Death in a Family Way Read online

  “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!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The day after her baby was born, Sally Fielding was sent back to the farmhouse annex. Exhausted from the birth and still crying, she could put up very little fight when the nurse jabbed a needle into her hip and oblivion took over. She awoke to find Debbie gently sponging her face and realized that she was back in the attic bedroom they had shared before her baby’s birth. As she felt the warm, hard swelling of Debbie’s stomach brush against her, she had a fierce longing for her own baby. She buried her face into the pillow as the hot tears started to run down her cheeks again. “I’ve got to find out where they’ve taken my baby.”

  “How? We don’t even know where we are.”

  “Rosedale Farm, Linton Road.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “I was in labour for a long time, Debbie,” Sally answered, “and they got careless. I managed to walk down the passageway to the nursing station before they found me.”

  “So?”

  “It was on the desk, a letter headed Rosedale Farm, Linton Road. It’s on Bainbridge Island, in Washington State.”

  “We’re on an island?” Debbie stood up. “I thought we were someplace near Seattle.”

  “I don’t think we’re far from it,” Sally answered. “I was brought here by car, but it was very late at night. I’ve no idea which direction we took after Seattle, but I do remember taking a small ferry.”

  “Just knowing where we are is not going to get your baby back, Sally.”

  “I’m going to find out who’s bought her,” Sally cried fiercely, “and I’ll make them give her back.” She turned to look at Debbie. “That’s what they’re doing, Deb. They’re selling our babies.”

  “So? You know what that woman said,” Debbie said quietly. “If we make a fuss, we won’t be allowed to go home.”

  Sally lifted herself up on her elbow and looked intently at her friend. “What makes you think they’ll ever let us go? They’re making a fortune out of selling our babies. And we could talk. We’re a danger to them.”

  They were both silent for a moment, then Sally said, “Deb, we’ve got to get away from here.” She clung to her friend’s arm.

  “You must.” Debbie sat down on the edge of the bed. “How can I . . . like this?” She patted her stomach.

  “I’ll find a way . . . I’ll get to a telephone . . . or something.”

  • • •

  SERGEANT BRIAN TODD of the Missing Persons Branch closed the file drawer with a bang, walked to the window and stood staring down at the busy street below.

  “What’s up?” Staff Sergeant George Sawasky asked as he entered the office.

  “It’s this rash of missing girls,” Todd answered him. “Five within the last three months.”

  “Prostitutes?” Sawasky asked, straddling the wooden chair beside Todd’s desk.

  “No.” Todd walked back to his desk and picked up a file. “That’s what’s odd about it. Most of them are high school students.”

  “Any pattern emerging?” Sawasky asked. “The reason I’m asking,” he continued, “is that I’m looking into the death of a teenager, too. A Jane Doe.”

  “Well, these are all teenagers,” Todd answered. “Take this one, Sally Fielding—sixteen years old, good family, and up to five months ago, an A student.”

  “What happened five months ago?”

  “The Fieldings say she just became a changed girl. Depressed, irritable. Grades fell off and they couldn’t get her to talk to them.”

  “All teenagers go through that stage, Brian,” Sawasky answered, taking the file to examine the photos the family had provided.

  “I said as much to the parents, but they said it had to be something more. It was too much of a change too quickly.”

  “Drugs?”

  “They don’t think so.” Todd walked over to his filing cabinet and picked out another folder. “And look at this one—Debbie Shorthouse. Seventeen, still in school when she went missing.”

  “What are the parents like?” Sawasky took the file from him.

  “Professional couple, father an electrical engineer, mother a nurse at Vancouver General. Just days prior to the girl’s disappearance, they’d found out she was pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?” Sawasky stared hard at the face of the girl in the photo.

  “That your Jane Doe?”

  Sawasky shook his head. “No. Mine’s blonder than this one.” He closed the file and handed it back. “How’d the parents react?”

  “Not too pleased.” Todd continued. “Father did the old ‘how dare you sully my good name’ routine. Mother suggested an abortion or a prolonged visit to a distant aunt back east, but the girl absolutely refused and told them she could look after herself. She disappeared less than a week later.”

  “What about the others?”

  “There’s a June Cosgrove, went to the same school as Sally Fielding.” He handed the Cosgrove file to Sawasky.

  “Was she pregnant, too?”

  “If the parents knew, they didn’t tell me.” He began fishing out another file.

  “Hold it,” Sawasky said. “I think this may be my Jane Doe.”

  “Where was she found?”

  “Washed up on one of the Gulf Islands a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Oh yeah . . . something about a stolen boat, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Sawasky answered. “The Seagull. We actually found the boat about a week before the body turned up.”

  “What’s the connection?”

  “She was wearing a life jacket from the Seagull.”

  “Hard to identify after a week in the sea.” Todd gave an exaggerated shudder.

  “It’s not my idea of fun.”

  “You find the owner of the boat?”

  “A guy named Collins. He maintains that his wife’s young brother took it. Says he’s going to kill him.” He grinned. “We’re hoping to find him first.”

  “The body still in the morgue?”

  “Yeah,” Sawasky said, reaching for his coat. “You wanna go down?” He tucked the Cosgrove file under his arm.

  A short while later, the two officers were looking with revulsion on the remains of the fair-haired gir
l. “My God!” Todd muttered and turned away.

  “You think that could be the Cosgrove girl?” Sawasky asked, passing the file over. “Looks about the right age to me.”

  “Could be,” he answered, “but she’s too decomposed to be sure.” Sawasky picked up the x-ray of the corpse’s teeth just as Todd fished the dental records out of the Cosgrove file. They stared from one to the other. “Yeah,” Sawasky said and he gave a curt nod to the attendant for him to re-zip the white body bag.

  “I’ll have to get the parents over to ID her,” Todd said, watching as the body was returned to Receptacle No. 30.

  • • •

  ONCE AGAIN, ARMED WITH a brand new wicker basket, Maggie found herself walking up Violet Larkfield’s front path. “This is getting to be too much of a habit,” she muttered as she steeled herself for another encounter of the worst kind.

  “Thought it’d be you,” Violet greeted her. “He gets you running all his errands, doesn’t he?” Grabbing the basket out of Maggie’s arms, she pointed in the direction of the all-too-familiar living room. “You can wait in there. Take awhile to round her up.”

  Maggie skirted the cat pole that, to her relief, only had a couple of cats on it, neither one the Siamese. She was so concerned with her safety that it was a moment before she saw the man writing at the desk. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

  He turned toward her. “Come for that cat, I suppose.”

  “Yes, I . . . Good heavens, it’s Mr. Collins!”

  “My aunt said you’d be coming. Take a seat.”

  “Your aunt?” Maggie asked with surprise.

  “Stephanie’s aunt, actually.” When Maggie looked puzzled, he added, “Steph’s my wife.”

  “Oh, I see. I saw your car here once, but . . . I didn’t realize . . .” Her voice trailed off as Collins turned back to the desk. “Have you heard anything more on your brother-in-law?” she asked his back.

  Without bothering to face her, he said curtly, “As a matter of fact, I heard yesterday. Sprained wrist, dislocated shoulder and a lot of bruises.”

  “Where was he all this time?”

  “Victoria General. He had a concussion, and it was days before he was able to tell them who he was.”

  “But it’s more than a month since he disappeared!”