“I’ll leave my card on the table,” Maggie said. “It has my telephone number on it. Call if you think of anything you’d like to tell me.”
• • •
NAT FINISHED HIS Monday morning meeting with one of his old clients—James Whittaker and Associates—had a quick lunch with George then began reviewing a report regarding Jonathan Standish’s typewriter. The attached note read:
Sorry for the delay in getting this to you but have been swamped.
Best regards, Barry.
Barry, short for Lionel Barrett, was a forensic wizard Nat had worked with in the old days. He reached for the telephone.
“Hi, Alice. It’s Nat Southby. Would it be convenient if I came round to see you. Say, in about an hour? . . . Great.”
• • •
ALICE ANSWERED THE door and led him straight through the living room and onto the balcony that overlooked English Bay. “It’s so beautiful today,” she said, indicating the chair next to Jane’s, “that we decided to have tea out here.”
“I almost called the gallery,” Nat said as he sat down, “then I remembered you are closed on Mondays.”
“Good thing, too,” Jane said brusquely, “considering that Sheldon creature went off to God-knows-where. Have you found him?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Maggie and I located him on Galiano.”
“Has he been charged with murdering that young man?” Alice asked. “Though I can’t really see him murdering anyone—especially by cutting someone’s throat.” She shuddered and hastily picked up her teacup and took a hard swallow.
“Too much of a wimp, if you ask me,” Jane said. “Want some tea?”
Nat declined. He was not a tea lover. “The police kept him in jail over the weekend. I heard they released him this morning.” He paused for a moment to take in the fantastic view before speaking again. “Was Jonathan the only person to use the typewriter in the office?”
“The typewriter?” Alice asked.
“For God’s sake, Alice!” Jane cut in. “The one the suicide note was written on.”
“I’d forgotten . . . you took it away, didn’t you? Jonathan didn’t like anyone else to use it.”
“But did they?” Nat persisted.
“I have my own portable. Perhaps Sheldon might have used it at some time . . . I really don’t know. Why?”
“I got a friend down at the station to take a look at it,” Nat explained. “For starters, the suicide note was definitely written on it, and there are only one set of prints on the keys. Jonathan’s.”
“But that means that Jonathan must have written the note . . . so he did take his own life.”
“Not necessarily. The note could have been written before he was murdered and the prints wiped off. Then when your husband used the typewriter again, his were the only prints.”
“But the typewriter was in the office all the time.”
“Jonathan’s murder must have been premeditated,” Jane said firmly. “And whoever did it got into the gallery when it was closed.”
Nat asked, “Has there ever been any sign of a break-in?”
Alice shook her head. “We would have noticed if there had been. And the alarm would have sounded.”
“Then the killer got a key from somewhere and knew how to switch off the alarm. How many keys are there and who has them?”
“Jonathan’s, Sheldon’s, mine, of course, and a spare,” Alice said. “That’s four.”
“Can you account for all four of them right this minute?”
“Well, I gave Jonathan’s key to Jane, mine is on my keychain in my handbag, and I guess Sheldon still has his.”
“And where is the fourth?” Nat prodded.
She looked flustered before answering. “At the gallery. Jonathan kept it in his desk in the office. Oh dear, suppose someone’s taken it?”
“It seems quite likely,” Nat answered. “And how many people know how to switch off the alarm system?”
“Well, I do, and Sheldon, of course. And Jonathan . . . And we’ve had a number of assistants over the years. Some of them would have known where the switch is located . . .”
Nat started to push himself out of the chair but suddenly sat down again. “Did Jonathan ever talk to you about his first wife? What did she die of?”
“Catherine? Jonathan told me it was lung cancer. Apparently she was a very heavy smoker . . . and I understand it was not a happy marriage.”
“Did he say why?”
She looked pensive. “Jonathan was a very attractive man . . . but he was a struggling artist for much of his early career. She couldn’t come to terms with his temperament and the lack of money coming in, and she nagged him constantly about getting a regular job like all her friends’ husbands.”
“And the son?”
“Adored his mother and resented his father.”
“Why?”
“Because they were always fighting. Jonathan was on the verge of leaving her several times but then she became so very ill. And finally she died.”
“How long did you and Jonathan wait before you married?”
She hesitated. “It was less than a year.” She gave a little laugh. “So you can imagine how Aaron felt when I came on the scene so soon after her death. He made it very clear that he disapproved of our relationship.”
Nat sat quietly for a moment before asking, “Jonathan ever mention having an affair before his wife’s death?”
Alice looked up suddenly. “No. What makes you ask?”
“Just a thought.”
She shook her head slowly. “I’m sure he would have told me. But I suppose he could have. After all, he was so unhappy . . .”
Nat pushed himself out of the chair. “I’d better be on my way. Give me a buzz if you find that spare key, okay?”
“I won’t sleep a wink until I find out what happened to it,” Alice said as she followed him to the door.
“Then we’ll go over to the studio right away,” Jane said, coming up behind her sister. She turned to Nat. “We’ll call you.”
• • •
THE CALL CAME a half hour after Nat returned to the office. “It’s gone!” Alice said. “But who would’ve taken it?”
“Do you remember the last time you saw it?”
“No. We haven’t needed it—so I’ve no idea at all. Oh, dear.”
“Who knew it was there?”
“Only us. Jonathan, Sheldon, and me.”
Nat replaced the receiver and sat deep in thought before drawing his yellow pad toward him to make a list of everyone close to Jonathan at the time of his death. First of all, his fellow artists using the studio on Quebec Street—Saul Wingate, Adele Rousseau, Tricia Forbes, Chris Barfield, Ian Buckle. The dead young man—Alex Donitz. Jonathan’s assistant—Sheldon White and, as an afterthought, he included the unknown woman who left pink roses on Jonathan’s grave. It was possible that any one of them might have known where Jonathan kept the spare key.
• • •
SAUL WINGATE WAS surprised to see Nat at his door. “Come in. What can I do for you?” He led Nat into his spacious penthouse suite. “Have you found that scoundrel, Sheldon?”
Nat was impressed. “Whew!” he said reverently as he walked over the thick silver-grey carpet to look out of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The fantastic view of the North Shore Mountains, dominated by the Lions, took his breath away.
“Never get tired of looking at ’em,” Saul said, joining Nat at the window. “What can I get you? Scotch?”
“Make mine a G and T,” a sultry voice said behind Nat. “So what brings you into this neck of our woods, Mr. Southby?”
The voice belonged to the blond artist from the shared studio on Quebec Street.
“I don’t think we were properly introduced,” she said, holding out a slim, tapered hand. “Tricia Forbes. Come,” she added, taking Nat firmly by the hand and leading him to an off-white leather couch. “You can tell me all about your latest grisly murder while Saul fix
es the drinks.”
“Leave the poor man alone.” Saul laughed and handed Nat his drink. “Wait a sec while I fix Tricia’s gin and then you can bring us up to date.”
Nat took an appreciative swig and waited until Saul was seated on an identical sofa on the other side of the square glass coffee table. “The murdered man’s name was Alex Donitz,” he said. “Ring any bells?”
“’Fraid not,” Saul answered. “What about you, Trish?”
She shook her head. “Got a photo of this guy?”
Nat slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a picture of Alex Donitz with his arm around his girlfriend.
“Who’s the pretty girl?” Saul asked.
“His fiancée, Gloria Wentworth. It was taken just a few weeks before he was murdered.”
“But why was he killed?” Tricia asked. “Mistaken identity?”
Nat nodded. “I think you’re probably right there. Alex Donitz was from Poland and had only been in the country a short time. I think he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Saul took a sip of his drink and placed the glass on the table. “The studio where he was killed belongs to Sheldon, doesn’t it?”
Nat nodded.
“But that would mean that the killer didn’t know what Sheldon White looked like,” Tricia cut in. “I’ll bet it was a contract killing! Hey! This is quite exciting, isn’t it?”
Nat, who had seen violent death more times than he wished, couldn’t agree less, but he managed to hold his tongue and let the other two talk.
“Of course,” Saul said slowly, “there is the possibility that Sheldon and this Alex were into something unsavory.”
“But what?” Nat asked encouragingly.
“I don’t know . . . something to do with art. Stealing paintings? Forgery? You’re the detective.”
“Did Jonathan ever mention paintings being stolen from the gallery?” Nat asked.
“Not in so many words, but the dear man was worried sick about something. And if I had been him, I wouldn’t have trusted that slimy bastard Sheldon like he did.”
“Do you know Sheldon well?”
“I’ve met him a few times at the gallery, but I don’t actually know the man, if you get my meaning, only what Jonathan and Alice have told me.”
“Do any of the others in your group know him?”
“Ian’s often at the gallery.” Seeing Nat’s quizzical look, he went on to explain, “Jonathan was able to find a market for his type of work. But I really can’t speak for the others.”
“And now Sheldon’s gone missing,” Tricia mused. “Doesn’t that make him guilty of something?”
“He’s been found,” Nat said bluntly. “My partner, Maggie, and I traced him to Galiano on Saturday.”
“So what did he have to say for himself?” Saul asked. “Did he tell you why he ran?”
“He was scared out of his wits,” Nat answered as he struggled to get up from the deep, soft sofa. “Seems it was a helluva shock to find someone murdered in his own backyard.” He gave a final push and managed to stand upright. “You knew Jonathan’s first wife, Catherine, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Jonathan and I go quite a ways back,” Saul answered, getting to his feet. “That woman was never happy.” He mused for a moment. “How can I describe her . . . ? She was always looking back and comparing the ‘good old days’ to the present.”
“What about Aaron?”
“The son? His mother spoilt him rotten. He became a pastor in one of those odd born-again churches, you know. But I can’t see him living a religious life. In fact,” he gave a wry laugh before continuing, “I would’ve thought he’d end up quite the opposite.”
“Can you tell me why?”
“He was a bully and a tattle-tale at school. My twin sons were in the same grade and they hated him. And then we heard he’d become a minister—didn’t add up.”
“You have twin sons?”
“And very proud of them, too. One’s a lawyer and the other’s a geologist. Their mother and I split after they went off to university.” He paused before adding, “But Beatrice and I are still great friends. Anything else I can help you with?”
“No. You’ve been a great help. Thanks for the drink. It’s been a pleasure to meet you again,” he said to Tricia.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Saul said.
“No need,” Nat replied, “I can see myself out. Oh, just one more thing, Saul . . . do you happen to have a key to the Standish gallery?”
“Key? No. Why would I have a key?”
“Alice can’t find the spare that was in Jonathan’s desk.”
“Well, she didn’t give it to me.”
“Thanks again.” But just as Nat put out his hand to open the door, he was stopped by the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door burst open to reveal a thirtysomething, curly-haired man valiantly struggling with the door key, a briefcase, and a couple of bottles of wine.
“My dear, let me help you.” Saul rushed over to relieve the young man of the wine before turning to Nat. “Nat, let me introduce my roommate, Leslie Duncan.”
• • •
“SO, AS WE expected,” Maggie commented later that evening after she and Nat had brought each other up to date, “Saul is attracted to the same sex, and Tricia is willing to take on anyone at all! You’d better watch out.”
“Nah. Neither of them are my type,” he said. “I like ’em bossy.” He laughed and pulled her into his arms.
“I’m not bossy,” Maggie retaliated. “I just have to keep you in line, that’s all.” As she snuggled up to kiss him, she gave a contented sigh and thought how lucky she was.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At the office the following day, it didn’t take long to get back to business.
“Any idea where we go from here?” Nat asked. Maggie and Henny were sitting in front of his desk with the typewritten reports spread out in front of them.
They sat in silence for a few moments before Henny asked, “Did the police let Sheldon White out of jail?”
“He was to be released yesterday,” Nat answered.
“He has missing key.” Henny looked smugly at her employers. “You go and see him.”
Maggie laughed. “Henny’s got a point. And while we’re asking him about the key, we should try and have a good look in that studio of his.” She gave a shudder. “At least it’s been cleaned up.”
“What about Gloria Wentworth?” Nat asked.
“Alex Donitz’s fiancée? Do you want me to talk to her?”
“You might get more out of her than I would.”
“Do we have any idea where she lives?”
“George mentioned that she works in the accounting department of the Bay.”
“Great, that’s a help.” She quickly made a note on her pad. “Anything else we’ve missed?”
“Don’t think so. Do you want to come with me to see Sheldon?”
“No. You go and I’ll try and locate Gloria Wentworth. M-m-m,” she mused, “I wonder if she still has a key to her boyfriend’s apartment.”
“Maggie,” Nat said in a warning tone, “no trespassing.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she answered, springing up and heading for the door. “I’ll see you later.”
“Maggie!” But she had made a quick exit.
“I type up notes, Mr. Nat,” Henny said hurriedly and quickly followed in Maggie’s wake.
“Women!” Nat muttered under his breath as he reached for his telephone.
• • •
“IS IT IMPORTANT?” Gloria Wentworth asked when Maggie had located the girl and identified herself. “I’m not allowed to have personal calls.”
“What about lunch then?”
The girl hesitated before answering. “We have a cafeteria here. But there isn’t much I can tell you.”
“What time?” Maggie persisted.
“Twelve-thirty. I’m wearing a blue twin-set and black skirt.”
/> • • •
MAGGIE WAS ON the point of leaving for her appointment when George finally returned Nat’s call.
“We’re busy as hell,” he complained, “so I hope you’re not asking me to do anything like snooping for you.”
“No, no. What’s the situation with Sheldon White?”
“He was definitely let out yesterday with the usual warnings to keep himself available and not to leave town.”
“Have you finished going over his studio and house?”
“You’re not asking me to give out information, are you?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Just wanted to make sure it was okay for us to go over there and ask him some questions, that’s all.”
“Nat, you know how Farthing loves you and Maggie, so please watch your step. Anyway, all I can tell you is that the fingerprint guys have finished going over the place.”
“Did they find anything interesting?”
There was a pause before George answered reluctantly, “No, other than White’s and the dead guy’s fingerprints where one would expect to find them.”
“What about the house?”
“White’s prints and of course yours and Maggie’s. So expect a routine call on them.”
“Thanks, George. Now that wasn’t too bad, was it?”
The answer was George slamming down the receiver.
• • •
“HOW LONG HAD you known Alex?” Maggie asked the very young and frightened girl across the table from her.
“I guess about six months. I liked him right away . . . he was so gentle and polite.” She dabbed her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief.
“How did the two of you get together?”
“One of the guys in our office threw a party to celebrate moving into his new apartment, and Alex was living next door so he was invited, too.”
“I guess that was a sensible idea,” Maggie said, smiling, “knowing how noisy some of these parties can be.”
Gloria nodded. “I think Alex appreciated the invitation as he hadn’t lived in Vancouver for very long. We got talking and somehow we clicked.” She picked up her sandwich and then put it down again. “Why would anyone want to kill him?”
Death as a Fine Art Page 10