Death in a Family Way (6 page)

The old man waited until he had stopped shaking before groping his way to the back of the house. A large garage with a shingle-roofed annex loomed up in the dark, and he debated using his light again. Gently, he turned the knob of the annex door. To his surprise, it was unlocked, and he took a tentative step inside. “Emily?” he called under his breath. The beam from the flashlight made no impression on the blackness within the building, but he thought he heard a movement. Taking another cautious step, his shaking hand making the feeble light dance on the walls, he called again. “Emily! Is that you?”

Hearing a whimpering sound from the back of the shed, he stepped in further. To his amazement, the beam of his flashlight caught, not his missing cat, but a young girl lying on a camp bed, a look of terror on her face. “Have you seen my Em . . . ?”

They were the last words that Ernie uttered. An iron crowbar cut him off in mid-sentence, smashing his fragile skull as easily as if it had been an egg. Ernie collapsed without making another
sound, falling into a heap on the floor. As he lay in the pool of blood that now gushed from his head, carrying with it the last of his miserable life, a white cat walked over to him and rubbed against his still-twitching outstretched hand, and then, arching its back and lifting its tail high, it walked out into the night.

Monday morning began cloudy, dull and grey, but to Margaret, walking from the parking lot she had discovered just a block from the office, it seemed, to the contrary, to herald the start of another exciting day. She slipped her key into the lock but found the door already open. Her boss was ahead of her.

“Hi,” Southby said. “Don't take your coat off.”

“Why not?”

“We're going to visit your favourite client.” He zippered up his windbreaker.

“Are you, by any chance, talking about Ernie Bradshaw?” she retorted and continued taking her coat off. “If so, you don't need me.”

“Well, he left an odd message with my answering service.” He took the coat from her and then held it out again.

“What do you mean odd?”

“He said he's got some information—worth money, as he put it.”

“Couldn't you just call him?”

“Tried that several times. No answer.”

“Why do you need me? Perhaps he's just away for the weekend,” she said, reluctantly slipping her arms back into the coat.

“Old Ernie? He never goes away.” He held the door open for her. “Come on.”

“Hasn't he got any relatives, children or something?” she asked over her shoulder as she led the way down the stairs.

“He's got one daughter that I am aware of, a Mrs. Read, but she lives over on Vancouver Island someplace.”

“Then perhaps he's gone there.”

“Nah. He wouldn't spend the money for the ferry or leave his precious cat. He opened the outside door. “Here, we'll take my car.”

Maggie slid into the passenger seat of the battered old Chevy. “You still haven't explained why you want me along.”

“I just know how much you like Ernie,” he laughed as he caught the expression on her face. “And since you started
The Case of the Missing Cat,
it's only right you should be in on the end of it.”

Ernie's house looked even dingier in the dull morning light. Emily, fluffy tail flying high, walked down the path to greet them.

“Hello, Emily old girl.” She bent down and stroked the cat's wet coat. “Been locked out?” Emily, purring ingratiatingly, stood on her hind legs and reached up to cling to Maggie's leg. “Down you go; your feet are wet.” Gently, she pushed the cat off and followed her boss to the front door.

He knocked loudly on the door. “Come on, Bradshaw, open up.” He tried the handle but the door wouldn't budge. He banged again, to no avail. “I'm going to look around the back, Maggie.”

She followed him around the side of the house, and the cat followed her.

The detective stretched up to see through the window, but the dirty net curtains did their job well. “There seems to be a light on in there.” He tapped on the window. “Ernie?”

Maggie tried the back door. “Here, Mr. Southby. It's open.” She pushed it a bit wider and the cat slipped between her feet into the utility room. “Mr. Bradshaw,” she called. She turned to her boss. “Do you think he's sick?”

“We'd better take a look.”

Emily was sitting outside the closed kitchen door, waiting for someone to open it for her. Maggie scooped the cat up and turned the handle. The place was a shambles—table, chairs, crockery all smashed or overturned—and amidst the mess lay Ernie Bradshaw, face down.

“Mr. Southby,” she cried out in horror. “It's Mr. Bradshaw!” Nat Southby pushed past her and knelt beside Ernie to feel for a pulse. “Is he . . . is he dead?”

“Afraid so.” He stood up, pulling his frightened assistant toward him. “The skin's cold. He's been dead for some time.” One of the old man's arms was stretched out above him, the stiff claw-like fingers seeming to be reaching for some unknown object. The back of his head was completely caved in, and although the wound was crusted with blood, the detective immediately noted that there was none on the floor. “Curious!” he muttered.

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?”