After Maggie had written her name on the back of one of Nat’s cards, she handed it over to the girl. “Anything,” she said urgently. “Doesn’t matter what.”
Outside, Nat was waiting beside his car, and he quickly opened the passenger door. “Thought you were never coming. Everyone has left for the cemetery.”
“Do we have to go? I hate intruding on their grief like this.”
“It’s the only time we’ll see so many people who knew her.”
On the way, Maggie filled Nat in on her conversation with the two teens in the café. “I didn’t learn much, I’m afraid,” she concluded.
“On the contrary. Not so bad for an amateur.”
By the time they reached the cemetery, the brief service was nearly over. Standing well back, they surveyed the mourners. The parents were easy to pick out. The woman was sobbing at the graveside with a boy of twelve or so and a young girl, who held onto her mother’s coat, looking completely bewildered by the event. Beside them a stern-featured man stared fixedly into the open grave.
“Look, Nat, over there,” Maggie said, tugging his arm. “Isn’t that Sergeant Farthing?”
“Yep. And I expect Haddock is lurking around somewhere too. Come on, Maggie, let’s go before they see us.”
CHAPTER TEN
Monday morning the sky was that perfect luminescent blue that May sometimes brings to the British Columbia coast. The air was warm, and the people hurrying to work seemed to be defying the old warning that Maggie’s Scottish grandmother used to quote—ne’er cast a clout ’til May is out—and were baring their limbs to the gentle breezes.
She hummed to herself as she slipped the key into the door of the office just in time to hear the telephone. “Oh damn,” she said as she lunged for the instrument, but the caller had already hung up.
There was a note on her desk from Nat. Won’t be in this morning. Leave messages on my desk. Nat.
Then this is the perfect day to sort the rest of the files, she thought, and was well into the loathsome task when the phone rang again.
“Mrs. Spencer?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Val.”
“Val?”
“Yeah. You remember, last Thursday at the funeral.”
Maggie’s mind did a mental flip. “Yes, of course, Val.”
“You told me to call.”
“You thought of something, then?” she asked encouragingly.
“June told me where she was going to meet that guy that was going to help her.”
“Yes?” Maggie wanted to shout at the girl to get on with it.
“It was a restaurant in North Van.”
“Do you remember the name of it?” She reached for her notepad and pencil.
“The Blue Plate Café.”
“Val, think carefully. Do you remember what day she was going to meet him?”
“March 17th.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. Saint Patrick’s Day. I was getting ready to go to the St. Pat’s sock hop at our school when she called.”
“Did she say what time?”
“She was leaving right then.”
“What time was that?”
“About seven, I guess.”
“You’ve been a great help, Val. Do you have a number where I can call you?”
“Tom wouldn’t like it.”
“I’d like to let you know how this turns out.”
“Well, okay. It’s Central 0033.”
Maggie replaced the receiver. “Maggie, I think you will be treating yourself to lunch today!”
The Blue Plate Café lived up to its name. Blue drapes, blue walls, blue willow plates on arty, imitation knotty pine shelves. The theme had also been carried into the alcove booth to which she was shown. The elderly blue-gingham-clad waitress poured coffee into a blue cup as she took Maggie’s order.
As the Blue Plate special was placed in front of her, Maggie inquired, “You work here long?”
“Since it opened.” The waitress, who wore a label saying her name was Pearl, gave a sniff. “Two years come June.” “You like it here, then?”
“It’s a job.” Pearl topped up Maggie’s cup and turned on her heel.
Maggie inspected the clientele. Very few tables were taken, and she could understand why when she sipped the watery vegetable soup. The toasted cheese sandwich was only slightly more appetizing.
“Yer want yer Jell-O?” The blue apparition was back.
“Jell-O? No thanks.”
“Goes with the special.”
“Do you work in the evenings too?”
“When it’s busy.”
“I don’t suppose you remember if you worked on Saint Patrick’s Day?” she asked hopefully.
Pearl rested the coffee jug on the table. “Saint Patrick’s Day . . . Lemme see . . . yeah . . . That’s the day my Dennis brought home the green shamrock cake. You ever had one of them from Safeway? They’re real nice.”
“Was it a busy night?”
“Fairly. Why?”
Maggie decided to appeal to the woman’s curiosity. “It’s rather confidential.”
“Yeah?” She bent closer to Maggie.
“I’m trying to find out what happened to a young girl who came in here that night.”
It was the right bait. “Let me serve the other table. Then I’m off duty,” she said conspiratorially. “I’ll be back.” Fifteen minutes later, minus blue garb, Pearl slid into the booth opposite Maggie. “Whatcha wanna know?”
“Do you remember seeing a blonde girl, around eighteen or so, come in here with two men that night?”
Pearl shook her head. “Not offhand. What did the guys look like?”
“I don’t know for certain, but one of them would have been a fellow around twenty.” Maggie paused, considering how to describe Collins. “The other might be in his forties.”
The waitress leaned back in the booth and pulled a packet of Players out of her pocket. “This girl, was she pregnant?” she asked, lighting the cigarette and taking a deep draw.
Maggie looked at her in astonishment. “You remember them?”
“Yeah. Though it’s the older guy I remember most.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Nah. I only remember him because of his creamer castles.” “Creamer castles?”
“Yeah, you know.” She reached for the plate of tiny coffee cream tubs beside the ketchup bottle. “Piles these things up, then leaves me the mess to clear up.”
“And he’s been in several times?”
“Yeah. And I remember him coming in with a girl one other time. Young enough to be his daughter,” she said with a sniff.
“You wouldn’t be able to pick him out if he came in again, would you?”
“Don’t know.” The waitress laughed and got up. “Not unless he built another castle.”
Maggie scanned her bill, added an extra two dollars to the total and handed it, with one of the agency’s business cards, to the waitress. “Please call me if he comes in again, will you, Pearl?”
She was deep in thought as she walked toward her car, so that the touch on her arm made her draw back instantly.
“It is Maggie . . . Nat’s Maggie . . . isn’t it?”
Maggie looked up at the man who was smiling at her. “I’m sorry, I . . . good heavens, Mr. Cuthbertson.”
“Cubby. Do you live in these parts too?”
“No, just shopping over here, so I stopped in for lunch at the Blue Plate.” She gave a shudder at the memory of the food. “You said, too. Do you live in North Van, then?”
“Most of my life. Got time for another cup of coffee?”
Maggie thought back to the tepid liquid in the café. “Thanks, one was enough,” she said, grinning. “And I have to get back.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Right here.” She patted the red Morris. Sliding behind the wheel, she rolled down the window. “Nice seeing you again . . . Cubby.”
“Don�
�t let Nat work you too hard,” he said with a grin. He stood at the curb and watched until Maggie’s little car disappeared into the traffic. When she reached the office, Nat still hadn’t returned. She scribbled a note and left it on his desk on her way out.
• • •
WHILE MAGGIE HAD BEEN lunching in North Vancouver, her boss had been having a sandwich with Sergeant Brian Todd of Missing Persons. Their association went back to when Todd had been a hotshot rookie under Nat in the vice squad.
“So what is it you want, Nat?” Todd said, taking a huge bite out of his ham-on-rye. “You haven’t taken me out to lunch just because you like my pretty face.”
Nat picked up a french fry and dipped it into the ketchup. “I just need a little information.”
“About what?”
“Missing teenagers, for a start.”
Todd lowered his sandwich. “How did you know?”
“Know what, Brian?” Nat asked innocently.
“About the missing girls?”
“Just a hunch.” Nat took a stab at his coleslaw. “How many are there?”
“You know damn well I can’t give you that info.”
“Just a hint. Are there many similar cases on your files?”
“Similar! What do you mean?”
“For Chrissake, Brian. Same age group, decent homes, bright students and . . .” he paused significantly, “pregnant.”
“It looks like you’ve got inside information already.”
“I need names, Brian. Names.”
“You know that’s confidential.”
Nat leaned earnestly toward Todd. “It’s not the girls I’m after, but the people who are behind their disappearance. Do you want to have more of them dragged out of the sea?”
“So that’s it. You’re investigating the Seagull case.” Todd took another half-hearted bite of his sandwich.
Nat nodded.
Todd forked up the last of his french fries, wiped his mouth on a paper napkin and stood up. “Thanks for lunch.” He reached for his jacket. “Look, Nat, we’re working with the RCMP on this one. And if Farthing finds out I’ve been talking to you . . .” He left the sentence unfinished.
“He won’t. Come on, Brian. Help me.”
Todd hesitated. “You didn’t get the names from me.”
“What names?” Nat said and signalled to the waiter.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
And how’s your little job going?” Harry asked, taking a sip of brandy. They sat in their usual places on either side of the fireplace.
Margaret looked up in surprise from the newspaper she was reading. “Very well, Harry. How’s yours?”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Margaret.”
“You just surprised me.”
“I was taking Barbara’s advice. That’s all.”
“And what did Barbara advise you to do, Harry?”
“She said I should show more interest in what you’re doing.”
“That was nice of her.” Margaret lowered the paper to her lap. “When did you speak to her?”
“She called in at the office yesterday.” Margaret could always tell when he was hiding something. His face got red and splotchy.
“And she suggested that, if you didn’t push me, I would soon tire of my little job and give it up, isn’t that it?”
“She only remarked that you could be very stubborn. She’s quite concerned about you, you know. As am I . . .” Luckily for Harry, the phone rang at that moment. “It’s for you,” he said. “A man.”
“That will be my boss.”
“Got your message, Maggie,” Nat’s voice boomed over the phone. “You should have told me where you were going.”
“You weren’t there to be told.”
“Don’t go off on your own again, Maggie,” he answered her. “It could be dangerous.”
“Now, come on, I only spoke to the waitress, for heaven’s sake!”
“Well, okay, now listen, I’ve got some news too.”
“On Sally?”
“No, a list of girls who’ve disappeared over the past few months.”
“How on earth did you manage that?”
“There’s ways.” He paused for a moment. “Look, Maggie, I think this could become pretty messy. Promise me you won’t go off on your own again.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Southby.” She smiled as she put the phone down.
“I can’t see the necessity of him calling you during the evening,” Harry complained.
“You get phone calls out of office hours, Harry.”
“That’s different. You’re only a part-time secretary.”
She sat down again in her chair, picked up the newspaper and hid her face behind it. Harry would have been astounded if he had seen the huge grin on her face as she settled down to read.
• • •
IN THE OFFICE the next morning, Maggie scanned the list. “These girls are mostly from Richmond or Kitsilano.”
“Yeah. Interesting, isn’t it? Todd refined the list to middle-class teens with no criminal record, missing in the last two years. And that’s what he came up with.”
“What do we do now?”
“Check the phone book and match addresses. Then do a little phoning.”
“I don’t think I could intrude on people like that.”
“That’s part of the business.”
“But what questions do I ask?”
“How long have the girls been missing? Have they heard from them at all? Any reason why they would run away? You’ll have to play it by ear.”
“Well, okay,” she said hesitantly and reached for the phone book.
By the third day, Maggie and Nat between them had located the parents of nine girls who had disappeared under similar circumstances, and she had made up files on each of them, summarizing the information they had gathered. She put the summary on Nat’s desk.
Sally Fielding: Age sixteen. Attended Kitsilano High. Missing four months. Father a dentist, mother owns hat shop. Haven’t heard from their daughter. Agreed to an interview. June Cosgrove: Age seventeen. Since been found—dead. Has younger brother and sister. Parents devastated. Also went to Kitsilano High. The Cosgroves reluctantly agreed to interview. May Rothstein: Age eighteen. Missing five months. Attending Sprott–Shaw secretarial school at the time she went missing. Parents own two flower shops. Very bitter and will not agree to an interview. The pattern continued down the page: Lucy Childer, Jalna Hunsche, Janice Diebel, Debbie Shorthouse, Olga Koziki. In most cases, the parents agreed to an interview, albeit with not much enthusiasm.
The first break came when Maggie called Amelia Holland’s parents. Amelia was seventeen, the parents knew she was pregnant, and she had called them after her disappearance, six weeks ago. She told them that she was someplace near Seattle. She was crying, then just as she was telling them she wanted to come home, the line went dead. The police, when contacted, had said it was impossible to trace the call, and anyway, it was obvious that the girl had gone off to the United States on her own accord. The Hollands readily agreed to an interview.
“Okay,” Nat said, looking down the list. “We start on Monday. Set up an interview with the Hollands first.”
“Monday’s no good for the Hollands,” she told him. “He works nine to five, and she teaches night-school cooking classes. They asked if you could come tomorrow morning?”
“No, that’s out for me. See if Sunday afternoon is good for them. Around two o’clock,” he answered, and picking up the newly-made Holland file, took it into his office. “Oh! What about you, Maggie?” Nat called out to her. “Can you make Sunday afternoon?”
“You don’t need me there.”
“You know damn well you want to be there. Anyway, I need you to take notes.”
“I don’t know, Nat. Harry . . .” Then she remembered the patronizing way Harry had spoken about her job. “On second thought,” she said, “I’d love to come.”
“Great. Meet me here at one-
thirty. We’ll take my car.”
• • •
HARRY LAID DOWN HIS knife and fork. “I’ve invited Mother over for dinner. It’s been such a long time since she was here.”
Margaret took a firm grip on herself before answering. “What a good idea. When’s she coming?”
“Sunday.”
“You mean this Sunday?”
“Of course.”
“You could have checked with me first, Harry. How’d you know whether it would be convenient?”
“Convenient! Why shouldn’t it be convenient?” Harry patted his mouth with his napkin and resumed eating. “You are aware that she hasn’t been too well lately?”
“What time are you picking her up?”
“I thought we would pick her up about one o’clock. Give us time to drive her around Stanley Park for a change.”
Oh, hell! Margaret thought. Well, here goes. “I’m afraid it will be just you picking her up, Harry. I have a prior appointment.”
“Appointment! What kind of appointment can you possibly have on a Sunday?” Harry glared across the table at her. Then his face reddened as he slammed down his napkin. “I know, I know, it’s that blasted job, isn’t it?”
“I’ll be back in plenty of time to get dinner.” She picked up the plates and turned toward the kitchen. “Anyway, Harry, you know your mother would love to have you to herself for an afternoon.”
“That’s not the point. You’re my wife and . . .” But the kitchen door had already swung shut behind her.
Margaret spent Sunday morning preparing a dinner that she could slide into the oven on her return home, and Harry spent his morning shut up in the den with his hi-fi. He played Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor—full blast—the organ’s crashing notes sending shivers down Margaret’s spine as she chopped vegetables for the casserole. I think he’s still a mite mad, she thought as she floured the cubes of beef, but they do say music soothes the savage beast, I mean breast. She was grinning as she browned the meat.
• • •
THE HOLLANDS LIVED in a house on West Twelfth. The door was opened before Nat even rang the bell, and Joan Holland led the way into a comfortable living room, its large windows facing Connaught Park.
“It’s very good of you to see us,” Nat offered, sitting down.
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