d like to know that Farthing dropped by to see me after you’d left yesterday,” he said.
“Have they found Larry?”
“Didn’t say. He wanted me to rehash our finding Ernie.”
“Again?”
“Yeah, but he’s finally ready to admit I was right about the old man being killed elsewhere.”
Her mind went back to that awful scene—broken dishes, upturned furniture and amid the mess, old Ernie, his head bashed in and a bloody crowbar beside him. “What reason did he give?”
“Same as me. Not enough blood,” Nat answered her.
“But he was covered in it.”
“Yes, but there was none on the walls, floor or furniture,” he explained. “If he’d been killed there, the blood would have been spattered everywhere.”
“Then what killed him?”
“The iron bar. They put it beside him to make it look as if he’d been killed there.”
“Poor man,” she said, feeling slightly sick. “Nobody deserves to die like that.”
“It happens,” Nat replied. “You busy this afternoon?”
“Not particularly,” Maggie answered cautiously. “Why?”
“Want to do a bit of sleuthing?”
“Sleuthing? But you said you only hired me for office work.”
“I was mad at you for taking things in your own hands,” he said apologetically. “You could’ve been hurt.”
Maggie thought for a moment. “Where are you going sleuthing?”
“In Ernie’s neighbourhood. Thought you’d like to come along.”
“I don’t know, Nat, I don’t think Ha . . .”
“If we leave right after twelve o’clock,” he interrupted her, “you’d be home way before suppertime.”
“Well, okay. If you’re sure I won’t be late back.”
Nat smiled as he made his way into his own office.
It was still raining when the two of them climbed into Nat’s old Chevy, and when they reached Ernie’s house, the overcast skies gave the place the appearance of being even more drab and neglected. “Where do we start?” she asked, reaching for her umbrella.
“With the neighbours on either side of the house. You take the left side.”
“On my own? I wouldn’t know what questions to ask.”
“Just keep it simple, Maggie. Did they hear anything unusual? Did they see any strange cars around? Did they like him? Use your common sense.”
“For heaven’s sake, what difference does it make if they liked him or not?” she said as she struggled to get a notepad and pencil out of her handbag.
“You’d be surprised the things people notice, particularly if it’s someone they dislike,” Nat replied as he got out of the car.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we did this together?”
“Nope. I’m giving you the opportunity to get your feet wet as an investigator.” He strode off.
It took her quite a few minutes to pluck up courage to knock on the first door.
“Yes?” The woman opened the door a crack. Behind her. a small child clung to her skirt. The cloying smell of wet diapers and the shrill wailing of a baby wafted out of the house.
“I would like to ask a few questions . . . about your neighbour,” she started, tentatively. “Mr. Bradshaw?”
“He’s dead,” the woman answered shortly.
“That’s what I would like to ask you about.”
“Police’ve been here already. You another one of them reporters?” She started to close the door.
“No. I’m not a reporter,” Maggie assured her quickly. “Insurance company,” she said, keeping her fingers crossed that the woman wouldn’t ask for her credentials. “Did you happen to hear or see anything unusual that night?”
“Didn’t think he’d have anything worth insuring.”
“You’d be surprised,” Maggie answered. “Did you hear anything?”
“Can’t say I did. Miserable old bugger.”
“Can you remember when you saw him last?”
“Day he was killed. Looking for that blasted cat of his. Bloody thing was always digging up my husband’s garden.”
Maggie had to shout the next question over the mounting screams of the baby. “Any loud noises that night?”
“No,” she yelled back. “Like I told the cops. We didn’t hear nothin’.” And picking the toddler up, she slammed the door.
“Any luck?” Nat asked when she reached the car.
“No. And she didn’t love him either,” she said with a grin. “What about you?”
“Nothing. But they did mention the fact that there’s a back alley to these places.” He buttoned his coat against a sudden gust of wind. “Let’s go and see.”
As they walked toward the back of the house, Maggie couldn’t help but remember their last visit there, with Emily leading the way. Now she followed Nat down the path to a wooden garage or shed that loomed at the end of the yard.
“It obviously backs onto the alleyway,” he muttered as they approached the broken-down building and pushed open the door. He took a flashlight from his overcoat pocket and shone it over several old tires, a rusty bicycle hanging from the ceiling, and in one corner, a push-type lawn mower. The large open doors that banged dejectedly in the wind opened onto the alleyway. “Easy to see where they got in,” he said.
“But they would have had to carry him, and how did they get from here into the house? There weren’t any broken windows.”
“Took the keys out of Ernie’s pocket, I suppose. I guess the old fool strayed where he shouldn’t have.”
“Do you realize what this means?”
“No, not really.” Nat looked at her, puzzled.
“They, whoever they were,” she said slowly, “knew exactly where Ernie lived.”
“My God, Maggie, you’ll be a detective yet.” He linked his arm in hers as they turned away from the garage. “Come on, let’s get out of this miserable weather.”
“You know, Nat, nobody really cared for the old man,” Maggie exclaimed as she settled herself in the car.
“True,” Nat answered, “even his cat kept leaving him.” He started the car and pulled away from the curb. “Hey, cheer up, Mrs. Spencer,” he said. “Let’s go and get a bite of lunch.”
“No, I think I’d better get back,” she answered. “Harry might call from Toronto.”
“So what? He can always call back. Do you like Italian?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“That’s settled then.”
The afternoon passed swiftly and pleasantly. They talked over spaghetti and green salad as if they had known each other for months, not weeks. And to Maggie’s surprise, she found that Nat shared her love of classical music. A long time later, she looked reluctantly at her watch. “It’s four o’clock, Nat. I don’t know where the time’s gone.”
He nodded, beckoned to the waiter for the bill and then helped her on with her coat. “You can tell Harry from me that he’s a very lucky man.”
“That’s kind. Thank you,” she replied with a wry smile.
Back at home, Maggie took one look at the house and realized that she had better clean it up before Harry returned. By six o’clock, she stopped working and made herself a quick sandwich, which she ate while watching the news on the television set. But her mind kept slipping back to the afternoon. Stop, Maggie, she scolded herself. It was only a business lunch. Tired after the full day, she went to bed early, but as she was reaching to put out the light, the phone rang.
“Is that you, Margaret? Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get you all afternoon.”
“I went out for lunch, Harry.”
“Oh!”
“Is anything the matter?”
“Yes. I can’t get home until Monday.”
“That’s too bad. But don’t fret about it. Do you want me to meet you at the airport?”
“No, I’ll have to go straight to the office. I’ll get a cab.”
“Fine, Harry. See you Monday night, then.” She replaced the receiver and snuggled down in bed, smiling at the prospect of a weekend of peace.
• • •
A LITTLE APPREHENSIVE of what to expect, Maggie made sure to arrive at the office before her employer. She needn’t have worried. He just gave her one of his huge grins as he waltzed in, threw his hat at the stand and, missing it as usual, headed into his own office.
“Nat,” she said, leaning on the doorpost, his hat in her hand. “What made you go back to Ernie’s yesterday? Was it just Farthing’s visit?”
“Partly. But the real reason was this.” And he handed a cheque to her.
“What’s this for?”
“It’s a retainer from Bradshaw’s lawyer.”
“But why? How is he involved?”
“Apparently, Bradshaw’s daughter wants me to look into the murder. She doesn’t like the way the cops are handling it.”
“That’s quite a sum. She must have no shortage of money.” Maggie handed the cheque back to him.
“So did the old man, from what her lawyer told me.”
“How did she hear about you?”
“Maybe Ernie had told her about the number of times I found that wretched cat for him.”
“So. What do we do now?”
Nat smiled at the we. “We, Maggie old girl, have to get that damn cat back.”
“Get it back! From Violet?” She looked at Nat in disbelief. “Oh, no,” she said as it dawned on her who would be the getter. “Not me. I’m not going back there. Just let it stay with Violet. It’s very happy there.”
“Ernie’s daughter is the rightful owner, and it’s our job to get it back for her.”
“Have you called Violet?”
“No, my dear. I was waiting for you!”