Death in a Family Way (19 page)

•  •  •

NAT WAITED IMPATIENTLY
for Harry to open the door. “Come on, I know you're in there,” he muttered through gritted teeth. Suddenly, the door jerked open, revealing a tight-lipped Harry and beside him a grim-faced young woman. “Mr. Spencer, I'm Nat South—”

“What have you done with my wife?”

“You'd better let me in,” Nat answered, pushing past them. “We've got some talking to do.”

“You haven't answered my question,” Harry said, trailing behind him.

“Don't be a goddam idiot. Just tell me when you last saw her.”

“Don't talk to my father like that.”

Nat raised his eyebrows at the girl and then turned to Harry.

“This is my elder daughter, Barbara,” Harry explained.

“And you,” Barbara said spitefully, “must be this . . . detective or whatever you are that my mother has got herself mixed up with.”

“Yes,” Nat answered quietly, “your mother and I work together. Now, Mr. Spencer, when did you last see Maggie?”

“I saw
Margaret
last night.”

“What time last night?” Nat asked, trying not to let his temper get the better of him.

“I don't know,” Harry answered tartly.

“You don't know?”

“I think she was going out somewhere.”

“Didn't she tell you where she was going?”

“No.”

“Good God, man, was she in the habit of going out without telling you?”

“We'd had a bit of a dust-up,” Harry mumbled, as he poured himself a Scotch and water.

“Weren't you concerned when she didn't come back?”

Harry's face flushed. “I wasn't aware that she hadn't come home,” he said, knocking back the Scotch.

“You don't sleep in the same room?”

“I thought she had decided to sleep in the spare room.”

“And you didn't check?”

“No. I just thought . . .”

“My father naturally thought she was with me,” Barbara cut in.

“Yes,” Harry said quickly. “I thought that's where she'd gone. Anyway, I'm sure she'll soon come to her senses.”

“You called the police?”

“I don't intend to look like a fool when she turns up.”

“Mr. Spencer,” Nat said tersely, “has it occurred to you that Maggie may be in danger?”

“What danger could she possibly be in?”

Nat picked up the receiver of the phone and dialed. “Brian,” he said when he had been connected, “I've a Mr. Spencer here whose wife's missing. He wants to talk to you about it.” He held the phone out to Harry. “Sergeant Brian Todd of Missing Persons. Talk to him.”

Harry's face blanched. “I told you I don't wish to bring the police into this.”

Nat brought his face close to Harry's, “Talk to him, man,” he said menacingly and thrust the instrument into Harry's reluctant hands.

“I don't see the necessity for calling you, but Mr. Southby insists.”

“How long has she been missing, Mr. Spencer?” Todd asked.

“Since last night,” Harry replied.

“It really depends on the circumstances, but we don't consider a person's missing till forty-eight hours have elapsed.”

“Southby's sure something's happened to her.”

“And you don't think so, Mr. Spencer? Put Nat back on.”

“What's this all about?” Todd asked, when Nat picked up the phone.

“Maggie, that is, Mrs. Spencer, works for me.”

“Yes?” Todd prompted.

“And we've been working on Ernie Bradshaw's murder.”

“Farthing did mention you'd been poking your nose into one of his cases.”

“I've a feeling she's followed a lead and got herself into some kind of trouble.”

“Without telling you, Nat?” Todd asked. “I can't see a secretary going off on her own like that.”

“For God's sake, Brian. Her husband hasn't seen her since last night, and she didn't turn up at the office this morning.” Nat paused. “She would have phoned.”

“You know there's not much we can do,” Todd answered. “Unless you have proof of foul play, our hands are tied until the forty-eight hours are up.”

“Wait a minute! I've thought of something,” Nat said desperately. “Her car . . . it's missing too. Couldn't you put out an
APB?
”

“Use your head, Nat. Perhaps the lady doesn't want to be found. We'd look pretty foolish pulling her over.”

“All I ask is that you keep a lookout for it.”

“Okay, off the record, we'll keep an eye open. What's the licence number?

“What's the licence number of her car?” Nat said, turning to Harry.

”
VBB
545,” Harry answered.

As Nat drove back to his apartment, he mulled over the last telephone conversation he'd had with Maggie. She'd asked about Cubby. How long had he known him? And then that peculiar remark about cream in his coffee. He arrived home, parked his car in the alley and took the stairs up to his apartment. “Got to do something,” he muttered as he headed for the kitchen, struggling out of his jacket. Five minutes later, a mug of instant coffee in hand, he walked back into the living room, sat down at his desk and reached for a yellow pad and pencil. “What the hell was she onto? And what in hell have I done with my cigarettes?” Back in the kitchen, he searched his jacket pockets until he found a crumpled pack of Camels, lit one and inhaled deeply before returning to his desk. “Now I can write.”

Blue Plate Café,
he wrote, then reached for his telephone directory. “I should have listened when she was telling me about the place. Just didn't think it important . . . Ah, here we are. North Vancouver. Why all the way over there, I wonder?”
Violet's.
“But I warned her not to go back there alone.”
Collins.
“I'll call him in the morning.” He flicked ash into his empty coffee mug.
Cubby.
“She seems interested in him for some reason.”
Daughters.
“Not Barbara for sure. Maybe the other one.”
Cops.
“No.”
'Hospital.
“I can check them out right now.” He reached for the phone.

Two hours later, he collapsed onto his bed. He had exhausted all the hospitals, rechecked the morgue, called the Blue Plate Café and got no answer, then called Sawasky at home to find that his friend had gone to Toronto on business for a week.

•  •  •

MAGGIE OPENED THE WINDOW
and leaned out. Faraway islands, wreathed in a light evening mist, seemed to float on a sea of gold while the last rays of the sun bathed the distant mountains in tones of apricot and deep pink. She leaned out as far as she could, looking for a means of escape, but discovered that even if she was able to climb out, there was nowhere to go but down to probable death. The house had been built high on a rocky bluff, and even if she could have found a way to climb down, there would be no soft cushion of earth to fall on. Just endless rocks and trees all the way down a hundred feet or more to the water. Looking down made her head spin, and she staggered back to the bed, where she lay down and closed her eyes.
Where in hell am I? I've got to get away.
The terror of Cuthbertson returning forced her eyes open again.
He'll be back.
There had to be another way out of this mess. Somehow she would have to elude Violet.

As if on cue, Violet opened the door. “Just checking,” she said. She threw a sleeping bag into the room. “Here, you'll need this.” She was pointing the automatic at Maggie.

“How long are you going to keep me here?”

“If it was up to me, I'd finish you off right now. You're nothing but trouble.”

“They'll be out there searching for me.”

“And a lot of good that'll do them,” Violet said, backing out the door. “You're on a private island, my girl. No neighbours and, in case you're thinking of escaping, no boat.”

When she was alone again, Maggie gave in to fear.
My God! What am I going to do? If only I could think straight.
She forced
herself to her feet, headed for the bathroom and splashed cold water over her face.
There are no clues to connect me to this island. Nat thinks Cubby's his friend, and if it's true that he's gone to help Nat with the search, he'll consider Cubby even more of a friend.
She dried her face and walked back to the window again.

The sky had darkened and stars were beginning to come out, and in the distance she could see twinkling lights on one of the small neighbouring islands. She turned to go back into the room when it hit her. Lights! So Violet was lying. There were neighbours. A long way off, maybe, but there were people out there.
Of course, they may be friends of Cuthbertson. But even if they're not, how can I possibly get to them without a boat?
Exhausted and still suffering from the effect of the drug Cuthbertson had injected, Maggie crawled into the sleeping bag. “I must stay awake and think this out,” she muttered as her eyes closed.

•  •  •

THE WATER GLINTED
in the early morning sunshine and gently lapped against the moored boats in the yacht basin. Nat, groggy from lack of sleep, walked down the ramp to Cubby's cruiser. To his surprise, he found him lounging in a canvas chair on the after-deck, smoking a cigarette, his face tilted toward the sun.

“You seen Collins around?” Nat asked.

Cuthbertson opened one eye. “Not for a couple of days. Come aboard. Sorry I can't offer you coffee.”

“I'll buy you one over at the clubhouse,” Nat said. He had used the last of his bottled instant during the night and left home this morning caffeine-less. He peered down the companionway into the cabin. “All the comforts, I see,” he said, then, noting the dishevelled bunks, asked, “You living on board?”

“No. I didn't get in from fishing until the wee hours, so I decided to sleep here.” He leaned over and closed the small door. “Let's get that coffee.”

“Maggie's disappeared,” Nat said as they walked side by side. “She hasn't been seen since Sunday night.”

“Oh? Probably had a fight with her husband and walked out on him. Women are like that.”

“Maggie's not like that.”

“I guess you've tried all the usual channels.”

“Yep. No dice.”

“Stop worrying.” He held the door open for Nat. “She'll turn up.” Later, as he reached for his third creamer, Cuthbertson asked, “So why are you looking for Collins?”

“I think he's up to no good,” Nat answered. “The police are taking a close look at his brother-in-law, too.”

“You mean Larry?'

“There's a definite connection between him and the Cosgrove girl—the one they found dead with
Seagull's
life jacket on. They think he's in deep with some kinda scam.”

“A scam?” Cuthbertson asked quietly.

“Yeah. Missing girls. I'm worried Maggie has stumbled onto something,” Nat said, trying to catch the waitress' eye. “More coffee, Cubby?”

“No.” Cuthbertson stood up abruptly. “Sorry, I've got to run. I forgot I've got an important meeting this morning.”

“That's okay,” Nat answered. “I'm going over to Collins' berth again to see if he's turned up there.”

“So you think Collins is in this thing with Larry?”

“Yeah. Maggie's convinced that both he and Violet Larkfield are mixed up in it.”

“Violet Larkfield . . . ? Ah, yes. Larry's aunt.” He placed his hand on Nat's shoulder. “Look Nat, call me if I can be of any help. I mean it. Anytime.”

That must be one hell of an important meeting,
Nat thought as he watched Cubby climb into his green Mercedes and wheel out
of the parking lot with tires squealing. In fact, Cubby, with murder in his heart, was heading for a showdown with Larry.

The canvas cover on Collins' boat was battened down, and pieces of paper and other debris that had been whipped by the wind clung to the canvas and the windscreen. Nat whistled. “This is one fast baby,” he said, noting the boat's sleek lines and its powerful Johnson. He unbuttoned one side of the canvas cover and pushed it back so that he could see into both the forward and aft cockpits. Everything was clean and neatly stowed, and it was obvious that the boat hadn't been used for days. He buttoned the cover down again and headed for McNab's little cubbyhole of an office, but the only sign of the feisty Scotsman was a note pinned to the door: “Back Wednesday.” Nat glanced at his watch. Maggie had scheduled a new client for eleven, and he realized with a sinking feeling that she wouldn't be there to greet the man and keep him happy until he turned up. He headed for his car.

It was well after one o'clock before he walked into the Blue Plate Café and sat down amongst the blue cloths, curtains and paper napkins. He ordered a club sandwich and fries and hoped that it would come on a regular white plate, having discovered a sudden aversion to blue.

“Do you remember a lady coming in here last week and asking some questions about missing girls?” he asked the young waitress as she filled his cup.

The girl shook her head. “Nah.”

“Could you ask one of the other waitresses for me?”

“It
is
lunchtime, you know,” she answered in an aggrieved voice. Nat opened his wallet and placed a two-dollar bill on the table. The girl bent down and neatly palmed it. “I'll ask.”

Nat stared at the grey banana pudding that came with the lunch and decided against it. He was lighting his second cigarette when an elderly waitress stopped by his table.

“You wanna know about those missing girls, too?” she said.

“My assistant came here asking about them last week. Do you remember her? Short brown hair, blue eyes . . .”