“Sure sounds like it!” He paused. “You’re not licensed, Maggie.”
“That’s why I’m calling,” she answered in her most patient voice. “To put the investigation on a business basis and then you can contact a couple of leads.”
“Then what?”
“You can join me up here. A break will do you good.”
“And who’s going to look after the office? And don’t say Henny!”
“Couldn’t you put things on hold for a few days so that she only has to answer the phone and take messages? I really need you here.” She paused for a moment to give him time to think.
“I don’t know, Maggie. Who do you want me to call down here?”
”You could call on Ray Teasdale—that’s where Kate met Guthrie. Then on to Nordstrom. According to Kate, he’s known her husband since way back. Also,” she continued before he could interrupt, “he’s Douglas Guthrie’s son’s boss.”
“Whoa. One thing at a time.” He listened while she went over the list again. “Now,” he said. “What about this Kate? Is it possible for me to talk to her?”
“She’s just outside the booth. I’ll get her.”
When Kate came on the line, Nat told her, “I’ve just listened to Maggie, but I think our agency is too far away from the Cariboo area to be much help. Are you sure there’s no one closer to where you live?”
“Williams Lake’s a very small town, Mr. Southby,” Kate answered. “I’ve had no help from the police, and our ranch manager, Hendrix, insists that I’m paranoid and worrying about nothing. And if you can’t help me,” she ended tearfully, “I don’t know what I’m going to do. ”
Nat wasn’t very good with tears. “You understand that it would have to be on a business basis?”
“Yes, anything. After Maggie was shot at . . . I’m so scared . . . ”
“Probably nothing to do with your husband being missing. Put Maggie back on,” he mumbled gruffly. Kate handed over the phone. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll start on it, but I’m not agreeing to anything final until I’ve investigated Teasdale and Nordstrom and you’ve spoken to the police. And Maggie, please, please don’t find any more dead bodies.”
• • •
MONDAY MORNING BROUGHT RAIN and Corporal Brossard to the ranch.
“You haven’t heard anything new?” Kate asked as she showed him into the kitchen.
The two dogs jumped out of their baskets and greeted the corporal with drool and enthusiasm. He pushed one dog down and then the other. “I’m sorry. Your husband seems to have disappeared without a trace.” He stood just inside the room, water dripping from his raincoat to make a pool on the floor.
“Did you check the railway station?” Maggie asked from her place at the breakfast table. “Or look for his car? Surely someone must’ve seen him?”
Surprised, Brossard looked at Maggie. “You’re a friend of the family, I take it?”
“No,” she answered him. “I’m one of Kate’s paying guests.”
“She’s an investigator and she’s helping me find Douglas.” Maggie’s warning glance didn’t reach Kate in time to stop her from babbling. “And she was shot at yesterday when she went riding . . .”
“An investigator?” Brossard’s voice cut in sharply. “But I think we’ll take the shooting first, Mrs. Spencer, if you don’t mind filling me in on the details?” he added coolly, fishing a notebook from an inner pocket.
Maggie went through the episode again.
“Have you any idea why someone would shoot at you? Any enemies in this area?”
“I’ve only been here three days,” she answered. “But it could’ve been the money I found.”
“Money?”
“You didn’t say anything about finding money, Maggie,” Kate said.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” Maggie answered. She turned back to Brossard. “I found it in a leather pouch caught up in the seat springs of the Jeep. I’ll go and get it.” She returned a short time later, her face ashen. “It’s gone! I put it in the drawer and . . . it’s gone!” Trembling, she sat down at the table again. “Corporal Brossard, there was eight thousand dollars in that pouch. I counted it myself . . .” Her voice faltered, then she continued in a very subdued tone, “That . . . that means that someone’s been in my room . . .”
“Are you sure you didn’t imagine that money?” he demanded
“Corporal,” she replied icily, “I held that money in my hand.”
He shrugged. “Well, you don’t have it now, do you? About you being an investigator. I take it you have a licence to operate in this province?”
“Not as yet,” she answered truthfully. “I’m an assistant to Nat Southby of Southby’s Investigations in Vancouver. Kate asked me to help when she found that she was getting nowhere with you.”
“And just like that, you’re going to find him?” He smiled sardonically. “Does your boss know you’re moonlighting up here?”
“I’ve brought him up-to-date.”
“And he’s ready to rush up here and find Guthrie and show the locals how to do it.”
Keeping a firm grip on herself, Maggie looked Brossard straight in the eye. “If necessary, Corporal Brossard, yes.” She stood up from the table. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve things to do.”
“Not so fast,” Brossard put out a hand to stop her. “I want to warn you that I won’t, I repeat, I won’t stand for any interference. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly.”
Brossard turned back to Kate, who had been nervously following the exchange. “Now, Mrs. Guthrie, are you absolutely sure you don’t know the dead man?”
Kate’s answer was to burst into tears. “I’ve already told you I don’t know him. Why don’t you believe me?”
Brossard’s face reddened. “I have to ask,” he said in a more gentle tone. “It’s seems too much of a coincidence that your husband’s missing and then this body turns up.”
“Do you know who he is?” Maggie asked suddenly.
Brossard nodded reluctantly. “His name is Lewis Sarazine. Lived over Alexis Creek way.” Tucking his notebook into his pocket again, he turned toward Maggie. “I strongly advise you to return to Vancouver, Mrs. Spencer, or,” he added, “stick to horseback riding or whatever one does on a dude ranch.”
“Who could’ve taken that money?” Maggie exclaimed after Brossard had left. “I swear I put it in the top drawer of the dresser.”
“It had to be the person who shot at you,” Kate replied fearfully.
“But how? We’ve been in all the time . . . ” her voice trailed off. “Except when we went into Williams Lake yesterday. Did you lock the doors?”
Kate’s face paled. “No, I never do. Douglas is always after me to lock the doors during the day, but I always forget.”
“That means,” Maggie said slowly, “that whoever shot at me yesterday has been watching the house for an opportunity to get the pouch back.”
“Oh, Maggie,” Kate grabbed her arm, “I’m so frightened.”
“We’ll just have to make sure we lock up in future.” But it’s a bit like locking the stable doors after the horse has bolted, Maggie thought. “Come on. Let’s take a cup of coffee into the den and have a look through your husband’s files.”
“Whatever for?”
“We won’t know till we look.”
A short time later, the two of them were sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by beige folders—the entire contents of one drawer of Guthrie’s desk. At first the files seemed to contain only invoices for running the ranch, covering everything from cattle feed to horses to harnesses and leather polish. All appeared to be up-to-date and fully paid.
“I still don’t understand what we are looking for?” Kate said.
“Anything unusual,” she answered, picking up a folder and scanning the contents. “Like this one, for instance.” She passed the file over to Kate. “What’s this bill from Johnson and Spiegel’s detective agency for?”
> Kate took the paper from Maggie. “It doesn’t say what it’s for. Why would Douglas need the services of a detective?” She sat looking at the invoice and then pointed to a small note at the bottom. “See file on L.S. It’s dated January 30 this year.”
“Hang onto that one,” Maggie said, opening another drawer. The deeper she dug into Guthrie’s files, the more his personality came through. Everything perfectly neat and under control. The second drawer contained business correspondence, contracts for the ranch workers, and several letters regarding his takeover of the original ranch from his father, as well as the agreement for the purchase of an additional one thousand acres from a man called Doug Rooney. Most of the remaining folders contained information on the farm’s employees, both past and present, but the last folder was unmarked. “I think I’ve found our L.S.,” Maggie announced. She took the single sheet of paper out of the folder. “It’s a report from Johnson and Spiegel.”
“What does it say?”
Maggie read it through before answering. “It appears that whoever L.S. is, he came into a lot of money, and for some reason Doug got the detective agency to find out where it came from. It says here . . .” she continued, reading from the paper, “I could find no trace of the subject inheriting any sudden wealth or any business transaction that would account for increased funds.” Maggie tapped the folder “L.S.,” she mused, “L.S. . . . that could be Lewis Sarazine.”
“But why would Douglas be interested in where that man got his money?”
The previous day’s horse ride had caught up with Maggie and she stood, moved over to the window and stretched. The gentle rain had stopped and everything had a clean, washed look. It was such a peaceful-looking lake. “I didn’t realize this was a sliding door onto the deck,” she exclaimed, sliding it open.
“Why don’t you go out there for awhile and I’ll bring you some lunch,” Kate suggested. “We can tackle the rest later.”
They returned reluctantly after lunch to investigate the last drawerful of files. “Oh, what a wonderful name,” Maggie said.
“What is?”
“Shadow Lake Mine. It’s on this contract.”
“That must be the name of the old mine . . . you know . . . near where the Jeep overturned.”
“But there’s no lake up there.” Suddenly, Maggie rose and ran upstairs. Minutes later, she was back with the map of central BC that Jodie had given her. She spread it on the coffee table. “Look,” she said, “there’s a Shadow Lake north of the Horsefly River.”
“But what about the mine near the ravine?”
“Hendrix told me that it to his knowledge it’s been closed for fifty years or so. What did Doug say it’s called?”
“He never talked about it to me. Just said it was an old mine and to stay away from it because it’s dangerous.”
Maggie reached for the contract on which she had found the mine’s name. “It seems this Shadow Lake Mine was started in 1945—fourteen years ago—and there were six partners. They’re listed here at the end of the contract.”
At that moment, they heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway, and the dogs began barking furiously. “Wonder who that is?” Kate said. She returned immediately, followed by Corporal Brossard, Constable Dempster and the two Labs. “Down, Jasper! Get down, Mellow.” She pulled the two dogs away from the harassed policemen. “Into the kitchen, the two of you!”
Brossard carefully brushed the dog hairs off his uniform as he eyed the piles of paper on the desk.
“I see you’re going through your husband’s files, Mrs. Guthrie. We need to see them, too.”
“What do you expect to find?” Maggie asked.
“A link with Sarazine, perhaps,” Brossard answered, not noticing the quick look between the two women. “Your husband disappears, then Sarazine gets shot . . . As I said this morning, it seems too much of a coincidence.”
“You can’t possibly think my husband’s disappearance is linked to that poor man’s death.” Maggie could see Kate was once again having trouble keeping control of her emotions, and she put a hand on her arm.
Brossard nodded curtly. “We’ll be as quick as we can.” He walked over to the filing cabinet and then turned back to them. “I’ll call if I need clarification.”
As soon as Brossard and Dempster’s backs were turned, Maggie picked up the Shadow Lake Mine folder from the chair and followed Kate into the kitchen. The two dogs, chastened, thumped their tails in greeting. Kate picked up the kettle and filled it. “I’ll make tea.”
“Good idea,” Maggie answered, spreading the file on the table.
“What’s that?” Kate asked.
Maggie put her finger to her lips. “Shh.”
“Is it the file about the mine?” Kate whispered.
Maggie nodded. “I want to look at it before Brossard gets his hands on it.”
Kate remained silent while Maggie carefully read through the document. “Shadow Lake is apparently a gold mine, and there were six men involved in it—your husband, Jack Chandler, George Fenwick, J. L. Macleod—my God, I wonder if that’s the Jock Macleod who owns those vicious dogs!—V.M. O’Connor and Lewis Sarazine.”
“The man in the Jeep,” Kate said excitedly.
“Yes,” Maggie repeated. “The man in the Jeep.” She took a sip of tea. “This was signed April 1945.”
“And Douglas never ever mentioned it to me.” Then, hearing a sound in the hall, she added, “Is that Brossard leaving?” But instead of leaving, the RCMP officer appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.
“There seems little of interest in the files, Mrs. Guthrie. Do you know anywhere else we could look?” His eyes lit on the file spread on the table. “Is that from the filing cabinet?”
“We were going to give it to you,” Kate twittered nervously. “Weren’t we, Maggie?”
Brossard walked to the table and picked up the folder. “After your investigator here had looked it over, I suppose.” He scanned the document. “So why didn’t you tell me about this mine, Mrs. Guthrie?”
“Because she knew nothing about it,” Maggie answered. “We’ve only just found out ourselves.”
“Mmm. I see that Sarazine was one of the partners. Who are these others?” he asked, directing the question at Kate.
“I don’t know. Douglas’ never mentioned the mine or any of those names to me.”
“This appears to be an indisputable link between your husband and Sarazine.” He stared accusingly at Kate.
“Corporal Brossard,” Maggie cut in, “Kate can’t possibly have anything to do with any of this.”
“How so?”
“Because she and Doug have only been married a year. That contract was signed back in 1945. He was still with his first wife then.”
“Oh.” Brossard looked discomfited. “I see.” He stopped abruptly.
“Perhaps you should track down the others on that contract,” she suggested ironically.
“I fully intend to do so, and, I hope, without your help.” He closed the folder, placed it under his arm and stalked out. A short time later, they heard the front door slam and the police car leaving.
Maggie’s mind went back to the leather pouch. Who could have taken it from her bedroom? Perhaps it was one of the men mentioned on the contract . . . Jock Macleod . . . or that O’Connor fellow, whoever he is . . . or Vivienne?
• • •
IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT before Maggie reached Nat on the phone, and despite her party line concerns, she immediately launched into an account of Brossard’s visit, finding the mine contract and the bill from Johnson and Spiegel’s detective agency.
“And this Lewis Sarazine mentioned on the contract, he was the man found in the ravine?”
“Looks like it. I’m beginning to think the two events are related after all.”
“Could be, Maggie. Could be.” He was quiet for a moment. “This cop. You said his name’s Brossard?”
“Do you know him?”
“No. But I’ll
ask Sawasky about him.” George Sawasky, Nat’s partner during his Vancouver police days, still kept in touch. They had a strong friendship and helped each other out when needed. “How did he treat you?”
“Very curt! Asked for identification and immediately became very aggressive when he found out that Kate had asked for our help.”
“Kate didn’t know any of the names on the mining contract?”
“No. Why don’t you run them past Sawasky?”
“Good thinking. I’ve made an appointment with Teasdale for the morning, and if I’ve time, I’ll look in on Nordstrom as well. I’ll call you tomorrow night and fill you in.” Then, before hanging up, he said, “I miss you, Maggie. Please be careful.”
“I miss you, too,” she answered. “How’s Henny?” The spluttering noises coming from the phone answered her question, and laughing, she quietly replaced the receiver.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Teasdale Advertising Agency was on the eighth floor of one of the new glass towers on Georgia Street. Nat was glad when the fast elevator trip came to an end, as it had left his stomach down on the first floor, but his feeling of disquiet persisted when the doors opened onto plush blue carpet, electric blue walls and huge bizarre Dali-esque pictures. Nat, of that old school that demanded that pictures should look like pictures and not multicoloured puzzles, regarded them with distaste as he walked along the corridor. The polished teak reception desk inside the Teasdale agency was manned by an equally polished brunette with large tortoiseshell glasses perched on her elegant nose. A gilt-edged nameplate announced that she was Miss Catherine O’Neil.
“Yes. May I help you?” she asked, taking in Nat’s crumpled suit.
“Southby,” he said, handing over one of the new business cards Maggie had insisted on ordering for him. “Nat Southby.”
The apparition consulted her appointment book and indicated a line of chairs. “Please take a seat. Mr. Teasdale’s running late this morning.”
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