Death as a Last Resort

by Gwendolyn Southin

  Dubois owned a successful logging company operating on the Lower Mainland, Sechelt Inlet and Vancouver Island and was a business associate of Schaefer’s Lumber and Building Supplies in North Vancouver. Mrs. Dubois was too distraught to be interviewed, but according to a close acquaintance, she was completely mystified why her husband’s body was found on Hollyburn Mountain.

  When this reporter enquired the cause of death, he was informed that the autopsy showed the death was from a severe blow to the head.

  “So what has this to do with me?” Nat demanded.

  “Jacquelyn wants to know who murdered him.” She paused for a moment before bursting out, “So I gave her your name.”

  “Why? The police are taking care of it.”

  “She doesn’t trust the cops too much. She wants an independent inquiry.”

  “But why me?”

  “You’re supposed to be some kind of detective, aren’t you? So,” she added, “when can she come and see you?”

  There was a tap on the door and Henny came bustling in with two cups of coffee and one huge, lumpy cookie, which she pointedly placed on a napkin in front of her boss. “Anything else, Mr. Nat?”

  “Take a look in the appointment book and see if Maggie and I have a free hour tomorrow or Friday.”

  “Do you need to bring that woman into this?”

  “That woman, Nancy, is my partner. And we always cooperate on big cases, especially a murder.”

  Henny reappeared at the door, book in hand. “Nothing until eleven on Monday morning, Mr. Nat.”

  He looked enquiringly at Nancy.

  “I’ll call her and find out. Pass your phone over.”

  “There’s a phone in the outer office,” Nat replied curtly. “Then if your friend wants that slot, Henny can book her into it.”

  Grabbing the fur coat that she had flung over her chair, Nancy stormed out of Nat’s office, slammed the door, settled behind Henny’s desk and picked up the phone. “Jacquelyn,” she said into the phone, “can you make Monday at eleven?”

  Now I have to break the good news to Maggie, Nat thought as he listened to the muted voice of his ex-wife in the outer office. But a shout of dismay, some blue language and several thumps made him rush to the door. Nancy, in the act of marching out of the office, had collided with two men entering from the corridor, staggering under the weight of several heavy boxes containing telephones, coils of wire and other equipment that were now scattered over the floor of the office. The two men were gaping with astonishment and Nancy was livid.

  “Watch where you’re going, you idiots!” she shouted at them as she bent to retrieve her handbag, and she slammed out of the room without a backward glance.

  “What was all that about?” the installer asked Maggie when she appeared in her office doorway. “You’ll have to pay for new telephones if they’re broken, you know,” he added.

  Nat stomped back into his office and slammed the door. Maggie would have liked to do the same, but she waited patiently while the installer inspected everything for damage.

  Henny watched apprehensively as he unpacked the console onto her desk. “All those buttons. How do I know which one to push?”

  “I’m sure this gentleman will explain everything,” Maggie answered. “It’ll be quite easy, you’ll see.”

  “But . . .”

  Maggie escaped into her own office, shut the door firmly behind her, drew some legal papers that a courier had delivered earlier in the day toward her, and tried to concentrate.

  But her peace was short-lived. “The telephone man wants to come in here next,” Henny said, poking her head into the room.

  “Can’t he do Nat’s office? I’m busy.”

  “The man has come to put down the carpet in Mr. Nat’s office.”

  “But he wasn’t supposed to come until tomorrow.”

  “He said he has spare time today.”

  “I give up.”

  By the sound of the raised voices emanating from Nat’s office, Maggie didn’t think he and the carpet layer were getting along too well either. It was obviously time to take Nat out for an afternoon break.

  “I don’t understand about buttons,” Henny yelled as Maggie headed toward his door.

  “You the boss?” the telephone man asked in exasperation.

  Maggie nodded.

  “It’s quite simple to use. Let me explain.”

  “Can you wait for just a few minutes?” she asked.

  “Lady,” he replied testily, “I have two more installations to do this afternoon . . .”

  Maggie was beginning to wonder if the new Southby and Spencer Agency would ever achieve some kind of normalcy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The office was quiet. The telephone system had been installed, Henny had departed for home after Maggie assured her she would explain all the buttons in the morning, the carpet man had left, and she and Nat were sitting in her office going over the day’s events.

  “You’d better read this,” Nat said, sliding the folded newspaper towards Maggie. “I wonder why it’s taken the cops so long to identify him?”

  Maggie picked up the newspaper and read the article. “You’re right. It’s been two weeks since we found the body.” She handed the paper back to him. “It was easy to see that he’d been bashed on the head.” She couldn’t help giving a shiver. “Of course, it was getting quite dark when we discovered him.”

  “I wonder why Mrs. Dubois wasn’t at the resort with her husband?” Nat mused.

  “Perhaps she prefers the city life,” Maggie answered. “Not everyone is into a log-fires-antlers-on-the-wall kind of vacation.”

  “We’ll probably find out when we interview her on Monday.” He stood up to leave, then turned back. “By the way, that was a good piece of work you did on that housebreaking case.”

  “It didn’t take much to figure out that the boyfriend was helping himself to the family silver as well as the daughter’s charms,” she answered. “Henny’s already typed the report up for me so we can bill Smedley and Company.” The publicity from their last big cases meant that their agency was now doing quite a bit of work for a number of law firms, Smedley, Smedley and Dawson being one of them.

  “Come on. Grab your purse and let’s go and splurge our hard-earned money on a steak at Monty’s.”

  Maggie didn’t need any prodding.

  • • •

  JACQUELYN DUBOIS WAS SMALL, slim, dark and very young— probably in her early twenties. She was dressed in deep mourning—black pillbox hat with a small veil, black dress, shoes, stockings and handbag. The black mink draped over her shoulders and the fingers covered in rings spoke of money.

  “You know, it’s early days yet, Mrs. Dubois. Perhaps you should give the police a little more time,” Nat suggested when the three of them were seated.

  “Maurice had no time for les cops,” Jacquelyn Dubois answered, her accent giving away her Quebecois heritage. “And I think there was . . . how do you say . . . funny business going on in his death.”

  “Funny business?” Maggie asked. “When was the last time you saw your husband?”

  “At my papa’s house in Montréal. Then Maurice flew back here to the Coast on the December 27.”

  “Any reason why you didn’t come with him?” Nat asked.

  Jacquelyn’s beautiful little face registered disgust. “Fishing camps do not appeal.”

  “Did he call you from the lodge?”

  “Non.” She took a lace-edged hankie out of her handbag and gently dabbed her eyes. “I called the resort when he didn’t come home, and they told me he had left on the previous Saturday.”

  “Did your husband know the others up at the lodge?” Maggie asked.

  “Some. They are . . . how do you say . . . business associates.”

  “To do with his logging operation?” Nat asked.

  “Non, non. He has an interest in the St. Clare Cove Resort. He wants . . . wanted to subdivide and build big houses there.”

&nbs
p; “And the guests were potential customers?” Maggie asked.

  “Oui.”

  “Did you know any of them?” Nat asked.

  Jacquelyn Dubois shook her head. “As I say, it was business. I know nothing about business. Maurice always tell me . . .” she paused and blushed, “not to worry my pretty little head. Now I wish I had asked questions.”

  “What about his partner?” Nat asked, looking down at the notes he’d made earlier. “Arnold Schaefer?”

  “He and his wife are, how do you say . . . stuffy.”

  “What about family, Mrs. Dubois?” Maggie asked. “Children?”

  “Maurice and I are only married for six months. But he has a son and daughter from his previous marriages.”

  “Marriages?”

  “Oui, he was married two times before.”

  “And they all live in Quebec?” Nat asked.

  “Non, non. They live here in Vancouver. René used to work at logging for Maurice, but he was no good.” She shrugged. “Now he works somewhere . . .” She waved a hand dismissively. “And has his own apartment. Isabelle, she is at some kind of school— hair-dressing or something like that.”

  “So she doesn’t live with you.”

  “Non-non. She lives with her mother.” Then, twisting her handkerchief in her well-manicured hands, she looked piteously up at Nat. “So it is the estate, you understand. I must get it settled. But, of course, I must know who killed my dear, dear Maurice in this . . . awful way, oui.”

  Nat, who was not easily fooled by the ‘poor-little-me’ act and could see that the girl, at least twenty years younger than her deceased husband, was probably more concerned about what the estate was worth than the man’s murder, asked, “Who is the main beneficiary of your husband’s will?”

  She hesitated for a moment before answering. “Naturally I am, but what is money if I don’t have my dear Maurice?” She dabbed her eyes again before adding, “His children get five thousand each.”

  “I see. Have the police released the body?” he asked.

  “He is in the Mountain View Funeral Home,” she said, dabbing her eyes once more. “My Maurice look so peaceful and I will give him a beautiful funeral.”

  “And where will that be?” Nat asked.

  “Two o’clock on Thursday at Holy Rosary Cathedral. You know it?”

  Nat nodded as he made a notation on his yellow pad.

  “And you will find the maniac who kill him?”

  “If you’re sure that’s what you really want,” Nat answered, “but it could be very expensive for you.”

  She stood and gathered up her coat and purse. “You want me to sign something?”

  “Maggie will take you to her office and explain our retainer system and our contract. Then if you still wish us to take on the case, she will have you sign a contract.”

  “Well,” Maggie said, after she had shown their new client out, “are you really up to tackling such a young and beautiful widow?”

  “I’ve a bad feeling about all this, and it’s not just because Nancy’s mixed up in it.”

  “So have I,” Maggie answered. “I mean, why did Dubois leave that fishing lodge up the coast and end up dead on the mountain? And,” she added, “where do we start on this one?”

  “First, we’ll get Henny to set up appointments for us.”

  “I suggest that the partner, Arnold Schaefer, should be at the top of the list and that we both go to see him,” Maggie said. “You know . . . first impressions . . .”

  “And presumably he can give us a list of everyone who was at the fishing lodge.” He reached over to his console. “Henny, how would you like to bring in your notebook?”

  • • •

  ARNOLD SCHAEFER’S SECRETARY informed them that her boss was out of town until Wednesday and the only time she could fit them in that day would be at ten o’clock. She didn’t know who had been up at the lodge with him but said she would ask as soon as her boss came in.

  “I’ve a hunch this is going to be a long investigation,” Nat said, replacing the receiver. “So how about we have a relaxing dinner out tonight?”

  “I’ve a much better idea,” Maggie answered with a smile. “How about a leisurely dinner at my place—candles and the works? Six o’clock?”

  “Ahh . . . I especially like the idea of the works.”

  • • •

  OSCAR, THE SPANIEL CROSS left to Maggie by her aunt, greeted her at the front door with his lead in his mouth. As she bent to pat his head, she noticed there was a fresh scratch on his nose. “Where’s your pal?” she asked in trepidation. Things hadn’t gone too well since she had brought him home to live with her and Emily, the white cat that had once belonged to the elderly victim in her first-ever murder case.

  But when Maggie checked the kitchen and living room, she found that everything was in place. Even the rugs! After picking up pieces of china each time she came home, she had removed her few remaining ornaments to safer places. But tonight Emily was sitting on the windowsill, fastidiously washing, and Maggie was sure she had a satisfied look on her face.

  “You’ve put Oscar in his place, I see.”

  The cat ignored the remark and went on washing.

  Nat, always on time for a meal, arrived with the wine. Oscar was so pleased to see him that he nearly sent him and the bottle flying. “Hey, watch it, dog,” Nat said, nudging the exuberant animal away with his foot.

  Laughing, Maggie grabbed Oscar’s collar with one hand and the bottle with the other. “Well, do I get a kiss for saving you from this ferocious beast?”

  “You bet! But only after you’ve safely put that bottle down.”

  Nat had become so much a part of Maggie’s life that she couldn’t imagine what it would be like without him. She realized that their families, friends and business acquaintances knew that their relationship was more than platonic. This fact must have been on Nat’s mind, too, as after the supper dishes had been done and they were sitting on either side of the fireplace, he said, “Heard anything from Harry lately?”

  Maggie and Harry, a lawyer for Snodgrass, Crumbie and Spencer, had been separated for three years now, but Harry still lived in the hope that she would see the error of her ways, give up her job with the detective agency, and return to their family home.

  “No. But Barbara called a few days ago and said that he had been made vice-president in the firm. He deserves it really,” she added. “He works very hard for them.”

  “Isn’t it time you divorced him, Maggie?”

  “You know that it’s out of the question,” she answered. “Neither Harry nor I would ever collude by staging a sham adultery. I just couldn’t do that to him. And I’m not about to have you named as co-respondent, either.” She was silent for a moment, thinking about her estranged husband. Even though Harry’s picky ways had irritated her until she had to leave him, she still felt some loyalty to him. After all, he was the father of her two daughters and she had been married to the man for over twenty-five years.

  “Does he know that you’re a partner in the business now?”

  Maggie shook her head. “I haven’t even told the girls yet. Guess I’m waiting for the right moment.”

  “Maggie,” he replied, standing up, “you’ve got to find the right moment.” He walked over to the closet and took his coat off the hanger. “And I mean not only the partnership but the situation between you and Harry.” He bent over her chair and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You’re not staying over?” she asked, feeling a little disappointed.

  “No. Got some things I have to do.”

  Maggie sat thinking for quite a while after he had gone, and she realized that deep down she didn’t want to confront Harry about a divorce. Why can’t things just go on as they are?

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was quite easy for Maggie and Nat to find Schaefer’s Lumber and Building Supplies in North Vancouver. As they drove through the gates, they could se
e that the yard was humming with workmen driving trucks and forklifts—it looked like a very busy and lucrative place. The lovely smell of wood that drifted from the planning mill and the drying kilns stayed with them in the cold air as they parked outside the cedar-shingled office.

  “Mr. Schaefer will just be a moment,” the dark-haired receptionist informed them. “He’s running a bit late.” Then she added in a whisper, “He’s on the phone with that Mrs. Dubois, helping her with the funeral arrangements.”

  “That’s tomorrow, isn’t it?” Maggie asked.

  The receptionist nodded. “Isn’t it awful about Mr. Dubois’s murder? Such a nice man,” she ran on. “Who would want to murder him?”

  “Have you worked here long?” Maggie asked.

  “Six months. But he was always so nice to me.”

  “Mr. Southby . . . ?” A short, red-faced man with a decided paunch stood in the doorway of one of the offices.

  “And this is my partner, Mrs. Spencer,” Nat filled in.

  ”Partner?” he said. Maggie could see him sifting this bit of information before extending his hand toward Nat. “Arnold Schaefer. Well, I suppose you’d better come in.” And he led the way into his office. “What on earth does that woman want to employ a private dick for?” he demanded and then, without waiting for an answer, he eased down into his ox-blood leather chair and continued, “Waste of money. Let the cops do their work. That’s what we pay our taxes for.” He indicated that the two of them should sit. “And she’s even got me doing the funeral arrangements,” he said disgustedly.

  “Are you talking about Mrs. Dubois?” Maggie asked.

  Schaefer continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Why doesn’t she get that lazy René to help? He’s left me in a terrible mess.”

  “Maurice Dubois has left you in a mess?” Maggie asked, feeling thoroughly confused.

  “As if I haven’t got enough on my plate with the lumberyard and logging operation and then—wouldn’t you know—my accountant up and left,” he continued, ignoring Maggie’s question.