Death as a Fine Art

by Gwendolyn Southin

  “Blast! I’d completely forgotten that we were going to the cemetery Sunday night,” Nat said.

  “I remembered, but I was too late. That’s why I wondered if we should confront Alice about them.”

  “Maybe we should wait a bit,” he answered. “Have either of you seen the paper this morning?” He handed it across the desk to Maggie.

  She read the story aloud:

  Gory murder on William Street. The police have confirmed that the body of an unidentified young man was discovered at 1271 William Street on Friday evening. The owner of the property, Sheldon White, was not available for comment. The authorities are asking for help from anyone who might have seen or heard anything that would help their inquiries.

  “And you saw this body with its throat all cut?” Henny asked, giving an exaggerated shudder.

  They all turned as they heard the outer door opening. Henny was half out of her chair when Sergeant George Sawasky called, “Anyone home?”

  “You sit in my chair,” Henny said, going to meet him, all smiles. “I will get you coffee, and I brought in new cookies today.”

  “That’s lovely, Henny.” Then turning to Maggie and Nat, he said by way of greeting, “I see you are treading on our inspector’s toes again.”

  “I suppose he told you that he tried to make us look like a couple of fools?” Nat answered grimly.

  “Yes. He did seem a little on the gleeful side when he called me yesterday. Thanks, Henny,” he added, as she placed the mug of coffee and two of her famous mangled cookies in front of him. “But last time we spoke, you were trying to change a suicide verdict into a murder. Something to do with an art gallery and a couple of old ladies.”

  “And we were right,” Maggie answered. “Farthing was too ready to accept Jonathan Standish’s death as suicide, and we’ve more or less proved that it was murder.”

  “But Standish died at least three months ago. So where does this cutthroat murder fit in?”

  Between them, they brought George up to date on Sheldon White, his attitude at the gallery and their surprise on seeing the elaborate studio in his backyard.

  “And this Sheldon guy has disappeared?”

  Maggie nodded. “He wasn’t in the house, and by the look of it, he hadn’t been there for at least a couple of days.”

  “And the murder must have taken place around the same time he disappeared,” Nat added.

  “So he could be the killer?” George said.

  “I wouldn’t have thought he’d have the guts to cut someone’s throat,” Maggie answered. “But,” she shrugged, “who knows what he would do if he was provoked?”

  “I think you go and see his aunt,” Henny said from the doorway. “She would know what he is really like.”

  “You’ve got a point, Henny,” Nat replied. “Trouble is, we don’t know her name or where she lives. And naturally Farthing won’t give that bit of info to us.”

  George, in the act of stuffing the last bit of Henny’s over-baked cookies into his mouth, suddenly realized that the entire staff of Southby and Spencer, Private Investigators was looking at him. “No,” he said quickly, standing up. “Farthing would kill me if I pass anything on to you people.”

  “Come on, George. He’ll never know,” Maggie wheedled. “Just a quick phone call . . .”

  “Do you think he’ll do it?” Maggie asked after George had made a quick exit.

  “Mr. George will get address for us,” Henny said confidently. “He is a good friend.”

  “Well, just in case he doesn’t,” Maggie said as she walked toward her own office, “I’ll give Alice a call and see if she knows.” But it was Jane who answered the telephone at the gallery.

  “Alice had a sudden whim to go to Jonathan’s grave. Can’t see what good that will do, but she insisted on going alone. Can I help?”

  “Did Sheldon ever mention the name of his aunt? You know, the one who went to the morgue to identify his body?”

  “Not to me. But then, we weren’t exactly on friendly terms. I’ll ask Alice when she comes back.”

  But George was the first to come through with the information. Henny took the call from him and then relayed the message to Maggie.

  “Mr. George said that her name is Harriet Montrose and she lives in retirement apartments called Hollies . . . or something like that.”

  “Did he say where this place is?” Maggie was used to coaxing information out of Henny by degrees.

  “Kensington Avenue. I have written her telephone number down, but Mr. George said she is very deaf lady.”

  Maggie glanced at her appointment book. “Would you check with Nat and see if he wants to go with me—say around three.”

  “Mr. Nat say he’s tied up with lots of paper,” Henny reported back. “He say it would be better if you go and talk with old lady on your own.”

  “You tell Mr. Nat that he’s a coward,” Maggie answered, laughing and reaching for the phone. “If there’s anything he hates more than going to hospitals and nursing homes, it’s talking to deaf old ladies.”

  George was quite right. Harriet Montrose was very deaf, and it took Maggie quite a while to get through to the woman that she would like to call on her that afternoon.

  • • •

  MAGGIE WAS ON the point of leaving for her appointment when Alice Standish called. “Jane says you called earlier to ask about Sheldon’s aunt. He did mention her a couple of times, but I’m sorry, I can’t remember her name.”

  “It’s okay,” Maggie answered. “We’ve found her. Her name is Harriet Montrose.”

  “That’s good,” Alice replied. “But I need to talk to you about something else. It’s about Jonathan’s grave.”

  “Yes?”

  “Somebody is still leaving roses on it.”

  “Still?”

  “Somebody had left roses on his grave just after he was buried, and Jane said it was probably an admirer. But I’ve been thinking about his suicide note . . . he said he was having an affair. Do you think it could be this same person?” She made the word “person” sound like something unclean.

  “Perhaps it was one of the models who posed for him,” Maggie said warily.

  “Perhaps. But I knew most of his regular models, and the caretaker at the cemetery said this person leaves the flowers on a weekly basis.” She paused for a moment. “He said it’s a young woman with a little girl.” Maggie heard the catch in Alice’s throat.

  “Do you remember I showed you a photograph of a young woman and child?” Maggie asked. “It was when Nat and I were going through your husband’s books.”

  “Yes. Do you think that’s the woman who’s putting the flowers there?”

  “It could be.”

  “Can you find out who she is?” she asked. “Jane still insists it’s just some love-sick admirer . . .”

  “But you don’t think so,” Maggie replied.

  “Well, that doesn’t make sense when he’s been dead for over three months, does it?”

  “We’ll try and find out who she is, okay? But there is something that Nat and I want you to do in the meantime.”

  “Anything that will help.”

  “Could you make a list of Jonathan’s relatives, friends, business acquaintances, students . . . anyone who knew him when he was alive?”

  “That will be quite a list.”

  Maggie was silent for a moment, then she said gently, “Alice, Jonathan could have known the person who killed him.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Hollies on Kensington Avenue wasn’t hard to find. Holly bushes, covered in dust from the road, had been planted on either side of the entrance of the grey-stone building. The large building must have been quite elegant at one time, Maggie thought as she climbed the three steps to the scarred double door, but years of neglect had faded the name that had been etched into the lintel, and the holly berries and leaves that had entwined the name had mostly broken away.

  Reading the faded hand-written list inside the main
entrance, Maggie saw that Mrs. Harriet Montrose lived on the second floor. She opted for the stairs rather than the ancient elevator, then walked along the dingy corridor until she came to number 202. It took repeated knocks before the door was finally opened a crack. The face that appeared had rouged cheeks, thick magenta lipstick, and smudged mascara, and a heavy-handed pancake application had filled in the lines and cracks.

  “You that woman who called?”

  “Maggie Spencer. It’s about your nephew.”

  “Speak up. Why do people always mumble?”

  “Yes,” Maggie yelled. “Can I come in?”

  “No need to shout. I’m not deaf.” The door opened wider. “You’d better come in.”

  Maggie was suddenly hit with stale air, the mousy smell of old furniture and the insidious odor of mothballs. She was sure the grimy sash windows hadn’t been cleaned for years.

  “What do you want?” Harriet Montrose asked. Wearing a blond wig that was slightly off-kilter, she nodded to one of the two armchairs placed in front of the window. “You can sit there.” Sheldon’s aunt was at least five foot ten inches tall with large breasts straining a hand-knitted, hot-pink sweater. A floral print skirt came midway to her calves, and white cotton socks and a pair of running shoes completed her ensemble.

  Maggie tried not to stare. “It’s about your nephew,” Maggie repeated.

  “Who?” Harriet Montrose cupped her ear and leaned forward.

  “Sheldon. Your nephew,” Maggie repeated in a louder voice.

  “What’s that useless jerk done now?”

  “He’s missing.”

  “He’s listening? What’s he listening to?”

  “I said he was missing.”

  “Missing. That’s no loss. Told my sister Dolores, God rest her soul, she’d rue the day she had him.”

  “Have you any idea where he could have gone?” Maggie’s throat was beginning to feel the strain of yelling.

  “Won’t come here.”

  “Would you call me if he does?” Maggie handed over one of her cards.

  “He won’t come here,” Harriet Montrose repeated. “Can’t stand him. Slimy. That’s what he is, slimy.” She stood up. “I was on the stage, you know?” She walked over to the mantelpiece and took down a faded sepia photograph in a silver frame. “That’s me.” She shoved the picture into Maggie’s hands. “Second one on the left.”

  Maggie looked at the line of simpering girls in filmy dresses and showgirl hats. “Actress?”

  “Mattress. What’s a mattress to do with it?”

  “You were an actress,” Maggie repeated, enunciating each word.

  “Vaudeville. We played in Blackpool, Brighton. You know, all the seaside places. I was a beauty in my day.” Taking the photograph from Maggie’s hands, she replaced it on the mantel. “Anything else you want?”

  “Was your sister on the stage, too?”

  “My sister’s age? What about it?”

  “Was she on the stage?”

  “Dolores? Good God, no. It was beneath her.”

  “What made you come to Canada?”

  “Love.” Harriet gave a chuckle. “I met a handsome Canadian sailor.” She reached for another photograph. “That’s my Bert. Passed over twenty years ago.”

  “And Dolores?” Maggie yelled, thinking her throat would never be the same.

  “Came over with me, didn’t she? Anything else you need to know?” She waited for Maggie to stand up and then led her to the door. “Was it him that killed that man?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t put it past him,” she said, placing Maggie’s card on the small telephone table before opening the door. “Mark my words, he’ll turn up.” She was starting to close the door on Maggie when she said suddenly, “You could try that old shack his father had on Galiano.” But before Maggie could ask where on Galiano, Harriet had firmly closed the door.

  Maggie was standing beside her car taking several deep breaths of clean fresh air when she heard her name being called. Looking up, she saw Harriet Montrose, her blond wig now covering one eye, leaning out of the window.

  “Ask at the general store when you get off the ferry.” The window slammed shut.

  “Nat, you don’t know what you missed by not coming with me,” she said as she put the car into gear. She giggled all the way back to the office.

  • • •

  “YOU FOUND OLD lady then?” Henny asked as she wound her latest scarf creation—knitted in green, purple, and yellow—around her neck.

  “Yes, I found her,” Maggie answered, then added, “Henny, you really don’t need that scarf today. It’s beautiful outside.”

  “I sneeze two times today. And my moeder always say better be safe than sorry.”

  After Henny had left, Maggie gave a gentle tap on Nat’s door before opening it. But she had to wait to get his full attention for quite a few minutes while she listened to his one-sided telephone conversation. Finally, he replaced the instrument on its cradle, finished scribbling on a yellow pad, and looked up.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “Alice with her list.” He handed it over to her. “Hopefully we’ll be able to weed some of the names out.”

  “I see what you mean. She’s even included all the trades people as well as the mailman. But these could be interesting.” She walked around Nat’s desk, and laying the list in front of him, she pointed. “These six.”

  “Yes,” Nat said. “Alice says they were joint partners in leasing that art studio on Quebec Street that she mentioned the other day. Jonathan plus four men and two women.”

  Maggie stared at the names. “I don’t recognize any of them, do you?”

  “No. But I know absolutely nothing about art. Alice said that the seven of them—now, of course, six—split the cost of the studio and hiring the models when they were doing figure modelling—whatever that is. She also said that some were professional models but most were just people they knew. Can you believe this?” Nat continued. “They apparently go out onto the street and if they see someone with an interesting face or other attributes, they ask them to sit for them. Alice said that most times people agree.”

  “Perhaps that’s how he met the young woman and her little girl.”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “So where is this studio?”

  “It’s the old Dunhill’s Bakery on Quebec Street. According to Alice, they’ve been working there for years—sharing ideas, critiquing each other’s work.” He pointed to the names farther down the list. “These are business associates and these are personal friends.”

  “Quite a lot, though,” Maggie said thoughtfully.

  “So how did you get on with Sheldon’s aunt?”

  By the time she got through describing her visit to the eccentric Harriet, she had Nat laughing so hard that he was wiping tears from his face. “Galiano, eh?”

  “It may be worth a visit.”

  “We’ll give him another couple of days.”

  “I wonder if the police have finished with Sheldon’s house and studio,” Maggie said, picking up the list.

  “You’re not thinking of us going over there, I hope?”

  Maggie smiled and turned to go out the door. “Wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps he has turned up.”

  “You mean this evening?”

  “Of course.”

  • • •

  THE HOUSE ON William Street looked just the same as it had on their previous visit—no lights, everything shuttered and still. Nat gave a few thumps on the back door, but there was no answer, and when he tried the handle, he realized that it was now locked. Turning away from the house, they walked toward the studio. The rope the police must have fastened across the front of the building now flapped in the slight breeze that had sprung up. A large padlock was now fastened to the wrought-iron hasp.

  They moved together to the large side window to peer in. There was enough daylight to see that the dais was gone and the easels had been push
ed back against the walls.

  “I suppose the police put the padlock on,” Maggie observed. “But who locked the house up?” She walked back toward the house with Nat following close behind.

  “The lock’s probably a push-button from the inside. All the cops had to do was push the knob in and then pull the door shut.” He stopped speaking and watched Maggie peering into several broken flowerpots that were close to the backdoor. “What are you doing?”

  “Ah! Here it is,” she said suddenly. She had just turned over the large flat stone on which one of the pots had been sitting. She brandished a brass key. “Our way in.”

  “Whoa, Maggie. That’s trespassing.”

  “Never stopped you before.” A few moments and the door was open. “Just a quick look round,” she promised. “You can wait outside if you like.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t, Maggie . . .” But she had vanished inside and he had no alternative but to follow.

  She walked straight through the mudroom and kitchen and into the dining room. “I had a hunch,” she said over her shoulder.

  “What about?”

  “There.” She pointed to the bare dining room table.

  “What about it?” Nat asked, puzzled.

  “Everything’s been cleaned and put away. And don’t tell me the police were kind enough to do that.”

  “The half-eaten meal, the overturned chair. You’re right.”

  “Let’s have a quick look over the rest of the house.” And not waiting for her partner-in-crime, she walked through the hall and ran up the stairs.

  “Maggie, we must get out of here,” Nat insisted as he reluctantly followed. “It will only take one of Sheldon’s neighbours to spot our car and call the cops. We’ll be in a mess of trouble.”

  “Just a quick look into Sheldon’s bedroom. I’d guess he uses a front one. Well, I was right,” she said a few minutes later. “Look.” She indicated the open closet doors and the bare hangers. “He’s been back, grabbed some clothes and gone.”

  “Galiano!”

  “My thought exactly,” Maggie said. “When do we go?”

  “Not until we pay a visit to Jonathan’s old art buddies.”

  “I wonder if they still work there?” Maggie began walking back down the stairs. “I’ll call Alice first thing tomorrow.”