Death as a Last Resort (27 page)

"So what do you think of me now, Albert?" she asked the black and white photograph of her late husband. It was a shame she couldn't show the stuff off to her cronies when she went to play bingo that afternoon. "Ah, well," she sighed. She'd keep them until her odd neighbour stopped looking for them in her backyard, and then she'd take the whole lot along to Mr. Steinway's pawnshop and see what he would give her for them.

AN EXCERPT FROM MAGGIE'S NEXT ADVENTURE

Even though they followed the directions they had been given, it was after eight before Maggie and Nat found the old house on William Street. Badly in need of a paint and repair job, even the front porch listed to one side. It looked dark and deserted.

“No lights,” Maggie said with a shiver.

“Perhaps he likes sitting in the dark. Come on.” But after repeated knockings, there was still no answer. “Let's try the back.”

“You go first,” Maggie said nervously. “It's your idea.” She couldn't see anything attractive about the house—a large square box sitting on a double lot, walls covered in grey, weather-beaten shingles, sash windows on either side of the front door, and three more on the second floor—a dismal place. The light was fading fast, but they could still see an unkempt backyard overgrown with blackberry vines, thistles and dandelions. “Nat!” she said suddenly, tapping him on the shoulder, “Over there. Looks like some kind of barn.”

“Fairly new, too,” he answered. The tall, wooden building seemed to loom at them out of the dusk. “Can't be a garage,” he continued. “There's no street access and there seems to be only one door.”

“But why such large windows?”

“I'll knock on the back door of the house, and if he doesn't answer, we'll go over and have a peek.” He lifted his fist and banged hard on the door. “That's odd, it's open.” Poking his head inside, he yelled, “Sheldon! Sheldon! Anyone home?”

“It's no good, Nat,” Maggie said, tugging at his jacket. “He's obviously out. Let's go.”

“I'll just have a quick look inside.”

“No. That's trespassing.” She stopped for a moment. “What's that terrible smell?”

“Garbage?” he said hopefully.

“Please let's get out of here.”

But Nat had pushed the door open wider and entered into a mudroom that contained a wringer washer, a laundry tub, and shelves with cans and jars of food. Pushing through shirts, pajamas, underwear and socks draped dejectedly from a wooden clothes dryer hanging from the ceiling, he opened an adjoining door and flicked on a light that revealed a surprisingly clean kitchen. “Come on, Maggie,” he called back to her.

“I don't like this, Nat,” she said when she had joined him. “Call again, and then let's go home.”

“Sheldon,” he yelled again. Turning to Maggie, he said, “Why don't you have a quick look around down here while I go upstairs and make sure he isn't ill or something.” Not waiting for her reply, he strode through the dark hallway and disappeared up a flight of carpeted stairs.

Maggie watched him ascend, then turned back into the kitchen and opened the door into a sparsely furnished dining room. Her face wrinkled with distaste when she saw the plate of congealed eggs, shriveled bacon and a half-eaten slice of toast. In front of the plate, propped against a bottle of ketchup, was an open book of illustrated paintings. A wooden chair had been pushed back from the table and lay on its side. “Seems he left in a hurry, so what scared him?” she asked the empty room.

Closing the door, she walked back through the kitchen and into the hall and stood at the foot of the stairs. “You okay, Nat?” But all she could hear were the creaking floorboards as he went from room to room. Can't wait to get out of this spooky place. She turned the white and blue porcelain doorknob to the last room on the ground floor and gasped when a musty smell rushed out to meet her. Taking a deep breath, she fumbled on the wall until she found a switch, but the light from the dusty chandelier did little to enhance the Victorian parlour. Red velvet drapes covered the window, solid oak furniture, bric-a-brac displayed on a wicker stand, overstuffed sofa and armchairs, everything covered in a patina of dust. But Maggie found herself drawn to a large oil painting set over the marble mantle piece. It was of an elderly, prim woman, not even a hint of a smile on her sharp features. She was wearing a white lace mobcap—and her beady black eyes followed Maggie's every move. Maggie quickly turned and rushed out of the room, pulling the door firmly behind her.

“I'm going outside,” she called to Nat. “I need some air.” She didn't wait for his reply, but continued out through the kitchen and mudroom into the backyard. But even the fresh air seemed tainted.

The moon had now risen and was casting long shadows over the backyard and the barn-like structure at the end of the garden. Taking her flashlight out of her pocket, she walked slowly down the cement path that led to the entrance of the building, but it took her several minutes to lift the heavy wooden hasp fastening the door before she could step inside.

The smell! That tell tale smell. Pulling her scarf from around her neck, she held it over her mouth and nose while she used her flashlight to locate a light switch.

At first she thought it was red paint. But as she got closer, she saw it was blood. Blood from the man's throat, which had been slit from ear to ear. Her first gut feeling was to turn tail and flee from the place, but forcing herself not to gag, she took another look. “Oh! Blast! Why is it always me that has to find them?” The corpse had been arranged artistically on a chaise lounge set on a dais, and a dozen or more easels had been placed in a circle around the dais, as if waiting for the lesson to begin.

Maggie, holding the scarf over her mouth, stumbled out of the studio just as Nat came out of the house.

“There you are,” he said. “I've been calling you.”

“In there,” she answered in a shaky voice.

“What's in there?”

“He's . . . he's dead.”

“Who's dead?”

“Go and see for yourself.”

“Bloody hell!” he said a short time later as he shut the door behind him. “You do find them, don't you, Maggie?” Walking to where she was standing, he pulled her into his arms and held her close. “Come on, let's get to a telephone.”

“At least we know what the building is used for,” she laughed shakily.

“Apart from the dead body, I'd say it's a very fancy art studio.”

They waited in front of the house for the first patrol car to turn up.

“You the one called in about a dead man?” The veteran officer asked as he climbed out of the car, followed by a baby-faced younger cop.

Nat nodded. “Around the back.” He led the way.

“Holy Shit!” the senior officer exclaimed from the doorway of the studio a few minutes later. “You haven't touched anything?”

Nat shook his head.

“Call into the station and tell them it's homicide,” the officer said to his green-in-the-gills partner. “And I'll talk to you and your wife in the kitchen.”

“You know the dead man?” Officer O'Grady asked.

“He's an employee of a client of ours.” Nat answered, handing over one of their cards.

“Private investigator! So what were you investigating?”

“His employer was worried because he hadn't turned up for work.”

“And you were hired to find him?”

“No,” Maggie answered. “He's part of a major investigation.”

“And you are . . . ?”

“Margaret Spencer. The other name on that card.”

“So what are you and the . . . ahem . . . lady investigator investigating?” he asked with a smirk.

“Murder,” Maggie answered curtly. “Murder.”

GWENDOLYN SOUTHIN was born in Essex, England, and launched her career after moving to the Sunshine Coast of Canada. She co-founded The Festival of the Written Arts and the region's writer-in-residence program. She co-edited
The Great Canadian Cookbook
with Betty Keller, and her short stories and articles have appeared in
Maturity
,
Pioneer News
and
Sparks from the Forge
. She lives and writes in Sechelt, British Columbia.

Stay tuned for more adventures in the Margaret Spencer series which currently includes:
Death in a Family Way
,
In the Shadow of Death
,
Death on a Short Leash
, and
Death as a Last Resort
.

“The flow is smooth, the action well-paced.”
—Quill & Quire

“A good puzzle plot and an engaging character to carry it along.”
—Globe and Mail

“[Margaret] has her way with the reader . . . you want to find out how she's going to make out as a detective (she seems better at it than the professionals).”
—The Vancouver Sun

“Satisfies throughout. Fascinating story.”
—Sunstream Magazine

“Margaret Spencer is a smart and feisty woman to whom people open up. Original.”
—The Saskatoon Star Phoenix

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