“No. We were really only interested in the woman and child.”
“Sorry I can’t help you there.” He got to his feet and leaned over to shake Nat’s hand. “Please tell Alice to get in touch about the insurance.” Then walking around the desk, he put his hands on Maggie’s shoulders. “Margaret, thank you so much for sending the wedding invitation. Emma and I will be delighted to attend. You and Harry must be so excited that she’s bringing a doctor into the family.”
“Yes, Jason is a very nice boy. And it was so good seeing you again, Humphrey.” Maggie walked toward the door that Nat was holding open, but she turned back as Crumbie spoke again.
“Margaret, could I speak to you in private for a moment? You don’t mind waiting in reception?” he asked Nat.
A look of annoyance flashed across Nat’s face and he raised his eyebrows at Maggie.
“It’s okay, Nat. I’ll only be a minute.” She waited until Nat had closed the door and then turned to face Crumbie. “What is it, Humphrey?”
“My dear, you and Harry really must kiss and make up and get over that little squabble that’s keeping you apart. The dear boy has never been the same since you two parted.”
“I’m sorry, Humphrey, but I can’t go back,” she answered gently. “I love my independence, my own small house, and most of all, my job with Nat Southby.”
“But look what you had, my dear! Most women would give their eye teeth for the home you had with Harry.”
She laughed shortly. “I guess I’m not most women.”
“Well, I’ve done my best to persuade you.” He gave a deep sigh and shook his grey head. “I don’t know what the world is coming to.” He put out his hand as she turned toward the door again. “There is one other thing, Margaret . . . don’t dig too deeply into this Judith woman. You will only hurt your client.”
“Then you do know of them!”
“Forget them and get your . . . uh . . . partner to concentrate on proving Jonathan didn’t commit suicide so that Alice can claim that insurance. It’s a considerable amount.”
• • •
“SO WHAT WAS so important that he had to speak to you alone?” Nat said as they walked toward the elevator.
“He wants me to kiss and make up with Harry.”
“Kiss and make up! I hope you told him to mind his own damn business.”
“I did in a gentle way. I’m very fond of Humphrey and Emma Crumbie and I didn’t want to upset him. But I’m sure he does know who Judith and Jenny are.”
“But he said he hadn’t heard of them.”
“As I was leaving, he warned me about digging too deeply as it could be harmful to Alice. But he refused to say more and we’re no nearer to finding them.”
“I wonder if Alice knows about the insurance money?” Nat mused.
“Humphrey said it was a considerable amount so she should be pleased if we can prove that Jonathan didn’t kill himself.”
“She should be ecstatic,” he answered wryly. “And Crumbie admitted to you that he knew about Judith and Jenny. I wonder what he knows? And,” he continued as he opened the outer door for Maggie, “more importantly, how do we find out?”
Maggie glanced at her watch. “It’s still early. Why don’t we take a trip to the cemetery and have a look at Jonathan Standish’s grave?”
“I don’t think he’s going to hop out of the grave and answer our questions.”
“Humour me,” she said and tucked her arm into his as they walked toward the car.
• • •
THEY FOUND THE grave quite easily. It was in a quiet corner of the cemetery with a carved white marble headstone. A layer of white pebbles had been spread between the matching curbs. The inscription read: Jonathan Standish. June 18, 1900–February 5, 1962. A true artist, a gentleman, and very much missed. Below this was a quote by Michelangelo: I saw the angel in the marble and I carved until I set her free. At the foot of the headstone was a brass vase filled with fresh pink roses.
“Alice or the elusive Judith?”
“You guess is as good as mine.” Maggie knelt and reverently touched the flowers. “There’s no name on them.” The lawnmower’s abrasive sound cutting into the tranquility made her get to her feet and glance around. “I wonder if he would know?” Her footsteps crunching on the gravel path, she walked briskly over to a man in green overalls walking behind a power lawnmower.
Nat, standing by the graveside, watched the workman turn off the noisy engine to listen to Maggie who, as usual, was using her hands as she talked. After a few minutes the man bent and pulled the cord to restart the mower and Maggie turned to walk back.
“Any luck?” he asked as she drew near. Maggie’s answering nod and smile answered his question.
“He says it’s a young woman and she comes most Sunday evenings. He talked to her once and she told him the flowers are from her own garden.”
“I don’t suppose she told him where the garden is?”
“No. But he did mention there’s often a young girl with her.”
“Most Sundays.” Nat mused as they walked toward the entrance. “It’s funny that Alice hasn’t noticed the fresh flowers on the grave.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t visit the cemetery very often.”
• • •
“SHE WENT THERE a lot at first,” Jane answered when Maggie phoned later that afternoon. “But she said that Jonathan’s not there so what’s the point? Why do you ask?”
“We were there today and it’s such a tranquil spot.”
“Yes, it is. But it certainly wasn’t tranquil here! Sheldon didn’t turn up for work, and we had the first real spate of tourists for the season.”
“Is he sick?”
“No idea. I called his home several times, but there’s no reply. And Alice says that this is very unlike Sheldon. He’s always so busy making himself indispensable.”
“We’ll be leaving the office shortly. Would you like us to call around there and see if he’s okay? Where does he live?”
“Somewhere in Strathcona. Hold on a moment . . .” There was a long pause and then, “Here it is—1271 William Street. But there’s no need for you to go. I’m sure he’ll turn up.”
“I agree with Jane,” Nat said when Maggie had hung up the phone. “That guy’s a bad penny and he’s bound to turn up.”
“I suppose. But he’s such an oddball. I’d like to see where he lives.”
“You promised me a fish and chip supper at Woodwards,” Nat teased. “Are you wriggling out of the deal?”
“We’ll have that first and then go and find Sheldon.”
CHAPTER NINE
It was after eight before Maggie and Nat found the old house on William Street. It was badly in need of a paint and repair job—even the front porch listed to one side—and it looked deserted.
“No lights,” Maggie said with a shiver.
“Perhaps he likes sitting in the dark. Come on.” But after repeated knocking there was still no answer. “Let’s try the back.”
“You go first,” Maggie said nervously. “It’s your idea.” She couldn’t see anything attractive about the house—a large square box sitting on a double lot, walls covered in grey, weather-beaten shingles, sash windows on either side of the front door, and three more on the second floor—a dismal place. The light was fading fast, but as they rounded the corner of the house, they could see an unkempt backyard overgrown with blackberry vines, thistles, and dandelions.
“Nat!” she whispered, tapping him on the shoulder. “Look over there. It’s some kind of barn.”
“Looks fairly new,” he answered. The tall, wooden building loomed ahead in the dusk. “Can’t be a garage,” he continued. “There’s no street access and there’s only one small door.”
“And why such large windows and all those skylights?”
They had stopped beside the back door of the house, and Nat lifted his fist and banged hard on it. “Now that’s odd—it’s open.” Poking his head inside, he yelled,
“Sheldon! Anyone home?” He waited, then yelled again, “Sheldon!”
“He’s obviously not here, Nat,” Maggie said, tugging at his jacket. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll just have a quick look inside.”
“No. That’s trespassing.” She stopped for a moment. “What’s that terrible smell?”
“Garbage?” he said hopefully.
“Please, let’s get out of here.” She was remembering other houses they had entered uninvited in the past, only to find dead bodies.
But Nat had pushed the door open wider and entered a mudroom that contained a wringer washer, a laundry tub, and shelves laden with cans and jars of food. A wooden clothes dryer hanging from the ceiling was draped with shirts, pyjamas, underwear, and socks, and Nat pushed through them to open an adjoining door. He flicked on a light that revealed a surprisingly clean kitchen. “Come on, Maggie,” he called back to her.
“I don’t like this, Nat,” she said when she had joined him. “Call again, and then let’s go home.”
“Sheldon,” he yelled again. Turning to Maggie he said, “Why don’t you have a quick look around down here while I go upstairs and make sure he isn’t ill or something.” Not waiting for her reply, he strode through the dark hallway and disappeared up a flight of carpeted stairs.
Maggie watched him ascend and, turning back into the kitchen, opened the door into the adjoining sparsely furnished dining room. Her face wrinkled with distaste when she saw the plate of congealed eggs, shrivelled bacon, and a half-eaten slice of toast. In front of the plate, propped against a bottle of ketchup, was a large open book. The facing page showed a reproduction of a painting of a snowy farm scene that seemed faintly familiar to Maggie. A wooden chair had been pushed back from the table and lay on its side. “Seems he left in a hurry—so what scared him?” she asked the empty room.
Closing the door, she walked back through the kitchen and into the hall and stood at the foot of the stairs. “You okay, Nat?” But all she could hear were creaking floorboards as he went from room to room. Can’t wait to get out of this spooky place. She turned the white and blue porcelain doorknob to the last room on the ground floor and gasped when a musty smell rushed out to meet her. Taking a deep breath, she fumbled on the wall until she found a switch, but the light from the dusty chandelier did little to enhance the Victorian parlor. Red velvet drapes covered the window, and a patina of dust covered the solid oak furniture, the bric-a-brac displayed on a wicker stand, and even the overstuffed sofa and armchairs. But she found herself drawn to a large oil painting set over the marble mantelpiece. It was of a prim-looking elderly woman, not even a hint of a smile on her sharp features, wearing a white lace mobcap—and her beady black eyes followed Maggie’s every move. Maggie turned quickly and rushed out of the room, pulling the door firmly shut behind her.
“I’m going outside,” she called to Nat. “I need some air.” She didn’t wait for his reply but continued out through the kitchen and mudroom into the backyard. But even the fresh air seemed tainted.
The moon had risen and was casting long shadows over the backyard and the tall wooden structure at the end of the garden. Taking her flashlight from her purse, Maggie walked slowly down the cement path that led to the entrance of the building, but it took her several minutes to figure out how to deal with the heavy wrought-iron hasp that fastened the door before she could fling it open.
The smell! That tell-tale smell. Holding one hand over her mouth and nose, she used her flashlight to locate a light switch.
When the light flooded the room, her first thought was that she was looking at red paint. But as she got a little closer, she could see it was blood that had spurted from the gaping slit in the man’s throat. His body, artistically arranged with blood-soaked filmy draperies, was lying on a chaise-lounge that had been set on a dais in the middle of the room. And what made the scene especially bizarre were the dozen or so easels that had been placed in a circle around the dais, as if waiting for the painting lesson to begin.
“Oh, blast! Why do I always find them?” Backing away from the tableau and still holding her hand over her mouth, she stumbled out of the building. He had obviously been dead for a good many hours, and even though Maggie and Nat had seen several dead bodies in their investigations, she still found the smell of death hard to take.
“Where have you been?” Nat called from the back door of the house. “I’ve been calling you.”
“In there,” she answered and pointed with a shaky hand.
“What’s in there?”
“He’s . . . he’s dead.”
“Who’s dead?”
“Sheldon. Go and see for yourself.”
Nat stuck his head into the studio but withdrew it within seconds. “Bloody hell!” Firmly shutting the studio door, Nat walked to where Maggie was standing and gently pulled her into his arms and held her close. “Come on, let’s get to a telephone.”
“At least we know what the building is used for,” she laughed shakily. “Apart from the dead body, I’d say it’s a very fancy art studio.”
• • •
THEY WAITED IN front of the house for the first patrol car to turn up.
“You the one called in about a dead man?” the portly officer asked as he climbed out of the car. He was followed by a baby-faced younger cop.
Nat nodded. “Around the back.” He led the way.
“Holy cow!” the senior officer exclaimed from the doorway of the studio a few minutes later. “You haven’t touched anything?”
Nat shook his head. “Not a thing.”
“Call into the station and tell them it’s a homicide,” the officer said to his green-around-the-gills partner. He turned back to Nat. “I’ll talk to you back in the kitchen with your wife.”
Maggie was standing outside the back door inhaling deep breaths when the officer passed her on his way to the kitchen.
“You know the man?” he asked, beckoning her inside.
“We think he’s Sheldon White, an employee of one of our clients,” Nat answered, handing over one of his cards.
“Private investigator! So what were you investigating?”
“The man hadn’t turned up for work.”
“And you were hired to find him?” the officer asked incredulously.
“No,” Maggie answered. “He’s part of a major investigation. When he didn’t turn up for work, we naturally came to look for him.”
“And you are . . . ?”
“Margaret Spencer. The other name on that card.”
“So what are you and this . . . ahem . . . lady investigating?” he asked Nat with a smirk.
“Murder,” Maggie answered curtly.
“Murder!”
Maggie couldn’t help smiling at the look on the man’s face. It was quite obvious he had expected something much milder—maybe a wandering husband or wife.
“Would you care to fill me in?”
“No,” Nat answered. “We’ll wait for the officers who deal with homicide.”
“Stay put,” the very disgruntled cop ordered.
• • •
APART FROM A few preliminary questions, it was a good hour before the officer who was dealing with the homicide came back into the house to talk with them. “I’ve spoken to headquarters,” Sergeant Angelus explained. “They seem to know of you, and Inspector Farthing wants the pair of you in his office nine sharp in the morning. Capiche? The inspector said you make a habit of stumbling over dead bodies, Mrs. Spencer. Is that right?” Not waiting for an answer, he turned and went back to the scene of the murder.
• • •
“BUT WHY WOULD anyone want to kill Sheldon?” Alice Standish cried. “I know he wasn’t a likeable kind of person, but to kill him . . . ?”
Maggie and Nat had driven directly to her apartment on English Bay to break the news to the two sisters. Jane had immediately mixed a stiff Scotch and soda for all of them.
“I can’t very well say cheers,” she said, “but we all can
do with a drink.” After taking a gulp, she leaned toward Nat. “Do you think there’s a link between the two deaths?”
“The police will definitely have to take another look into Jonathan’s death now,” Maggie said before taking an appreciative sip of her drink.
“I guess we’ll have to brace ourselves for a visit from them,” Jane said.
“Maggie and I have been told to report to Inspector Farthing tomorrow morning,” Nat said. “We’ll know much more after that.”
“Are you sure there was no dispute between your husband and Sheldon? Perhaps money problems?” Maggie persisted.
“Jonathan was always a little concerned about money,” Alice answered. “An art gallery doesn’t generate that much income, especially in the off-season between Christmas and Easter. He’d told me that he was even thinking of extending his art classes to twice a week.”
“Art classes?”
Alice nodded. “Drawing, painting, but mostly clay sculpture.”
“Where did he give these classes?” Maggie asked.
“Some of them were night school classes sponsored by the school board but he also gave some private lessons.”
“You paint,” Nat said. “Do you do any ceramic stuff?”
“I’m really not good enough,” she answered with a short laugh. “And there certainly wasn’t room for me in the ‘holiest of the holies.’” Seeing their confused look, she explained, “The studio on Quebec Street.” Maggie was about to ask where exactly on Quebec Street, when Alice added, “But Sheldon did some teaching.”
“Sheldon?”
“You know, that studio in his backyard?” Alice answered.
“Of course,” Maggie said. “All those easels.”
“He didn’t wait long after my husband’s death before he started persuading Jonathan’s pupils to take lessons with him.” She sighed. “Though I suppose I can’t really blame him.”
“Was Sheldon that good?” Nat asked.
“Jonathan was a great teacher and Sheldon an astute learner,” Jane answered sourly. “He could copy practically anything.”
“Copy?”
“Not one single original idea in his whole head,” Jane said.
Death as a Fine Art Page 5