Death as a Last Resort (10 page)

Pushing the door fully open, she rushed inside and then stopped. The place was a complete shambles. Chairs had been overturned and cushions ripped open, their contents spewed on the floor. The china cabinet had been emptied and the last of her precious ornaments lay broken. The kitchen was even worse. Canisters of rice, flour, tea, coffee and sugar had been emptied and tracked over the floor. And the intruders had left a message in red paint on the wall: ‘Return the stuff. You won't be so lucky next time.'

Emily and Oscar were nowhere to be seen. Dropping the bag of dog food on the kitchen table, Maggie rushed up the stairs, calling their names. The drawers of her dressing table had been emptied and lay upside down; their contents were in heaps on the floor and mixed with all the bed linen that had been stripped from the bed. Hearing a faint meow, Maggie knelt and looked under the bed to see a crouched and miserable Emily. But there was no sign of the dog.

She walked slowly back down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Nat was on the phone to the police. “My bedroom! It's a mess! And I can't find Oscar.”

“He'll be back,” Nat said reassuringly as he replaced the receiver. He put his arms around her. “Poor little mutt. He must have been scared out of his wits.”

“But why?” Maggie asked. “What do they mean—return the stuff? What stuff? Oh my God!” She suddenly remembered Nancy's bulging pockets.

That was the same question that Sergeant Hallscroft asked when he arrived. “Another one of your cases?” he added, setting a kitchen chair on its legs and sitting down. Maggie recalled that he had been the investigating officer on their last big case, when a young girl had been left for dead on her doorstep. “You two should choose better clients. Is anything missing?”

“Not as far as I can tell.”

“What are you and Mrs. Spencer investigating?” Hallscroft asked, turning to Nat. “You've obviously touched someone's nerve.”

“Several things. But the main one is looking into Maurice Dubois's death.”

“Dubois? Where have I heard that name?”

“His body was found on Hollyburn,” Nat answered.

“Ah, yes. I remember. But what has his death to do with,” he looked up at the wall, “the stuff?”

“I don't know,” Maggie answered miserably. “Perhaps they've got us mixed up with someone else?”

Hallscroft shrugged. “Could be mistaken identity, I suppose. I don't think there's any chance of us catching who broke in,” he added, getting to his feet. “We'll ask around the neighbours, of course. You never know . . . one of them might have seen something suspicious.”

“What about fingerprints?” Maggie asked.

“Not much point, really,” he answered as he walked to the front door. “Probably used gloves. You did say there was nothing missing?”

“As I said, I don't think so, and my jewellery, such as it is, is still intact on my dresser upstairs.”

“So we can clear up this mess?” Nat asked.

“Don't see why not. I think the thugs were giving you a warning, Mrs. Spencer. Perhaps you should heed it and choose another career,” he said, walking to the door and opening it. “We'll keep an eye out for the dog,” he added.

“If this really has something to do with that Egyptian stuff . . .” Maggie began as she swept the last of the canister mixture off the floor. She stopped suddenly, dustpan in mid-air. “Nat, the bookstore.”

“Bookstore?”

“Yes. When I rescued Nancy. I told you that I parked out the back and the woman from the bookstore came out to investigate. She could have told Edgeworthy about my car.”

“But this mess would only make sense if Maurice's collection of Egyptian stuff really was stolen by Edgeworthy, and then Nancy came along and swiped the smaller stuff and put it in her pockets . . .”

“And if the woman from the bookstore told Edgeworthy about my car and he figured I'd stolen the stuff and he sent thugs to search my house.”

“But we already decided that scenario was pretty farfetched.”

“Yes, but . . .”

It was at that moment that they heard a scratching at the back door. When Nat opened it, a bedraggled dog with a cowardly look on his face slunk in.

“A fine kind of watchdog you are,” Maggie said, bending to pick him up and bury her face in Oscar's silky fur. “But I'm glad you're safe.”

“Those thugs were definitely looking for something small,” Nat said much later, as he sat on the side of the bed.

“What makes you say that?”

“The way your things were just dumped on the floor and the drawers turned upside down, and then both of your jewellery boxes emptied onto the dressing table and the contents spread out like that.”

“And it's not all junk,” Maggie said slowly. “There's my grandmother's two rings, this gold bracelet I've had for years and my gold watch . . .” She opened the clothes closet, picked up the pile of clothes from the floor and threw everything in. “I suppose Harry was right.”

“Harry? What's he got to do with it?”

“He was dead set against me having the Morris Minor repainted red. Said it was too conspicuous.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
hursday morning brought snow flurries to the Vancouver area, and Oscar loved it! Floppy ears and feathery tail flying in the icy wind, he bounded along happily with a huge grin on his face.

“It's okay for you,” Maggie told him as she huddled into her fur-collared wool coat, “you're a typical Quebecois.” But by the time the walk was over, even she was glowing and she actually found herself smiling at all the other dog-walkers. Reality set in again as soon as she removed her coat and surveyed the mess. Nat had done his best to clean up before leaving late the night before, but it was a bitter reminder of how dangerous her job could be.

You've had worse things happen to you, Maggie old girl.

With this thought in mind, she donned an apron and started on the kitchen floor. A couple of hours later, everything sparkled—she had even cleaned the inside of the kitchen window and refilled the canisters and put them back on their shelves—but try as she might, the words painted on the wall were still a faint reminder of the intruders from the night before.

“Paint or wallpaper?” she asked the two animals who were watching all the cleaning activity with trepidation. She would decide after she had tackled the bedroom.

“Perhaps I should take a day off more often,” she said to Nat when he called her around noon to see how she was getting on. “And I have decided on wallpaper.”

“Wallpaper? What the heck are you talking about?”

“To redo the kitchen walls. I'm going out to buy some this afternoon.”

“Oh, Maggie,” he groaned, “I'm not very good at wallpapering. All that sticky paste stuff. Let's just repaint.”

“You've no need to worry. I've done it before.”

“Somehow,” he replied, “I have an awful feeling that I'm not going to escape that easily. You'll be in tomorrow?”

“Of course. Is everything okay?”

“Jacquelyn left a message that she would like to see us as soon as possible. I'll get Henny to set up a time.”

After replacing the receiver, Maggie had a leisurely lunch and then went shopping for wallpaper. She chose white daisies on a yellow background.

• • •

THE NEXT MORNING, VANCOUVER awoke to a two-inch blanket of snow. When Maggie reached the office, Nat announced, “We'll take the Chevy to Jacquelyn Dubois's house. My tires are better than yours in this weather.”

When they reached the house on Southwest Marine Drive, the flagstone path leading up to the ornate double front door had not been shovelled.

“Guess we're the first to visit her this morning,” Maggie observed, looking down at the virgin snow. She stopped for a moment to look around the large garden. “Oh, Nat, just look how all the trees and bushes sparkle!”

He glanced at his watch. “It's twenty after eleven. You'd have thought someone, say the maid, would have left footprints.” Then he laughed. “I bet there's a back entrance for the help.”

“Are we considered
help?”
Maggie asked as she rang the front doorbell for the second time. “You did tell her eleven?”

“Perhaps we'd better try the back,” Nat said after Maggie had rung once again. Stepping off the porch, he turned and stood looking at the house. On the left was the two-car garage and on the right the flagstone path led around the side of the house and up to a vine-covered latticed fence and latched gate. Nat led the way to the right. “Ugh!” he yelled suddenly. The path was close to the house, and a gob of the rapidly melting snow had plopped wetly from the eaves and down his neck.

There was no response to their repeated pressing of the back entrance bell either. “Where the hell is the woman?” Nat stormed. Then, in exasperation, he tried the door handle. It was open. “Mrs. Dubois,” he yelled. “Mrs. Dubois, are you there?” He turned to Maggie. “That's it! I'm not wasting any more time. Come on.” He closed the door and started back the way they had come.

“Perhaps something's wrong,” Maggie answered. “I think we should have a look.”

“She's probably gone out and forgotten we were coming.”

“No, Nat. Ours are the only footprints.”

“She could've gone out before the snow started.”

“But it didn't start snowing until after midnight.”

“Well then, maybe she's staying with a friend.”

“And left the house unlocked? I don't think so.” She turned the door handle and stepped into the immaculate kitchen. “Well, she had dinner here last night,” she said, pointing to a couple of china plates, two empty wine glasses and some cutlery that had been left to dry on a rack. “But there are no breakfast dishes.”

“We're trespassing, Maggie.”

“Something doesn't feel right. I'm going to look through the rest of the house.” Before Nat could stop her, she had opened the door into the large hallway and proceeded to the bottom of the winding stairs that led to the second floor. “Mrs. Dubois, are you all right?”

The only sound was the ticking of the huge walnut grandfather clock, which just then chose to play half of the Westminster chimes. It was now eleven thirty.

“I'll take a peek upstairs while you look over the ground floor.”

“Maggie, I don't like this.” He had just finished checking the living room when he heard her call his name. She was standing at the top of the stairs.

“Nat,” she said quietly, “you'd better come up here.”

Jacquelyn lay on her beautiful satin sheets in a pool of blood. The walls and even the ceiling were splattered with blood.

“She must've put up one hell of a fight,” Nat said as he pulled a white-faced Maggie into his arms.

“How could there be so much blood in such a small human being?” Maggie asked, and her whole body shuddered.

“Let's go down and see if we can rustle up some brandy. Then I'll call the police.”

• • •

“THEY MUST BE RECRUITING kids fresh out of school,” Nat remarked fifteen minutes later, as he stood in the open front door watching two young officers park their vehicle in the driveway and walk toward him.

“You the one called in about a fatal accident?” The first one asked as he flipped his badge.

“It's no accident,” Nat replied. “I'm afraid that Mrs. Dubois has been brutally murdered.”

“And you are . . . ?”

“Nat Southby, and this is my associate, Mrs. Spencer. The body's upstairs. I'll show you.”

“I can find my own way. You two stay here with my partner.”

Nat shrugged. “Please yourself. But it's pretty messy.” And he walked over to sit beside Maggie on the hall bench.

A few minutes passed before the ashen-faced cop appeared at the top of the stairs, his knuckles white as he held firmly to the rail. “Carter,” he yelled, “call the station and get homicide here. And you two stay put. You've got some explaining to do.” The wailing of an ambulance cut into his words, and as Carter opened the front door, they saw the vehicle pull into the driveway.

He turned to Nat. “Did you call them?”

Nat nodded. “Of course.”

“You're too late, guys,” Carter greeted the two attendants. “The lady's dead.”

“We have to make sure. Where is she?”

“Follow me, but don't touch anything. We're waiting on homi . . .” He stopped in mid-sentence as a middle-aged woman pushed past the ambulance attendants.

“What's happened?” she cried.

“And you are?” Carter asked.

“I work for Mrs. Dubois. But my husband was ill and . . .”

“Mrs. Dubois is dead,” he said brusquely.

“Dead?”

“Look,” he answered her. “I've got enough to do. Go find somewhere to sit.”

Maggie put an arm around the distraught woman and led her into the sitting room. “I'll explain things to her.”

The quiet house that Nat and Maggie had entered that morning was now full of bustle, noise and cops. Two homicide detectives and the medical examiner arrived, followed quickly by a forensic team. As time went by, the ambulance and the two young patrol cops departed and the maid, having given a statement, was allowed to go home. Two hours later, Maggie and Nat were still waiting to be interviewed. And then suddenly there was a new arrival—George Sawasky.

“Am I glad to see you,” Nat greeted him.

“What've you two been up to?” George said after shaking hands with Nat and giving Maggie a hug. “Can't keep out of things, can you? So what's happened here?”

“The dead woman happens to be a client,” Nat explained. “Sit and I'll give you a brief rundown.”

“And she called you yesterday?” George commented after Nat and Maggie had filled him in. “And you had no idea what she wanted?”