Death as a Fine Art

by Gwendolyn Southin

  “What the hell . . . ?” Grabbing the offending instrument, he yelled, “If this is a wrong number . . .”

  “It’s Joyce Creswell from your answering service, Mr. Southby. Sorry if I woke you.”

  “I’m sorry, Joyce. I didn’t mean to shout. What is it?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all evening.”

  “I was out. What’s wrong?”

  “Mrs. Spencer left an urgent message for you to call her. I was just going off duty and I thought I’d try one more time. She did say it was urgent,” she repeated apologetically.

  “I’ll call her right away.”

  He replaced the receiver and looked at his alarm clock. Quarter after ten. It’s late. Maggie’s sure to be asleep. And what could be that urgent? He snuggled back down into his bed, then sat bolt upright again. “Bloody hell! Better risk being bawled out.” He reached for the telephone and let it ring at least a dozen times but there was no answer.

  Ten minutes later he was dressed and searching for his keys.

  Maggie’s house was in complete darkness. Slipping his key in the lock, he slowly opened the door to be greeted by Oscar hurling himself at him. “Down, Oscar. Down. Maggie?” he yelled. “Maggie?” He felt for the hall light. “Where the hell are you, Maggie?”

  The dog ran ahead of him, stopped by his empty bowl, and looked up expectantly. Emily, asleep in her basket opened one eye, sat up and then slunk over to her empty dish. “Bloody hell, Oscar. She hasn’t been home, has she?” He raced up the stairs and into Maggie’s bedroom. The drapes were still open and the bed hadn’t been slept in. “Where in God’s name are you?” He raced back down the stairs to see both animals sitting hopefully beside their dishes. “Okay. I get the message.” After feeding them, he let them have a quick run in the yard then carefully locked the front door. As he climbed back behind the wheel of his car, he thought, She was going to meet that girl . . . what’s her name? . . . Gloria. And the girl was going to take her to Alex Donitz’s apartment. But where in hell is the apartment? George could find out but it’s far too late to call him. Then suddenly he recalled Henny’s last words as she left the office: the address was in the files.

  The whole building was dark, and as he flooded the agency’s offices with light, he hoped the cop on the beat didn’t come to check what he was up to. Thank God for Henny’s up-to-date filing system. Hauling the Standish file out of the cabinet, he quickly scanned the contents. “Ah! Here it is. Alex Donitz, 1505-East 3rd Avenue, Apartment 304.” He ran down the stairs, rammed the car into gear, and sped toward the east end of the city.

  • • •

  MAGGIE WAS EXHAUSTED by the time she turned into the alley that led to the back of her house, and after carefully locking the garage doors, she walked up the pathway and opened the back door. “I’m home, Oscar. Where are you, Emily? Did you think I’d forgotten you? You poor things, you must be starved.”

  Oscar rushed to meet her, but Emily only opened one eye to acknowledge her presence before going back to sleep again. Then Maggie saw the cat and dog food on the table and remnants of food still in Emily’s dish. “Nat must have been here and he must wonder wherever I’ve got to.” She picked up the phone and dialed. But there was no answer. Now what do I do?

  • • •

  EXCEPT FOR A dingy, wire-caged light over the door, the apartment building was in complete darkness, and of course the doors were locked. Nat scanned the names on the residents board until he found Donitz and leaned on the bell. No answer. Of course, she could have gone someplace with the girl. But where? Something must’ve happened. I’ve got to get inside. He pressed the superintendent’s bell.

  The man was not happy. “What do you want? Go away or I’ll call the cops.”

  “I am the cops,” Nat lied. Two minutes later a bleary-eyed man in striped pyjamas peered out of the door.

  “I thought you said you were the cops?”

  “Plain clothes.” Nat flashed his PI card.

  “Where’s the rest of you guys?”

  “Coming. I need to get into 304. Go get the pass-key.”

  “Wait a minute. There ain’t anyone in that apartment. The guy’s dead. Murdered.”

  “Get the key,” Nat answered menacingly.

  • • •

  THE APARTMENT WAS empty and there was no sign of Maggie or the girl, Gloria.

  “Told you the place was empty.” The superintendent looked suspiciously at Nat. “You sure you’re the cops?”

  “Have you let anyone into this apartment tonight?”

  “Only the girl that comes in to feed those cats, and she’s got a key.”

  “What cats?” Nat asked.

  The man looked around the apartment. “Where’s those blasted cats, anyway?” He stalked back into the bedroom and peered under the bed. “Maybe they escaped,” he said hopefully. “I told her she’s got to shift them by the end of the week.”

  “For God’s sake, man. Forget the bloody cats.” Nat had closely followed on the superintendent’s heels. He now yanked open the closet door and pushed the few clothes hanging there to one side. “Have you seen any strangers in the building?”

  “No . . . wait a minute. There was this woman wanting to use the phone. Said she was visiting.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Lemme see . . . I was watching Gorgeous George pummeling the bejesus out of Pretty Boy. ’Bout six.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “I dunno. Middle-aged, nice figure. Wearing a black raincoat. Wasn’t very friendly, though. Can’t remember anything else . . . Oh! She called someone . . . and told her to pass a message on to Nat.”

  “I thought you had the TV on.”

  “Turned it down, didn’t I? You finished in here?”

  “Yes,” he said, walking back into the living room. A moment later he knelt and picked up a key that was lying under the edge of the couch.

  “Here! What you got there? You can’t take nuffin’ out of the place.”

  “Evidence,” Nat answered walking toward the door and trying the key in the lock—it didn’t fit. “I’ll sign for it, if you like,” he said, dropping it into his pocket. “I also need to use your phone.”

  “This time of the night . . .” The look on Nat’s face shut him up. “Make it quick then.”

  “Nat,” Maggie’s voice sounded relieved. “Where are you? I’ve been calling your place for the past half hour.”

  “I’m coming right over, just stay put.”

  “You owe me fifty cents,” the superintendent said, holding out his hand. “For the phone call.”

  • • •

  “I WAS WORRIED sick,” Nat said a half hour later, releasing Maggie from his tight embrace. “Especially when that brute of a superintendent said you’d used his phone to call me.” He paused. “What did happen to those two cats?” He looked around the kitchen. “You didn’t bring them here, did you?” he added suspiciously.

  Maggie laughed. “I may be stupid when it comes to animals, but not that stupid. Get your wet coat off while I make you a hot chocolate and I will tell you all.”

  • • •

  MAGGIE SPIKED NAT’S chocolate liberally with brandy, and he drank it appreciatively. “And these paintings . . . you think they’re really valuable?”

  Maggie nodded. “If they’re genuine.”

  “And you think they are.”

  Maggie nodded.

  “I know absolutely nothing about art. Who is this Cornelius what’s-his-name, anyway?”

  “Cornelius Krieghoff. A Dutch painter who lived in Montreal in the nineteenth century. My aunt had several framed prints of his works on her walls—don’t you remember seeing them when we were there last Christmas?”

  “Not really . . . Oh, do you mean those old-fashioned snowy farmhouse scenes above the fireplace?”

  Maggie nodded. “But those were just prints. I’m sure these three are originals.”

  “Wait a minute,” Nat said suddenly
. “Those phone calls Sheldon was talking about—they were about some Krieghoff paintings. Do you remember?”

  “Of course,” Maggie said slowly, “but they could have been very good fakes.”

  “But they . . . whoever they are . . . wouldn’t kill for fakes. It’s a pity that girl didn’t give you a better description of the man who attacked her.”

  Maggie picked up the mugs and placed them in the sink. “I’m bushed. Are you staying or going back to your own place?”

  “I can’t face going out in that rain again,” Nat said then added, “and your bed looked very inviting when I was up there earlier.” It wasn’t until he had snuggled down into the warm bed and was slipping into a comforting sleep that he remembered the key in his coat pocket. It will have to wait ’til the morning. He closed his eyes.

  • • •

  IT WAS UNDERSTANDABLE that they were very late getting to the office the following morning and Henny was waiting for them.

  “You forget you have a meeting at nine this morning, Mr. Nat?”

  “Oh, blast. Would you call Mr. Clive and tell him I’m running a little late?”

  “He is important client,” she answered primly as she lifted the telephone receiver.

  Maggie tried to hide a smile before slipping into her office and before Henny could rebuke her on her tardiness as well.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was Saturday morning and Nat and Maggie were just about to sit down to a leisurely late breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast when the telephone gave its insistent ring.

  “Drat, who can that be this time of the morning?” she said as she reached for the phone.

  “Sorry to call you on a Saturday. It’s Irma . . . Irma Standish. You did say to call if I remembered anything . . . and Aaron has gone to get the church ready for a meeting with the elders, so . . .”

  “That’s quite okay, Irma,” Maggie replied, handing her plate back to Nat to put in the oven to keep it warm. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s about that photo—you know? The one with the woman and little girl. They came here.”

  “To your place? Why didn’t Aaron mention that when I was there?”

  “Because he doesn’t know. I didn’t tell him.”

  “Perhaps you’d better explain.”

  “That woman . . . she said that Aaron should know that her little girl was his sister—or half-sister, to be precise.”

  “And you didn’t tell your husband?”

  “No. I thought she was making it all up, and knowing how Aaron felt about his father’s . . . infidelities . . . I didn’t want him to get angry. He can get very . . . very angry, and sometimes I worry about my girls.”

  “So why are you telling me about this now?”

  “Maybe she was telling the truth, and suppose she comes back?”

  “Did she give you an address or a phone number?”

  “Yes, a telephone number. But she said not to let anyone have it except Aaron.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “She said that Jonathan was murdered and she was scared for herself and her daughter. I didn’t want to believe her, but after your visit . . .”

  “Did she give you her full name?”

  “No. Just the number where I could reach her.”

  “I think you’d better give it to me.”

  “But suppose she really is in danger? It could be my fault if anything bad happened.”

  “That’s exactly why you need to let me have it. She didn’t tell you where she lived, I suppose?” Maggie asked hopefully.

  “No, but it’s definitely in Vancouver . . . Aaron and I lived on Prince Albert when we were first married and it was the same phone exchange. Do you think I should tell Aaron?”

  “Wait until we’ve looked into it.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed. “God knows how he’s going to take the news that he has a sister only a couple of years older than his own daughters. And,” she added, “by one of his father’s . . . women.”

  • • •

  “I GATHER FROM your conversation that Irma has met the elusive Judith.” Nat said as he reached into the oven to reclaim her breakfast. “This will be all dried out now.”

  “No. It’s just great.” She forked a mouthful of eggs into her mouth before she continued. “Irma didn’t tell her husband about the visit.”

  “M-m-m. That’s asking for trouble.”

  “At least she’s given me Judith’s phone number. Irma doesn’t know either her surname or address—but I’m pretty sure that she must live close to the cemetery. How do we find out?” she mused.

  “Call the number.”

  Maggie hesitated before reaching for the phone. “What do I say?”

  Nat shrugged. “Ask if we can see her?”

  Three rings went by before a child’s voice said all in one breath, “Oak-Tree-Clinic-we-are-closed-on-Saturdays.”

  Before Maggie had a chance to speak, she heard a woman’s voice ask, “Who is it, Jenny?”

  “I told them we’re closed.”

  “I am so sorry. What can I do for you?”

  “I think I must have the wrong number,” Maggie answered. “The child did say Oak Tree Clinic?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Am I speaking to Judith?”

  There was a pause and the woman answered warily, “Yes.”

  Maggie digested this bit of information and then she asked, “My name is Margaret Spencer. Would it be at all possible for me and my partner to visit you?”

  “I’m a children’s doctor—a pediatrician. I don’t treat adults.”

  “No. This is another matter. I believe you knew Jonathan Standish.”

  There were a few moments of silence. “What is this about?”

  “My partner and I are detectives and we’ve been hired to find Jonathan Standish’s murderer.”

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  “No. We will explain when we see you.”

  “How did you get my number?” the woman asked in a panicky voice.

  “Please, we really need to talk.”

  It seemed an age before she replied. “I’ll give you half an hour—say about midday. But I’ll need credentials from you.”

  Maggie copied down the address before replacing the receiver. “Well, that’s a surprise. She’s a doctor.”

  “You mean this Judith we’ve been trying to find?”

  “That’s right. She’s a pediatrician. She lives on 41st Avenue and has reluctantly agreed to see us around noon. My car or yours?”

  “Mine. It’s out front.”

  They were just putting on their coats when the telephone rang again. “Oh, leave it,” Nat said, plunging his hand in his pocket for his car keys.

  “I’d better answer it.” Maggie turned to walk back into the kitchen. But this time it was Harry.

  “Margaret,” he began, “we must get together this weekend to go over the guest list. I don’t think you know how close it is to the wedding.”

  “There is no reason to go over the list, Harry. I’ve sent all the invitations out. Your Miss Fitch-Smythe sent me your list and Midge and Jason gave me theirs ages ago.”

  “Well . . . there’s the seating in the church and the reception—we’ve got to discuss that . . . and the cars have to be ordered . . . I think it would be proper if you left from here . . . after all, you will want to be with Midge to help her dress . . . and then there’s the bridesmaids . . . and my mother.”

  That’s all I need, Honoria Spencer! “How about I come over tomorrow, Harry? Then we’ll go over everything together.” She realized she was placating him, but she wanted this wedding to go smoothly for Midge’s sake. But the look on Nat’s face as he listened to the one-sided conversation spoke volumes.

  “That was Harry,” she said unnecessarily.

  He nodded. “I found this on the floor of that apartment,” he handed her the door key. “I was so anxious to see you the other night that I completely
forgot all about it.”

  “Gloria had a key to the place. She must’ve dropped it.” Maggie shrugged into her coat.

  “It didn’t fit. I tried it myself.”

  “Do you think the man who attacked Gloria could’ve dropped it?”

  “It’s quite possible. We just have to find the door that fits the key.”

  Maggie laughed as she led the way out of the house. “Like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It was a perfect spring day. Ideal for walking through the beautiful grounds of Mountain View Cemetery. Oscar, as if he knew he had to behave, walked decorously on his lead between Maggie and Nat, even doing his best to ignore the pesky squirrels that darted invitingly over the gravesites.

  Nat came to a sudden halt in front of a very large tombstone. “Have a look at this,” he said.

  Maggie joined him and read the inscription. “Who was Robert McBeath?”

  “A very young police officer killed in the line of duty in 1921—a bit before my time on the force, but I’ve read about him.”

  “It says here he was awarded the Victoria Cross for bravery—just twenty-three years old—so young,” she added before turning away.

  A few minutes later they were standing before Jonathan Standish’s grave. “It’s evident that Judith hasn’t been here today,” Nat commented, nodding toward the withered remains of pink roses on the grave. “So let’s go and meet her.”

  • • •

  AFTER LOCKING OSCAR in the car, they walked up the narrow cement path between neat privet hedges that led to a blue door and a brass plaque bearing the words, OAK TREE CHILDREN’S CLINIC. Maggie reached for the doorbell.

  The door was opened by a girl around ten years old who was trying her best to hold onto the collar of an eager black and white spaniel. “Mommy’s not open on Saturdays and she’s a children’s doctor, not for grown-ups.”

  “We aren’t patients,” Maggie answered, laughing. “We’re here to speak to her on business.”

  “You must be Margaret Spencer,” the tall woman said as she came up behind the child and placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders. Maggie estimated that the woman, who had a blond braid that circled her head, was in her mid- to late thirties, and the resemblance to the figurines in the studio was remarkable.