“He’s away.”
“Any idea when he’ll be back?”
Agnes Agnew pursed her lips. “No. He left Wednesday and said he’d probably be away for the rest of the week.”
Nat drew up a chair. “Where’d he go?”
“He didn’t inform me of his destination, Mr. Southby.”
“That must make things very difficult for you,” he answered sympathetically.
“I’m afraid Mr. Nordstrom is not like his father, Albert Nordstrom senior,” she answered. “He always kept me informed.”
“He should have more regard for such a faithful secretary like yourself,” Nat commiserated. Agnes drew herself up, and he wondered guiltily if he’d laid it on a bit too thick. Then she gave a thin smile.
“I see you appreciate a good assistant, Mr. Southby.”
Nat glanced at the large clock on the wall above Agnes’ head. “It must be near your lunchtime,” he said. “Can you possibly take pity on a lonely bachelor and join me?” He felt quite a heel when he saw Agnes’ eyes fill with tears.
“That’s very kind,” she answered. “I’ll get my coat.”
Later, when they had arrived at the coffee stage of their lunch, and Nat had been filled in on Agnes’ lonely life since her father had passed away and how she couldn’t live without her two cats, Mindy and Mandy, Nat led the conversation back to her job with Nordstrom and Kraft.
“I think you told me that you went there straight from secretarial college.”
“I was just seventeen,” she answered. “Both Mr. Nordstrom senior and Mr. Kraft were so nice to work for.”
“You must know a lot of Nordstrom’s clients and friends, then.”
“Oh my, yes.”
“Mr. Guthrie?”
“He’s one of my favourites. He calls me Aggy, you know. Always joking.” She paused, reminiscing. “Even when he’s in a hurry . . . like the last time.”
“You remember people like that,” Nat answered. “And when was the last time you saw him?”
She thought for a moment. “I know it was a Tuesday. I do my filing on Tuesdays, and he made some joke about the box files. They’re so awkward to use,” she explained.
“You don’t remember which Tuesday, I suppose?” Nat asked hopefully.
“I can tell you when we get back to the office,” she said, a telltale blush going up her thin neck. “I always make a note on my desk calendar when he comes in.”
Nat could hardly contain his impatience for the waitress to bring the bill, and it was all he could do not to rush poor Agnes out of the door and along the road back to the Nordstrom building. But once inside the reception area, Agnes seemed to have forgotten about Guthrie.
“Thank you very much for lunch, Mr. Southby,” she said, removing her jacket and sitting down behind her desk. “Now I’d better make up for lost time.”
“The date,” Nat said. “You said you’d look up the date.”
“So I did.” She reached over to her daily calendar and flipped the pages back. “Here we are, Tuesday . . . see, I was right . . . June 9.” She looked a bit abashed. “Mr. Nordstrom doesn’t know about my little notes.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Nat said gallantly, almost wanting to kiss her. “No need to tell Mr. Nordstrom I called in, either,” he added. “I’ll get in touch another time.”
Nat was jubilant. “Got you!” he said aloud, banging on his steering wheel. “Got you!” He turned the ignition key and gave a self-satisfied grin. “Ray Teasdale’s next. And there’s no time like the present.” He rammed the old Chevy into gear. If he’d bothered to look up to the third floor of Nordstrom’s building, he would have seen Agnes looking out of the window with a wistful look on her face.
As usual, it was difficult to find a parking place in the centre of the city. “There are too many cars,” he muttered to himself on his second time around. “Something oughta be done about this.” Then a parking space miraculously opened up in front of the Teasdale building, and with a wild grin, he beat a shiny new Ford into it. Totally ignoring the beeping horn and the shaking fist of the Ford’s owner, he nudged the old Chevy into the spot and then bounded into the building. Teasdale’s receptionist was behind her desk, filing her nails, and frowned as she recognized him.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Mr. Teasdale, please.”
“Have you an appointment?”
“No, but it’s important.”
She got up languidly and knocked on Teasdale’s door. “Mr. Southby would like a word.”
“Now what?” Teasdale asked, but he came to stand in his doorway.
“You absolutely sure that Guthrie didn’t come into Vancouver last week?”
“I told you the other day—I haven’t seen the man since early May.”
“I’m sorry to be a nuisance, but I have information that he was in Vancouver around June 9. That’s two days after he supposedly left for a trip to Alberta.”
“Then your informant must’ve been mistaken. He would’ve called me.” He turned to go back into his office. “Anything else?”
“No. Thanks for your help.”
Teasdale walked back into his office, firmly shutting the door.
Nat gave one of his lopsided smiles to the receptionist, had another peek at Adam and his Three Eves, and, shaking his head, left.
Although it was after two o’clock, Henny was still in the office when he returned. “I thought you’d be gone by now,” he said, throwing his hat at the stand. He bent and retrieved it from the floor and hung it up. It just wasn’t the same without Maggie.
“Going now, Mr. Nat,” she replied. “Have made camomile tea for you.”
“I don’t think I like . . . ”
“You drink it. Good for nerves.” While she was talking, she carefully buttoned up her beige raincoat, and then, pulling a beige and green rayon scarf out of one of the pockets, tied it over her head. “Going to rain,” she added. “Your typing on your desk.”
“There’s no need for you to come back after lunch, Henny!”
“Ja, there is. Lots to do if you go to be with Maggie on Monday.”
Seeing it was no good arguing with her, he waited until she had left before tipping the offending beverage down the sink in the washroom. Then he sat behind his desk, an unlit cigar in hand, and pulled Henny’s third effort—a wrap-up on a forging scam—toward him to see if she had at last obeyed his orders and taken out her own comments on how she thought this particular case should have been handled. She had done very well. Her latest advice was just handwritten and attached by paper clip: I do not think he is telling truth, Mr. Nat. Don’t trust man who wears lots of gold rings. He couldn’t help smiling as he signed the document. “Maggie, my girl, I sure need you back here.”
• • •
MAGGIE AND KATE watched the Beaver take off, Maggie wondering if she should have asked more questions from the three, and Kate thankful that they were at last leaving. As the plane dipped its wings in a last salute, the two women drove back to the house and collapsed into the lounge chairs on the deck.
“Thank God that’s over,” Kate said.
“Did you have your meeting with Hendrix?”
“Yes. Albert came too, and he kept insisting that Hendrix bring Jamie up-to-date on the affairs of the ranch. And you know, Maggie, it really isn’t any of his business.”
“Did Hendrix oblige?”
“Not really. He sort of hedged and insisted that everything was running just fine. He’s of the opinion that we should just carry on as we are until we hear further from the police.”
“What was Jamie’s reaction to that?”
“I’m sure Jamie doesn’t want to get involved with the ranch affairs at all. Anyway, he agreed with Hendrix.”
Stretching lazily in the warm afternoon sun, Maggie closed her eyes and mentally ticked off all the recent events. Guthrie’s missing, Sarazine’s dead, somebody stole that money pouch I found in his Jeep, and there’s all that money in
the mine. It’s all connected somehow. But what’s the link and where does Nordstrom fit in?
“Maggie.” She opened her eyes to see Kate standing beside her. “The sun’s over the yardarm, and I think we both deserve a drink.” She placed a glass at Maggie’s elbow.
“Thanks, Kate.” As she reached for the glass, she felt something crackle in her pocket—the piece of paper that she’d taken from the briefcase. Her first impulse was to haul it out and read it, but remembering Kate’s inability to keep anything to herself, she took the glass from Kate’s hand, instead. Time enough to read it when she reached the safety of her bedroom. And she settled back in her chair to listen to Kate re-hash her woes once more.
• • •
NAT ONLY HAD Agnes Agnew’s word that she’d seen Guthrie on June 9. But who else would he have visited? His mother, perhaps? With Henny off to lunch, he looked into the filing cabinet himself. He had to admit that Henny certainly kept the records straight, and it was only minutes before the new Guthrie file was open before him and he had located the address of the nursing home.
It was nearly two when Nat’s old Chevy rolled to a stop in front of the Princess Margaret Retirement Villa on Queens Road. The four-storey, wooden-faced building did not live up to its grand name, though the builder had added a pseudostone entrance and etched the home’s name in the cement over the door. A set of wooden double doors led into a square foyer, where several of the building’s occupants sat on faded cretonne covered sofas and armchairs that were grouped around a fake fireplace. As one, they looked up hopefully as Nat approached the semi-circular receptionist’s desk, then realizing he was not for them, went back to their passive staring. The desk nameplate said Miss Ethel Gouge. Dressed in a starched white uniform with an impossible hat pinned to her upswept hair, she turned her fixed smile onto Nat. “May I be of help?”
“I would like to see Mrs. Sara Guthrie.”
She looked Nat up and down before consulting a book in front of her. “Is she expecting you?”
Nat held up a box of chocolates. “A surprise gift. From her son,” he added.
“She will be pleased. He isn’t very good at visiting, you know.”
She turned the book around and handed him a pen. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to sign. Then take the elevator over there. Suite 308.”
Nat tapped on the door of 308, but it was several minutes before it was opened by a frail lady in her late eighties. “You don’t know me, Mrs. Guthrie, but I’ve heard of you through your son and grandchildren. Can I come in?” He thrust the box of chocolates into her hands.
She opened the door wider and the musty smell of ancient furniture, old clothes, mothballs and neglect engulfed him.
“Chocolates!” Clutching the box, she led the way inside and pointed to one of the deep armchairs beside the narrow window. “Who did you say you were?” she yelled.
“Nat Southby.” Nat raised his voice. “I’ve been trying to locate your son. Have you seen him recently?”
She sat down in the chair opposite to wrestle with the cellophane on the box. “Black Magic. My favourite.” Greedily, she stuffed a chocolate into her mouth. “Do you want one?”
“No thanks. Your son. When did you see him last?”
“Blast?” She leaned forward and looked out of the window. “I didn’t hear a blast.” She stuffed another chocolate in her mouth. “Ugh! Marzipan!” She put the offending candy back into its paper doily and selected another.
“When was the last time you saw Douglas, Mrs. Guthrie?” Nat shouted.
“No need to shout, young man. It’s time he came and visited his mother.” Carefully, she selected another chocolate. “And those grandchildren of mine.” She bit into the candy. “Might as well be dead, for all they care.” She looked at the gilt clock on the overcrowded dresser. “You’ll have to go now. It’s time for my program.” She struggled out of her chair and over to the twelve-inch black and white television, turned it on and then fiddled with the rabbit ears as the snowy image on the screen rolled over and over vertically. “Cheap! My son bought it.” She pushed the ears up and down. “Damned thing’s always jumping.” Nat leaned over and adjusted the rabbit ears until the picture became stabilized.
“When was that?” Nat shouted over the volume. But the old lady had settled down to watch How The World Turns, her attention riveted on the flickering images on the screen. As he let himself out of the door, he saw Sara Guthrie extracting a half-eaten caramel from her top denture. She probably hadn’t even noticed that he’d left.
Back in the lobby, he handed one of his business cards to the receptionist. “Mrs. Guthrie’s son hasn’t been seen for awhile,” he explained. “And his wife has hired me to look for him. Is it possible that you can tell me when he was here last?”
She took the card and read it thoroughly before handing it back. “I’ll look in the book.” Nat waited impatiently while she sorted through the pages. “June 10. That’s when he brought that television for his mother.”
“You keep records of all visitors?” he asked, surprised.
“We’ve had some unfortunate thefts. People here are very gullible,” she explained. “They’ll let anyone in.”
As he turned to leave, he had another thought. “Do you have a phone number to call, you know, for emergencies?”
She ran her finger down the book again. “There’s his home number in Williams Lake. Oh, just a minute.” She reached back to the shelves jammed full of buff files and selected one. “He gave us a local number as well, in case of emergency. Here it is.” She wrote the number on a slip of paper and handed it to him.
“You wouldn’t by any chance have the person’s name to go with the number?” he asked hopefully, as he tucked the paper into his wallet.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Southby. That’s against our policy. I shouldn’t have even given you the number, but since there are extenuating circumstances . . . ” She let the sentence die, and Nat hurried out in case she demanded the slip of paper back.
At his office, Nat sat looking at the paper. I’ve seen that number before. Reaching for the telephone, he began to dial. “Teasdale Agency.” There was no mistaking that voice.
“Teasdale Agency,” Catherine O’Neill repeated. Quietly replacing the receiver, he rose from his desk and opened his office door.
He found his Girl Friday thrusting papers into buff folders and happily singing an off-key version of Elvis’ Love Me Tender.
“Henny?”
She looked up from her work. “Ja, Mr. Nat.”
He sat on the corner of her desk. “You want to do some real detective work for a change?”
“Me? You want me to do detecting?” She grinned at him. “You must be yoking, eh?” Her Js still came out as Ys.
“No, Henny, my girl. I’m not yoking.” He pulled up a chair next to her. “Now listen carefully.” He outlined what he wanted her to do, then repeated it twice more to make sure she understood. “Okay,” he said at last. “You’re ready. Dial the number.” Then he slipped into his own office and opened the door wide so that he could watch her. As soon as Henny reached the agency, she gave him the nod and he quietly picked up his own phone.
“Teasdale Agency. Can I help you?”
“Ja,” Henny answered. “This is nurse from Princess Margaret home.”
“You sure you have the right number?” Catherine O’Neill asked.
“Ja. Teasdale Agency. Your number is given for Mr. Guthrie. His mother live here. It say on card, call Mr. Teasdale for emergency.”
“An emergency! Oh, dear. I’ll get him for you.” Nat could hear the receptionist talking to her boss. Then Teasdale came on the line.
“What’s wrong with her this time?”
“Mrs. Guthrie she is in bad state. We can’t reach her son.”
“He saw her last week, for Chrissake,” Teasdale answered. “And he’s out of town.”
“Can you give us number to call?” Henny asked.
“I told you. He’s out o
f town,” Teasdale said irritably. “Can’t you people deal with it? Isn’t that what you are paid for?”
“Can you pass message on?” Henny improvised. “She is very upset.”
“Oh, damn the woman. Look,” he said, “I don’t know where he is. Call his home number.” He paused for a moment and then asked, “Are you her nurse?”
“Ja. Sometime.”
“What do you mean, sometime?”
“Sometime I’m her nurse,” Henny looked up at Nat in alarm. He quickly shook his head and made a cutting motion.
“Someone calling me. Got to go, sorry.” She replaced the receiver and leaned back in her chair, her face flushed. “I’m not used to telling lies, Mr. Nat.”
“In this business, Henny,” he replied sadly, “it is sometimes necessary.”
After Henny had left for the day, he went over the conversation between her and Teasdale again. It doesn’t sound as if he knows where Guthrie is. But he could be covering up for him.
There was only one other thing he had to do before leaving for the Cariboo, and that was talk to Guthrie’s ex, which posed another problem.
“How can I help you, Mr. Southby?” Agnes Agnew gushed when she heard Nat’s voice on the phone.
“Is your boss back?” he asked casually.
“He came in this morning but has left again. Have you found dear Mr. Guthrie yet?”
“No, but you could go a long way in helping me find him,” Nat said.
“Me! How?”
“I need to get in touch with his ex-wife, Debra.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” she answered sadly. “I haven’t seen her since the divorce.”
“But doesn’t Guthrie’s son work for Mr. Nordstrom?”
“Oh, yes. Such a nice young man. Takes after his father.”
“Then wouldn’t you have his next of kin on his personnel files?”
“Oh, but those files are privileged, Mr. Southby.”
“But they might help to locate Douglas Guthrie.”
“Oh dear. I wish Mr. Nordstrom was here to advise.”
“I can assure you he would agree, Miss Agnew. After all, Guthrie’s his friend, too.” He crossed his fingers. Five minutes later, he sat back in his chair, the information before him. Douglas Guthrie’s first wife was now a Mrs. Eric Wright and lived in Seattle.
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