Death as a Fine Art

by Gwendolyn Southin

“Three-thirty. Let’s eat these sandwiches and then go and help Sheldon pack.”

  “There’s no need for you to help me pack. I’ll meet you at the dock.”

  “No. We’re staying together. Have a chicken sandwich.”

  • • •

  “WILL YOU DROP me off at my house?” a subdued Sheldon White asked later that afternoon as they rolled off the ferry at the Twassassen dock.

  “We’re taking you back to our office,” Nat answered. “But first I’m heading over to that telephone to make a call.”

  “Not the police!” Sheldon said, panic-stricken.

  “No. A friend of ours. He’ll know what you should do.”

  • • •

  SERGEANT GEORGE SAWASKY had been waiting for them outside the agency. He followed the trio up the stairs and into the main office.

  “This is Sheldon White,” Maggie said, making the introductions. “We want you to listen to his story.”

  A half hour later George, who had been taking copious notes, leaned back in Nat’s office chair. “And you’re positive you don’t know why this Alex Donitz was killed?”

  “No. He was an artist, a friend. I think the killer thought he was me.”

  “Why? Have you been threatened in any way?”

  Sheldon paused before he answered. “The house and studio have both been broken into.”

  “You didn’t tell us that,” Nat said.

  “Anything taken?” George said, waving at Nat to be quiet.

  “No,” Sheldon said. “They just made a terrible mess. Canvases thrown on the floor and paint spilled all over the studio. The house was ransacked, too—closets emptied, pictures taken off the walls. And then there were the phone calls.”

  “Let’s take the phone calls first,” George said. “Then we’ll deal with the ransacking . . .”

  “The first one came just after Mr. Standish died. I was in the gallery at the time and this voice asked if I knew what Jonathan had done with the three Krieghoffs. I didn’t know what he was talking about, as we only sell local artists’ work.”

  “What’s a Krieghoff?” George asked, puzzled.

  “He was a famous Canadian painter of the last century,” Maggie answered.

  “How do you know that?” Nat asked, surprised.

  “I quite admire his work—especially his winter scenes,” she answered.

  “I know very little about art,” George said before turning back to White and asking, “Were there other calls?”

  “One more, but the person seemed to think I knew where these pictures were. He wouldn’t listen when I repeated I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  “And you’re sure you didn’t recognize the voice?”

  “No. It was kinda gruff.” He thought for a moment. “It could’ve even been a woman . . . but deep, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did you mention these phone calls to Mrs. Standish?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second before he added, “And she was as mystified as I was.”

  “Do you know if she received any of these phone calls?”

  “She didn’t mention any to me.”

  “Go on.”

  “And then . . . poor Alex was killed. I’m afraid I panicked.” He looked from face to face. “So now what happens? Can I go home?”

  “That will be up to the detective running this case. We’re going down to the police station first.” George looked very sternly at Sheldon. “You running away like that hasn’t helped this case one bit.”

  “But I was so scared . . .”

  “First things first,” George answered. “Get your coat on and we’ll get you down to the station so you can give a written statement and then, as I said, it will be up to Sergeant Angelus.”

  “Did you know that the dead man’s name was Alex Donitz?” Maggie asked George.

  “We only found that out a few days ago,” he answered. “His girlfriend got worried when he didn’t turn up for their date and didn’t answer his phone.” George stood and buttoned up his raincoat. “She eventually let herself into his apartment and could see he hadn’t been there for days. We still haven’t located any relatives.” He turned to Sheldon. “Do you know if he had any relatives?”

  “He told me he had come here from Poland on his own and was hoping his brother would join him in a few months. He seemed very serious about his girlfriend, Gloria.”

  “That’s the young lady we spoke to, Gloria Wentworth. She’s very cut up about his death. What I can’t understand,” George continued, “is what he was doing in your studio that night . . .”

  “He was part of my Thursday night drawing class.” Sheldon looked a bit sheepish. “And . . . well, I rented him space there as well.”

  “What do you mean—you rented him space there?” George asked.

  “There are a lot of artists who can’t afford a studio of their own—so I sort of rent space to them. Of course, I charge extra for the use of easels and supplies . . .”

  “These artists can come and go as they please?”

  Sheldon nodded. “They pay by the hour and sign in and out. You know, the honour system.”

  “So how many of these artists use your facilities?” Maggie asked.

  “I have four regulars—three, now—and I give lessons.”

  “Nice extra income on top of your job at the gallery,” Nat stated.

  Sheldon didn’t react to the sarcasm in Nat’s voice. “Yes. It works out very nicely.”

  • • •

  NAT AND MAGGIE waited in silence until they heard the two men’s footsteps descending the old wooden stairs and then the outer door banging shut.

  “Now what? I don’t know about you, but I think that guy’s story is just too pat. There’s something more going on here.” Nat watched Maggie as she gathered her handbag and then reached for the coat she had slung on the back of her chair.

  “I don’t know about you,” she answered, “but I’m going to find the biggest steak and all the trimmings, PDQ. That chicken sandwich was hours ago.”

  “Great idea. Let’s go.”

  • • •

  EVEN THOUGH NAT and Maggie each consumed a huge steak that night, the next morning Maggie still managed to get through Nat’s version of a full English breakfast. Replete and sitting back in her chair clutching her second cup of coffee, she looked fondly at her partner in love and business.

  “I think I’ll keep you, Nat Southby,” she said.

  “You’d have an awful job to get rid of me now.” Oscar, his head resting in Nat’s lap, gave a contented sigh. “Even your dog likes me.”

  “Do you think they let Sheldon go home last night?” she asked.

  “Well, it was his studio and he did run away. The cops may think they’ve got a case against him.”

  “I don’t think even slimy Sheldon would have the nerve to commit a murder like that.”

  “That won’t stop the cops trying to pin it on him.”

  “Are you going to call Saul Wingate?” she asked.

  “What about?”

  “He asked you to call if you found out the dead man’s name, remember?”

  “I think I’d rather confront him with it. See how he reacts.”

  “How’s your work schedule for the week?” Maggie asked. “I really think we should pay a visit to Jonathan Standish’s son as soon as possible.”

  “I’m tied up on the Whittaker file for at least another couple of days,” he said, “but what’s the hurry? Anyhow, I think our first priority is to bring Alice up to date on Sheldon.”

  Maggie thought for a moment. “Okay, why don’t you take a little time out on the Whittaker file and drop in on Alice and bring her up to date and I’ll take a run out to Mission and see her stepson.”

  “You know I don’t like you tearing off to places like that on your own. You always seem to run into trouble.”

  “Oh, Nat, don’t be such a worrywart. What trouble could I possible get into going to see a ma
n of the cloth? I’ll take Henny with me. She’s a great watchdog.” She placed her coffee cup in the sink. “And speaking of dogs, let’s go and give Oscar a run in the park.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dogwoods, purple lilacs, and yellow laburnum competed with the spring bulbs to greet the beautiful day, and Maggie, driving to work, breathed in the intoxicating scent. She decided that she had chosen the right time for her proposed trip to Mission—she had even packed a picnic basket and brought Oscar along.

  “Why you bring that dog in?” Henny asked suspiciously. “You never bring him into office.”

  “We are going to Mission—and guess what? You are going, too.”

  “Me? Oh, no, Mrs. Maggie. I am far too busy. I have reports to type and filing and Mr. Nat’s coffee to make . . .”

  “You can forget all that, Henny. This is business. You know, detective business.”

  “Ah, detective business!” Henny beamed. She considered herself a better detective than her bosses, anyway. “That’s different. When we leave?”

  “Give Nat his coffee and then we’re off.”

  • • •

  BECAUSE OF A stop for their picnic lunch, a couple of “behind-a-bush” stops, and then getting lost a couple of times, it was early afternoon before they found themselves in the vicinity of Aaron Standish’s home. It was actually closer to a small settlement called Deroche than the town of Mission, and Maggie realized that Alice hadn’t exaggerated when she said it was very rural.

  “He is pastor in church?” Henny asked as they rattled down the dirt road that the owner of the one gas station in Deroche had assured them would lead to the Standish’s home. “I do not see how a church would be in a place like this.”

  “I don’t think it’s a regular kind of church,” Maggie answered as her little car bounced into yet another pothole. “Looks like a turnoff coming up. Let’s pray it’s Chapel Lane.”

  Henny laughed. “You are being funny, ja?”

  Actually the sign pointing down the road read, HIS HOLINESS GOSPEL CHURCH IN THE WOODS. SEEK AND YE WILL FIND. PASTOR AARON STANDISH.

  “Where are woods?” Henny asked. “Just all that yellow broom stuff—and cows!”

  “Well, at least cows mean there’s a farmhouse close by, and we can always ask where the church is.”

  There were a few trees in the distance, and as they drove closer, the trees materialized into a stand of poplars and a couple of weeping willows drooping over a small house. Next to it stood a weather-beaten church. A large placard in front of the house stated that it was HIS HOLINESS GOSPEL CHURCH and the scripture for the week was “The sun shall be turned to darkness and the moon to blood, Acts 2:20.”

  As soon as Maggie pulled into the gravel driveway and opened her door, Oscar, who had decided that he’d been cooped up long enough, gave a joyful bark. Dragging his leash behind him, he bounded out of the car and headed straight for two little girls playing in the yard.

  “Oscar, come right back here,” Maggie yelled. “It’s okay, he won’t hurt you,” she assured the children who were looking fearfully at the dog. Oscar, who thought everyone loved him, jumped up to lick their faces. Maggie grabbed hold of the dog by the collar and knelt down in front of the girls. “He’s just pleased to see you. Behave yourself, Oscar, and let the girls give you a pat.”

  The door of the cottage opened and a young woman came rushing out. “Are you okay? I thought I heard a dog barking.” She stopped short when she saw Maggie and Henny. “If it’s anything to do with the church,” she said warily, “Aaron’s Healing Touch service doesn’t start for another half hour.” Her auburn hair was scraped back from her face and tied with a shoelace, and she was wearing a shapeless dress that must have come from the same thrift shop as her daughters’ dresses. She looked thoroughly worn out.

  “Mrs. Irma Standish?” Maggie asked.

  The woman nodded warily.

  “I’m Maggie Spencer.” Maggie handed over one of her cards. “We wanted to talk to you and your husband about his father, Jonathan Standish.”

  Irma Standish glanced at the card. “You’re investigators! Why would you want to talk about someone who committed suicide?”

  “But he didn’t,” Maggie answered. “We are certain he was murdered.”

  “Murdered!” Then a sly smile played on her lips. “Was it that wife of his? Maybe you’d better come in,” she added, turning to Maggie and Henny. The two little girls clung to their mother’s skirt as she led the way inside.

  “I’ll put the dog in the car,” Henny said, taking the leash from Maggie.

  To Maggie’s surprise the kitchen was warm and inviting. A pine table with six matching chairs was centred on an oval braided rug, there was a rocking chair covered in the same red check as the curtains next to a wood-burning cook stove, and the air was filled with the heavenly scent of fresh scones.

  “Have a seat.”

  “What a lovely, cosy room,” Maggie exclaimed as she pulled out a chair at the table.

  “Courtesy of my parents.” Irma Standish walked over to the sink and put the kettle under the faucet. “They may not be happy with my situation, but at least they care. Which is more than I can say about Aaron’s family.”

  “Do your parents live close by?”

  “Not now. They moved to White Rock a couple of years back.” While she was talking, she had uncovered a plate of hot scones and taken down tea plates from the pine dresser. She placed the scones, butter, and homemade strawberry jam on the table.

  “They smell very good,” Henny said as she entered the kitchen. “Your girls are lucky to have a mama who cooks. What are their names?”

  “This one is Pansy and the little one’s called Iris.”

  Maggie waited until the children had been given their food and a glass of milk and had gone outside before she asked, “Does Aaron have a large congregation?”

  Irma looked at her inquiringly.

  “I just wondered, as the church seems very remote.”

  “No. That’s why he has to work part-time at Van Dyke’s dairy farm.” She glanced at an ornate cuckoo clock on the wall. “He should be home soon. If Aaron’s father was murdered,” she continued, “why haven’t the police contacted us? After all, Aaron is Jonathan’s only child.”

  “I think the police hate to admit that they made a mistake,” Maggie answered, “especially as it was our agency that proved it was murder and not suicide.”

  “Daddy, daddy,” they heard one of the children call out. “There’s a lady with a doggy.”

  Irma jumped out of her chair and rushed to open the door. “Honey, we have visitors,” she called out nervously.

  Aaron, topping six feet, husky, brown-haired, tanned, and smelling more like a farmer than a preacher, walked into the kitchen, followed by his daughters. He stared enquiringly at the two women sitting at the table. “And you are . . . ?”

  “They’re private detectives,” Irma burst out. “It’s about your father.”

  “I’m Margaret Spencer and this is my assistant, Henny Vandermeer,” Maggie said as she stood up.

  “Private detectives. But you’re . . . you’re women . . .”

  “Yes, Mr. Standish. I’m a woman and a very good detective, too. My partner, Nat Southby, and I are investigating the death of your father.”

  “Investigating? But he committed the ultimate sin of taking his own life. I pray for his soul every day.”

  “No, Mr. Standish, he was murdered. And your stepmother has engaged our agency to look into his death.”

  “Murdered! But why haven’t the police or that woman contacted me directly?”

  “You don’t get on with your stepmother?”

  “Stepmother,” he replied scathingly. “She’s a conniving Jezebel. The Bible warns the unsuspecting of such women. Did she kill him?”

  “I doubt it,” Maggie answered. “Why do you dislike her so much?”

  “My mother was hardly cold in her grave when he married her.”

/>   “When did your mother die?”

  “Nine months before he married that woman.”

  “Nine months!” Henny exclaimed.

  “And what about my children? His grandchildren?”

  “But those little girls weren’t born then,” Henny said.

  “That woman is set for life and living in a luxury apartment,” he carried on, taking no notice of Henny’s remark, “and . . . and look at us.” He stopped suddenly. “But,” he added piously, “we bow to the Lord’s will.”

  Maggie opened her handbag and produced the photograph of the woman and child. She handed it to Pastor Aaron. “Do you know these people?”

  “No. Should I? Who are they?”

  “We don’t know. But the woman leaves flowers on your father’s grave.”

  “Another one of his bits on the side! There were plenty of them.”

  “Aaron,” his wife admonished. “How can you say that?” Taking the photo from him, she peered intently at it and then, taking a pair of glasses out of her apron pocket, looked again.

  “Why do you think my mother left him so often?”

  “You’ve never mentioned that she had left him, Aaron,” Irma replied, handing the photo back to Maggie.

  “What are bits on the side, mommy?” Pansy asked.

  Irma looked at the girls and said quickly, “Why don’t you two go outside or go up to your room and play for a while.”

  “Don’t want to,” Iris said stubbornly.

  “Do as your mother says,” Aaron yelled at the children.

  “Aaron, please.” Irma shot a look at her husband that spoke volumes and then took each child firmly by the hand and marched them up the stairs.

  Maggie waited for a few seconds before she turned back to Aaron. “Care to elaborate on what you were saying?”

  “Forget I said anything. It has nothing to do with his death.”

  “On the contrary,” Maggie answered. “It may have everything to do with his murder.”

  “If you must know,” he answered tersely, “my father was a womanizer—a disgraceful womanizer. He deserved everything that happened to him.” Red in the face and shaking with emotion, he walked to the foot of the stairs, then turned back to face Maggie and Henny. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Lord, I ask you to forgive me.” After another moment, in which his mouth worked in words of silent prayer, he lowered his eyes to gaze at the two women again. “Now I have to prepare myself for His work. Let yourself out.”