And how’s your little job going?” Harry asked, taking a sip of brandy. They sat in their usual places on either side of the fireplace.
Margaret looked up in surprise from the newspaper she was reading. “Very well, Harry. How’s yours?”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Margaret.”
“You just surprised me.”
“I was taking Barbara’s advice. That’s all.”
“And what did Barbara advise you to do, Harry?”
“She said I should show more interest in what you’re doing.”
“That was nice of her.” Margaret lowered the paper to her lap. “When did you speak to her?”
“She called in at the office yesterday.” Margaret could always tell when he was hiding something. His face got red and splotchy.
“And she suggested that, if you didn’t push me, I would soon tire of my little job and give it up, isn’t that it?”
“She only remarked that you could be very stubborn. She’s quite concerned about you, you know. As am I . . .” Luckily for Harry, the phone rang at that moment. “It’s for you,” he said. “A man.”
“That will be my boss.”
“Got your message, Maggie,” Nat’s voice boomed over the phone. “You should have told me where you were going.”
“You weren’t there to be told.”
“Don’t go off on your own again, Maggie,” he answered her. “It could be dangerous.”
“Now, come on, I only spoke to the waitress, for heaven’s sake!”
“Well, okay, now listen, I’ve got some news too.”
“On Sally?”
“No, a list of girls who’ve disappeared over the past few months.”
“How on earth did you manage that?”
“There’s ways.” He paused for a moment. “Look, Maggie, I think this could become pretty messy. Promise me you won’t go off on your own again.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Southby.” She smiled as she put the phone down.
“I can’t see the necessity of him calling you during the evening,” Harry complained.
“You get phone calls out of office hours, Harry.”
“That’s different. You’re only a part-time secretary.”
She sat down again in her chair, picked up the newspaper and hid her face behind it. Harry would have been astounded if he had seen the huge grin on her face as she settled down to read.
• • •
IN THE OFFICE the next morning, Maggie scanned the list. “These girls are mostly from Richmond or Kitsilano.”
“Yeah. Interesting, isn’t it? Todd refined the list to middle-class teens with no criminal record, missing in the last two years. And that’s what he came up with.”
“What do we do now?”
“Check the phone book and match addresses. Then do a little phoning.”
“I don’t think I could intrude on people like that.”
“That’s part of the business.”
“But what questions do I ask?”
“How long have the girls been missing? Have they heard from them at all? Any reason why they would run away? You’ll have to play it by ear.”
“Well, okay,” she said hesitantly and reached for the phone book.
By the third day, Maggie and Nat between them had located the parents of nine girls who had disappeared under similar circumstances, and she had made up files on each of them, summarizing the information they had gathered. She put the summary on Nat’s desk.
Sally Fielding: Age sixteen. Attended Kitsilano High. Missing four months. Father a dentist, mother owns hat shop. Haven’t heard from their daughter. Agreed to an interview. June Cosgrove: Age seventeen. Since been found—dead. Has younger brother and sister. Parents devastated. Also went to Kitsilano High. The Cosgroves reluctantly agreed to interview. May Rothstein: Age eighteen. Missing five months. Attending Sprott–Shaw secretarial school at the time she went missing. Parents own two flower shops. Very bitter and will not agree to an interview. The pattern continued down the page: Lucy Childer, Jalna Hunsche, Janice Diebel, Debbie Shorthouse, Olga Koziki. In most cases, the parents agreed to an interview, albeit with not much enthusiasm.
The first break came when Maggie called Amelia Holland’s parents. Amelia was seventeen, the parents knew she was pregnant, and she had called them after her disappearance, six weeks ago. She told them that she was someplace near Seattle. She was crying, then just as she was telling them she wanted to come home, the line went dead. The police, when contacted, had said it was impossible to trace the call, and anyway, it was obvious that the girl had gone off to the United States on her own accord. The Hollands readily agreed to an interview.
“Okay,” Nat said, looking down the list. “We start on Monday. Set up an interview with the Hollands first.”
“Monday’s no good for the Hollands,” she told him. “He works nine to five, and she teaches night-school cooking classes. They asked if you could come tomorrow morning?”
“No, that’s out for me. See if Sunday afternoon is good for them. Around two o’clock,” he answered, and picking up the newly-made Holland file, took it into his office. “Oh! What about you, Maggie?” Nat called out to her. “Can you make Sunday afternoon?”
“You don’t need me there.”
“You know damn well you want to be there. Anyway, I need you to take notes.”
“I don’t know, Nat. Harry . . .” Then she remembered the patronizing way Harry had spoken about her job. “On second thought,” she said, “I’d love to come.”
“Great. Meet me here at one-thirty. We’ll take my car.”
• • •
HARRY LAID DOWN HIS knife and fork. “I’ve invited Mother over for dinner. It’s been such a long time since she was here.”
Margaret took a firm grip on herself before answering. “What a good idea. When’s she coming?”
“Sunday.”
“You mean this Sunday?”
“Of course.”
“You could have checked with me first, Harry. How’d you know whether it would be convenient?”
“Convenient! Why shouldn’t it be convenient?” Harry patted his mouth with his napkin and resumed eating. “You are aware that she hasn’t been too well lately?”
“What time are you picking her up?”
“I thought we would pick her up about one o’clock. Give us time to drive her around Stanley Park for a change.”
Oh, hell! Margaret thought. Well, here goes. “I’m afraid it will be just you picking her up, Harry. I have a prior appointment.”
“Appointment! What kind of appointment can you possibly have on a Sunday?” Harry glared across the table at her. Then his face reddened as he slammed down his napkin. “I know, I know, it’s that blasted job, isn’t it?”
“I’ll be back in plenty of time to get dinner.” She picked up the plates and turned toward the kitchen. “Anyway, Harry, you know your mother would love to have you to herself for an afternoon.”
“That’s not the point. You’re my wife and . . .” But the kitchen door had already swung shut behind her.
Margaret spent Sunday morning preparing a dinner that she could slide into the oven on her return home, and Harry spent his morning shut up in the den with his hi-fi. He played Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor—full blast—the organ’s crashing notes sending shivers down Margaret’s spine as she chopped vegetables for the casserole. I think he’s still a mite mad, she thought as she floured the cubes of beef, but they do say music soothes the savage beast, I mean breast. She was grinning as she browned the meat.
• • •
THE HOLLANDS LIVED in a house on West Twelfth. The door was opened before Nat even rang the bell, and Joan Holland led the way into a comfortable living room, its large windows facing Connaught Park.
“It’s very good of you to see us,” Nat offered, sitting down.
“We’ll do anything if it means finding Amy.” Joan Holland sat on the arm of her husband’s chair. “We just don’t know what to do next, do we, Eric?”
Her husband put his hand over hers. “Perhaps there’s hope now?” he said.
Nat gave a gentle cough. “I can’t promise anything, you realize. Perhaps if you told us what happened from the beginning . . .”
It was the same story Nat and Maggie had heard in phone calls to other parents: Amelia had been a good student, well liked, belonged to a church group, and then a sudden change. Her marks fell, she became uncommunicative, stayed out late and announced she was dropping out of school. They did all they could to persuade her to complete her Grade Twelve, but seven weeks ago, only a few days before her seventeenth birthday, she just didn’t come home.
“Did you know that she was pregnant?” Maggie asked.
“No. Not right then.”
“But she did contact you?” Nat asked.
“Yes. A week ago Saturday.” Mrs. Holland brushed her dark hair away from her face. “You can imagine how worried we’d been. We’d called her friends, her school, and finally we called the police.”
“You didn’t find out she was pregnant until she phoned you?”
Joan glanced at her husband before answering. “Well. Penny Thornton had already told us. Penny’s her best friend.”
“But only after a lot of persuasion,” Eric Holland intervened.
“Tell me about it,” Nat said, giving Maggie a nod for her to take notes.
“Well,” Joan Holland took a deep breath, “after Amy disappeared, we’d asked Penny several times if she knew what had happened to her. But she always insisted she didn’t know anything. In the end, we went to her parents.”
“And?” Maggie asked.
“That’s when Penny finally broke down and told us Amy was five months’ pregnant but had been too scared to tell us.” Joan Holland’s voice began to break, and Eric Holland took up the story.
“Apparently, someone had offered to help her go to the States. To some private adoption agency or something like that.”
“Five months! Didn’t you realize?” Maggie asked.
“She’s a very tall, well-built girl,” Joan Holland answered, “and you know the styles they wear for school nowadays, large sweaters . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“And after the adoption?” Nat leaned forward in his seat. “What is supposed to happen afterwards?”
“She’s to come home, I suppose.” The tears started to pour down Joan Holland’s face.
“And you said that you went to the police again when she contacted you?”
“Yes, like I told you. But when we couldn’t give them any further details, they said they couldn’t help us.”
“One more question. This someone who offered to help. Did Penny know who this person was?”
“She said she didn’t,” Joan grabbed a Kleenex out of a box and balled it in her hand.
“Do you believe her?” Nat asked.
“I’m sure she knows. She and Amy were very close.”
Nat stood up. “We need to talk to this Penny.”
Joan reached over and picked up a slip of paper from the coffee table. “I thought you would. I’ve written down her address and phone number.” She handed the piece of paper to Nat. “I just pray you can get more out of her than we did.”
“May I use your phone?” Nat asked. Eric Holland stood up and led Nat out to the hall.
When the door had closed behind the two men, Maggie asked Joan Holland, “Why wouldn’t Amelia tell you she was pregnant?”
Joan looked at the corner of the room. “She was afraid of her father,” she whispered.
“Afraid?”
“He was very strict with her. You see, he’s a lay preacher at our church, and her getting pregnant goes against all he stands for.”
“But he seems resigned to it now.”
“Yes.” The tears slid unchecked down her cheeks. “You see, she’s our only child.”
• • •
THE DOOR OF THE Thornton house was opened to them by a girl wearing an oversized white sweater. Pushing back a strand of the long, blonde hair that had escaped from her ponytail, she blocked the partly opened doorway. “I’ve told the Hollands everything I know,” she said. “There’s no point in going over it again.” She started to close the door.
“Penny!” A woman in her mid-forties, wearing grey, paint-splattered slacks and a man’s shirt, appeared at the door. “Penny seems to have lost her manners,” she said, opening the door wider. “It’s Mr. Southby, isn’t it? Please come in. I’m Roberta Thornton.”
“I don’t know anything else, Mother!” Penny stormed and headed upstairs.
“Get back here, Penny,” her mother ordered, leading Nat and Maggie into the family room, where her husband was seated. Sulkily, Penny followed them.
“Mr. Southby, this is my husband. You spoke to him on the phone.”
“Doug Thornton.” A dark-haired man got up from his chair and extended his hand to Nat. “Sad affair,” he added. “And this is?” he turned toward Maggie.
“My assistant, Maggie Spencer.”
Maggie’s first impression was of a spaniel, its sad brown eyes peering at her through thick horn-rimmed glasses. He even shook her hand mournfully, and bending down, gathered up his newspaper from his well-worn leather easy chair. “Sit here, Mrs. Spencer,” he said. “We’ll sit over here on the couch.”
“Well, what do you want to know?” Penny said, scowling.
“We’ll take it step by step,” Nat answered, sitting beside a window overlooking a backyard that had been given over to bicycles, an old sandbox filled with toy trucks and other discarded toys. “Why don’t you sit down too, Penny?”
“You the police?” she said nervously, glancing at her parents.
“No. Just trying to find out what’s happened to your friend Amy.”
“Why?”
“I’m a private investigator,” Nat answered shortly.
“Who hired you?”
“When did Amy tell you she was pregnant?” Nat said, ignoring the question.
“I dunno. A long time ago.” The girl flung herself into the large leather armchair across from Maggie.
“Did she tell you who the father was?”
“Well . . .” The girl looked at Maggie, who sat taking notes. “Does she have to take down everything I say?”
“Yes,” Nat answered. “Strictly for our records. Now . . .”
Penny shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the lock of hair falling across her face again. Absent-mindedly, her fingers began twisting it over and over into a curl. “It was that guy she was seeing.”
“Does he have a name?”
She stared out of the window.
“Penny. Answer Mr. Southby,” Douglas Thornton intervened.
Maggie got up from her chair and stood beside the girl. “Penny, Amy may be in great danger. We’ve got to find her.”
“Forget it, Maggie,” Nat said and stood up dismissively. “She doesn’t want to help her friend.”
Maggie shot him a look. “Did Amy call you from Seattle, too?” she asked.
“What makes you think that?”
“But she did, didn’t she?” Maggie persisted.
“Yeah. But she didn’t tell me anything. Get out!” she suddenly shouted. A small boy, his face sticky with jam, was slowly edging into the room.
“Toby, be a good boy and go and see what Josh is doing upstairs,” Roberta Thornton said quietly, “after you’ve washed your hands.”
“He won’t play with me,” the boy said.
“Just get out,” Penny yelled. Toby shot his sister a look of hatred and departed.
Nat waited until the child had shut the door. “She must’ve said something,” he continued.
“She was crying,” Penny shrugged. “All she said was it wasn’t how she thought it was going to be.”
“She didn’t say anything else?”
“She didn’t have time.”
“Why not?” Nat asked.
“Someone was coming, so she put the phone down.”
“Does she have many boyfriends?” Nat asked.
“She doesn’t sleep around, if that’s what you mean. She isn’t like that.”
Douglas Thornton stood up. “Are these sort of questions necessary, Mr. Southby?” he asked testily.
“If we want to find out where the girl’s gone, yes.”
“But Amy fell in love, didn’t she, Penny?” Maggie said, interrupting the two men, who were glaring at each other.
“Yes, but . . .” She looked away, trying not to cry. “She said Derek loved her.”
“Derek who?” Nat said.
“Penny!” her father reprimanded.
Penny fished in the pocket of her jeans for a Kleenex and rubbed fiercely at her eyes. “Derek Stone. She said he wanted to get married.”
“But Amy didn’t want to?” Maggie asked.
“She said they’re too young and . . . she’s not like me.”
“In what way?” Nat asked.
“She’s got brains. She wants to go to university.”
“But you’ve got brains,” Roberta Thornton said, getting up and putting her arms around her daughter. “You can go to college, too.”
“Oh, Mum.” Penny wriggled away from her mother. “I’m not clever like Amy.”
“Who contacted her at school?” Nat asked.
“Somebody Derek knew.”
“You mean another student?”
“No. Derek quit,” she said. “It’s someone he met where he works.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s some kind of place where they fix boats and stuff.”
“Where is it?”
She shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“East Vancouver somewhere.”
Nat sighed in exasperation. “He’s dropped out of school. You don’t know where he lives. You don’t know where he works. Great!”
“Hey! That’s my daughter you’re talking to!” Douglas Thornton cut in.
“I’m sorry . . .”
“Can you remember the name of this boatyard?” Maggie asked quickly.
“No, but it’s in Richmond somewhere. There’s this hamburger joint next door. I know because Amy wanted to get a job there, but her dad wouldn’t let her.”
“Can you remember the name of the restaurant?” Maggie asked patiently.
“’Captain’ something or other.”
Nat handed Penny one of his cards. “Call me if you remember anything else. Please.”
As they drove away, Maggie turned to Nat with a grin. “So, who did hire you? If I remember rightly, Collins took you off the case.”
“It’s those girls, Maggie. I’ve got a gut feeling about them, and the Collins case is smack in the middle of it.”
“And what about Bradshaw? His daughter’s expecting a report from us.”
“You’re nagging, Maggie,” he said, grinning in spite of himself. “I’ll get to that—tomorrow.”
• • •
AFTER MAGGIE LEFT HIM on Sunday afternoon, Nat had driven to Richmond, and with the help of a telephone directory, found a restaurant called The Captain’s Table in Steveston, tucked in beside a small boatyard, both of them overlooking the muddy Fraser River. The diner was an old greasy spoon with the smell of fried onions and french fries permeating the air. Next door was Floyd’s Boatyard.
As he walked into the yard, Nat saw a man wearing oily trousers rolled up over black rubber boots, and a large, once white, thick-knit sweater that came down to his knees. On his head was a grease-encrusted fedora. He was delving into the innards of an ancient outboard motor.
“Mr. Floyd?” Nat called out.
“No,” the fellow answered without turning around.
“Doubt it.” He took off his hat and turned around. To Nat’s astonishment, the he was a she, and the woman could have easily doubled for Marie Dressler in Tugboat Annie. She looked Nat up and down. “Been dead these past twenty years or more.”
“Mrs. Floyd?” he asked tentatively.
“Yeah.” She picked up an oily rag and turned back to the engine. “Rosie Floyd, that’s me. What’s it to ya?”
“Does Derek Stone work here?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he about?”
“No.”
“When will he be in?”
“Who’s askin’?”
Nat tried to hand her one of his cards, then changed his mind and read it out to her instead.
“What’s he bin up to?”
“I just want to ask him a few questions.”
“Be in tomorrow.”
“I thought he worked here weekends.”
“Hired him full-time.” She picked up a screwdriver and attacked the engine once more. “Not much good. But he’s learnin’.”
“What time tomorrow?”
“You can see him on his break.”
“When’s that?”
“Ten-thirty.” She returned to her work.
• • •
MARGARET MADE IT HOME before Harry and his mother, and, putting on an apron, even managed to look domesticated.
“And what’s this I hear?” Honoria Spencer greeted her daughter-in-law. “Harry tells me you have a little job.”
Margaret shot a withering look at her husband. “Yes, Mother Spencer.” She still found it hard to call this woman mother. “I’ve been working for a couple of months now.”
“And what kind of job is it? Harry wasn’t very forthcoming.”
Who are you kidding? I’ll bet he told you every single detail twice to get you primed for the attack! she thought, but she smiled innocently as she said, “Girl Friday.”
“Office work?” Harry’s mother mulled this over and then she smiled. “You’re volunteering. Of course!”
You know damn well I’m not volunteering, you old bitch, Margaret thought. “No, I’m working. In a real office. For real money,” she said very pleasantly, then added wickedly, “I work for an investigator.”
“My dear, you can’t be serious. None of the wives in our family have ever worked for money. And an investigator? You don’t mean a detective, do you?” She turned to her son. “She is just joking, Harry, isn’t she?”
“No, Mother, she isn’t joking.”
“The firm is doing well?”
“Quite well, Mother.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple,” Margaret said. “I work because I want to. Now you must excuse me, the dinner is nearly ready.” She escaped into the kitchen.
The rest of the evening went fairly well, considering the slight iciness between husband and wife. The subject of the little job was assiduously ignored, and Harry regaled his mother with anecdotes from the office. This the old lady could appreciate. Before he died, Harry’s father had been the senior partner in the same firm.
“Your father would be so proud of you, son,” she said, wiping her eyes after Harry had told her a long-winded story of old Mr. Hardwick, who was an important client of the firm. “He was one of your father’s very first clients.”
When Harry finally took his mother home, Margaret washed the dishes, stacked them on the drain tray and went to bed. She did her best to appear fast asleep when he came into the bedroom, but Harry, determined to get in one more lick, announced loudly, “Mother was very upset about your job. She talked of nothing else on the way home.”
Tough! thought Margaret, and very soon she really was fast asleep.
As she drove to work the next day, humming along with Frank Sinatra on the radio, she couldn’t help grinning as she recalled the look on Honoria Spencer’s face when Emily had made her entrance the night before.
“Where did that . . . that animal come from?” she had demanded, glaring at Margaret. “You know how allergic Harry and I are to cats.”
Emily rubbed herself against Honoria’s legs, making the old woman jump out of her seat, before the cat passed her up for the comfort of Harry’s lap.
“I think Harry’s outgrown his allergy,” Margaret said, trying not to laugh.
Harry, looking shame-faced at his mother, handed Emily over to Margaret. “You’d better take her outside, Margaret.”
“Get rid of the creature,” Honoria had said, settling back into her chair, “or I won’t come again.”
Margaret knew at that moment that Emily would have a home with her forever.
• • •
MAGGIE HAD JUST FINISHED typing up her notes on the interview with Penny Thornton when the telephone rang, and as if on cue, she heard Penny’s voice.
“Is that detective there?”
“Not at the moment,” Maggie answered. “Will I do?”
There was a long silence, then, “She told me something else on the phone.”
“Amy?”
“Yeah. She said they’d never let her come home.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“You know, the people at that adoption place.”
“Why not?” Maggie kept her voice even. She didn’t want the girl to break off the connection. “Why not, Penny?” she repeated.
“Because she saw something.”
Maggie felt her patience going. “For heaven’s sake, Penny, what did she see?”
“She said she saw them kill this old guy.”
Maggie suddenly felt cold. After a pause, she said, “What were her exact words?”
“She said she was waiting for them to come for her in some kinda shed. She said this old guy tried to come in and someone hit him over the head.”
“Where was this? Did she say?”
“No. She said when she started to scream, the woman came in and jabbed a needle in her arm.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police about this?”
“And have them get me, too?”
“Are you calling from school?”
“Yeah. I’m on my break.”
“Which school?”
“Kits.”
“I’ll come and get you.”
“No.”
“Penny. Do as I say. Wait.”
There was a pause, then, “I’m not going to talk to the police.”
Maggie left a note for Nat: Going to Kitsilano High to see Penny. See if you can get Farthing to meet there. Explain later.”
• • •
IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER ten thirty that morning before Nat managed to corner Derek Stone. Coke in hand, he was sitting on the end of the dock beyond the boatyard, morosely watching a crowd of gulls fighting over some fish guts on the mudflats below. Nat sat down next to him.
“I’m looking into Amelia Holland’s disappearance,” he said, after introducing himself.
“I don’t know where she is,” Derek said, getting up to leave.
“But you did give her a name to contact.”
“Yes, but . . . I didn’t know the guy.” Derek stopped but didn’t turn around.
“Who passed the name on to you?” Nat insisted.
“Just some guy who brought his boat in here for repairs.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He was just a guy.” Derek sat again but kept some distance between himself and Nat. “See, Amy’d been bugging me. Heck, how’d I know if I really was the father?”
“Okay. This guy,” Nat prompted.
“Well, it was over a few beers, see. I told him about her bugging me.”
“And?”
“He said he knew someone.”
“What was the guy’s name?” Nat persisted.
“He was just a guy.”
“You can do better than that, Derek.”
“Larry something,” he mumbled.
“For God’s sake, man! What was his other name?”
“I told you we just got talking over a couple of beers.”
“How was Amy to make contact?”
“He gave me a phone number.”
“You still got it?”
“I gave it to Amy.”
“She’s gone, isn’t she?”
“Derek, think! Did she say where she was meeting him?”
“Derek,” boomed Rosie’s voice, “you can yap to that guy on yer own time.”
Derek stood up. “I’ve got to go.”
Nat stood up, too. “I think you’re holding back on me.” He started for his car.
Derek walked toward the yard and then turned back. “They were going to help her, right?”
Nat stopped in his tracks. “So?”
“So why did Larry want to know so much?”
“Know so much?”
“Heck, you know—did she sleep around? What kind of house did she live in? Were her folks professionals . . . that kinda stuff.”
“Derek!” Rosie yelled. “Yer’ll be working on your lunch hour if ya don’t git a move on.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Call me,” Nat said, thrusting the last of his crumpled business cards into Derek’s hand.
He was still mulling over his talk with Derek as he entered the office. “Maggie, I’m back,” he called. No Maggie! He peered inside his own office. “Where the hell is she?” Then he saw her note on his desk. “My God, woman, what have you done this time?” He lifted the receiver and dialed Farthing’s number.
• • •
IT TOOK MAGGIE five minutes to get from the office at Broadway and Granville to Kitsilano High, but another ten minutes trying to find somewhere to park. She ran through the old school’s front entrance and then came to a complete stop. Where could she expect to find the girl? The administration office was to her right. She waited impatiently for the faded blonde sitting behind the desk to take notice of her. “Yes?” the woman said finally.
“Penny Thornton, where can I find her?”
The woman glanced at the oversized clock on the wall. “In class. Why?”
“She called me. I must speak to her.”
“Are you her mother?”
“No. I just need to speak to her.”
“I think you’d better see the principal, Mrs. . . .”
“Spencer. Yes, right away, and please get Penny in here, too.”
“I can’t do that without permission from Mr. Harding.” She rose, moved at a leisurely pace across the room and opened a glass-panelled door. “There’s a Mrs. Spencer to see you, Mr. Harding . . . She says it’s important . . . It’s to do with Penny Thornton.” She turned to Maggie. “He can give you five minutes.”
But it took longer than five minutes to convince a very stern Mr. Harding that it was imperative that Penny be allowed to come out of class. After he had examined Maggie’s driver’s licence, he called Nat’s office—even though she explained that he wouldn’t be there.
“I think I’d better contact the girl’s parents,” Mr. Harding said, reaching for the phone.
“Please, Mr. Harding,” Maggie pleaded, “hear me out. Penny has information on Amelia Holland’s disappearance.”
“All the more reason to call her parents.”
“When Penny phoned, she asked me specifically not to tell her parents,” Maggie said, fishing in her handbag for a slip of paper. “Here, this is Sergeant Farthing’s phone number at the Vancouver Police Station. May I call him?”
Harding took the piece of paper from her and reached for the telephone. “I’ll call him,” he declared. Maggie listened while Harding had a short conversation with Farthing. “Yes, sergeant,” he said in a resigned voice. “I understand. We’ll send for the girl when you arrive.” He put the phone down and turned to Maggie. “He’s coming here to the school. I will put our guidance counsellor’s room at his disposal.”
“Thank you.” She picked up her bag and turned to go out.
“You can wait in the staff room. Mrs. Jansen will show you the way and call you when they arrive.” Maggie felt herself dismissed.
As the door closed behind her, Harding reached for the phone.
In the staff room, Maggie helped herself to a cup of tepid coffee and dutifully put a dime into the cracked saucer sitting beside the pot. While she waited, she watched the schoolyard from the window, but it was at least thirty minutes before Farthing arrived, accompanied by a policewoman. Moments later a taxi drew up and Nat jumped out.
“But I told you I didn’t want to see the police,” Penny complained as she and Maggie were escorted to the counsellor’s office.
“All you have to do is tell them what you told me over the telephone,” Maggie said, pushing the girl into the room.
It took a few false starts and a bit of prodding from Maggie before Penny would tell Farthing and Nat about the conversation she’d had with Amelia Holland. She sat as close to Maggie as she could, but Maggie had to admit that Farthing did a good job of interviewing the girl. The policewoman sat behind Penny, taking notes. They had just about finished when the door burst open and a distraught Roberta Thornton rushed into the room.
“Penny!” she cried, going to her daughter. “What’s happened?” She turned to Farthing. “What’s going on?”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Thornton,” Maggie said. “Penny very sensibly got in touch with me when she remembered something Amy had told her.”
“But, Penny, why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’d only’ve got into a state, Mum!”
“Is this something you didn’t tell the Hollands?” Roberta asked, sitting down next to her daughter. Penny shook her head. “But Penny, you swore you didn’t know . . .” Roberta said sadly.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Thornton,” Maggie interrupted.
“Perhaps we can get on,” Farthing said, tapping his pen on the table. Then, turning toward the girl, “Now, everything from the beginning again, please.”
“Not again!” The girl wailed, but after a look from her mother, she started over.
“What I can’t understand,” Farthing said when she finished, “is why didn’t you come forward right after she phoned.”
“They might come after me.”
“Who’ll come after her?” Roberta cried, jumping up from her seat.
“Please, Mrs. Thornton,” Farthing said, “let’s get all the information before we get excited, shall we? Now Penny, this is very important, have you told anyone else about Amelia seeing the old man killed?”
Penny shook her head. “No, like I told you, I was too scared. But I keep thinking about it.”
“What made you tell Mrs. Spencer?”
“Yes, I’d like to know that, too,” Roberta cut in.
Penny looked at Maggie. “She came to the house, see, with him.” She pointed at Nat. “I thought she’d understand,” she said, gazing miserably out of the window.
“She did the right thing, you know, calling us,” Maggie said.
“But those people . . .” Penny cried.
“If you’re sure you haven’t told anyone else, they can’t hurt you.” Farthing stood up. “Now I want you to go back to your class and try and forget it.”
As Penny walked toward the door, she turned to Maggie. “Everybody’s going to wonder why I was called down here.”
Maggie smiled at her. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Roberta Thornton stood up. “I’d better go with her.” She turned and glared at Farthing. “You’d better be right. If anything should happen . . .”
“That’s all we need, a hysterical mother,” Farthing said as he struggled into his suede jacket. “I want to see you two back at the station.” He snapped his briefcase shut and stalked out of the room.
“You came in a taxi, Nat?” Maggie probed as they left the schoolyard.
“Yeah. I dropped the car off for an oil change on the way back to the office. Then I found your note.”
“Mine’s around the corner.” As she put the car into gear, she said, “You know that the old man was Ernie, don’t you?”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Ernie was killed about the same time that Amelia went missing. March 23rd.”
“But we don’t know whether the old man she saw getting killed was here or in Seattle.”
“No, but I think Collins and Violet are mixed up in it somehow.” She drove without speaking for a few minutes, then, “Where were you this morning?”
“Looking for Derek Stone.”
“Amelia’s so-called boyfriend?”
“I found him, too.” He related his conversation with Derek. “It’s too much of a coincidence that there could be two Larrys mixed up in this. First there was Larry Longhurst taking Collins’ boat, and he had a pregnant girl with him. Then we find another Larry mixed up with Amelia. Also pregnant.”
“And that brings us back to Collins and Violet,” Maggie said as they drew up outside the precinct.
“Why?” Nat asked.
“Because Collins has something going with Violet.”
“Well, of course, she’s his aunt . . .”
“And where did Emily go every time she went wandering?” Maggie asked triumphantly.
“What’s the cat got to do with it?”
“That’s where Ernie went. To look for his cat.”
“So?”
“So he got killed at Violet’s,” Maggie concluded as she switched off the engine.
“Maybe.”
“Look. He must have gone after Emily, heard something or saw something and . . . and they killed him.” She picked up her handbag and opened her door. “Come on. Let’s face the music.”
“Don’t say anything to Farthing about this, eh Maggie?” Nat said as he stepped out of the car. “Let’s talk it over some more first.”
In Nat’s former office, Sergeant Farthing spent twenty minutes ranting and raving about their interference in police business and failure to keep him informed.
“But Maggie did bring you in on the Thornton girl’s statement,” Nat argued. “What more do you want?”
“Just as well she did,” Farthing said, glaring at them both. “So what else have you got to tell me?”
Nat thought for a minute. If he told Farthing about Derek, perhaps he would get some feedback on Larry Longhurst. Was it worth the risk? He decided it was. “I’ve been following up on Amelia’s boyfriend, Derek Stone.”
“Who?”
“You haven’t interviewed him on Amelia’s disappearance?”
“No reason to. Up to this afternoon, I knew nothing about the girl. She comes under Missing Persons.”
“Well,” Nat said slowly, “you may be interested to know that Derek mentioned a Larry. And it seems very likely it’s our friend Longhurst.”
Farthing looked thoughtful. “Okay, give me all you’ve got,” he answered reluctantly.
“What’s happened to Longhurst?” Nat countered. “Last I heard he was badly injured.”
“He was. He’s out of hospital and we’ve questioned him.”
“How’d he explain about the accident?” Nat asked.
“The matter’s still under investigation,” Farthing said shortly, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “And frankly, it’s none of your business.”
“I guess you don’t want to know about Derek Stone, then?” Nat stood up. “Come on, Maggie, we’ve got work to do.”
“Sit down, sit down.”
Nat sat and leaned forward. “So how did he explain the accident?”
“At first he insisted he knew nothing about June Cosgrove. Then we produced the life jacket the girl was wearing.”
“Did he say how the boat was wrecked?” Maggie asked.
“He said he’d borrowed the boat to take the girl over to a party on one of the islands. Then the weather turned nasty. She panicked and the boat capsized.”
“Did you believe him?”
“No. Now tell me about this Derek character. Where will I find him?”
“Quit screwing around, Farthing,” Nat said. “We’re talking about a girl’s life.”
Farthing swung his swivel chair around to face the window and thoughtfully tapped a pencil against his teeth. “Your information better be good,” he said eventually. “There were bullet holes in the hull.”
“We figured they might’ve come from the US Coast Guard. They admit they shot at a boat that refused to stop.”
“How did Larry explain that?”
“He changed his story a bit then and said he must’ve gone too close to the border, and that’s when the girl started to panic. The boat started sinking and when he tried to beach it, he hit a reef.”
“Was there anything in the boat when you found it?”
“Look, Southby, I’ve told you enough. I don’t like dealing with people like you, so get out.”
“What the hell do you mean by people like me?” Nat exploded, and jumping to his feet, he leaned over Farthing’s desk. “What are you getting at, Farthing?”
“I don’t like ex-cops, especially ones on the ta . . .”
“What the hell are you implying . . . ?” Nat broke off as he felt Maggie’s hand tugging at his arm.
“Leave it, Nat,” she said quietly and gently pulled him toward the door.
After they had left, Farthing slowly opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a half sheet of paper from a buff folder. “A bit more evidence and I’ve got you, Southby,” he muttered, scanning the paper once again. “You conniving son of a bitch.” He carefully placed the note back in the folder and returned it to the drawer.
“What’s with that guy?” Nat fumed when they reached Maggie’s car. “Every time I see him, he makes some kind of crack.” He opened the passenger door and flung himself into the seat. “There’s something strange going on.”
“He certainly seems to have it in for you,” Maggie answered thoughtfully. “Why don’t you give your pal Sawasky a call?” she added. “Perhaps he could shed some light.”
“I think I might just do that,” Nat answered her.
Fifteen minutes later, Maggie parked the Morris in front of the Aristocrat Restaurant just down the street from the office. “Lunch is on me,” she announced. She waited until their order arrived before she returned to the topic of Collins’ and Violet’s involvement in Ernie’s death. “It’s the only logical explanation,” she said briskly.
“But what could Ernie have overheard? I can’t see old Violet as a gangster type, and she’d hardly have killed him just so she could keep Emily.”
She took a sip of her coffee before answering. “I’ve been mulling it over and over in my mind.” She put the cup carefully back in its saucer. “It’s got to do with these pregnant girls, Nat.”
“Pregnant girls?” Nat waved his cup in the direction of the elusive waitress. “As far as I can see, only two of those missing girls were pregnant—June Cosgrove and Amy Holland.”
“Three,” she replied quietly.
“Would you folks like some more coffee?” the waitress said as she slapped the bill down in front of Nat.
“It’s about time . . .” He caught Maggie’s disapproving eye. “Yes, please,” he said, pushing his cup toward the girl. “What do you mean, three?” he said, turning back to Maggie just as she picked up the bill. “And give me that, by the way.”
“No, I have it. Now listen, I saw another pregnant girl entering Violet’s house, remember?”
“When was this?”
“About three weeks ago when I went to see how Emily was doing. It didn’t mean much to me at the time. I thought she must be Violet’s daughter or maybe granddaughter.”
“I suppose there’s a remote chance that you’re right.” Nat leaned forward and laid his hand over hers. “Promise me you won’t go there again.”
Maggie looked down at the large protective hand covering hers and gently pulled hers away. “I think it’s time we were on our way.” And she headed for the cash register.
• • •
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Harry’s querulous voice met her as she entered the house. “I’ve been alone here for at least an hour.”
“I didn’t know you were coming home early,” Margaret said, slipping off her coat. “Something wrong?” Emily, who had been curled up on Harry’s lap, stretched, arched her back and jumped down to run into the kitchen.
“I’m coming down with the flu,” Harry stated.
“Would you like me to make you some tea?”
“No. Miss Fitch-Smythe could see I wasn’t well. She very kindly went out and bought me some Aspirin tablets.” He pulled himself wearily out of the armchair. “I’m going to bed.”
“Good idea, Harry. I’ll bring you a hot water bottle.”
“Margaret.” He was halfway up the stairs, looking down at her. “You’ve changed.” He coughed and blew his nose into his spotless handkerchief. “You’ve got to give it up, you know.” He climbed a few more stairs. “I’ve never felt so alone. You should be at home, especially when I’m sick.”
Poor old Harry. Margaret carefully filled his favourite hot water bottle and screwed the cap on tightly. He’s right. We can’t go on like this much longer. Hot water bottle in hand, she trudged reluctantly up the stairs. Emily, tail on high, followed closely behind.