Death as a Last Resort (7 page)

“And nothing else was taken?”

“Already I tell you,” she answered angrily. “
Rien.”

“Do you have any idea who the thieves were? It's obvious that they knew exactly what was in those cupboards and in that safe.”

“But nobody know about Maurice's
objets
! The doors are always closed. See, like this!” And she demonstrated how the double set of doors closed and locked. “And Maurice say it is our secret.”

“Did you ever wear any of that jewellery?” Nat asked.

“Only once. Maurice let me wear the bracelet with the blue beads to a big party. But it is too heavy and Maurice worry all the time that I lose it.”

“Did your maid hear anything?” Maggie asked.

“My maid? Oh, you mean Theresa, my cleaning woman. She doesn't come in until nine in the morning.”

“You'd better show us the rest of the house,” Nat said, walking toward the door. But it was just as Jacquelyn had said—nothing else had been disturbed.

• • •

“THE THIEVES KNEW EXACTLY what they wanted,” Nat said on their way back to the office. “And that was the Egyptian antiquities.”

“Yes,” Maggie answered. “But the widow's hands are still loaded with rings and they must be worth a mint!”

• • •

THE EXOTIC EASTERN EMPORIUM was a bit of a shock to Maggie's rather conservative taste. As she stepped into the old building, she found herself overwhelmed by the heavy smell of incense, dust and old carpets. She wended her way carefully between tall Chinese vases, tables laden with Indian brassware, smiling Buddhas, scarabs of all sizes and mixed authenticity, decorative inlaid mahogany chests and black lacquered tables. Masses of carpets of varying sizes were piled on the floor or hanging on the walls. At the back of the store, a thin, henna-dyed woman was busy wrapping one of the Indian brass vases in a sheet of newspaper before slipping it into a paper bag.

“There you are then, luv,” she said to her customer. “Don't use brass polish on it. Just give it a quick rub up with a duster.” As she handed the man his change, her bright button eyes took in Maggie.

“So what can I do for you, dear?” Her London accent sounded as if she had only just got off the boat.

“I'm Maggie Spencer. I called yesterday?”

“Oh, that detective agency lady. I'm Rosie Smith. Just wait a sec while I get my youngest out here. “Noah!” she yelled. “Come out and mind the shop.”

A hulking thirty-year-old appeared from somewhere, and a few moments later Maggie found herself in a back room, seated at a wooden table with a stewed cup of tea and a digestive biscuit in front of her.

“You this detective bloke's secretary, then?” a man's enormous voice demanded.

Startled, Maggie turned to see a huge, moustached man glaring down at her. “Partner,” she answered, taking a sip of the bitter brew.

“This my tea, Rosie?” he asked, dropping four sugar lumps into a cup without waiting for an answer.

“This is my Henry,” Rosie said, sitting down opposite Maggie. “Now what do you want to know?”

It took a few seconds for Maggie to pull herself together, as Henry was still standing over her, slurping his tea and chomping on biscuits. “Did you know Maurice Dubois well?”

“Not really, I . . .”

“Didn't know the bloke at all,” Henry interrupted his wife.

“We met him up at that fishing camp,” Rosie carried on. “Thought it might be a nice place to retire to, but it's too far for our lads to come and visit.”

“The only good thing about it,” Henry cut in again, “is that it would'a been too far for them to drop their offspring onto us. We done our bit.”

“I understand your two sons were at the resort with you.”

“Who told you that?” Rosie asked.

“We have a list of people who were there,” Maggie answered.

Rosie hesitated for a moment. “Well . . . they wanted to make sure we didn't get taken in.” She laughed. “You hear about these confidence tricksters all the time, you know.”

“Did you go out fishing?” Maggie asked, turning to Henry Smith.

“Yeah! We caught a salmon.”

“And my Henry don't even eat fish!” Rosie said.

“I told Rosie she should've come out with us.”

“Didn't have much chance, did I? That Schaefer bloke made it plain that us wives wasn't invited. So I got stuck with that awful Edgeworthy woman yapping at me about her fancy house and her fancy clothes.”

“How did you find out about St. Clare Cove?” Maggie asked, trying not to smile.

“Some ad in the newspaper.” The sound of a truck pulling up outside made him swallow the rest of his tea in one gulp. “That's the delivery.”

“Before you go, Mr. Smith, did you see Maurice Dubois leave the resort?”

“No. It must've been when we was out fishing.” Shrugging into a thick mackinaw, he walked toward the back door.

“You've quite a place here,” Maggie said as she followed Rosie back to the showroom. “Do you live on the premises?”

“Upstairs. Have a very nice flat up there. You should come back and have a good browse—we've got some very nice genuine Persian rugs.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Maggie answered. “Thanks for seeing me.”

• • •

MAGGIE'S INTERVIEW WITH THE Smiths had only taken a half hour, so on the spur of the moment and after a fast phone call, she was on her way for a quick visit to Jacquelyn Dubois. She needed to get a feel for her lifestyle, her surroundings and more importantly, how the young woman really ticked.

As Maggie walked up the stone-flagged path, she noticed that one of the two garage doors was open and a gleaming white sports car was waiting inside it. The same maid showed her into the living room and told her that Madame Dubois would be with her in a moment. While waiting, Maggie scanned the photographs that were set on the grand piano. Most were of Jacquelyn and Maurice, but a few were of family groups—obviously her parents with a very young Jacquelyn and a couple of siblings. One was of Maurice with his son and daughter, and another showed him in army uniform. Turning from the photographs, she re-examined the beautiful room.

“Ah, Mrs. Spencer, how nice to see you,” Jacquelyn said, coming into the room and extending her hand. “You are making progress,
oui?
You have find my Maurice's antiquities?”

“Not yet. We're still interviewing the people who were at the fishing lodge. In fact, I have just left Henry and Rosie Smith's emporium. Quite a place! Have you been there?”

“My Maurice take me a few times to pick up or buy something, I can't think what. It is a very cheap place. Full of—what do you call it—junk?”

“I have a list of the lodge's guests here,” Maggie said, taking it from her handbag. “Do you recognize any of the names?”

Jacquelyn barely glanced at the paper before handing it back. “I know Arnold Schaefer, but the others I do not know. Now, if there is nothing else, I have a lunch engagement.”

Maggie started toward the door but turned suddenly. “Your husband was in the army?” She waved a hand toward the picture on the grand piano.

Her face brightened. “Ah, yes. The famous Vandoos. He was very proud.”

“Just one more thing, Mrs. Dubois—do you know where your stepson works?”

“You mean René? Somewhere in the city. Why?”

“I thought I saw him the other day at a garment factory run by Jerrell Bakhash.”

“Who is this Bakhash person?”

“He and his wife were at the fishing lodge.”

“You must be mistaken. It could not be René at a garment factory. Now if you excuse me.”

As Maggie left the house, she glanced toward the garage again. Jacquelyn was already climbing into the white sports car.
I guess she really is going out.

CHAPTER FIVE

B
arbara was surprised to see her mother at the front door. “What's wrong?” There was no “how are you” or “it's so nice to see you, Mom.”

“I was visiting a client close by so I thought I'd call in to see how you are.” Maggie followed her elder daughter into the large, sunny kitchen at the rear of the house. “It's been quite a while.”

“That's not my fault, Mother. You're always so busy at that ridiculous job of yours. Have you spoken to Dad recently?”

“A couple of days ago. Where's Oliver?” Maggie's three-year-old grandson was a source of joy to her, and she was still amazed that Barbara could have produced such a happy and contented baby.

“He's napping. I suppose you're too busy to stay for lunch?”

“I would love to stay for lunch,” Maggie answered. “Is it okay if I go up and get Oliver?” Maggie was determined that she was not going to react to the usual unpleasantness about her job or leaving Harry, dating her boss, and most of all, downgrading from the large Kerrisdale house she had shared with Harry to her small one-person house in Kitsilano. It was hard to skirt around these subjects, but Oliver was so demanding of Maggie's attention that the next couple of hours went by very happily.

• • •

“THOUGHT YOU'D GOT LOST,” Nat greeted her later that afternoon. “Interview took longer than you thought?”

“No. I went to see Jacquelyn after I met with the Smiths, which I will tell you about in a moment. Then since Barbara lives so close to the Dubois house, I decided to pop in and see her.”

“How did that go?”

“Very well. She's much . . . I'm not sure how to put it . . . softer since she's had Oliver.”

“That's what motherhood does for you,” Nat replied with a grin.

“What would you know about that?”

“Not much, I guess, but I often wonder if things would've been different if Nancy and I'd had kids. Anyway, tell me about the Smiths and our client.” He listened and made notes as Maggie filled him in on the interviews.

“That man really gave me a scare, Nat. He's huge and really menacing.” She paused for a moment, thinking back. “And something struck me as odd. The Smiths absolutely denied knowing Maurice Dubois before, but when I asked Jacquelyn if she knew the Smiths and their emporium, she said that Maurice had taken her there to ‘buy or pick up something.'”

“Did she know what he'd bought?”

Maggie laughed. “Well, I can tell you it couldn't have been any of the Smiths' treasures. I've never seen such junk! And you saw the wonderful antique furniture in Jacquelyn's house. I'll get Henny to type these notes up right away. You know,” she added, “we seem to be getting the same answers from everyone, and it makes me wonder if it's worth going all that way to Delta to see that horse breeder. What's the name of the place?”

“Twin Maples Stud Farm. We might as well go, just to make sure we've seen everyone. Besides, it's not so far now that the new tunnel is open under the river.”

• • •

LIAM MAHAFFY'S ACCENT WAS as Northern Irish as his name. “So what can I do for you?” he asked. Two of the biggest German shepherds that Maggie had ever seen stood beside him, daring Nat and Maggie to enter the office.

“Beautiful animals,” she said, putting her hand out so each of them could sniff it. “What are their names?”

“Black and Tan—what else?”

“I have a dog of my own,” she said, but didn't add that Oscar was less than half the size and was a complete wimp.

When his dogs finally indicated their approval, Mahaffy ushered Nat and Maggie into his comfortable office, a separate building that stood between the main stable and the garage that housed his silver Jaguar. The warm scent of sweet hay and the sounds of a busy and lucrative business wafted through the partially open window to them as they sipped the coffee he provided.

“You have quite a spread here,” Nat said, unbuttoning his jacket. “And you seem to have a lot of horses in those stables.” They had been thoroughly impressed with the massive stables as they drove through the farm's gate.

Mahaffy nodded. “I board as well as train horses for the track. But you haven't come here to discuss horses.”

“Mrs. Dubois has asked Mrs. Spencer and myself to look into her husband's death,” Nat explained as he proffered a business card. “Could you tell us how long you had known him?” Nat leaned forward and accepted the cigarette that Mahaffy offered.

Mahaffy glanced at Nat's business card before answering. “Only just met the man.”

“I see you were in the army, Mr. Mahaffy,” Maggie said, pointing to a photograph on the wall behind his desk.

”Yeah. Monty's 8th Division.” Then he added proudly, “I was a lieutenant in the tank corps at El Alamein.” He got up from behind his desk and reached for the photograph of a group of soldiers standing in front of a Sherman tank. “Here's my crew,” he said, placing it in front of them. “That's me there.”

“You all look so young,” Maggie remarked. “Have you kept in touch with any of them?”

“Only Arnold Schaefer. We were two of the lucky ones.” He was silent for a moment.

“What rank did Mr. Schaefer have?” Nat asked after a respectful moment.

“He became our CO. Good bloke to have around, I can tell you.”

“Did you live here before the war?” Maggie asked.

“No. Schaefer persuaded me to immigrate.”

“And you went straight into the horse breeding business?”

“Good Lord, no. I had just enough money to buy a small farm on Lulu Island.”

“Oh? Whereabouts?” Nat asked. “I used to live out there.”

“Woodhead Road. Do you know the area? It's just off No. 5 Road.”

“Not very well. We lived over by Railway and Williams.”

“I was no good at farming. Sold the acreage off a few years ago but kept the old house. Nice house, but it needs doing up . . .”

“Going back to Pender Harbour,” Nat interrupted, “were you interested in buying one of those lots?”