• • •
“YES, AS FAR as I know,” Alice answered in response to Maggie’s enquiry on Wednesday morning, the next day. “Some of them work there every day, but they all make a point of working there on Thursdays so they can exchange ideas.” She laughed. “It has to be something very serious for any of them to miss. Would you like me to call Saul Wingate and find out? He was Jonathan’s closest friend.”
“I’d really appreciate it if you would do that. And would you ask him if he’d mind us coming to ask a few questions tomorrow morning? Tell him we will be as brief as possible.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Saul Wingate, a man of medium build with touches of grey in his dark-brown hair, met them in the coffee shop next to the bakery. “Alice said you want to ask a few questions about my dear, dear friend Jonathan.” He spoke over his shoulder as he led the way to the defunct bakery next door. Although the faded bakery sign still hung above the shop, the windows were covered with yellowing newspapers taped to the inside of the glass.
As he unlocked the door, he explained, “We each have a key so we can use the place whenever we want. Guys and gals,” he called out as he threw open the door, “we’ve got visitors!”
There was little in the room they entered to suggest it had ever been a bakery. The front counter and shelves were long gone and the artists had even torn out the wall that had separated the shop at the front from the bakery part of the establishment. The place was now a hodgepodge of potting wheels and sturdy wooden tables and work benches, racks and racks of drying pots, rows of metal garbage cans labelled with names like “tenmoku” and “matte crystalline yellow brown,” and big tubs labelled “ball clay” and “feldspar” and “tin oxide.” Through a window in the rear wall, Maggie could see an open-sided shed where a monster kiln had been set up.
“This is Nat Southby and his assistant, Maggie Spencer,” Saul Wingate announced. “They’re looking into Jonathan’s death and would like to ask us a few questions.”
Several of the artists were working at the wheels, while others were hand building at the tables and benches. Although one or two of them gave a small wave to acknowledge their visitors’ presence, there was wariness etched on their faces. Two men who were conferring in front of a large, unfinished abstract sculpture merely looked annoyed at being interrupted and went back to their conversation.
“Thanks for seeing us,” Nat said, advancing into the room. “We promise we won’t take up too much of your time, but in order to find Jonathan’s murderer we need to know more of his background. And I understand you all worked closely with him.”
The only response was the continuing whirr of the potting wheels and the low hum of conversation.
“Coffee?” Saul asked. Maggie and Nat shook their heads.
A tall, slim blonde wearing a clay-smudged smock stood back from the enormous lop-sided urn she was hand building. She surveyed it for several moments and then drawled, “If he was murdered, why aren’t the police asking the questions?”
“Perhaps they don’t know about us, Tricia darling,” a stocky woman sitting at one of the potter’s wheels said sarcastically. “Adele’s the name,” she added as she threw a fresh lump of reddish-brown clay onto her wheel.
“I don’t know why you’re trying to prove his death was murder, anyhow. I still think he committed suicide.” Tricia reached inside the urn and began pushing outward while enthusiastically smacking the outside of the urn with a flat wooden paddle.
“Oh, come off it,” a dark-complexioned man occupying a wheel across the room chimed in. “You’d want to make darned sure it wasn’t murder if you had a husband who died under suspicious circumstances. And you’d want to find the bastard who did it.”
Adele placed her foot on the flywheel to slow her wheel to a stop. “There was certainly no reason for dear Jonathan to . . . kill . . . kill himself,” she said tremulously.
“For God’s sake, grow up, Adele. We all know how you felt about him.”
Adele’s face flushed bright red.
Nat thought it was time to intervene. “Did any of you notice any significant changes in Jonathan? Was he worried? Tense . . . ?”
“He was a dear, dear man.” The speaker, a man in his early sixties who had been conferring with a younger man over the unfinished sculpture, placed his coffee cup down on the workbench, crossed the room, and extended his hand toward Nat. “I’m Chris, by the way, Chris Barfield. Why anyone would murder him is totally beyond me.” Taking a briar pipe and a can of tobacco out of his pocket, he slowly filled the bowl and tamped it down before lighting it. “But to answer your question, Mr. Southby, I did find him rather distracted, but when I asked, he said it was nothing.”
“I didn’t know him very well.” The speaker was the other man who had been conferring over the unfinished sculpture. He was much younger than the others in the room. “But he gave me a lot of help.”
“And you are . . . ?” Nat asked.
“Ian Buckle.” He looked belligerently around at the others. “He even sold a couple of my horses in his gallery.”
Maggie, hoping that the horses had been ceramic and not the real thing, opened her handbag and took out the photographs. “I have some snaps here and we wondered if you could identify the woman and child in them.” She took the photos to each of the artists and waited until they looked them over before asking, “Did Jonathan bring them here to sit for you?”
There was a general shaking of heads, then Saul said slowly, “They do look a tad familiar, but I can’t think why.”
“I know why,” Ian Buckle said suddenly. “Jonathan’s figurines. You know, the little girl with the dog and a girl holding her hat in the wind.” And then he repeated, “They’re Jonathan’s figurines.”
Adele rose from her wheel and came to look at the snapshots again. “I thought they were figments of Jonathan’s vivid imagination, but I think you’re right.”
“Do any of you know Sheldon White?” Nat asked.
Tricia looked up. “That little creep!”
“Did you know there was a young man found murdered in his studio a few days ago?”
There were nods of assent and then Tricia asked, “Have the police made an identification?”
“Last I heard they were still making enquiries. But Alice thinks she might have seen him in the gallery a couple of times.”
“Could be,” Saul said. “Jonathan was always being approached by young artists wanting him to exhibit their work. So what has Sheldon to say about the murdered man?”
“Sheldon’s gone missing,” Maggie answered.
“Typical. Never could see why Jonathan kept him on.”
Nat nodded to Maggie then said, “We’ll be on our way. I’ve left a few of our business cards on the table here in case any of you think of something that might help.”
Saul walked them out to their car. “Any chance you can get a picture of the man who was murdered? If Alice thinks she’s seen him before, there’s a good chance that one of us has, too.”
“I’ll call the cop in charge of the case and see if he’s still unidentified,” Nat answered. “I’ll let you know.”
“Here’s my address and phone number,” Saul said as he handed over a card. “Give my best to Alice and tell her I’ll be in to see her soon.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“What time is that ferry supposed to leave Tsawwassen?” Nat asked, glancing at his watch.
“Ten o’clock,” Maggie said for the fourth time.
“Hope we make it.”
“You were the one who wouldn’t get up,” Maggie chided.
“But it’s Saturday,” he protested. “You know I like to lie in on Saturdays.”
“And if you had read the map properly,” Maggie continued, ignoring Nat’s protests, “we wouldn’t have driven into Ladner and had to find our way back to Tsawwassen. Do sit still, Oscar,” she said to the excited dog doing his best to bestow Nat with wet kisses.
“But you’re
supposed to be the navigator!” Nat retorted, pushing Oscar away. “It’s bad enough driving through this bloody rain without having to read a map while I’m doing it.”
Maggie thought it prudent not to answer. “Anyway,” she said, “according to the sign we just passed, we should be there in ten minutes.” It had been many years since Nat had been to Galiano Island and it was a first for Maggie. “I’ve discovered that there is a ferry boat called the Motor Princess that links the islands,” she continued, “and it takes just over an hour to get there.”
“Anything else I need to know?” Nat asked.
“Well, there is a new causeway where the boats dock.”
“Where did you drag up all this information?”
“I telephoned the ferry company yesterday. Anyway, we’re here.”
“Seems an awful lot of cars.”
“I think most of them are going to Vancouver Island. Yes, I’m right,” Maggie added excitedly. “See, over there!”
“What?”
“That sign saying Gulf Islands.”
• • •
THEY WERE HALFWAY to Galiano Island when the rain began petering out and a light wind ruffled the small whitecaps that now glinted in the sun. Maggie, leaning over the ferry’s rail, watched fascinated as masses of jellyfish, their transparent bodies pulsing in and out, swam in the clear depths. Then lifting her gaze, she was astounded to see a pod of whales thrusting their huge bodies out of the blue-green sea. When she realized that there were also several porpoises accompanying their boat, she just had to run inside to get Nat, who had insisted on staying in the warmth of the passenger lounge. Of course, these marvellous animals had disappeared by the time he had dragged himself outside, but he did stay with her to watch the approach to the island. She was almost sorry when the announcement came that they would be docking in Montague Harbour in ten minutes.
“Did you know the island is named after the Spanish explorer Dionisio Galiano?” she asked as they went below to climb into Nat’s car.
“Not more information,” Nat groaned.
“And he sailed these seas in 1792,” she continued relentlessly.
“You are beginning to sound like a guide book. Hang on, we’ve docked.”
• • •
HARRIET MONTROSE HAD been right. There was a small general store quite close to the ferry terminal.
“Percy White’s place?” The girl behind the counter repeated Maggie’s question. “I’m not sure where it is. Half a tic and I’ll ask my dad.”
Dad appeared, wiping his hands on a grimy towel. “Chrissie says you want White’s place. Do you know the island?”
“No. It’s my first time here.”
Pulling a piece of wrapping paper from an overhead roll, he fumbled in his pocket for a stub of pencil. “We’re right here, see? Just follow Burrill,” he drew a line on the paper, “till it meets Bluff.” He peered over the counter to look at Maggie’s shoes. “You can walk to it from here.”
“Does the house have a number?”
Dad laughed. “Only a few places up that way. You’ll know it when you see it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Maggie muttered, walking back to the car where Nat was waiting.
On seeing the muddy, unpaved road ahead of them, they decided to risk taking the car. “Bound to be someplace to turn,” Nat rationalized as he bumped over the ruts. “Keep a lookout for the place.”
They almost missed the sign saying WHITE’S PLACE, the words roughly painted on a scrap of wood that had been nailed to a gnarled maple tree. They pulled off the road and parked next to a rusty truck that, by the look of it, would never have its deflated tires on a road again. A path led them between a stand of smallish cedars and a log-strewn wasteland. The reason for all the cut logs became evident when they came upon a half-built log cabin.
“It’s been a long time since any work’s been done on that,” Maggie observed, pointing to the pile of logs beside the cabin that were now covered in long grass and blackberry vines.
Nat nodded. “But there’s smoke coming out of the chimney of that cottage beyond it.” The cottage he referred to was tucked away at the back of the property. “I guess he’s home.” But although they knocked on the door and peered through the windows, it appeared empty.
“I wonder where he’s got to?”
“Maybe he saw us coming and he’s hiding,” Maggie suggested.
“We’ll just have to outwait him then.”
“I’m hungry.” Maggie glanced at her watch. “Let’s go get the hamper I packed this morning.”
“Great idea. And I know the perfect place for a picnic.”
“Are we taking the car?”
“No. If I’ve got my bearings right, it can’t be far from here. We can walk.” Fifteen minutes later, with a happy Oscar running ahead, they emerged onto the bluff that overlooked Active Passage.
“Wow! I can understand you remembering this,” Maggie gasped. “It’s wonderful. And look, there are two ships passing each other.”
“And if I remember rightly, there should be a covered picnic table somewhere around here. Yes. I’m right. Up under that tree, see it?” Taking hold of Maggie’s hand, he led her up the gentle slope and placed the basket onto the table. “Where’s Oscar gone?” he asked.
“He was with us a few seconds ago.” Maggie turned to look down the grassy hill. “There he is. Oscar!” she yelled. “Oscar. Come back here.”
But the dog, who was quite sure that everybody loved him, barked joyfully as he ran toward a man who had quickly risen from a huge boulder. Facing the animal rushing toward him, he flapped his arms to shoo him away.
“Call your dog off!” they heard him yell. Then he stopped abruptly. “Go away,” he screamed. But now he was screaming at Maggie and Nat and not at the dog.
Maggie grabbed Nat’s arm. “Nat! That’s Sheldon.”
“Sheldon? Are you sure?”
“Of course it’s him,” Maggie insisted. “Come on, before he gets away.” But Sheldon was trying to do just that, running down the slope toward the water with Oscar hard on his heels.
“He can’t get far,” Nat yelled as he tried to keep up with Maggie, who was running as fast as she could to cut Sheldon off. “That slope’s far too steep for him to get down to the water.”
“Sheldon!” Maggie yelled again. “Wait! We just want to talk to you.”
“Go away,” Sheldon yelled back. “Leave me alone.” He seemed to suddenly realize that he couldn’t go any farther and he turned to face them like an animal at bay. Oscar, having run his quarry down, barked happily, bouncing up and down in front of the man.
“You might as well give up,” Nat panted as he arrived to stand beside Maggie.
“How . . . how did you find me?” Sheldon stammered as he backed away from them. “Are the police with you?”
“No. We’re on our own.”
“But how did you find me?” he repeated. He stopped backing away but remained poised for instant flight.
“Your aunt.” Maggie waited until she was close enough to Sheldon, then placed her hand on his arm. “It’s okay. Let’s take a walk back to the picnic table and you can tell us what happened.”
“It was terrible.” Sheldon said when at last he sank down onto the bench and buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“Did you know the killer?” Nat asked.
The man lifted a tear-streaked face from his hands. “No. I heard the scream.”
“Then what happened?” Maggie asked gently. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
“I was sitting down to a late supper and was looking through one of my art books while I ate. I give drawing lessons on Thursday evenings,” he explained. “I heard a noise in the backyard and thought it must be one of my students turning up early, but I didn’t go out to see as I’d left the studio door open for them.” He shuddered. “If I’d gone out there, Alex might still be alive . . .” And he began to cry.
&nbs
p; “Or both of you could be dead,” Nat said. “Carry on.”
“It was then I heard the terrible scream. I jumped out of my chair, and I’m ashamed to say it, but I panicked.”
“You hid in the house,” Maggie said.
He nodded. “In the hall closet. I waited until I thought the coast was clear before I ventured out into the backyard. And then . . . and then . . . I crept up to the studio and saw what had been done to Alex. He was lying on the couch . . . There was blood everywhere.”
“You didn’t touch anything?” Nat asked.
“No. I didn’t even go into the studio. All I could think of was to escape before the maniac came back.”
“What about your students?” Maggie asked.
“I only have four on Thursdays and I called and cancelled them.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I couldn’t.”
“For God’s sake, Sheldon,” Nat shouted. “You should have called them.”
“They would have thought I’d killed Alex.”
“Did you have any reason to kill him?” Maggie asked.
“No. But that’s how the police think. He was in my studio and he was dead.”
“And so you ran.” Nat couldn’t keep the contempt from his voice.
“I was scared the killer would come after me.”
“Is there any reason why he would?”
Sheldon didn’t answer for a while, and then he said, “Jonathan Standish was killed, wasn’t he?”
“You think the two murders are related?” Nat asked.
“We both worked in the art business—even in the same gallery. Don’t you think that is just too much of a coincidence?”
Maggie glanced at her watch and stood up. “We want you to come back with us, Sheldon. Let’s go back to the cabin and get your things, okay?”
“But . . . but the cops will want to know why I ran. They’ll think I killed Alex. I can’t go back.”
“Yes, you can,” Nat said firmly. “We’ll be right with you while you explain. When’s the next ferry, Maggie?”
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