Death on a Short Leash (23 page)

“Not too much damage, I hope?” the man said, stepping out of his booth as they left. “Lovely car, that.”

“Hardly a scratch,” Nat replied, unhooking the chain for Maggie to get through. “But you know how these people love their cars.”

“That's a fact. But they're stingy with their tips,” he said hopefully.

“No need to tell Mr. Peterskill we were here today,” Nat replied, slipping the man a fiver. “We were supposed to have inspected it a couple of days ago.”

“Thanks. Mum's the word.”

• • •

FARTHING SAW THEM
right away. “Finding more bodies, I hear,” he said to them, pointing to a couple of chairs. “Getting quite a thing with you two.”

“Not of my choosing,” Maggie replied tartly.

“So what were the pair of you doing back at that commune?”

“We explained that to the Abbotsford RCMP,” Nat answered.

“They must've told you?”

“Something about looking for those poor little lost doggies you seem to be chasing all over the countryside,” he said sarcastically. “Did you find them?”

“You know damn well we didn't,” Nat replied, trying to curb his temper. “Now what do you want to see us about?”

“Just to remind you again, Southby, to stop sticking your nose into police matters.” He picked up a manila file and banged it on his desk. “And you, Mrs. Spencer. I can't believe that you actually let your daughter get mixed up in your so-called investigations. Her father called us and he is not pleased.”

“He did what?” Maggie exploded.

He glared at her. “Your daughter will be lucky if the owners of the pups don't sue her for kidnapping,” he continued.

“Is that all you've called us in for?” she replied angrily, getting to her feet.

“No. The girl in the hospital wants to talk to you.”

“You mean Jasmine? She's come around?”

Farthing nodded. “A couple of days ago. She's been asking for you.”

“Why didn't someone tell us?” Maggie snapped.

“I'm telling you now. She hasn't been allowed visitors up to this point.” He looked down at his desk and squared the already neat pile of papers in front of him. “Uh . . . we would appreciate hearing of anything important she tells you.”

“But surely,” Nat intervened, “you've questioned her?”

“She's still slipping in and out of consciousness. The only thing we got out of her was that the last thing she remembered was being on the main road and trying to hitch a ride.”

“What about her baby?” Maggie asked.

“She keeps asking for him too. Anyway,” he said, standing up, “let us know what she tells you. It may help us find her child.” He walked them to the door. “Contrary to what you may think,” he added, “I do care what happens to these young people.”

“Ah,” Maggie said, smiling thinly, “methinks there may be a true heart beating behind all that armour, Inspector.”

He nodded curtly to her. “Just keep us informed.”

“Y
ou can only stay for ten minutes,” the nurse said brusquely. “And just one of you can go in. She's still very weak and you'll find she drifts in and out of consciousness.”

Her face still puffed and bruised, Jasmine gave Maggie a wan smile as she walked into the room. “My baby . . .” she whispered.

Maggie drew a chair close to the bed. “I don't know where he is, Jasmine,” she said as she reached forward to gently cover the girl's rough, work-worn hand with hers. “We were at the commune this last weekend and everyone appears to have gone.”

“The other farm . . .” the girl said, tears running down her face.

“What other farm?” Maggie asked.

“Sister Marigold . . .” The girl's eyes closed.

“Jasmine,” Maggie gently nudged her. “Who is Sister Marigold?

Where is the farm?”

But Jasmine didn't answer. Instead, she said, “That girl who came to the farm . . . she came . . .”

“When did she come, Jasmine?”

“He came with her . . .”

“You mean someone came with her?”

“In a car . . .” Jasmine's eyes closed again.

“What kind of car, Jasmine?” Maggie asked. “What kind of car?” But Jasmine's eyes remained closed. A few minutes later, the door opened and the nurse beckoned Maggie out into the corridor.

“She's going to get better, isn't she?” Maggie asked.

“Hard to say,” the nurse answered. “You saw how she drifts in and out.”

“Can I come back?”

“Best to phone first. Or get in touch with her brother.”

“What brother?”

“Well,” she replied huffily, “at least he says he's her brother. I told the police that he had phoned, and they asked me to tell him to phone them next time he called.”

“Has he been in to see her?”

“No. He said he'll come after she regains consciousness.”

• • •

“SO WHAT DID
Jasmine have to say?” Nat asked anxiously when Maggie arrived back in the waiting room.

“Very little. But the nurse says that someone calling himself Jasmine's brother has phoned.”

“Has he been to see her?”

“No. The nurse said he's waiting until Jasmine regains consciousness. Nat,” she added anxiously, “do you think it could be the killer?”

“We'd better tell Farthing right away. What did Jasmine want?”

“To find her baby and to tell me something about Johanna.

Come on, let's get out of here.”

“What did she say about Johanna?” Nat persisted, leading the way out to the car park.

“All I got out of her was that she saw a man with Johanna and they came by car.”

“Did she say what kind?”

“No. She lapsed back into unconsciousness.” Maggie opened the passenger door of the Chevy and slipped in beside Nat. “Has to be Peterskill,” she said.

“Sure looks like it. Wish you could have got more out of her.”

“Oh, there was one other thing. She mentioned someone called Marigold. She said Marigold would know where the second farm was.”

“Great!” Nat muttered. “How do you propose finding someone called Marigold?”

“Seems we have to find the farm to find Marigold or Marigold to find the farm.”

“I think we need food,” Nat said as he put the ancient car into gear. “Let's go and eat. Perhaps something enlightening will come to us.”

• • •

“YOU'D BETTER PHONE
Farthing first,” Maggie said, pointing to the phone booth at the entrance to the restaurant. “I'll find us a table.”

“After a lot of his usual quibbling,” Nat reported as he sat down and picked up the menu, “he agreed to put a guard on Jasmine.”

While they ate, they went over and over Johanna's death and Jasmine's beating, but the only conclusion they came to by the end of the evening was that they had to talk to Peterskill again.

“This time,” Nat said, “we'll both go.”

• • •

MAGGIE MADE THE APPOINTMENT
for Thursday morning at ten. “But I've told you everything I know,” Peterskill stormed over the phone.

“Do the police know of your full involvement with the dead girl?” she asked. “If you like, we could fill them in on all the information we've put together.”

Peterskill didn't answer right away, but then said reluctantly, “You'd better make it quick. I'm a busy man.”

“
I SEE YOU
are meeting that Mr. Peterskill,” Henny said, scanning the appointment book. “Marie called me Sunday. They worry we won't find who killed Johanna. It's been a long-time.”

“Unfortunately, these things take time.”

“Hans came to see them. He took them for a trip up the coast in his car. Marie says he feels guilty.”

“Why, for God's sake?”

“He said Johanna would still be alive if he had taken her to Abbotsford instead of going to his brother's wedding.”

“He can't blame himself for maybes,” Maggie said. “Marie and David don't own a car?”

“No. David never wanted one. Says his bicycle's good enough.”

“Wouldn't suit me,” Maggie laughed. “I don't know what I'd do without my Morris.”

• • •

A BRUSQUE, VERY
stern-faced Peterskill led them into his office. “I don't know what else I can tell you,” he said, indicating the two visitor's chairs. “But if this harassing goes on, I will be consulting my lawyer.”

“We'll be as quick as we can,” Nat said, taking a small notebook out of his pocket. “Most of our questions concern your relationship with Johanna Evans.”

“My relationship?” Peterskill spluttered. “I only knew her as an employee.”

“Come on,” Maggie interspersed softly. “We know there was much more between you than that. You've known her since she was a child . . .”

“Yes, exactly, Mrs. Spencer,” he replied indignantly. “I looked on her as . . .” he paused, “not as a father, exactly . . . more like an older brother . . .”

But Maggie continued, “Your car was seen waiting for her at the back of Pandora's, she sat with you at your table in the nightclub, and you owned the apartment she lived in. Shall I go on?”

“Come on, Peterskill!” Nat leaned forward in his seat. “Johanna, for all her young years, knew her way around. What happened? Did she threaten to tell your wife she was expecting your child? And did you panic when you found out she was pregnant, and arrange for her to be killed?”

“How dare you make such accusations!” Peterskill raged, jumping to his feet. “I loved her, for God's sake, I loved her. Now the pair of you get out!”

“Not until you tell us where you were the weekend she went to Abbotsford,” Nat insisted.

“We know that she arrived at the commune by car and that she was accompanied by a man,” Maggie said.

“Well, it wasn't me,” Peterskill yelled. “And if you persist in harassing me . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Well, where were you that weekend?”

Peterskill slumped into his chair and put his head in his hands. “She kept pestering me to help her find that damned puppy mill,” he said resignedly, “but my wife's parents were with us that weekend. She told me that if I wouldn't take her, she'd find someone else.”

“Did she say who?” Maggie asked.

He shook his head. “Just said she knew someone who would be willing to take her. And that was the last time I saw her.” He stood up and walked around his desk. “And you can check with my wife, my secretary and anyone else you damn well please.”

“Was Johanna blackmailing you about the baby?” Maggie asked.

“Blackmail? For God's sake, I was going to take care of her. I didn't care whose baby it was!”

“One last thing,” Maggie said. “Did you pick Johanna up from Pandora's after she got off work early Saturday morning?”

“I got my chauffeur to pick her up as usual. He took her straight home.”

“You sure he took her straight home?” Nat asked.

“Of course. I heard him come back the usual time. And the car was in the garage, ready for my wife and I to drive to Gibsons Landing on the first ferry.” He scribbled a name on a piece of paper. “Here! You can check him out!”

“So,” Maggie said as they went down in the elevator. “I guess we're back to square one.”

“If his story holds up,” Nat answered grimly.

“I had him all picked out to be the murderer, but somehow I think he's telling the truth.”

• • •

“I'VE CALED THE
city hall in Chilliwack,” Maggie said the following morning. “And they said they can't give out information on personal addresses. Got any other ideas?”

“We'll drive out there ourselves. Let's get an early start tomorrow.”

“So there's no Saturday morning sleep-in,” Maggie said with a grin.

The late October drive through the Fraser Valley was spectacular. They could see workers on the numerous well-kept farms stacking bales of hay or gathering ripe pumpkins for Halloween. Stopping at a roadside stall, they bought crisp apples and a couple of jars of honey. Outside of Chilliwack, they turned off onto the Old Yale Road, which meandered through farm country before it entered the town.

“If I remember rightly,” Nat said as they drove across some rail tracks, “there should be a gas station along here somewhere. We need gas, and it'll be a good place to start asking about farms.”

“There it is,” Maggie said a few minutes later. “On the next corner. There seems to be a general store there, too.”

Nat drove in, cut the engine and then hauled himself out of the driver's seat. “Fill 'er up,” he said, and leaned against his car to watch. “Happen to know of any farmers around here with the initials NH?”

The man shook his head. “Only bin here a few months,” he said as he pulled the nozzle out of the tank. “Need ya oil checked?”

Nat stretched his arms above his head. “Might as well.”

“You c'd ask Mrs. Lake in there.” He indicated the store with a turn of his head. “She's th' owner and seems to know ever'body.”

“You don't know the name?” the woman behind the counter asked. “NH isn't much to go on.”

“There could be some people from a commune staying with them,” Maggie put in hopefully. “They do wear distinctive clothing.”

The woman shook her head. “Are you sure it's a farm?” she asked as she took the money from Nat for the gas. “Most of the farms around here are owned by God-fearing families,” she continued. “Can't see them having any of them people from a commune.”

Nat reached into his inside pocket and produced his private-eye badge. “We're working on a case,” he said conspiratorially. “And the only clue we have is that it's a farm or a farmer with those initials, and the address is on ‘YL Rd, Chilliwack.'”