Death on a Short Leash (7 page)

• • •

OLD MEMORIES CAME
rushing back to Nat as they approached the police station the next morning. After all, it had been his workplace for all those years before he took early retirement to open his own business. But what he dreaded most of all was facing Detective Farthing—the man who had taken over his job and his office. A young constable showed them into the detective's office, and while they waited, Nat's eyes scanned the room, noting, as on a previous visit, the athletic certificates, photographs and trophies.

“It's hard to believe this used to be your office,” Maggie whispered. “It's so neat and tidy—and look at all those athletic awards!”

Nat grinned. “It was much cosier when I had it. Here comes the big white chief.”

“Sit down,” Farthing demanded when he entered the room. “I hear that you've been meddling again.”

“Hardly,” Nat answered. “A client asked us to locate a young girl. It wasn't our fault she turned up dead.”

“I hear you went over to her apartment. Did you remove anything?”

“What do you take me for?” Nat could feel his temper rising.

“You must've found something in her apartment that told you she was working in that disgusting strip place.” Farthing's prudish views always surprised Nat.

“We did what your officers should have done,” Nat replied, not hiding the contempt in his voice. “We interviewed her neighbours.”

Farthing's face flushed as he reached for the intercom.

“Constable Snow,” he barked. “I need you in here with your notepad. Unless you two want to go to an interview room?” he said, turning to Nat and Maggie.

Maggie quietly put out her hand and touched Nat's knee before he could give an angry retort. “Here will be fine,” she answered.

“Start right at the beginning, and Snow here will take it all down. We'll get you to sign the statement before you leave. Number one, who did you speak to in the girl's apartment house?”

• • •

“THAT WAS ONE
nasty session,” Maggie exclaimed as she climbed into Nat's car. “But,” she added with a grin, “you actually managed to keep your temper.”

“That son of a bitch always gets under my skin,” he replied, starting the engine. “I do try, Maggie, honest I do.” He paused while he checked the oncoming traffic, then turned the car into it. “But now that we know Johanna was murdered, we had no choice but to tell him everything.”

“Well, it's out of our hands now,” Maggie said sadly. “Let's just hope Farthing finds out who her killer was.”

I
t was the last day of September and a couple of weeks since Johanna's body had been found. Henny was beginning to seem like her old self. She was refilling the coffee pot when Nat came out of his office and stood in front of Maggie's desk.

“Where have I heard the name Silver Springs Nursing Home before?”

“Silver Springs? That's the place my mother-in-law convalesced after her bunion operation, remember?”

“Ja,” Henny interrupted. “It is in Richmond. Near where Johanna works.” She stopped abruptly. “Poor little Johanna.”

“That's it.” He turned, trying not to notice Henny's tears. “That last phone call Henny put through was from a guy named Edwin Slater. He says his mother left a considerable amount of money to this Silver Springs place and he wants us to look into it.”

“Oh, that kind of thing happens all the time,” Maggie said.

“Even my Aunt Jessie left some money to the nursing home she was in.”

“But this was a considerable sum, and he's sure there's something fishy going on there.” He peered at the hissing percolator.

“That coffee smells wonderful, Henny.”

“I get your special cup,” she answered, mopping her eyes. “It needed lots of washing.”

“From what Midge has told me,” Maggie said, “the patients are very well looked after and there is a long waiting list to get in. Your Mr. Slater could always contest the will.”

“That's what I told him,” Nat said, “but he still wants us to look into the place.”

“We can't just walk in and ask if they're bilking their patients,” Maggie said, laughing.

“No, but he wants us to see if other ex-patients have left large amounts to them. We'll need to know who's on the board of directors. Can you do that, Maggie?”

“I'll call and ask them to send me one of their brochures.” She pulled the telephone book toward her. “Silver Springs,” she murmured, running her fingers down the Ss. “Ah. Here it is.”

“Silver Springs Nursing Home,” a prim voice answered after Maggie had dialed the number. “May I help you?”

“I'm very interested in placing my elderly mother in your residence,” Maggie said. “I understand you do have long-term care?”

“Yes, madam, but I'm afraid there's quite a long waiting list.”

“So I understand,” Maggie replied. “But my mother is in the process of selling her home in Shaughnessy and needs expert care.”

Maggie could practically hear the wheels turning when the receptionist heard the prestigious address. She added, “The house and estate are far too large for her to cope with in her present state of health.”

“The brochure will be sent immediately, madam,” the crisp voice answered. “We sometimes have a cancellation.”

“Mother will need to know who the board of directors are, of course.”

“I will include the list with our brochure. And where shall I send it?” Maggie gave her own home address.

It was late in the afternoon when George called. “I think I've found that place you were looking for,” he said when Maggie picked up the phone. “It's called The Path to the Golden Light, and it's not a dog kennel. It's a farm run by a Brother Francois and his followers.”

“No dogs?”

“No dogs! Just the usual chickens and goats.”

“What do you mean—
his followers?
”

“Apparently it's some kind of sect. They're springing up all over the place.”

“Both Sandra and Johanna's boyfriend said she was going to see some kennels. Must be some other place. But thanks, anyway,”

Maggie said, then asked, “Do you know how the investigation's going on with Johanna's death?”

“We've interviewed lots of people, but so far no leads,” he answered. “You still looking into it?”

“We haven't heard anything more from the Evans' so I guess they're leaving that end of it up to you guys.”

“That's what we're here for. Give your boss my best.”

Maggie was just putting on her coat when the phone jangled again. “Blast!” She wavered. “I suppose I'd better see who it is.” To her surprise it was Marie Evans.

“We would like to make an appointment to see Mr. Southby as soon as possible,” she said. “David and I are not happy with the slowness of police.”

“But it's only been a couple of weeks.”

“Yes. But already five weeks since Johanna was murdered.

When can we come?”

“I know that you have to catch a ferry,” Maggie answered.

“Would this Friday, October 2, be okay?”

“That would be good.”

• • •

THEY ARIVED BREATHLESS
from walking up the stairs—the elevator was out of order again—and Maggie gave them a few minutes to recover before gathering up her notepad and pencils and ushering them into Nat's office. As was his habit, he took his time, slowly pulling a yellow pad toward him and picking up his fountain pen, which he gently rolled between his fingers before addressing the couple. “Are you really sure that you want us to continue the investigation?”

“Yes,” David Evans answered in his soft Welsh accent, looking toward his wife. “We have heard nothing from the police.”

“Yes,” Marie added. To Maggie, she seemed even thinner than the last time they had met. “We need answers, Mr. Southby, and Henny said you would get them for us.”

“And the trail is getting freezing,” Henny said from where she stood in the open doorway.

Nat put a hand over his mouth to hide the smile. “I see what you mean. But with the trail this cold, it could take us just as long as the police,” he explained. “In fact, we can't guarantee results either, and it's going to cost you money.”

“We have talked it over,” Evans said, very determinedly. “And what good is our life or our business without our daughter? You find the killer for us.”

“What kind of business are you in?” Maggie asked.

“I have a shoe repair shop,” Evans replied. “It's attached to the house.”

“And I sometime look after the house of Mr. Peterskill,” said Marie. “He and his wife come up to the coast some weekends. They build a big new house.”

“Peterskill?” Nat asked, glancing at Maggie. “I've heard that name before. What business is he in?”

Marie shook her head. “I don't know. He seems to have the finger in lots of pies. But he is kind to Johanna.”

“In what way?” Nat asked.

“He owns that apartment block,” David cut in. “And he let her stay there on reduced rent until she had finished her veterinary course.”

“And got her the job with Dr. Williams,” Marie added.

“What about Johanna's job at the nightclub?” Nat asked tentatively.

“As a waitress,” Marie said firmly. “I don't understand why she would work in a nightclub. There's lots of nice restaurants . . .”

Nat glanced sharply at Marie Evans. “But she was a . . .”

“You will need to ask questions there,” David Evans interrupted, giving Nat a slight shake of his head.

“Of course,” Nat responded.

“Did she mention some kennels in Abbotsford?” Maggie asked, to change the subject. “Both Sandra and Hans said that she was going to look at some kennels there that weekend.”

The Evanses shook their heads. “Johanna never mentioned kennels,” Marie said.

“Would your daughter have been interested in a commune?”

Nat asked.

“Definitely not,” David answered.

“Please,” Marie asked, “what is a commune?”

“A place where men, women and children live together as one big family,” her husband explained.

“Why would our Johanna go to such a place?” Marie demanded.

“I've no idea,” Nat said. “But now that you want us to continue, we'll go to Abbotsford and see if we can find these kennels. Unfortunately, as we said earlier, the trail is cold, but we'll do our best.” He stood up. “We'll need this Peterskill's city address, along with anyone else's you can think of.”

“He lives somewhere on the north shore,” Evans answered, “but he has an office on Georgia. Apart from Marie's sister, you have met everyone else.” He leaned forward and shook Nat's hand. “I know that you will find out what happened to our girl.”

“We'll do our best,” Nat answered.

“Do you have children?” Marie Evans asked Maggie, after she and her husband had signed the contract and written down her sister's address.

“Yes, two daughters.”

“Then you must know what it is like for us . . .”

“It would be hard to even imagine,” Maggie answered. “Have you spoken to Johanna's boyfriend lately?”

“He's such a nice boy,” Marie answered sadly. “So upset about Johanna . . .”

“SO, BOSS,”
Maggie asked once they were alone in his office, “what do we do now?”

“Follow up on the commune, talk to the boyfriend again—and this guy Peterskill, of course—and make another visit to Pandora's!” He was grinning now.

“Marie Evans seems to have conveniently forgotten that Johanna was an entertainer there.”

“Yeah, I noticed. I guess it's a case of denial.”

“I think the commune comes first,” Maggie replied, ignoring his reference to Pandora's, “and I could call on the aunt. She lives fairly close to me.”

“Right. I'll give George a buzz and find out where this commune place is. He told me that the Abbotsford detachment has already paid the good brother a visit.” He reached for the phone. “We'll go tomorrow, okay?”

M
aggie awoke to an overcast sky and the sound of branches striking the side of the house. “Do you still want to go to Abbotsford?” she asked, pulling the comforter up around her shoulders. She drained the last of the tea that Nat had made for her. “Couldn't we leave it til next week?”

“Up! You too, Emily.” Nat took the empty cup from her hand and then tipped the sleeping cat off the bottom of the bed. “I've been up since the crack of dawn to satisfy your terrible English habit of tea in bed. And I've prepared breakfast and had a shower.”

Maggie snuggled further down in the bed. “Just a few minutes more.”

“It's eight o'clock and the sun will probably be out by the time we're on the road. Come on.”

But the lovely autumn weather Vancouver had been experiencing the past few weeks had vanished, and by the time they reached the outskirts of New Westminster, the overcast sky had deteriorated to a blustery drizzle. They drove over the Patullo Bridge and into the Surrey countryside, and Nat cursed as the Chevy's inefficient wipers streaked the grime sprayed onto the windshield from the trucks and cars they passed on the two-lane route.

“Told you we should've stayed home,” Maggie muttered as they turned onto the Fraser Highway. “How long is it going to take us?”

“A couple of hours,” Nat answered, peering through the grime. “There'll be a lot less traffic once we're beyond Langley.” But the journey seemed endless as they slowed to a crawl through the small settlements of Murrayville, Aldergrove and Clearbrook before they eventually wound up in Abbotsford.

“According to George's instructions,” Maggie said, reading from a slip of paper, “Cowslip Lane is the first right after the Pioneer Stockyards.”