Death in a Family Way Read online

  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?”<
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  “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.”