Death in a Family Way Read online

  DEATH IN A FAMILY WAY

  Gwendolyn Southin

  To Vic for your support and to my writers group—The Quintessential Writers—Betty Keller, Rosella Leslie, Maureen Foss and Dorothy Fraser for your help and encouragement.

  PROLOGUE

  Seagull crested the wave, heeled over, and slid into the darkness of the next trough. The sea cascaded over the thin canvas cover protecting the controls and the two front seats. “I can’t swim,” Larry heard the girl scream above the howling gale. “Let’s go back!”

  Larry ignored her as he wrenched desperately on the wheel, trying to bring the boat head-on again before the next wave struck. This time, Seagulls wooden hull shuddered and creaked as she slewed broadside, and the girl screamed again, bracing herself against the forward bulwark as water sloshed over the gunwales.

  “Go back,” the girl pleaded. “Please go back!”

  Larry’s response as the boat wallowed in the next trough was to give the girl a vicious backhander across the face. “Stop screaming, you stupid bitch,” he snarled.

  She slumped into the seat again, covering her face with her hands. “Are we go . . . going . . . to . . . to drown?” she whimpered.

  Larry didn’t even glance at her. “Put your bloody life jacket on and start bailing.”

  At that moment, the moon, peeping through the scudding clouds just above the horizon, outlined the distant coastline of Washington State, and Larry, switching off Seagull’s running lights, headed her toward land.

  Beside him, the girl, struggling to zip up her life jacket, yelled, “Look! A light!” And she stood, holding her swollen stomach with both hands, as if to protect the growing baby inside her.

  “Point Roberts,” he shouted back.

  “No,” the girl said. “No, it’s coming toward us!”

  As the approaching launch cut through the waves, its searchlight scanned the black, froth-capped water. Larry, letting out a stream of obscenities, wrenched the wheel hard over just as the beam bathed Seagull in light.

  “What are you doing?” the girl cried. “They can help us.”

  “Don’t be stupid!”

  “This is the US Coast Guard,” a voice boomed through the darkness. “What craft are you?”

  Larry’s answer was to push Seagull’s powerful motor to its limit as he swung her away from the Coast Guard cutter and headed back toward the Canadian border.

  “Heave to or we’ll shoot,” the voice boomed again as the searchlight caught Seagull in its glare. A moment later, the first shot skimmed over their heads.

  “Keep down,” Larry screamed at the girl.

  Then, as the boat rose on a towering swell, a second shot found its mark on Seagull, shattering the windshield. A third shot hit the hull with a sickening thud, and the boat bucketed from side to side. The girl, glancing back, saw with horror that her canvas holdall, stowed in the aft cockpit, was floating in ankle-deep water. “Oh my God,” she moaned. “We’re going to die.”

  The moon sank into the sea, and in the pre-dawn darkness, Larry could no longer tell what direction he was going. He only knew that the Coast Guard seemed to have given up the chase. “Must be over the border,” he told himself.

  An hour passed as Larry clung to the wheel of the foundering boat, listening to the ever-increasing wind and praying the motor wouldn’t quit. Beside him, the girl sobbed quietly as Seagull settled lower in the water. Then, in the first flush of dawn light as the storm winds began to die, he caught a glimpse of land. “Gulf Islands,” he muttered.

  “What?” the girl said.

  Larry had completely forgotten her. “Gulf Islands,” he said again, abruptly altering course toward the islands.

  “Oh God! We’ll be saved now, won’t we?” And she stood just as a wave broadsided Seagull. This time, despite Larry’s efforts to right her, the boat heeled over, and the next wave swept the girl overboard into the black foaming sea.

  As the cold water closed over her, she thought she heard her baby cry—but it was only the screech of gulls wheeling overhead, searching for the storm’s debris in the dawn light.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Margaret Spencer put down her coffee cup and opened the large white envelope that was lying beside her plate. She pulled out a glossy birthday card decorated with a bouquet of violets and anemones. As she opened the card, a twenty-dollar bill fell out; absently, she picked it up while reading the verse printed inside:

  To my wife so thoughtful and sweet,

  The girl I was lucky to meet,

  By my side thru’ the years . . .

  She shuddered and skipped the rest of the verse to read the bottom of the card:

  To Margaret,

  Fondest Love, Harry.

  I wonder who picked that lulu out. I can hear him saying to his secretary, “Get something with flowers and a suitable verse.” Then she scolded herself, That’s being unkind. He probably bought it himself on his lunch hour.

  She stared at the dateline on the top of the newspaper Harry held in front of his face. She had actually forgotten that today was her birthday, but there it was on the paper: March 20, 1958. She really was fifty years old. Harry lowered the paper to look at her. Marmalade quivered on one end of his ginger moustache. “Thought you’d rather have the money and buy something yourself. Never know what to get you.” He paused. “I’ll have another cup of coffee.”

  Margaret put down the card, picked up the coffee pot and, leaning forward, filled his cup. She spread marmalade on a piece of toast and bit into it. Across the table, her husband of twenty-eight years finished his coffee and wiped his mouth fastidiously on his serviette. She hoped he would miss the marmalade on his moustache, but with a final flourish, he wiped it off. He stood, carefully refolded the newspaper and placed it beside Margaret, then bent down to peck her lightly on the cheek. “Happy birthday.”

  Rising from the table, she followed Harry into the hall, picking up his brown leather briefcase from the oak chair as she passed. She carried it to the front door, where she waited while he struggled into his overcoat, put his hat on his head and held out his hand for the case. “I’ve a four o’clock meeting with Harris today,” he said, as he opened the door. “And you know what he’s like. I’ll probably be late.” He paused while he sniffed the outside air. “I think I’ll take my umbrella, Margaret.” He waited while she got it from the hallstand. “As I was saying,” he continued, taking the furled umbrella from her, “if you want to celebrate your birthday, it’ll have to be Saturday.”

  She watched him back his brand new, dark blue Chrysler Windsor out of the drive and, as usual, lift his hand to wave as he passed the house. The draft from the car picked up last year’s brown and yellow leaves and swirled them in circles. Once the leaves were airborne, the wind carried them even higher before abruptly dropping them to the ground.

  She gave a shiver, closed the door and walked back into the kitchen. She picked the card up and read the verse right through this time. My God! Fifty! She had to fight the feeling of panic that suddenly engulfed her. What have I got to show for my life?

  She cleared the table and carried the dishes to the sink, where she carefully washed and dried them before putting them away. Climbing the stairs, she looked at their double bed from the doorway. What happened to us? she wondered as she walked into the room and began to pull the sheets straight. When did we grow apart? She had met Harry in England in the spring of 1929. He was on a visit to some aged aunts on his mother’s side. Margaret, who had just started work as a clerk-typist in the local solicitor’s office in Maidstone, Kent, had thought how handsome and sophisticated he was. To her parents’ dismay, the courtship had been brief, and within four months she was leaving England to come to Vancouver
with him. The Wall Street Crash came less than a month later, and Harry’s small corporate law practice dwindled immediately. At first he had been adamant that his wife was not going to work outside their home, but when he had to let his secretary go, he had welcomed all the help she could give him. She remembered the excitement of those early years, working beside him in the office, but after struggling to build up his clientele for another four years, Harry had admitted defeat. Margaret discovering that she was pregnant clinched the matter, and he agreed to accept a junior role in his father’s established firm. I guess it was the years of bringing up the two girls that pushed us apart. We were both too busy—he trying to impress his father and I trying to be the perfect mother. I was always tired, and Harry had such a hard time understanding small children. She gave the eiderdown a hard yank and then sat down heavily on her side of the bed. But, she thought as she smoothed the silky texture of the bedspread, he was never really interested in the girls, even when they got older.

  She stood up and walked over to look at herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Not bad for fifty. Could lose a few pounds. She reached for her hairbrush from the dressing table. “There’s nothing wrong with you, old girl,” she told herself sternly as she brushed her still-brown, curly hair. “Just pull yourself together and go and spend Harry’s twenty dollars on something totally extravagant.”

  A short time later, still dressed in her housecoat, she sat at the kitchen table with Harry’s discarded newspaper. Perhaps there’s a sale at the Bay.

  As usual, Thursday’s paper was extra thick. The front page headline, bold and black, jumped out at her: POLICE TRAP SUSPECT BY POSING AS DOCTORS. She started to scan the article, but she wasn’t really in the mood for crime, so she skipped the pages until she came to the insert that featured the latest fashions. The Hudson’s Bay department store ads were completely devoted to trousseau stuff for the spring bride. Woodwards, its competitor, not to be outdone, had taken a whole page to show men’s formal attire; several other store ads were for baby and infant clothes. Nothing exciting there for me. She bypassed the general news and the women’s section that featured hamburger served in a dozen different ways, then came to the classifieds. She ran her eyes down the columns of the Help Wanted—Female section. “Let’s see, just for fun: private secretary, photo shop assistant. Here’s a good one . . . Top-Notch Manager for Ultra-Modern Shirt Laundry.” She started to giggle. “I can just see Harry’s face at me leaving for work in the morning with my iron in hand.” She reached the end of the column and was starting on the next when a small ad in bold type fairly jumped out at her. Mature woman for small office, experience not necessary, some typing, answer telephone, hours nine to one. The telephone number followed.

  Well, I can imagine that one’s been snapped up. She continued reading, but found herself returning to the ad again and again.

  Carrying the newspaper over to the telephone, she picked up the receiver, then replaced it on its cradle. “This is silly,” she said, resolutely picking it up again. “If it’s busy, it’s an omen.” She dialed the number.

  • • •

  “SO WHEN ARE YOU going to get some help around here?” Sergeant Sawasky asked. He settled himself into the chair across the desk from his former partner, Nat Southby. “You sure could do with some,” he added, looking disparagingly at the litter of paper on the desk and piled in boxes on the floor. “This office is an unholy mess!”

  “I’ve had an ad running in the paper for the past week,” Nat answered. “But so far all I’ve gotten have been duds.”

  “You’re just too damn picky,” George said with a laugh. “Bet you’re looking for a sweater girl. A hard-boiled blonde with big bazooms.”

  Nat leaned back into his swivel armchair and puffed on his foul-smelling cigar. “I’ll tell you this much, George, I would settle for some nice, middle-aged woman if she was able to type without making too many mistakes and could make some kind of order out of this mess.”

  “Well, how’s business anyway?”

  “Picking up. Couldn’t be any worse than last year, for Pete’s sake,” Nat answered, tapping the ash off his cigar. “And the cases are getting more interesting. Not so many deadbeats and missing husbands.”

  “It must be nearly four years since you quit the force.”

  “Would you believe six last month?”

  “Well, we still miss you at the precinct, but you were wise in leaving when you did. That Mulligan affair sure tainted the force.”

  “Yeah? I’m no saint, George, but I draw the line at all that graft and greed. Hell,” he continued savagely, “I thought I was in the force to protect people, not turn a blind eye while the chief of police is lining his pockets.” He paused and took a drag at his cigar. “We were all taken in by Mulligan. All of us.” He leaned back into his chair, his thoughts returning to the days when he had been a rookie on the vice squad. “He was going to clean up the city, remember? What a joke!” He took another drag at his cigar. “I thought he was for real, you know, but being on vice I found out what was really happening. Even though I managed to get a transfer to homicide, the force had lost its appeal. Maybe I was too much of an idealist. I admire you, though, for sticking with it.”

  “Yeah? Well I admire your guts for getting out. But it’s different for me. I’ve a wife and kids depending on me. I can’t afford the luxury of idealism.” George got up from his chair. “Things are a lot better under George Archer, you know, but I still miss your ugly face.” He smiled as he reached up and took his coat down from the bamboo coat tree. “But that guy Farthing they moved into your spot is one goddam pain in the ass.” He gave a huge sigh. “Ah well, see you around,” he said as he opened the outside door. “And I expect to see that beautiful blonde sitting at the front desk the next time I come.”

  The phone gave a shrill ring.

  “There’s your blonde,” Sawasky grinned as he went out.

  “No such luck,” Nat answered as he reached for the instrument. “Hello.”

  “Oh . . . excuse me. Is it . . . ? It’s about your ad . . . in the paper?” Margaret suddenly felt very foolish. “I expect it’s taken,” she finished lamely.

  “No, as a matter of fact, it isn’t, not yet,” Nat replied, reaching for a notepad. “How’d you like to give me some particulars? Starting with your name.”

  “My name . . . oh, my name is Margaret . . . Margaret Spencer, and your ad did say ‘experience not necessary,’ and I’m afraid that’s it. I’ve very little.”

  Nat laughed and Margaret liked the sound of it. An open, confident laugh, she thought.

  “That’s okay, then,” he said, “but do you fill the other requirement—mature person?”

  Margaret found herself laughing too. “Oh yes, that one I do fill,” she answered, looking directly over at Harry’s birthday card propped on the mantelpiece.

  “Could you come down to the office for an interview—say this afternoon around two o’clock?”

  “This afternoon? I guess so,” she replied slowly.

  “Where do you live, Mrs. Spencer?”

  “Kerrisdale. On Elm.”

  “That’s perfect,” he answered. “My office is 1687 West Broadway, Suite 301. Do you know the area? It’s between Fir and Pine. It’ll take you about twenty minutes or so by bus.”

  “Yes,” Margaret answered slowly. I know the district quite well. Whom do I ask for?”

  “The name’s Nat. Nat Southby. It’s on the door.”

  “All right, Mr. Southby. I’ll see you at two, then.” She replaced the receiver and sat down with a thump on the chair next to the telephone table, a dazed look on her face.

  I didn’t ask any of the right questions . . . What kind of business is he in? What salary does it pay? It’s absolutely out of the question . . . what will Harry say? I should call him back and say I can’t make it. But instead, Margaret went to the hall mirror and looked herself up and down. And, without fully realizing it, she took the first timi
d step toward changing her life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was close to lunchtime and Broadway was thick with people, buses and parked cars. Margaret soon gave up the attempt to find a parking spot for her small red Morris Minor on the main drag, and instead turned off onto Fir, where, even though the traffic was lighter, she was still lucky to find a place just being vacated.

  Most of the buildings in the 1600-block were two and three storeys high, with offices and garment factories on the upper floors and shops at street level. The business of selling spilled out onto the sidewalk: right next door to a second-hand shop where old books and magazines were displayed on a rickety table was a small Italian bakery, and next to that a Chinese grocery with pails of cut flowers, boxes of vegetables and potted plants. As Margaret joined the lunchtime strollers, the smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the rich aroma of ground coffee and made her realize that in her nervousness to be punctual, she’d forgotten to eat lunch.

  Halfway down the block, she found number 1687 easily enough and saw that although the brick building was old, it was not quite as rundown as the neighbours that hemmed it in on either side. A photo shop occupied the ground floor, but next to it stood a glass door leading into a kind of small lobby area.

  Resolutely, she pushed it open. Immediately in front of her was a narrow staircase, and beside it an old elevator waited for passengers, its sliding steel gate open, all lights off. One look at the elevator convinced her to choose the stairs, but by the time she had climbed the three flights, she wished that she had accepted the dingy elevator’s invitation. Puffing with exertion, she walked along the dimly lit corridor to number 301. “Southby’s Investigations,” she read on the grimy sign. “Please Walk In.”

  The room she entered overlooked Broadway. She just had time to notice a wooden desk with a Remington typewriter on it, and next to it two battered green filing cabinets, their open drawers spilling out buff folders bulging with photographs and papers, before a man’s voice called, “Come in.”