Death on a Short Leash

by Gwendolyn Southin

  • • •

  IT WAS SHORTLY AFTER midday when they drove into the parking lot of the Little Pets Hospital. “Only two cars,” Maggie said as they parked. “Where is everybody?”

  “Lunchtime,” Nat answered. “The best time to find him alone.”

  “But suppose he’s gone out to eat?”

  “He didn’t the last time I was here.” He walked purposefully to the door and tried the handle. “Locked.” He peered through the glass. “There’s someone in there.” He rapped loudly until the door was eventually opened a crack by a girl dressed in a green uniform.

  “We’re closed until one o’clock,” she said through the opening.

  “Is Dr. Williams in?” Nat asked.

  “It’s his lunch hour and he doesn’t like to be disturbed.” She started to close the door. “You’ll have to come back at one.”

  Nat put his foot in the opening. “Please tell the doctor that Nat Southby wishes to see him.”

  “I don’t think . . .”

  “Who is it, Dora?” Carl Williams’ voice came from the inner room.

  “A Mr. Southby, Dr. Williams. He wants to see you.”

  “Come back when we’re open,” Williams called out.

  “I need to see you now,” Nat yelled back.

  The door was suddenly yanked open by an irate Williams.

  “Oh, for God’s sake! Not you again? What do you want?”

  “Just a few more questions about Johanna. You know she’s been found?”

  “The police have already been here.”

  “So you know she was murdered?”

  “Johanna’s dead?” Dora gasped. “You said she’d left for another job!”

  Williams ignored his assistant and turned to lead the way into his office. “You’d better come in.” They followed, leaving a horrified Dora standing in the reception area.

  “You don’t know how she was killed?” Maggie asked, sitting down across from Williams’ desk.

  “How the hell would I? I didn’t kill her.”

  “What’s happened to your wife’s little dog?” Nat asked.

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “It turns out that Johanna might have been killed looking for it.”

  “Why would she do that? She knew I’d sent it to a kennel to be bred.” He sat behind his desk, smugly confident.

  “Is that where the dog is now?” Maggie asked.

  “Why do you want to know?” He paused for a moment. “Did my wife ask you to look for the animal? It’s just the stupid sort of thing she would do,” he added.

  “She was worried about the dog,” Nat answered.

  “She doesn’t have to worry anymore.”

  “Why’s that?” Nat asked.

  “Escaped from the kennel and was run over.”

  “Have you told your wife?” Maggie asked.

  “Couldn’t keep it from her. She’s very upset, and I don’t want you two getting near her.” He stood up. “Now if you don’t mind,” he said sarcastically, “I have patients to see.”

  Maggie stayed seated. “Where is your wife?” she asked gently.

  “At home, of course.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Your neighbour said that she’s away.”

  “You’ve been discussing my affairs with that . . . that . . . snoopy Betteridge bitch?” he shouted. His face was such a curious purple colour that Maggie was sure he was going to have some kind of fit. “Although it’s none of your damn business, my wife’s gone to look after her mother.”

  “But your in-laws are holidaying in Palm Springs,” Nat said.

  Williams stormed to the door and flung it open. “Out! Or do you want me to call the police?”

  “Do you know a man named Rolland Peterskill?” Maggie asked suddenly.

  Williams stopped short. “Why?”

  “Johanna’s parents mentioned that he recommended her to you.”

  “Business acquaintance.” Williams opened the door wider for them to pass and slammed it shut after them.

  Half a dozen owners and pets were now waiting in the reception area to see the good doctor, and even the pets wore looks of astonishment on their faces as Maggie and Nat sailed past them.

  “What made you ask him about Peterskill?” Nat asked as they drove away from the clinic.

  “Don’t you remember, Nat? Marie Evans said it was Peterskill who recommended Johanna to Williams.”

  “So it’s time we talked to Peterskill,” Nat said, negotiating a corner. “Do we have his address?”

  “Can’t be that many Rolland Peterskills in the telephone book,” she answered with a smile.

  • • •

  HANS VAN DYKE arrived promptly for his appointment. “So good of you to come to the office,” Maggie said, hanging his coat on the coat tree. “We could have come to you this time.”

  “No chance,” he replied. “I share a place with three other guys and none of us are what you would call tidy.” He stood by Maggie’s desk. “Now how can I help?”

  “Nat wants to ask you a few questions. I’ll see if he’s ready.”

  “You knew Johanna well?” Nat asked as soon as they were settled.

  “Sort of,” Hans replied. “I don’t know if Mrs. Spencer told you, but I’ve only known her about six months or so. That’s when we started to date—off and on, you know . . .”

  “Do you know where she worked?”

  The young man nodded. “At that animal hospital in Richmond,” he answered. “She wasn’t all that happy there.”

  “What makes you say that?” Nat asked.

  Hans stared ahead as he formed his thoughts. “Well . . . when I first knew her, she was real happy . . . then she changed . . . sort of . . .”

  “In what way?” Maggie asked.

  “She would say she was too busy when I asked her out and she even stood me up a couple of times.”

  “Perhaps she was seeing someone else?” Nat said.

  He shook his head. “I asked her, but she said she wasn’t . . . and anyway, we weren’t going steady . . .”

  “Did you know that she had a second job?” Nat asked.

  “No. But her job at the vet’s was only part-time, so I guess that makes sense.”

  “Have you heard of a place called Pandora’s?”

  “Yes,” Hans said.

  “Have you ever been there?”

  “No,” he answered, his voice indicating his surprise at being asked. “I don’t go to places like that.”

  “That’s where Johanna worked.”

  “Johanna? You mean as a waitress?”

  “No,” Nat said slowly, watching Hans’ face. “As a stripper!”

  “That can’t be.” The young man was obviously shaken. “Johanna wasn’t . . . wasn’t . . . she wasn’t that kind of girl.”

  Nat shook his head. “Yes, she was.”

  Hans gripped the edge of Nat’s desk. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “It’s true,” Nat said. “She was a stripper at Pandora’s.”

  Hans stood up. “Have you any other questions to ask me?” he asked in a tight voice.

  “No,” Nat answered. Unless Hans was a very good actor, he had known nothing about Johanna’s other life.

  “I think the police were right,” Maggie said after she had shown Hans out. “I’m sure that young man couldn’t have been the father of Johanna’s baby.”

  Nat nodded in agreement.

  • • •

  A LITTLE BEFORE NOON on the following Saturday, Maggie and Nat sat in his car outside Johanna’s apartment, waiting for David and Marie Evans.

  “They said they’d be here by eleven-thirty,” Nat said peevishly, looking at his wristwatch. “For goodness sake,” Maggie laughed, “have a little patience. They’ve been staying with friends while they pack up Johanna’s things. Anyway,” she added, “here they are.”

  “So sorry we’re late,” David said in his soft accent. Carrying a pile of flattened cardboard box
es, he led the way up the path to the apartment building. “I hope we haven’t kept Mr. Peterskill waiting.”

  “Peterskill?” Maggie echoed. “Is he going to be here, too?”

  David Evans nodded as he pushed open the front door. “He’s anxious for us to remove Johanna’s things. He has a new tenant waiting to get in.”

  “I can understand that,” Nat said, out of breath as he climbed the stairs behind the others. “It’s a nice place.” By the time he reached the landing, David had opened the door of the apartment.

  “That’s good,” Marie said. “Mr. Peterskill is not here yet.” She turned to Maggie. “You go ahead and look around.” And she began reassembling one of the cardboard boxes.

  Maggie, realizing that Marie Evans was having a tough time controlling her emotions, reached over to touch Nat’s arm. “We’ll start in the bedroom.”

  Apart from several more empty boxes dumped on the bed, the place looked the same as on their last visit. Maggie went back into the living room. “Would you like us to pack up the things in the drawers?” she asked.

  “Would you?” Marie answered. “I don’t think I can pack her clothes. I’ll do these things.” She waved a hand toward a pile of her daughter’s books and ornaments.

  Back in the bedroom Maggie grabbed one of the boxes and opened the top drawer of the dressing table. “Nat, why don’t you fill that big box with all the stuff from the closet?”

  “Good idea,” he answered, clearing a space on the bed. “I’ll lay everything out here where I can go through the pockets before packing them.” But apart from a couple of theatre stubs and several books of matches that had obviously come from nightclubs and restaurants, there was very little to show for the double life the girl had led.

  Maggie was down to the last drawer when she tried to pick up several sweaters at once, and they spilled out of her hand with a thump caused by a brass-locked diary, the kind so popular with teenagers.

  “Look,” she said quietly, passing it over to Nat.

  “Locked,” he said as he took it from her. “Where would she keep the key?”

  Maggie sat back on her heels. “Probably in her jewellery box.” She hauled herself to her feet. It took only a minute for her to locate the key in a small drawer of a wooden jewellery box. “Shouldn’t we pass it over to the Evans?”

  “Not until we’ve looked at it first,” Nat answered, unlocking the book and slipping it into his pocket. “I’ve about done here, how about you?” He moved toward the doorway. “I think Peterskill’s arrived.”

  Rolland Peterskill obviously had money. A man in his late forties, he was slightly Nordic-looking—fair skin, blue eyes, blond wavy hair—and he wore an immaculate grey silk suit. When Maggie and Nat walked into the room, he had his arm around Marie’s shoulders. “I am so sorry,” he was saying. “So very sorry. She was like a daughter to me.”

  Seeing Maggie and Nat, Marie gently pulled herself away from him and dabbed her brimming eyes. “These are the investigators looking into Johanna’s death,” she said in a choked voice. “Nat Southby and Margaret Spencer.”

  Peterskill extended his hand. “I hope you manage to find the murdering bastard that killed our little Johanna,” he said. “If there’s anything I can help you with, please call me.” He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket. “And I mean anytime.” He handed Nat a gilt-edged business card.

  Nat glanced at the card before pocketing it. “Your office is on Georgia Street,” he said, noting the address. “That the same office block as Nash Advertising?”

  Peterskill was surprised. “Yes. You’ve been there?”

  Nat nodded.

  “Nash isn’t in any trouble, I hope?” Peterskill said, laughing.

  Nat smiled. “No.” He turned back to Marie Evans. “We packed everything in the bedroom,” he said. “And if there’s nothing else we can do for you, Maggie and I should get back to the office.”

  “Did you find anything helpful?” David Evans asked.

  Nat shook his head.

  “Well,” Marie said, “thank you for your help.” She paused, staring at the pile of boxes in the middle of the room. “Luckily, Mr. Peterskill’s new tenant wants to buy the furniture, and the clothes are going to the Salvation Army. There’s only that small box of things to take over to Johanna’s friend Laura.”

  “We’ll take it for you,” Nat said, picking up the box. “We’re stopping in to see her, anyway.”

  When Laura opened the door, it looked as if she had been crying. “Everything okay?” Maggie asked.

  The girl nodded and invited them in, closing the door behind them. “I saw Johanna’s parents had come to pack up her things . . . it’s just got to me, that’s all. Is this for me?” She took the box from Nat’s arms. “Did I see Mr. Peterskill there?”

  “Yes,” Maggie answered. “He seems a very nice person. He’s very upset about Johanna.”

  “He knew her since she was a kid.”

  “What about you?” Nat asked. “How long have you known him?”

  “A couple of years. Since I rented this place.” She turned and placed the box on the wicker sofa. “I answered an ad in the Sun.”

  Maggie looked around the comfortable room. “I remember you saying you had to have two jobs to be able to afford the rent here. What do you do?”

  “Uh . . . receptionist,” she answered.

  “And your second job?” Nat asked. The phone rang.

  “Waitress,” she answered. “At a restaurant down the road.” She sat at the small telephone table and drew a notepad toward her. “Hello. Where?” She quickly wrote an address down. “Eight o’clock. Okay.” She replaced the phone and turned to them. “I hope you don’t think I’m rude, but I’m running a bit late.”

  Maggie glanced at her watch. “My, I didn’t realize the time. Midge will be wondering what’s become of me. Would you mind if I used your phone to call my daughter?”

  “Of course not,” the girl answered, tearing the top sheet off the notepad and pocketing it. Maggie picked up the receiver and dialed the operator. “I’ll have to call the operator for her new number.” Giving the operator Midge’s address, she picked up Laura’s discarded pencil and wrote the number on the notepad, then dialed the number. Midge wasn’t at home.

  “What was all that in aid of?” Nat asked later, holding the passenger door open for her. “You know Midge’s number off by heart.”

  Maggie spread the sheet of paper out on her lap. “I wanted to see the address Laura wrote down. And it certainly isn’t a restaurant,” she added, peering at the indentations on the paper. “It’s the Georgia Hotel. Suite 406.”

  “Perhaps it’s a friend staying there.”

  “She didn’t sound friendly on the phone.”

  Nat shrugged. “Well, I suppose it’s her business.” He started up the car. “Let’s grab some lunch and have a look at the diary.”

  “Nothing much here,” Nat said despondently, handing the diary across the lunch table to Maggie. “Lot of girl stuff. Doesn’t look as if she’s kept it up for months.”

  Maggie leafed through the pages and noted dates, parties, phone calls, but as far as Maggie could see, the girl hadn’t made any entries for nearly six months.

  “We may as well give this to her parents,” she said, closing the book and returning to her bacon and tomato sandwich.

  “Before we do that, why don’t you take it home and go through it page by page?” Nat suggested. “Maybe you’ll see something we’ve missed.”

  She nodded and slipped the diary into her handbag. “I’ll give you a call if I find anything interesting.”

  • • •

  THAT EVENING, AS MAGGIE settled in a comfortable old bathrobe before the fire, she was glad she had told Nat that she needed the rest of the weekend on her own. She was constantly aware how easy it would be to slip into a more permanent relationship, but she dreaded losing her newfound freedom after the claustrophobic life that she’d had with Harry. And to her con
tinuing surprise, Nat understood.

  She went through the little diary several times, and the only fresh information she found was that Johanna had known Hans Van Dyke longer than six months, because the initials HVD started to come up before Christmas of the previous year. The last entry beside his initials, written in May—about three months before she was killed—had the brief notation, “Getting too serious, time to call it quits.” That’s curious. Hans spoke as if they were still dating. Maybe she changed her mind. Then as she put the book back into her handbag, she thought, Perhaps the parents liked him more than Johanna did. She had just settled Emily on her lap to watch TV when the phone rang. It was Joan Betteridge.

  “Thought you’d like to know that my next-door neighbour has just left in his car.”

  I’ve a feeling I’m going to regret asking Joan for help, Maggie thought.

  “Took a suitcase with him,” Joan continued.

  She must be constantly looking out of her window.

  “Thought you’d like to know.”

  “He could be taking a few days off,” Maggie replied at last.

  “I bet he’s gone on a spree,” Joan answered nastily.

  “He could have gone to be with his wife.”

  “But where is she then?” Joan Betteridge persisted. “You know how he lied about her mother being ill.”

  “Perhaps he had a good reason,” Maggie answered cautiously. “After all, we don’t really know all the circumstances.”

  “He could’ve done away with her,” Joan answered ghoulishly. “Do you think we should call the police?”

  “No,” Maggie said in alarm. “He could sue you for everything you’ve got if you make accusations like that.”

  “But where is she?”

  “Maybe she just needed time away from him.”

  “But I told you he practically pushed her into the car. And it still seems fishy to me.” Silently, Maggie had to admit that it all seemed very fishy to her, too. “I think I’ll slip into the house,” Joan continued, “and have a look around.”

  “You can’t do that! You might get caught!”

  “But he left with a suitcase,” Joan countered,“and I know where Pru hides her key . . .”

  “Wait there,” Maggie said firmly. “I’m coming right over.”