“We haven’t been able to get too far on that either.”
“Good thing, since you’ve lost your client.” Farthing was smirking as he got to his feet. “We’ll take it from here, so keep your noses out of it. And,” he added, nodding toward the officer taking notes, “you can go after you’ve both signed the typed statement.”
“Well that’s one for the book,” Nat said an hour later as they were leaving the station. “Farthing is actually allowing a policewoman to do his office work for him!” He gave a chuckle. “There’s hope for him yet.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
When Monday morning rolled around, Maggie and Nat were both back in the office as usual.
“I guess we can put all the paperwork on Maurice Dubois’s death away,” Maggie told Henny as she gathered up the files.
“No client, no money,” Nat commented. “But I’m still determined to have that talk with Nancy. I called her several times over the weekend without any luck. In fact,” he said, as Maggie followed him into his office, “I didn’t have much luck with you either. Where were you?”
“I told you I was going to visit Midge,” she replied, closing the door so that Henny wouldn’t hear. “I needed to get away for a bit.”
“From me, you mean?”
“You know better than that, Nat. No. Jacquelyn’s murder really got to me—that and the break-in at my house. Midge and I did girl things, like painting our toenails and shopping. Did me the world of good.”
The Nancy problem was soon solved, too. It was getting toward noon when a very pale and frightened Nancy walked into the Southby and Spencer Agency.
“I can’t believe Jacquelyn’s dead,” Nancy announced as she flopped into a chair in Nat’s office. “Who would do such a thing? Oh, Nat, I’m so frightened.”
“Surely there’s no need for you to be frightened,” Nat said as he signalled Henny to bring coffee.
“But who killed her? Do you think it was the same people who killed Maurice?” she asked, tears and mascara streaking down her face. “Perhaps I’m next.”
“Why would you think that? You hardly knew the woman . . . unless there’s something you haven’t told me?”
“No, of course not.”
When Henny entered and placed two cups of coffee in front of him, Nat pushed one of the cups toward Nancy and told Henny, “Ask Maggie to join us, will you?”
“Why do you need her in here?” Nancy was getting back into form.
“There are things we need to know,” he answered, “such as where did you get that bracelet?”
“Why do you keep on about that? I told you it was a present.”
“It’s an exact replica of one that was stolen from Jacquelyn’s home,” Maggie said as she entered.
“Are you accusing me of stealing again?” Nancy demanded, jumping to her feet. “I come here for some comfort from my . . . my husband, and this so-called assistant of yours is accusing me of stealing.”
“Where did you get it, Nancy?” Nat demanded.
“Jacquelyn gave it to me,” Nancy blurted.
“Why would she give you something as valuable as that?” Maggie asked very calmly.
Nancy hesitated for a moment. “She said it was . . . it was just a fake. And . . . and it was too heavy for her to wear, anyhow.”
“But,” Maggie insisted, “you dropped it in my car after I rescued you from Edgeworthy’s office. What was it doing in your pocket?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she exploded. “It was too heavy for me to wear, too.” And flouncing out the door, she snarled, “A fat lot of help you are, Nat!” The door banged shut behind her.
After a few moments of looking at the closed door, Maggie sat in the chair Nancy had vacated. “Do you believe her?” she asked.
“Not in a million years,” Nat answered with a snort. Reaching over his desk, he took one of Maggie’s hands. “You’re wondering why I married her, aren’t you?”
“It did sort of cross my mind,” she answered.
“I think I’ve told you that George Sawasky and I were rookies at the same station.”
Maggie nodded. “You’ve been friends for a very long time.”
“We were young, single and pretty impressed with ourselves in our uniforms. Nancy was a waitress at the greasy spoon where we used to have lunch. She was really quite pretty then—sort of cute, you know—and we both flirted with her, but for some reason she preferred me.”
“Must’ve been your charming personality,” Maggie said, smiling.
Nat shrugged. “Anyway, George wasn’t really interested because he’d already met and fallen hard for Lucille. For a time we’d date as a foursome, but the two girls never really got on.” He let go of Maggie’s hand and leaned back into his chair. “Then George and Lucille got married. And you can guess the rest.”
“Nancy wanted to get married, too.”
“Yep! She wanted the whole works, big church, white gown, bridesmaids and of course, me in uniform. I realize, looking back, that she loved the uniform more than she did me. But she soon found out that being a cop’s wife was no bed of roses—late nights, me being called out at all hours, poor pay. She was always on to me to quit the force and go into business like my brother. Things just went from bad to worse . . .” He paused to see if Henny would pick up the jangling telephone in the outer office. And a few moments later, there was a tap on his door.
“That nice boy René on telephone. He and his sister want to come in to see you tomorrow. I told him two o’clock. Okay?”
• • •
“WE WANT YOU TO continue investigating Dad’s death,” Isabelle said as soon as they arrived.
The last time Nat and Maggie had seen Isabelle Dubois, she had been hidden under a black veil at her father’s funeral. It hadn’t prepared them for the young woman they met now. Isabelle was tall and long limbed, her ash-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, today dressed in a blue suede miniskirt and jacket. She was candy-box pretty but had the most startlingly beautiful blue eyes that Maggie had ever seen. Her stepbrother, René, was a complete opposite. His hair was chestnut brown, his skin darker, he was at least a couple of inches shorter than his sister—and he was definitely the young man she had seen getting out of the Jeep in Bakhash’s parking lot.
“We know that he’d got himself mixed up in some logging scam,” René began, “and maybe that could’ve been the reason he was killed.” He turned toward his sister.
“Do you know what this scam was?” Nat asked interestedly. “Anything to do with Hollyburn Mountain?”
“You know about it, then?” Isabelle exclaimed.
“Not everything. Perhaps you should tell us.”
René inched forward in his chair. “He got a legitimate licence to cut three ski runs on Hollyburn for this ski resort he was going to build, but he managed somehow to get somebody in the Forests Ministry to turn a blind eye while he logged half the mountain and a big chunk of Cyprus Mountain while he was at it. Made himself some big bucks.”
“I take it this ‘turning a blind eye’ was the result of a bit of ready cash from your father,” Nat said.
“Afraid so,” René answered guiltily. “Actually,” he added, “I helped him do some of the clear-cutting on Hollyburn—it didn’t work out. I found it impossible trying to work for him. I’m not defending him; I just can’t see why anyone would kill him for it?”
“Perhaps that wasn’t the reason,” Nat said, doing his usual doodling on the yellow scratch pad in front of him. “In any case, it wouldn’t explain why your stepmother was killed a few days ago.”
“Maybe that had something to do with Dad’s collection of Egyptian stuff that was pinched,” Isabelle said. “But who would want that old stuff anyway?”
“It’s apparently extremely valuable,” Maggie explained. “Museum quality pieces, from what we’ve seen of it . . .”
“So we’ve come to you,” René butted in, “to find out who killed them. And Mr. Schaefer feels the same way.”
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“Mr. Schaefer?” Maggie asked, mystified.
“You know, Arnold Schaefer,” Isabelle chimed in. “The man that Dad was in the lumber business with.”
“Anyway,” René continued, “he understands how we feel, because he offered to put up the money so that you can continue looking into Dad’s murder . . . and I guess Jackie’s, too.”
“And find that Egyptian stuff,” Isabelle added.
René put his hand into his coat pocket. “He gave us this cheque to give you as a retainer. Will it be enough?”
Nat was stunned. He was looking at a cheque for five hundred dollars. “More than enough! All right, we’ll continue working on it. Mrs. Spencer will take you into her office and get you to sign the necessary contract.” He reached over his desk and shook their hands. “We’ll do the best we can.”
Maggie escorted them to her office, and while she filled out the contract form, she remarked, “I’m really surprised that Mr. Schaefer is helping with the finances. He didn’t seem to care about your dad’s murder when we saw him just before the funeral.”
“That’s just his way,” Isabelle answered. “He’s a real softy inside.”
Maggie nodded. “I see. Now I just need you two to sign here . . . and here.” As she watched them sign, she found herself making a mental bet that it was Isabelle with her beautiful blue eyes who had persuaded Schaefer to hand over the money. Then she asked, “You work for Jerrel Bakhash, don’t you, René?”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw you driving into his parking lot the day I went to interview him.”
“Yeah! I was at a loose end last fall and Dad got the job for me. But I’m thinking of quitting.”
“You’re not happy there?” Maggie asked.
“It’s okay. But I don’t see myself cutting out shirts forever and . . .” He hesitated, looked toward Isabelle and then continued, “There’s something odd about the place.”
“What kind of odd?” Maggie encouraged.
“Well, I started working in the packing room . . . you know, opening crates of cotton and stuff, but every time these two guys showed up with their truck, Bakhash always wanted me to run an errand or do something upstairs for him.”
“What kind of guys?”
“Well, I think they’re brothers, and they have funny accents. And sometimes a big guy who looks like their father comes with them.”
“What kind of funny accents?” Maggie persisted.
René thought for a moment. “They’re English accents, I guess. Not the la-di-da kind, but you know . . . And then suddenly Bakhash transferred me upstairs to the cutting room.”
“Maybe Mr. Bakhash realized you had more potential,” Maggie said.
“René shook his head. “No, I think I got too curious.”
“Perhaps they’re just retailers picking up their orders.”
“I suppose. But why so secretive?”
Maggie walked them to the door. “Would you give me a call if you see or hear anything else you think is odd? But,” she added as she handed over her card, “do be careful.”
“You mean you want René to spy on them?” Isabelle asked excitedly.
“No. I just want him to be alert to what’s going on there.”
“Oh, and about Mr. Bakhash,” René said as he was halfway out the door. “I’m supposed to be at the dentist this afternoon. I’d rather he didn’t know I was here.”
“Fine with me,” Maggie answered, shaking his hand. “Keep in touch.” When she shook hands with Isabelle, she couldn’t help but notice that the girl had a ring on nearly every finger. Well, she may not have cared for her stepmother, but she certainly shared her love of jewellery.
• • •
“SO,” MAGGIE SAID AFTER telling Nat of her conversation with the brother and sister, “I’d say that the guys with the funny accents sound very much like Henry Smith and his two charming sons. What do you think?”
“I think you’re right, and they’re up to some kind of monkey business with Bakhash. And what about Schaefer paying for our services?”
“He’s the last person I’d expect to cough up the money for us to continue.” Maggie shook her head in wonderment. “He certainly wasn’t what I’d call welcoming when we went to see him. Perhaps he is, as the Dubois kids say, all bark and quite a softy inside.”
“Well, it’s back to interviewing and shaking a few people up—especially Bakhash. And,” he said, waving Schaefer’s cheque, “the Southby and Spencer Agency is going to treat its two top investigators to dinner at Monty’s tonight.”
“And they deserve it,” Maggie replied.
• • •
NANCY EMPTIED THE CONTENTS of the paper bag onto her dressing table, then reached for the ornate gold earrings and put them on. A turquoise and gold necklace and a heavy matching bracelet were next, and she preened first one way and then the other while she surveyed her reflection in the triple mirrors. If she squinted a little, she looked exactly like the pictures of that statue they found before the war of that Egyptian queen, Nefer-something-or-other . . . although the statue had been a little skinnier.
Then, one by one, she picked up each of the other bracelets, rings and necklaces, trying them on and studying the effect in the mirror. “They’re a trifle on the heavy side for my taste,” she told her reflection. “But if the gold and silver are real, they’re worth a mint.” Nancy didn’t have a clue what some of the other objects were—they looked like carved lumps of stone—but she picked up one and then another and looked at them closely. One was a heart-shaped, speckled green stone with a beetle deeply carved on top; another was made of glazed pottery with symbols of some kind carved on the underside. Placing them back on the dressing table, she reached for the last piece of jewellery, an armlet made out of wood with ivory inlays. She pushed it as far as it would go on her right arm, stepped back from the mirror and preened once again.
Taking a cigarette out of a crumpled pack, Nancy slowly lit it and took a deep drag. It was obvious to her now that these were some of the Egyptian artifacts that had been stolen from Jacquelyn. There had been lots more sitting right there in boxes in Edgeworthy’s file room, but most of it had been too big to go into her pockets. But what the hell had it been doing in there in the first place? And was that why Jacquelyn had been murdered? It was a frightening thought. But she soon brightened up. “They have no way of knowing I was there. And,” she laughed, “if anyone can be tied to the break-in, it’ll be that conniving bitch in Nat’s office.” Still wearing the jewellery, she walked into her kitchen, took the telephone book out of a bottom drawer and thumbed her way through the yellow pages. “Ah, here we are— antique dealers.”
CHAPTER NINE
Valentine’s Day brought two surprises for Maggie. The first was a heart-shaped box of her favourite chocolates, which Nat had placed on her desk, and the second was the delivery of a dozen red roses. “My goodness, Nat has really gone overboard,” she said as she took in their heavenly scent. “Especially,” she added, “as I only gave him a card.”
“Here,” Henny said from the doorway, “I haf brought vase.”
Maggie placed the small gift envelope that had fallen out of the bouquet onto her desk blotter before carefully placing each bud into the vase.
“I hope that’s the right kind of chocolates,” Nat said from the doorway. “And thanks for the card.” He stopped suddenly when he saw the roses. “You’ve got another admirer?”
“You mean you didn’t . . .” Maggie quickly opened the envelope and then sat down abruptly. Your wedding bouquet was roses, she read, so I know how much you love them. Harry. “Oh, dear,” she said.
Puzzled, Nat walked over to the desk and picked up the card.“He never gives up, does he?” He turned and walked out of the room.
“Oh, Harry,” Maggie said quietly, glancing at the calendar. They would have celebrated their twenty-ninth anniversary last Saturday.
• • •
FRIDAY WAS GRE
Y AND very windy. Maggie, driving along Hastings Street, had to grip the steering wheel firmly as the strong gusts slammed against the side of her small car. She was thankful when she eventually turned into Bakhash’s parking lot.
“As I told you on the telephone,” he said, escorting her into his office, “I can only spare you a few minutes.”
“I appreciate you giving me the time,” she answered, settling into the comfortable seat and taking out her notepad. “You know about Jacquelyn Dubois’s murder?”
“So sad. A waste of a beautiful woman.”
“You knew her well?”
“No. I have already told you that I met Maurice at the fishing lodge. He was trying to sell property there.”
“But,” Maggie answered as she turned the pages back on her steno pad, “you employed Dubois’s son.”
“And what business is that of yours?” he asked tightly.
“You told me that you met Dubois for the first time at the fishing lodge. And then I find out that you employed his son last fall.”
“And may I ask how you know that?”
“I saw him entering the building on my last visit, and his mother told me he was working here.”
“I was doing the boy’s father a favour.”
“But you only met his father at New Year’s.”
Jerrell Bakhash glared at Maggie through his horn-rimmed glasses. Bending towards her over his huge desk, he growled, “I do not want to be mixed up in a bloody murder. So I lie! I met that man at a dinner last fall, and he did nothing but carry on about his son. I offered to help by giving the boy a job.”
“And the ad in the paper for investing in St. Clare Cove?”
“That is true, but I knew about it beforehand. Now, you excuse me?” He walked around his desk. “Tell me, madam,” he added as he ushered her through the door. “I can’t see you detective people doing this for free—so now that the widow’s dead, who is paying you?”
Maggie was saved from answering, because Bakhash’s secretary was frantically waving the telephone toward him. “It’s your call to Cairo.”
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