Poor old Harry. Margaret carefully filled his favourite hot water bottle and screwed the cap on tightly. He’s right. We can’t go on like this much longer. Hot water bottle in hand, she trudged reluctantly up the stairs. Emily, tail on high, followed closely behind.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The rest of the week flew by, and before Maggie knew it, it was Thursday again. That morning, Nat wrote a letter to Mrs. Read, apologizing for the slow progress he was making in the investigation of her father’s death. He didn’t bother to tell her that the old man hadn’t been particularly liked by his neighbours, who seemed to have forgotten him already. He finished up the report by asking if she, Mrs. Read, still wanted him to continue with the investigation.
“I still think,” Maggie said, placing the typed sheet in front of him, “that we’ve got to start looking closer at Collins and Violet.”
“Oh, come off it,” he replied, scrawling his signature at the bottom of the page. “Quit casting poor old Violet as a heavy.”
At noon she gathered all the outgoing mail, picked up her handbag and poked her head into Nat’s office. “I’m on my way.”
He looked up from the document he was reading. “Can you be here about eight-thirty tomorrow?” he asked.
“I suppose so.” She waited.
“Thought we’d get through the office work early and take a run over to the Osprey Harbour Yacht Club.”
Maggie raised her eyebrows. “Hoping to see Collins?”
He grinned at her. “You never know. Anyway, I’ll give Cubby a call and maybe we can have lunch with him in the clubhouse. Okay?”
“Okay by me,” she said, smiling back at him.
He picked up his pen and resumed writing. She’s a hell of an attractive woman when she smiles.
• • •
IT WAS ANOTHER PERFECT west-coast day. Sitting in Nat’s car, Maggie felt herself relaxing. Her husband had got over his flu bout quite quickly the previous week and returned to the office and his attentive secretary. But the atmosphere at home had remained heavy, their relations awkward.
The repaired, newly painted Seagull, bobbing up and down in the gentle swell, was back at her berth. Phillip Collins, screwdriver in hand, was on his knees, fixing something under one of the seats in the front cockpit. “Hi. Got a minute?” Nat called out.
“Oh, it’s you,” Collins said, getting to his feet.
“Boat looks lovely,” Maggie said. “Take you long to fix it?”
“Long enough,” he answered shortly. “I could kill the little bugger.”
“How is Larry?”
“Mending and very subdued.”
“Did he ever tell you why he took Seagull out that night?” Nat asked.
“No.”
“He must have given some explanation,” Nat insisted.
“Even if he did, it’s none of your business, Southby. Case closed.”
“Did you know Ernie Bradshaw?” Nat asked.
“No, who’s he?”
“The old guy who was murdered a few weeks back. He knew your Aunt Violet.”
“Oh, that Ernie. The guy with the cat. I never met him.”
“Mr. Collins,” Maggie cut in. “Your aunt’s got a garage in her backyard.”
“A garage?” He stared at Maggie, mystified. “Yes. So what?”
“Ernie Bradshaw’s cat used to hole up somewhere. I just wondered if that’s where . . .” Her voice tapered off.
“If you’re so interested, Mrs. Spencer, why don’t you go ask Violet?” Turning his back on them, he knelt again and became absorbed in his work.
There was no sign of the owners of Flying Fancy. She was still berthed next to Seagull, silently waiting and tightly covered against the elements. “Have to come down one weekend,” Nat said as they walked back along the float. “I’d like to have another little chat with Sylvia and her mate.”
“Who are they?”
“Seagull’s neighbours,” he explained. “You’d love ’em.” He took Maggie’s arm. “Come on, let’s have a quick tour around the yard before we meet Cubby.”
Later, sipping a large gin and tonic, Maggie looked out of the clubhouse window. “They’re so beautiful,” she said wistfully.
Nat looked at her. And so are you, he thought, but he said, “What? The boats?” He wrenched his mind back to follow her gaze. “Got to solve a lot more cases before the agency can have one of those.” He grinned. “Here’s Cubby at last.” He stood up and waved his friend over to the table.
Immaculate in whites and more tanned than ever, Cubby breezed over to where they were sitting. “Ordered yet?”
“No, waited for you.”
After they had been served, Nat turned to Cubby. “I see Collins has fixed his boat.”
“Yep, I guess his insurance coughed up.” Cubby took a mouthful of curried shrimp. “Must have cost a packet, though, the way it was banged up.”
“Did they ever find out what happened?” Maggie picked up her seafood club sandwich and took a bite.
“I think it was just a joy ride.” Cubby turned to Nat. “How’s business treating the great tec?”
“We’re getting there,” Nat answered. “Still can’t take Fridays off to play boats like some people I know.”
“Let me tell you, it’s taken a lot of hard work.” It occurred to Nat that he had no idea what Cubby did for a living, and it was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but Cubby had already turned to Maggie. “Dessert?”
“Just coffee,” she answered.
Sipping her coffee, she listened to the two men talking over their school days. Nat, smoking a small brown cheroot, glanced up and saw her looking at him.
“Gave the cigars up just for you,” he explained with a grin, waving the cheroot in the air.
“You ever smoked cigars?” Maggie asked Cubby.
“No. Like everyone, I tried cigarettes when I was young.” He reached over for a third tub of cream. “My only real vice is gallons of cream in my coffee. Can’t understand how anyone can drink it black. How about you, Maggie? Any bad habits?”
“I’ve never smoked, but I love chocolate. And I’d love a boat like yours.”
“All the good things in life,” he said, as he stirred his coffee. “What about adventure?”
“Until I started working for Nat, my life had been pretty dull.”
“Aha,” Cubby said, raising his eyebrows at Nat.
“Down, boy,” Nat said, laughing. “Maggie’s my right arm, and she’s turning out to be a helluva good investigator.”
Maggie’s high spirits stayed with her until she reached home and parked, but the prospect of the weekend with a resentful Harry sobered her up fast. What am I going to do? She carried her bags of groceries through the back door into the kitchen and bent down to stroke Emily, who had come to meet her. “Well, at least he’s accepted you, puss.”
While she packed the groceries away, her mind went back to the pleasant lunch with the two men. But something bothered her, and for the life of her she couldn’t think what it was. Was it something Nat said? No. Or maybe something Cubby said? She went over the conversation and the bantering between the two men. Emily, fed up with waiting for supper, stretched up and clawed Maggie’s leg. “Okay, you’re next,” she said as she bent down to fill the cat’s bowl with kibble. Emily just blinked her blue eyes at Maggie and proceeded to her dish.
The beautiful weather continued, and on Saturday morning the garden called for attention. She loved the feel of the earth as she transplanted seedlings, pulled weeds and pruned the roses. Even Harry was happy. He liked to see his wife doing things around the house and garden, and he even got the mower out of the garden shed and cut the grass. While she worked, she went over the lunch with Nat and Cubby once again bit by bit, searching for a clue to what was niggling at her. Then suddenly it came to her. She waited until Harry had started on the front lawn before slipping into the house and dialing Nat’s number.
“It’s Maggie,” she said.
&nbs
p; “What’s up?”
“Wanted to thank you for lunch. I enjoyed it.”
“Me too.” He waited for her to continue.
“You’ve known Cubby a long time . . .”
“Since high school.
“You’ve kept in touch all that time?”
“Not really, no. He hung around with a different gang, and his old man had enough dough to send him to UBC. I joined the force. Why?”
“How well do you know him now?”
He was slow answering her. “To tell the truth, up to now, our paths rarely crossed. Why the sudden interest?”
“Do you remember him telling us how he likes cream in his coffee?”
“Yeah, but . . . ?” Nat asked in a baffled tone.
“Margaret, what have you done with the garden shears?” Harry poked his head into the kitchen. “Oh sorry, I didn’t hear the phone.”
“Thanks again.” She replaced the receiver and turned to Harry. “I had to call Nat to remind him of something for tomorrow. The shears? I’m sure you’ll find them in the shed. I’ll come and look.”
“I should have known it was too good to be true!” Harry stalked outside. “Never mind! I’ll find them myself.”
“Oh, damn all men!” She ran up the stairs, pulled off her gardening clothes and ran a hot shower.
“Now, what was that all about?” Nat said, replacing the phone. “Why would Maggie call me to ask about Cubby?” He picked up his newspaper. “She can’t be interested in him . . .” Rattled, he put on his jacket and headed out for a walk.
• • •
MARGARET AND HARRY were extremely polite to each other for the rest of the day. She felt as if she was walking on eggshells and studiously avoided any mention of her job. At breakfast on Sunday morning, Harry put down his newspaper, removed his reading glasses and said, “Margaret, I’ve been thinking about our problem.”
“Which problem is that, Harry?”
“I understand you feel loyalty to this man, so I think it only fair that you give him a month’s notice.”
“A month’s notice?”
“Yes. That way he can find a person of his own sort to help him.”
“What do you mean, his own sort?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean. His own class of person, if you like.”
“That’s nice of you, Harry. But I don’t think so.”
“You mean he won’t want a month’s notice?”
“No. For the last time, you’ll just have to accept the fact that I like this job and I need it. And I don’t intend to give it up.” To her humiliation, she felt tears running down her face, and she turned and ran from the room.
By the evening, Margaret found the tension between them unbearable. So while Harry watched the Ed Sullivan Show, she put on a beige sweater and slacks, a matching jacket and white running shoes and then knotted her favourite silk scarf around her neck. Before slipping out of the house, she dialed Nat’s number, but when there was no answer, she left a message with the answering service. Climbing into her car, she drove aimlessly for awhile, feeling the peace of solitude, and when she had calmed down again, she realized that she was driving past Violet Larkfield’s house. It was in total darkness.
She stopped the car a few houses down the street, parked, and then, taking a small flashlight out of the glove compartment and pushing it into her coat pocket, walked back toward the house. A half moon showing through the scudding clouds made the swaying trees and bushes cast ghostly shadows in the gardens. Maggie shivered. She started to lift the latch of the gate, then stopped, remembering how it squeaked. Although there seemed to be no sign of life, she decided to play it safe. The house stood on a large corner lot facing Seventh Avenue, with the entrance to the garage coming off Larch Street. Her flashlight showing the way, Maggie rounded the corner and turned into the driveway, stepping lightly on the gravel leading to the garage that loomed in the dark. She followed the path beside it, and using her flashlight, peered into the small side window. The garage was empty. Violet must be out.
Using less caution, she walked through the mud to the rear of the building. There, built onto its back wall, was a lean-to extension. A potting shed? She played the beam of her torch on its small window, but although she pressed her face close to the glass, the weak light could give her no indication of the interior. She tried the handle of the door. It wouldn’t budge, but her flashlight showed that the key had been left in the lock. Just as she reached out for it, a car swung into the driveway and its high beams flooded the garden with light. Heart hammering, she turned the key and slipped inside the shed. Keeping the door open a crack, she watched two shadowy figures pass by and approach the rear of the house. Thank God, they’re going inside.
“The girl’s not here yet?” a man’s voice enquired.
I know that voice, Maggie thought.
“About an hour’s time.”
And that’s Violet.
“The place is ready, so you can give me a hand with the bedding,” Violet continued.
“Right, but hurry up. I haven’t got all night.”
“You’re one inconsiderate bastard,” Violet snarled. “Go open the door. I left the key in the lock.”
Maggie froze. She didn’t dare risk the flashlight to find a hiding place, so she pressed herself against the wall behind the door and hoped she would be able to slip out.
The strong beam of light raked the front of the shed. “The door’s open.”
“It can’t be.”
“You must’ve left it open.”
“I did not,” Violet asserted.
Maggie’s legs felt like jelly as the door was flung back onto her and the light from the overhead fixture fell full onto her stricken face.
“Well, well! How nice to see you again, Mrs. Spencer,” John Cuthbertson said, before turning to Violet. “Maggie and I had a most enjoyable lunch together on Friday.”
“Emily escaped this afternoon. I just thought there might be a possibility . . .”
“Come, come, Maggie my dear,” Cuthbertson interrupted her. “You can do better than that.” He took a step toward her. Maggie tried to push her way past him, but he grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back, and forced her face down onto the bed.
“Nat knows I’m here!” she yelled at the man as she struggled to break his hold.
“On a Sunday night? I don’t think so,” he answered in an infuriating sarcastic drawl.
“And so does my husband,” she finished up lamely.
“I warned you she was getting too nosy,” Violet said from the doorway. “Now what are we going to do?”
“Oh, I’ll think of something!”
“Well, you’d better start thinking quick!”
“No problem, Mrs. L.” He transferred his weight, putting his knee into Maggie’s back while he fished in his pocket. “Take my car keys and open the trunk.”
“I’ll get some rope,” Violet said.
This can’t be happening! Maggie squirmed beneath Cuthbertson’s weight. But all this did was to make him push her face harder into the mattress.
“Violet dear, do as I say and open the trunk.”
Fury gave Maggie new strength, and twisting her body, she broke free, pushing Cuthbertson back and making for the open door. The last thing she saw was Violet’s fist coming straight toward her face.
Violet stood over Maggie’s prostrate body. “So what are you going to do with her now?”
“No problem, my dear,” said Cuthbertson. “Our nosy little friend here is going for a swim. A long swim.”
• • •
HER HEAD POUNDING, Maggie forced her eyes open and quickly shut them again. Something was very wrong. She willed herself to fight the nausea and open her eyes again. My God, I’m blind. She put out her arms and touched metal. It was then that she felt the movement of travelling and the smell of gas. Oh God! I’m in the trunk of a car! It must be Cuthbertson’s Mercedes! As she felt claustrophobic panic rising, she started to re
tch, then mercifully blacked out once more.
The next time Maggie woke, it was to a gentle rocking motion, and over it she heard the throb of an engine. Her head and right arm ached and she felt very nauseous, but it was too much effort to open her eyes. Then the horror of being in the trunk of the car came back to her, and forcing her eyes open, she struggled to sit up, but the straps binding her to the narrow bunk held her down. Daylight filtering through a small round window beside her made her realize where she was. I’m on a boat. Where are they taking me? She closed her eyes again and tried to think. Slowly, she pieced the events together: her argument with Harry, leaving home, finding the small room behind Violet’s garage and . . . Cold fear engulfed her again as she relived the scene with Violet and John Cuthbertson. She struggled against the straps and tried to call out, but only a rasping sound came from her dry throat. I have to escape. I’ve got to warn Nat. She felt herself drifting.
“The cops?” John Cuthbertson’s voice jolted her awake. “I thought they were finished with him!” she heard him say.
“They asked him about the Cosgrove girl again,” another voice answered through a splatter of static.
That’s Violet’s voice, Maggie thought.
“And they wanted to know if he knew Sally Fielding.”
They must be talking on the radio.
“Shit!” Cuthbertson snarled.
“You’ve got to come back and get this girl out of here. She’s ready to pop anytime.”
“Send Larry with her in your car.”
“Can’t risk it,” Violet’s voice crackled. “He says the cops are following him . . . You’re going . . . have to . . . take . . .” Her voice faded.
“Damn! Speak up,” he shouted irritably. “Will the little punk spill?”
“No, not Larry, he’s . . .” Maggie strained to hear the answer.
“All right, all right,” Cuthbertson yelled back irritably over the static. “But we may need bargaining power. I’ll delay dumping the goods overboard and take it to the cabin instead, then come back for the girl.”
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