Death as a Fine Art

by Gwendolyn Southin

  DEATH AS A FINE ART

  Gwendolyn Southin

  Dedicated to the memory of my daughter, Wendy, and my husband and life companion, Vic.

  PROLOGUE

  Saturday, January 27, 1962

  Jonathan Standish stood back from the sculpture that had given his gallery its name: The Silver Unicorn. The piece was definitely his best work and, as he had intended from the start, it set the standard for all the work he accepted to sell on commission in the gallery.

  Even though it was getting late he wandered through the softly lit room, touching first this piece and then that one. He lingered the longest on his favourite porcelain pieces—the little girl playing with her dog, the woman laughing as she held onto her hat in the wind . . . The Two Js. What a difference they had made to his life!

  He sighed. Time to go home. He made sure the alarm was set and the doors firmly locked, then flipped the lights and walked back the length of the gallery to slip inside his office for his thick winter coat and hat. There was a separate alarm system for the rear of the building, and he would set that before exiting by the back door. His car was parked just outside in the yard.

  The sound of a key scraping in the back door stopped him in mid-reach for his coat. He whirled around.

  “My God! You scared the living daylights out of me! What the hell are you doing here at this time of night?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I am not going to change my mind.”

  “Sit down at your desk, Jonathan, and let us talk.”

  “I’m through talking with you.”

  “Then perhaps this will persuade you. Sit down, Jonathan.”

  “Are you mad? Stop waving that ridiculous gun at me.”

  “Sit down. I mean it.”

  Jonathan sat, and felt the muzzle of the gun pressing against his head just above his right ear. “Let’s talk rationally about this.” Although his heart was racing, he tried to keep a semblance of calm in his voice. “You’ll be charged with murder.”

  “But I’m not committing murder. You are committing suicide. You are so worried about business, and then there’s the affair that’s eating at you and the effect it will have on your loving wife . . . it’s just too much for you to bear. Your suicide note is quite explicit.”

  He tried to struggle to his feet but the muzzle of the gun pushed even harder against the side of his head. He shuddered and subsided back into his seat. “There will be no suicide note. If you kill me, it will be murder!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Jonathan. You have already written it. And it is quite clear that you did write it. You see, the fingerprints on the paper and on the typewriter keys are yours, nobody else’s.” His tormentor gave a course laugh. “In fact, it will be the perfect murder—but the verdict will be a definite suicide—so sad!”

  “What do you want from me? Money? Tell me!” There was a shrill note in his voice as he tried once again to get to his feet, but Jonathan’s world and all his hopes for the future were suddenly shattered by a single shot.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Monday, April 9, 1962

  The sky was an azure blue, the wind warm, flowers abundant. Earlier that morning, as Maggie walked down the narrow garden path leading to her back alley garage, she had revelled in the warm air and the wonderful smell of the late spring flowers, and most of all the lilac bushes—the scent of the purple lilac so heady she had immediately been transported back to her childhood growing up in Maidstone, Kent. The county of Kent, nestled in the southeast corner of England, really lived up to its name: The Garden of England. In fact, it was a perfect April day in the city of Vancouver, but Margaret Spencer—Maggie to everyone who knew her well—was wishing she was anywhere but inside a courthouse in downtown Vancouver.

  It was the final day in the trial of two people Southby and Spencer, Private Investigators had helped bring to justice—and it was mainly Maggie’s testimony concerning her kidnapping and attempted murder that had clinched the prosecutor’s case. But Maggie didn’t want to listen to the summaries. Instead, she and her partner, Nat Southby, left the court as soon as she finished giving her testimony.

  “I think you need a good cup of tea,” Nat said, tucking her arm into his. He had become very protective since her near-death experience on their last case, and although she hated to admit it, she was still feeling a little fragile. “And there happens to be a restaurant just down the street,” he continued.

  Fifteen minutes later, taking a sip from her tea, Maggie said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a real break from investigating crimes.”

  Nat thought for a while before answering. “Why don’t you come with me to Victoria this Thursday? You can mooch around the shops and museums while I have my final meeting with Jake Houston.” The previous January Southby and Spencer, Private Investigators had been hired by the Ministry of Forests to look into some clear-cutting scams, and Jake Houston had been Nat’s contact during the investigation. “We could have the whole weekend over there and return on Monday.”

  “What a wonderful idea,” Maggie exclaimed. “But what about leaving the agency?”

  “We don’t have any big contracts on at the moment,” Nat answered. “And Henny can handle the office on her own for a few days. You know how she loves to be the boss.”

  “And I can get my next door neighbour, Carol, to look after Emily and Oscar.”

  “I think you worry more about your darned cat and dog than you do about me,” Nat teased.

  “You know that isn’t true, Nat,” she answered, leaning across the table to take his hand in hers.

  • • •

  NAT HAD BEEN right: Victoria was a good idea and Maggie loved it.

  “Do you know, Nat,” she said after she had unpacked her bags the following Thursday afternoon, “Victoria is more English than England.” She laughed. “Just look at this room!” They had decided to stay in Oak Bay just outside Victoria at a private guesthouse—aptly named Windsor Rose Cottage—instead of an ordinary hotel.

  Nat had been stationed in the south of England during the Second World War, so he understood exactly what she meant. They had been given the Pink Room, and the walls were papered in small pink roses while the bedspread, the two easy chairs, and the drapes were covered in matching cretonne. Even the pictures on the walls depicted English gardens.

  “There’s plenty of room for your clothes in here,” Maggie said as she carefully hung her silk dress in the small closet.

  “Naw! Haven’t got much. I’ll keep them in my bag on the floor. Nice bed,” he added, throwing himself onto it. “Which side do you want?”

  • • •

  IN THE MORNING, breakfast was set in a glassed-in extension to the dining room. “It’s almost like sitting out in the garden,” Maggie whispered as she flipped her white linen napkin onto her lap.

  “But without all those pink roses,” he whispered back. “Just look at those birds,” he continued. The garden was full of them—hummingbirds at the two feeders, robins bathing in the concrete birdbath, and various other species pecking away at wooden birdfeeders hanging from the branches of two huge maple trees.

  “Wouldn’t Emily just love this garden?”

  “But the birds wouldn’t like Emily,” Nat stated. They both looked up as two women approached their table.

  “Mind if we join you?”

  “Of course not,” Maggie said, smiling. Nat immediately jumped to his feet and pulled chairs out for them.

  “I’m Jane Weatherby and this is my sister, Alice Standish,” the older of the two women announced as she sat down. Alice smiled shyly as she sat in the chair opposite Maggie, then adjusted the pink and turquoise chiffon scarf that had slipped off her shoulders.r />
  “Nat Southby.” Nat leaned across the table to shake hands. “And this is Maggie.”

  Maggie was intrigued by the two sisters. Jane Weatherby, her grey hair twisted into a neat bun, was tall, angular, and dressed in tweeds and sensible walking shoes. Alice, her unruly chestnut hair cascading over her shoulders, wore a beige linen tunic over a floral-patterned dress. As far as Maggie could see, she was at least a good head and shoulders shorter than her sister. And, Maggie estimated, at least ten years younger.

  Jane picked up the menu and passed it to her sister. “Go easy on the cream. You know how it upsets you,” she said sternly.

  As Alice studied the menu, the slight blush to her peaches and cream complexion showed her annoyance. Adjusting the scarf once again, she placed the menu on the table, brushed a strand of hair away from her blue eyes, and then turned to Nat. “Have you been staying here long?” she asked.

  “We got in last night,” he replied. “And you?”

  “A couple of days ago,” she answered.

  The four of them chatted over the huge English-style breakfast. They were at the toast and marmalade stage when Jane leaned toward Nat and asked, “And what do you do for a living, Mr. Southby?”

  “Nat,” he answered. “I’m a private investigator.”

  “How exciting. Don’t tell me you investigate real murders?”

  Nat laughed. “Yes, even those at times.”

  “And what about you, dear? What do you do when he’s out investigating foul crimes?” Alice asked.

  “I help him,” Maggie answered. “We’re partners.”

  “Do you mean you’re an investigator, too?” Jane asked in a shocked tone. “That’s a very unusual job for a woman.”

  “And are you taking a few days’ rest like us?” Maggie asked, refusing to be drawn into a discussion of her unusual job—yet again.

  Jane nodded. “I’ve recently retired from teaching history at a private college here in Victoria.”

  “And you . . . ?” Maggie asked, turning toward the other woman.

  “My husband and I own—or I should say we owned—an art gallery on South Granville, but . . .” she faltered. “He died suddenly a couple of months ago.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Maggie said quickly.

  “That’s why we’re taking this little vacation,” Jane cut in, leaning over to pat her sister’s hand. “Before I move in to help—not that I know too much about art . . . but I’m a quick learner.”

  “But Sheldon is doing his best,” Alice cut in.

  “His best to take over, you mean,” Jane answered brusquely, then stopped when she saw her sister’s stricken face. “I’m sorry. I’m sure he’s doing an admirable job. Now where shall we go this morning?”

  Nat glanced at his watch and hastily threw his napkin down on the table. “I know where I’m going!” he exclaimed. “Meet you in front of the Empress at four, Maggie, okay?” He bent and kissed her.

  “I’ll get a taxi into town,” she called after him.

  “Can we give you a lift?” Jane asked after Nat had departed. “We’re going into the city around nine-thirty if that would be any help.”

  “Thank you, I accept. Would you mind dropping me off at the Empress Hotel?”

  She spent a wonderful morning shopping, browsing, and having lunch in a restaurant that overlooked the harbour. In the afternoon she had afternoon tea at the Empress Hotel—an absolute must for anyone visiting Victoria—finally meeting up with Nat for dinner and the return trip to the guesthouse.

  “Jake Houston was very pleased with the investigation we did,” he said as he drove into the driveway of the guesthouse. “He said that he’s spread the word to other government departments and there could be more work for the agency if we’re interested.”

  “That’s good to know,” she answered. “Things are a bit slow so we may have to take him up on that.”

  Saturday and Sunday they toured Victoria’s waterfront, visited the famous Butchart Gardens, discovered the scenic Sooke area, and enjoyed the breathtaking views from the Malahat Pass. And each morning they breakfasted with the two sisters who seemed to delight in helping them plan their route for the day, although Maggie noticed that the sisters never allowed the conversation to return to the subject of the art gallery.

  When Monday morning rolled around, Maggie, although sorry the short vacation was over, felt ready to get back to work. Jane and Alice were also leaving that morning.

  “A friend of Jane’s has taken over her apartment,” Alice informed them as they made their goodbyes in the small parking lot. “And we’ve loaded up both of our cars with the stuff she can’t do without.”

  “What’s the name of your gallery?” Nat asked as he slung his and Maggie’s luggage into the back of his old Chevy.

  “The Silver Unicorn.”

  “What a lovely name,” Maggie exclaimed.

  “Named after one of my husband’s favourite pieces,” Alice told them, her eyes misting over. “As well as being a talented painter, Jonathan did wonderful work with hand and wheel pottery.”

  “Of course,” Maggie said suddenly. “Jonathan Standish. I’m a great admirer of his work.”

  “Well then, you probably know that the gallery is on South Granville. We’d love to have you call in sometime.”

  “We will,” Maggie answered. “And here’s one of our business cards. That’s my home address and phone number on the back. I’d love to hear from you, too.”

  Alice looked at the card. “Margaret Spencer!” she said surprised. “Then you’re not . . .” She looked embarrassed.

  Maggie smiled. “No. Nat and I aren’t married.”

  “Oh. Ah,” the other woman said, ducking to hide her blush.

  Maggie ducked her head as well, but to hide her amusement. It was true: her relationship with Nat was complicated, but it was possible there was something about that both of them liked. And it had nothing to do with shame.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Within a couple of weeks Maggie and Nat’s short Victoria vacation seemed like a pleasant dream, but Maggie often thought about the two sisters and wondered how they were getting on. To Nat she remarked that Alice would probably find her older sister a bit too bossy to live with for long, and Nat wondered if Sheldon, whoever he was, would find his match in the formidable Jane.

  “We must make an effort to visit the gallery, Nat,” Maggie said. “Perhaps this weekend?” But that idea slipped away when Midge, the younger of Maggie’s two daughters, called Friday night to ask her mother to go shopping with her for a wedding gown. Maggie was thrilled to be asked, and she decided to look for her own mother-of-the-bride dress at the same time. After all, the wedding was only a couple of months away.

  Their Saturday morning shopping spree was a great success, and after they had picked out the perfect wedding dress for Midge, they found the perfect dress for Maggie in the same boutique.

  It seemed to be a weekend of surprises as that evening, just as Maggie was settling down to her favourite TV program, Barbara, her elder daughter, called to ask if Maggie had picked out a dress for the great affair. “Why couldn’t Midge have waited to get married until after I’ve had the baby?” she moaned to her mother. “I’m going to look like a blimp in a maternity dress.”

  “You’ll look just lovely, dear,” Maggie assured her, deciding not to tell Barbara about the shopping spree. “And just imagine how cute Oliver will look as the ring bearer.”

  “That’s another thing, mother. Why does she need to have a ring bearer? I only had two bridesmaids.”

  “It’s Midge’s day,” Maggie rebuked her daughter quietly. “Now, what have you been up to lately? Does Oliver still love his train set?” Once on the subject of her family, Barbara was ready to chat for hours. And she did.

  • • •

  AT THE OFFICE on Monday morning Henny, the agency’s girl Friday, wanted to know all the details of the upcoming wedding. When Maggie had satisfied her, she smiled broadly.

>   “Midge make a lovely bride, ja!” she said in her Dutch-accented English. “She is very pretty.” She rolled a fresh piece of paper into her typewriter. “I sometimes think it be nice to haf a girl. But my two boys they keep me . . . hopping! That a good word for my boys, ja?” She laughed as she opened the buff folder beside her typewriter. “Oh, I forget. You have phone call from a . . .” She picked up a slip of paper . . . “Miss Weather?”

  “Miss Weather?” Maggie frowned. “Did she say what it was about?”

  “No. Said she met you in Victoria. Here is number.”

  “You mean Miss Weatherby. I’ll call her right away.”

  “No, no. She said not to call her back. She call you.” Henny looked up as the outer door opened. “Ah, Mr. Nat. I have coffee for you right away.”

  “Apparently Jane Weatherby called this morning,” Maggie said as she turned to walk into her office. “I wonder what she wants?”

  “Better call and find out,” he answered as he followed her.

  “Henny says she doesn’t want me to call. She will get back to us later.”

  “It’s probably just an invite to the gallery,” Nat answered, settling into the chair in front of Maggie’s desk.

  “How did the job for Jones, Jenkins and Smyth go?”

  “It really paid off,” he answered, “and they want us to do some snooping on another client of theirs. I’m meeting Jenkins for lunch to get all the details.”

  “You don’t need me on that one, do you?” Maggie asked. “I’m just finishing up on that child custody case. He’s still insisting she isn’t a fit mother if she has a boyfriend on the side. I feel sorry for those two little kids.”

  “Don’t let it get to you, Maggie. Keep on the outside.” Maggie nodded as he left the room, knowing full well that was a tough order as she still thought as a mother first.

  • • •

  IT WAS LATE in the afternoon when Jane Weatherby called again. “I need to talk to you,” she said. “Is it possible to meet you for coffee somewhere?”