Death as a Last Resort (6 page)

Moments later she was in the long cutting room and watching as two men skilfully guided the huge cutting knives through several layers of material around thick cardboard patterns.

“Men's shirts,” Bakhash said. “Our most popular brand.”

“Then what happens to them?” Maggie asked, fascinated.

“The pieces go down to the sewing floor below to be sewn up by the girls.” He led the way out of the room and, leaning over the low railing, pointed down to where the women sat at their machines.

“They must be very skilled.”

Bakhash laughed as he pulled himself away from the railing. “Most of 'em just sew straight seams. Only the more experienced women sew the tricky bits.” He led the way back to his office and opened the door. “Miss Willis, give this lady my address and phone number.” He turned back to Maggie. “Best of luck on your investigation. You can see yourself out?”

Maggie sat in her car for a few minutes writing up her notes on the interview. “That was all very interesting,” she said as she snapped her steno pad shut and stowed it into her bag, “but I don't think I'm any further ahead.”

She pushed the car into gear but had to wait a few moments until an old army Jeep clattered past her and parked near the rear entrance of Bakhash and Son. She watched idly as a young man jumped out of it and dashed into the building. He looked vaguely familiar, but so many young men looked alike these days.
Perhaps he's the “and son,”
she thought. It wasn't until she was driving back to the office that it occurred to her that the young man had actually looked very much like Maurice Dubois's son.

• • •

MEANWHILE, NAT HAD DRIVEN along East Hastings, found the Edgeworthy Real Estate office and managed to park in a spot right outside the building.

“Can I be of assistance?” The young redheaded receptionist beamed her professional smile at him. The wooden nameplate announced she was Miss Eileen Murphy.

“Nat Southby to see Mr. Edgeworthy.”

She glanced down at her appointment book. “He'll be with you shortly. Please have a seat. Coffee?”

Nat shook his head and, sitting in one of the padded chairs, surveyed the office. Miss Murphy sat behind a low counter. On the wall behind her were numerous photographs of office buildings, waterfront acreages, estate type houses, stores and factories.

“Mr. Edgeworthy doesn't deal in ordinary housing?” he asked.

“No. Mostly businesses.”

Nat walked closer to the wall. “What about this place?” he asked, indicating an artist's impression of a large log structure, interior designs, ski runs and chairlifts.

“Secret Valley. Looks wonderful, doesn't it? That's one of Mr. Edgeworthy's newest projects. A great investment opportunity.”

Suddenly, one of the two inner doors opened and Robert Edgeworthy emerged with a man wearing an overcoat and carrying a briefcase. “You won't regret making this investment, Mr. Blythe,” he said as he escorted the man to the door. Then, as he walked back to his office, he nodded to Nat. “You wanted to see me?”

Nat nodded and followed Edgeworthy in. “You were a friend of Maurice Dubois?” he asked, passing his business card over.

“Business acquaintance. Didn't know the man socially.”

“What about the St. Clare deal?”

“That old fishing camp? Dubois had approached me on it, and to be perfectly frank, it was one of the reasons the wife and I were up there at New Year's.” He laughed. “You know the old saying, ‘don't buy a pig in a poke.'”

“Is it a good deal?”

“Beautiful spot, waterfront property, perfect view lots. Dubois had quite a good concept, really, but I don't think it's the right time.”

“Too remote?”

Edgeworthy nodded. “That and the problem of commuting. Give the Sunshine Coast another twenty-five years and maybe it will really come into its own, and then condominiums and townhouses will go over in a big way.”

“Then it wouldn't be a good thing to invest in now?” Nat asked.

“Big risk. As I say, maybe twenty-five years from now. But I'm sure you're not here to talk about real estate.”

“You're right. Any ideas why Dubois was killed?”

Edgeworthy shook his head. “I can't say I liked the guy that much, but I have no idea why anyone would want to murder him.”

Nat took him step by step through his New Year's stay at the lodge, but the conclusion was that Edgeworthy, like the others, had thought that Dubois was out fishing that Saturday afternoon in one of the other boats, and he said he was completely mystified how the man's body could have ended up on Hollyburn Mountain.

“What happens to the St. Clare Cove property now?” Nat asked as he prepared to leave.

“Dubois had only put a down payment on it so it, will go back to the original owner,” he answered. “Unless, of course, his widow is prepared to take on the debt.”

Nat couldn't see Jacquelyn footing that bill, and he got up to leave. He turned just before opening the door. “I was admiring the drawings of another project you're interested in. Your receptionist said it's called Secret Valley. What's that all about?”

“Are you into skiing? If so, that's going to be a really great deal. Ski lodge, saunas, indoor pool, massage—all that kind of thing.”

“I've never heard of Secret Valley. Where's it located?”

“Hollyburn Mountain. That area is going to boom, and if you're interested, the receptionist will give you a brochure.”

“Thanks. I'll pick one up on my way out.”

• • •

NAT FOUND ROMEO'S PALACE quite easily. The Italian restaurant had booths upholstered in red plush along two walls, and round tables covered in white tablecloths in the main part of the restaurant, each table adorned with a red candle stuck into a basket-covered Chianti bottle. A well-stocked bar was located across the back wall. Hadeya and Dario were a sharp contrast: Hadeya was a classic Egyptian beauty—olive skin, dark hair and a voluptuous body—while Dario was a handsome, swarthy-skinned, brown-eyed Italian of medium height. Hadeya's older sister, Sharifa, they told Nat, had persuaded them to go to the resort over New Year's and they had shared a large cabin with the Bakhashes.

“Which part of Italy did you come from?” Nat asked over a cup of coffee.

“Oh, I'm third generation Canadian,” he answered. “My grandparents emigrated to Montreal in the early 1900s. And I met Hadeya in Montreal when she came to visit her sister after the war.”

Nat nodded before asking if either of them had seen Maurice on that particular Saturday afternoon. But Dario said he had gone fishing with that strange Englishman Smith, and his wife had been with the other women in the lodge.

• • •

MAGIE AND NAT ARIVED back at the office within a half hour of each other.

“So how was lunch?” Maggie asked, taking a bite of the sandwich she had brought from home. “Did George enlighten you?” George had called Nat the previous day to arrange one of their regular lunch get-togethers. “You never know,” he had said to Maggie before she had left for her interview with Bakhash. “George might let something slip on why he was at the Dubois funeral.”

“No. He asked a few questions about the other guests at the resort. But as I told him, we've only just started to interview them ourselves. So tell me about Bakhash?”

“He has an accent, but his English is impeccable. I would say he's the product of an expensive English boarding school of some sort. But that factory is something else . . .” And she proceeded to fill Nat in on the interview and her visit to the cutting room.

“Can't imagine anyone working in those conditions,” Nat commented after she told him about the row upon row of sewing machines.

“I would think a lot of those women are immigrants with very little English,” Maggie said sadly, “and they can't get any other kind of job.”

Nat filled her in on his brief visit with Robert Edgeworthy. “So apparently no one at the fishing resort actually saw Maurice Dubois leave.” He paused for a moment. “But I did learn some more about that ski resort investment of Nancy's.” He threw the brochure over to her. “Take a look at that.”

Maggie looked up from reading the brochure. “A fifteen hundred dollar deposit! Does Nancy have that kind of money?”

“No,” he answered grimly. “What's next on the agenda?

“You're off the hook tomorrow, but I'm seeing Henry and Rosie Smith around ten. And I've arranged for us to see Liam Mahaffy at his stud farm in Delta on Saturday. Oh, that must be Henny,” she added, hearing the outer door open.

“Did you get message?” Henny asked, poking her head into Maggie's office.

“No.”

“It is on your desk.” She rummaged among the papers on Maggie's desk until she came up with a torn-off scrap, which she handed to Maggie. “It's that funny French lady. She called and said it is urgent for you or Mr. Nat to call her back.”

“Did she say what it was all about?”

“No. She just say it is very urgent. I tell her that you and Mr. Nat are out on business, like you tell me to say,” she said disapprovingly.

Maggie hid a smile as she reached for the telephone.

“Somebody has robbed my house,” Jacquelyn said when she answered the phone.

“Have you called the police?”

“
Non, non!
I have already told you I cannot do that. You must come!”

Maggie glanced at the wall clock. “We'll be with you about two-thirty, okay?”

After she hung up, Maggie told Nat, “I think I'll order some telephone notepads for Henny. What do you think?”

Nat grinned. “Might not be a bad idea.”

• • •

THE DUBOIS ADDRES WAS rather impressive. It was a large red brick house behind wrought-iron railings and gates on Southwest Marine Drive. Maggie realized that it was not far from the home of her elder daughter—but Barbara's house was just half the size of Jacquelyn's.

A woman in a black dress and apron let them in and showed them into a living room where antique tables jostled for place with two red velour chesterfields and two armchairs, a cretonne-covered wingback on one side of the fireplace and a matching love seat on the other. “Mrs. Dubois will be with you in a moment.”

“Would you take a look at this place?” Nat whispered as he sat gingerly on the very edge of the wingback's seat cushion.

“I see you have come.” A pale-faced Jacquelyn with dark rings under her eyes walked into the room and stood in front of Nat. He immediately got to his feet.

“You must call the Vancouver police,” he told her.

She shook her head. “My Maurice say,” Jacquelyn said tearfully, “that the police are good for nothing. And the antiquities are a secret between him and me.”

“Antiquities?” Nat asked, looking around the still very full living room.

“Egyptian antiquities. They take all the pieces that Maurice find in Egypt. Look, I show you.” She led them through to the library and pointed to a photo album lying open on a Duncan Fyffe table. “See? My Maurice always keep the pictures.”

The album contained page after page of photos of gold masks, bowls that looked as if it they were made of beaten gold, a half dozen cups and vases, small gem-studded figurines and a black cat that appeared to have been carved from ebony. There was jewellery as well—bracelets, earrings, bangles, rings, combs and even a couple of tiaras—and they all appeared to be made of chased silver, turquoise and other precious stones. Another picture showed several small carved stones.

“These look very old,” Maggie whispered, awed. “Are they for real?”

“My Maurice would never have imitations.”

“You mean they came out of Egyptian tombs?” Maggie asked.

“My husband is not a grave robber,” Jacquelyn answered haughtily.

“But where did he get this stuff?” Nat asked.

She shrugged. “It was before I met him.”

“What about insurance?” Maggie asked.

“No insurance. Some he kept always locked in the safe but most was in his den. Come.”

The den was at the back of the house, and Maggie immediately walked over to the French doors that opened onto a red and grey brick patio with a stone balustrade. Beyond it, steps led down to a lush lawn and flowerbeds. “Is this where they broke in?”

Jacquelyn nodded.

Maggie examined the doors closely, but the lock had not been forced and there was no broken glass on the floor. She pointed this out to Nat and then asked Jacquelyn, “Do any of your late husband's family own keys to your house?”

Jacquelyn shook her head. “The real estate office changed all the locks when Maurice buy the house for me.”

“Which real estate company?”

Jacquelyn shrugged and raised her manicured hands skyward.

“The thieves must have got a key from someone,” Maggie argued.

“It is a great mystery,” Jacquelyn Dubois answered.

“Is this where the stuff was displayed?” Nat asked, pointing to three tall cabinets. Each had solid oak doors that covered inner glass doors, but both sets of doors were now wide open and the shelves were bare.

“Oui.”
Jacquelyn dabbed at her swollen eyes.
“Mes précieux bijoux.”

“What about the safe?”

“That is empty, too, see?”

Nat peered into the wall safe. “You've got to call the police, Mrs. Dubois. You need to show those pictures to them.”

“
Non, non!
I tell you Maurice was . . . what you say . . . very strong that I am never to tell police. But you must get them back for me.”

“Are you sure the safe was locked?” Maggie asked.

“And when was the last time you opened it?” Nat added.

Jacquelyn Dubois looked away for a moment. “Yesterday. I take out some cash,” she replied and then shrugged. “I am sure I locked it.”