Death as a Last Resort

by Gwendolyn Southin

“Is it a good deal?”

  “Beautiful spot, waterfront property, perfect view lots. Dubois had quite a good concept, really, but I don’t think it’s the right time.”

  “Too remote?”

  Edgeworthy nodded. “That and the problem of commuting. Give the Sunshine Coast another twenty-five years and maybe it will really come into its own, and then condominiums and townhouses will go over in a big way.”

  “Then it wouldn’t be a good thing to invest in now?” Nat asked.

  “Big risk. As I say, maybe twenty-five years from now. But I’m sure you’re not here to talk about real estate.”

  “You’re right. Any ideas why Dubois was killed?”

  Edgeworthy shook his head. “I can’t say I liked the guy that much, but I have no idea why anyone would want to murder him.”

  Nat took him step by step through his New Year’s stay at the lodge, but the conclusion was that Edgeworthy, like the others, had thought that Dubois was out fishing that Saturday afternoon in one of the other boats, and he said he was completely mystified how the man’s body could have ended up on Hollyburn Mountain.

  “What happens to the St. Clare Cove property now?” Nat asked as he prepared to leave.

  “Dubois had only put a down payment on it so it, will go back to the original owner,” he answered. “Unless, of course, his widow is prepared to take on the debt.”

  Nat couldn’t see Jacquelyn footing that bill, and he got up to leave. He turned just before opening the door. “I was admiring the drawings of another project you’re interested in. Your receptionist said it’s called Secret Valley. What’s that all about?”

  “Are you into skiing? If so, that’s going to be a really great deal. Ski lodge, saunas, indoor pool, massage—all that kind of thing.”

  “I’ve never heard of Secret Valley. Where’s it located?”

  “Hollyburn Mountain. That area is going to boom, and if you’re interested, the receptionist will give you a brochure.”

  “Thanks. I’ll pick one up on my way out.”

  • • •

  NAT FOUND ROMEO’S PALACE quite easily. The Italian restaurant had booths upholstered in red plush along two walls, and round tables covered in white tablecloths in the main part of the restaurant, each table adorned with a red candle stuck into a basket-covered Chianti bottle. A well-stocked bar was located across the back wall. Hadeya and Dario were a sharp contrast: Hadeya was a classic Egyptian beauty—olive skin, dark hair and a voluptuous body—while Dario was a handsome, swarthy-skinned, brown-eyed Italian of medium height. Hadeya’s older sister, Sharifa, they told Nat, had persuaded them to go to the resort over New Year’s and they had shared a large cabin with the Bakhashes.

  “Which part of Italy did you come from?” Nat asked over a cup of coffee.

  “Oh, I’m third generation Canadian,” he answered. “My grandparents emigrated to Montreal in the early 1900s. And I met Hadeya in Montreal when she came to visit her sister after the war.”

  Nat nodded before asking if either of them had seen Maurice on that particular Saturday afternoon. But Dario said he had gone fishing with that strange Englishman Smith, and his wife had been with the other women in the lodge.

  • • •

  MAGIE AND NAT ARIVED back at the office within a half hour of each other.

  “So how was lunch?” Maggie asked, taking a bite of the sandwich she had brought from home. “Did George enlighten you?” George had called Nat the previous day to arrange one of their regular lunch get-togethers. “You never know,” he had said to Maggie before she had left for her interview with Bakhash. “George might let something slip on why he was at the Dubois funeral.”

  “No. He asked a few questions about the other guests at the resort. But as I told him, we’ve only just started to interview them ourselves. So tell me about Bakhash?”

  “He has an accent, but his English is impeccable. I would say he’s the product of an expensive English boarding school of some sort. But that factory is something else . . .” And she proceeded to fill Nat in on the interview and her visit to the cutting room.

  “Can’t imagine anyone working in those conditions,” Nat commented after she told him about the row upon row of sewing machines.

  “I would think a lot of those women are immigrants with very little English,” Maggie said sadly, “and they can’t get any other kind of job.”

  Nat filled her in on his brief visit with Robert Edgeworthy. “So apparently no one at the fishing resort actually saw Maurice Dubois leave.” He paused for a moment. “But I did learn some more about that ski resort investment of Nancy’s.” He threw the brochure over to her. “Take a look at that.”

  Maggie looked up from reading the brochure. “A fifteen hundred dollar deposit! Does Nancy have that kind of money?”

  “No,” he answered grimly. “What’s next on the agenda?

  “You’re off the hook tomorrow, but I’m seeing Henry and Rosie Smith around ten. And I’ve arranged for us to see Liam Mahaffy at his stud farm in Delta on Saturday. Oh, that must be Henny,” she added, hearing the outer door open.

  “Did you get message?” Henny asked, poking her head into Maggie’s office.

  “No.”

  “It is on your desk.” She rummaged among the papers on Maggie’s desk until she came up with a torn-off scrap, which she handed to Maggie. “It’s that funny French lady. She called and said it is urgent for you or Mr. Nat to call her back.”

  “Did she say what it was all about?”

  “No. She just say it is very urgent. I tell her that you and Mr. Nat are out on business, like you tell me to say,” she said disapprovingly.

  Maggie hid a smile as she reached for the telephone.

  “Somebody has robbed my house,” Jacquelyn said when she answered the phone.

  “Have you called the police?”

  “Non, non! I have already told you I cannot do that. You must come!”

  Maggie glanced at the wall clock. “We’ll be with you about two-thirty, okay?”

  After she hung up, Maggie told Nat, “I think I’ll order some telephone notepads for Henny. What do you think?”

  Nat grinned. “Might not be a bad idea.”

  • • •

  THE DUBOIS ADDRES WAS rather impressive. It was a large red brick house behind wrought-iron railings and gates on Southwest Marine Drive. Maggie realized that it was not far from the home of her elder daughter—but Barbara’s house was just half the size of Jacquelyn’s.

  A woman in a black dress and apron let them in and showed them into a living room where antique tables jostled for place with two red velour chesterfields and two armchairs, a cretonne-covered wingback on one side of the fireplace and a matching love seat on the other. “Mrs. Dubois will be with you in a moment.”

  “Would you take a look at this place?” Nat whispered as he sat gingerly on the very edge of the wingback’s seat cushion.

  “I see you have come.” A pale-faced Jacquelyn with dark rings under her eyes walked into the room and stood in front of Nat. He immediately got to his feet.

  “You must call the Vancouver police,” he told her.

  She shook her head. “My Maurice say,” Jacquelyn said tearfully, “that the police are good for nothing. And the antiquities are a secret between him and me.”

  “Antiquities?” Nat asked, looking around the still very full living room.

  “Egyptian antiquities. They take all the pieces that Maurice find in Egypt. Look, I show you.” She led them through to the library and pointed to a photo album lying open on a Duncan Fyffe table. “See? My Maurice always keep the pictures.”

  The album contained page after page of photos of gold masks, bowls that looked as if it they were made of beaten gold, a half dozen cups and vases, small gem-studded figurines and a black cat that appeared to have been carved from ebony. There was jewellery as well—bracelets, earrings, bangles, rings, combs and even a couple of tiaras—and they all appeared to be made of chased si
lver, turquoise and other precious stones. Another picture showed several small carved stones.

  “These look very old,” Maggie whispered, awed. “Are they for real?”

  “My Maurice would never have imitations.”

  “You mean they came out of Egyptian tombs?” Maggie asked.

  “My husband is not a grave robber,” Jacquelyn answered haughtily.

  “But where did he get this stuff?” Nat asked.

  She shrugged. “It was before I met him.”

  “What about insurance?” Maggie asked.

  “No insurance. Some he kept always locked in the safe but most was in his den. Come.”

  The den was at the back of the house, and Maggie immediately walked over to the French doors that opened onto a red and grey brick patio with a stone balustrade. Beyond it, steps led down to a lush lawn and flowerbeds. “Is this where they broke in?”

  Jacquelyn nodded.

  Maggie examined the doors closely, but the lock had not been forced and there was no broken glass on the floor. She pointed this out to Nat and then asked Jacquelyn, “Do any of your late husband’s family own keys to your house?”

  Jacquelyn shook her head. “The real estate office changed all the locks when Maurice buy the house for me.”

  “Which real estate company?”

  Jacquelyn shrugged and raised her manicured hands skyward.

  “The thieves must have got a key from someone,” Maggie argued.

  “It is a great mystery,” Jacquelyn Dubois answered.

  “Is this where the stuff was displayed?” Nat asked, pointing to three tall cabinets. Each had solid oak doors that covered inner glass doors, but both sets of doors were now wide open and the shelves were bare.

  “Oui.” Jacquelyn dabbed at her swollen eyes. “Mes précieux bijoux.”

  “What about the safe?”

  “That is empty, too, see?”

  Nat peered into the wall safe. “You’ve got to call the police, Mrs. Dubois. You need to show those pictures to them.”

  “Non, non! I tell you Maurice was . . . what you say . . . very strong that I am never to tell police. But you must get them back for me.”

  “Are you sure the safe was locked?” Maggie asked.

  “And when was the last time you opened it?” Nat added.

  Jacquelyn Dubois looked away for a moment. “Yesterday. I take out some cash,” she replied and then shrugged. “I am sure I locked it.”

  “And nothing else was taken?”

  “Already I tell you,” she answered angrily. “Rien.”

  “Do you have any idea who the thieves were? It’s obvious that they knew exactly what was in those cupboards and in that safe.”

  “But nobody know about Maurice’s objets! The doors are always closed. See, like this!” And she demonstrated how the double set of doors closed and locked. “And Maurice say it is our secret.”

  “Did you ever wear any of that jewellery?” Nat asked.

  “Only once. Maurice let me wear the bracelet with the blue beads to a big party. But it is too heavy and Maurice worry all the time that I lose it.”

  “Did your maid hear anything?” Maggie asked.

  “My maid? Oh, you mean Theresa, my cleaning woman. She doesn’t come in until nine in the morning.”

  “You’d better show us the rest of the house,” Nat said, walking toward the door. But it was just as Jacquelyn had said—nothing else had been disturbed.

  • • •

  “THE THIEVES KNEW EXACTLY what they wanted,” Nat said on their way back to the office. “And that was the Egyptian antiquities.”

  “Yes,” Maggie answered. “But the widow’s hands are still loaded with rings and they must be worth a mint!”

  • • •

  THE EXOTIC EASTERN EMPORIUM was a bit of a shock to Maggie’s rather conservative taste. As she stepped into the old building, she found herself overwhelmed by the heavy smell of incense, dust and old carpets. She wended her way carefully between tall Chinese vases, tables laden with Indian brassware, smiling Buddhas, scarabs of all sizes and mixed authenticity, decorative inlaid mahogany chests and black lacquered tables. Masses of carpets of varying sizes were piled on the floor or hanging on the walls. At the back of the store, a thin, henna-dyed woman was busy wrapping one of the Indian brass vases in a sheet of newspaper before slipping it into a paper bag.

  “There you are then, luv,” she said to her customer. “Don’t use brass polish on it. Just give it a quick rub up with a duster.” As she handed the man his change, her bright button eyes took in Maggie.

  “So what can I do for you, dear?” Her London accent sounded as if she had only just got off the boat.

  “I’m Maggie Spencer. I called yesterday?”

  “Oh, that detective agency lady. I’m Rosie Smith. Just wait a sec while I get my youngest out here. “Noah!” she yelled. “Come out and mind the shop.”

  A hulking thirty-year-old appeared from somewhere, and a few moments later Maggie found herself in a back room, seated at a wooden table with a stewed cup of tea and a digestive biscuit in front of her.

  “You this detective bloke’s secretary, then?” a man’s enormous voice demanded.

  Startled, Maggie turned to see a huge, moustached man glaring down at her. “Partner,” she answered, taking a sip of the bitter brew.

  “This my tea, Rosie?” he asked, dropping four sugar lumps into a cup without waiting for an answer.

  “This is my Henry,” Rosie said, sitting down opposite Maggie. “Now what do you want to know?”

  It took a few seconds for Maggie to pull herself together, as Henry was still standing over her, slurping his tea and chomping on biscuits. “Did you know Maurice Dubois well?”

  “Not really, I . . .”

  “Didn’t know the bloke at all,” Henry interrupted his wife.

  “We met him up at that fishing camp,” Rosie carried on. “Thought it might be a nice place to retire to, but it’s too far for our lads to come and visit.”

  “The only good thing about it,” Henry cut in again, “is that it would’a been too far for them to drop their offspring onto us. We done our bit.”

  “I understand your two sons were at the resort with you.”

  “Who told you that?” Rosie asked.

  “We have a list of people who were there,” Maggie answered.

  Rosie hesitated for a moment. “Well . . . they wanted to make sure we didn’t get taken in.” She laughed. “You hear about these confidence tricksters all the time, you know.”

  “Did you go out fishing?” Maggie asked, turning to Henry Smith.

  “Yeah! We caught a salmon.”

  “And my Henry don’t even eat fish!” Rosie said.

  “I told Rosie she should’ve come out with us.”

  “Didn’t have much chance, did I? That Schaefer bloke made it plain that us wives wasn’t invited. So I got stuck with that awful Edgeworthy woman yapping at me about her fancy house and her fancy clothes.”

  “How did you find out about St. Clare Cove?” Maggie asked, trying not to smile.

  “Some ad in the newspaper.” The sound of a truck pulling up outside made him swallow the rest of his tea in one gulp. “That’s the delivery.”

  “Before you go, Mr. Smith, did you see Maurice Dubois leave the resort?”

  “No. It must’ve been when we was out fishing.” Shrugging into a thick mackinaw, he walked toward the back door.

  “You’ve quite a place here,” Maggie said as she followed Rosie back to the showroom. “Do you live on the premises?”

  “Upstairs. Have a very nice flat up there. You should come back and have a good browse—we’ve got some very nice genuine Persian rugs.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Maggie answered. “Thanks for seeing me.”

  • • •

  MAGGIE’S INTERVIEW WITH THE Smiths had only taken a half hour, so on the spur of the moment and after a fast phone call, she was on her way for a quick visit
to Jacquelyn Dubois. She needed to get a feel for her lifestyle, her surroundings and more importantly, how the young woman really ticked.

  As Maggie walked up the stone-flagged path, she noticed that one of the two garage doors was open and a gleaming white sports car was waiting inside it. The same maid showed her into the living room and told her that Madame Dubois would be with her in a moment. While waiting, Maggie scanned the photographs that were set on the grand piano. Most were of Jacquelyn and Maurice, but a few were of family groups—obviously her parents with a very young Jacquelyn and a couple of siblings. One was of Maurice with his son and daughter, and another showed him in army uniform. Turning from the photographs, she re-examined the beautiful room.

  “Ah, Mrs. Spencer, how nice to see you,” Jacquelyn said, coming into the room and extending her hand. “You are making progress, oui? You have find my Maurice’s antiquities?”

  “Not yet. We’re still interviewing the people who were at the fishing lodge. In fact, I have just left Henry and Rosie Smith’s emporium. Quite a place! Have you been there?”

  “My Maurice take me a few times to pick up or buy something, I can’t think what. It is a very cheap place. Full of—what do you call it—junk?”

  “I have a list of the lodge’s guests here,” Maggie said, taking it from her handbag. “Do you recognize any of the names?”

  Jacquelyn barely glanced at the paper before handing it back. “I know Arnold Schaefer, but the others I do not know. Now, if there is nothing else, I have a lunch engagement.”

  Maggie started toward the door but turned suddenly. “Your husband was in the army?” She waved a hand toward the picture on the grand piano.

  Her face brightened. “Ah, yes. The famous Vandoos. He was very proud.”

  “Just one more thing, Mrs. Dubois—do you know where your stepson works?”

  “You mean René? Somewhere in the city. Why?”

  “I thought I saw him the other day at a garment factory run by Jerrell Bakhash.”

  “Who is this Bakhash person?”

  “He and his wife were at the fishing lodge.”

  “You must be mistaken. It could not be René at a garment factory. Now if you excuse me.”