Death in a Family Way (14 page)

“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.

“We'll do anything if it means finding Amy.” Joan Holland sat on the arm of her husband's chair. “We just don't know what to do next, do we, Eric?”

Her husband put his hand over hers. “Perhaps there's hope now?” he said.

Nat gave a gentle cough. “I can't promise anything, you realize. Perhaps if you told us what happened from the beginning . . .”

It was the same story Nat and Maggie had heard in phone calls to other parents: Amelia had been a good student, well liked, belonged to a church group, and then a sudden change. Her marks fell, she became uncommunicative, stayed out late and announced she was dropping out of school. They did all they could to persuade her to complete her Grade Twelve, but seven weeks ago, only a few days before her seventeenth birthday, she just didn't come home.

“Did you know that she was pregnant?” Maggie asked.

“No. Not right then.”

“But she did contact you?” Nat asked.

“Yes. A week ago Saturday.” Mrs. Holland brushed her dark hair away from her face. “You can imagine how worried we'd been. We'd called her friends, her school, and finally we called the police.”

“You didn't find out she was pregnant until she phoned you?”

Joan glanced at her husband before answering. “Well. Penny Thornton had already told us. Penny's her best friend.”

“But only after a lot of persuasion,” Eric Holland intervened.

“Tell me about it,” Nat said, giving Maggie a nod for her to take notes.

“Well,” Joan Holland took a deep breath, “after Amy disappeared, we'd asked Penny several times if she knew what had happened to her. But she always insisted she didn't know anything. In the end, we went to her parents.”

“And?” Maggie asked.

“That's when Penny finally broke down and told us Amy was five months' pregnant but had been too scared to tell us.”
Joan Holland's voice began to break, and Eric Holland took up the story.

“Apparently, someone had offered to help her go to the States. To some private adoption agency or something like that.”

“Five months! Didn't you realize?” Maggie asked.

“She's a very tall, well-built girl,” Joan Holland answered, “and you know the styles they wear for school nowadays, large sweaters . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“And after the adoption?” Nat leaned forward in his seat. “What is supposed to happen afterwards?”

“She's to come home, I suppose.” The tears started to pour down Joan Holland's face.

“And you said that you went to the police again when she contacted you?”

“Yes, like I told you. But when we couldn't give them any further details, they said they couldn't help us.”

“One more question. This someone who offered to help. Did Penny know who this person was?”

“She said she didn't,” Joan grabbed a Kleenex out of a box and balled it in her hand.

“Do you believe her?” Nat asked.

“I'm sure she knows. She and Amy were very close.”

Nat stood up. “We need to talk to this Penny.”

Joan reached over and picked up a slip of paper from the coffee table. “I thought you would. I've written down her address and phone number.” She handed the piece of paper to Nat. “I just pray you can get more out of her than we did.”

“May I use your phone?” Nat asked. Eric Holland stood up and led Nat out to the hall.

When the door had closed behind the two men, Maggie asked Joan Holland, “Why wouldn't Amelia tell you she was pregnant?”

Joan looked at the corner of the room. “She was afraid of her father,” she whispered.

“Afraid?”

“He was very strict with her. You see, he's a lay preacher at our church, and her getting pregnant goes against all he stands for.”

“But he seems resigned to it now.”

“Yes.” The tears slid unchecked down her cheeks. “You see, she's our only child.”

•  •  •

THE DOOR OF THE
Thornton house was opened to them by a girl wearing an oversized white sweater. Pushing back a strand of the long, blonde hair that had escaped from her ponytail, she blocked the partly opened doorway. “I've told the Hollands everything I know,” she said. “There's no point in going over it again.” She started to close the door.

“Penny!” A woman in her mid-forties, wearing grey, paint-splattered slacks and a man's shirt, appeared at the door. “Penny seems to have lost her manners,” she said, opening the door wider. “It's Mr. Southby, isn't it? Please come in. I'm Roberta Thornton.”

“I
don't
know anything else, Mother!” Penny stormed and headed upstairs.

“Get back here, Penny,” her mother ordered, leading Nat and Maggie into the family room, where her husband was seated. Sulkily, Penny followed them.

“Mr. Southby, this is my husband. You spoke to him on the phone.”

“Doug Thornton.” A dark-haired man got up from his chair and extended his hand to Nat. “Sad affair,” he added. “And this is?” he turned toward Maggie.

“My assistant, Maggie Spencer.”

Maggie's first impression was of a spaniel, its sad brown eyes peering at her through thick horn-rimmed glasses. He even
shook her hand mournfully, and bending down, gathered up his newspaper from his well-worn leather easy chair. “Sit here, Mrs. Spencer,” he said. “We'll sit over here on the couch.”

“Well, what do you want to know?” Penny said, scowling.

“We'll take it step by step,” Nat answered, sitting beside a window overlooking a backyard that had been given over to bicycles, an old sandbox filled with toy trucks and other discarded toys. “Why don't you sit down too, Penny?”

“You the police?” she said nervously, glancing at her parents.

“No. Just trying to find out what's happened to your friend Amy.”

“Why?”

“I'm a private investigator,” Nat answered shortly.

“Who hired you?”

“When did Amy tell you she was pregnant?” Nat said, ignoring the question.

“I dunno. A long time ago.” The girl flung herself into the large leather armchair across from Maggie.

“Did she tell you who the father was?”

“Well . . .” The girl looked at Maggie, who sat taking notes. “Does she have to take down everything I say?”

“Yes,” Nat answered. “Strictly for our records. Now . . .”

Penny shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the lock of hair falling across her face again. Absent-mindedly, her fingers began twisting it over and over into a curl. “It was that guy she was seeing.”

“Does he have a name?”

She stared out of the window.

“Penny. Answer Mr. Southby,” Douglas Thornton intervened.

Maggie got up from her chair and stood beside the girl. “Penny, Amy may be in great danger. We've got to find her.”

“Forget it, Maggie,” Nat said and stood up dismissively. “She doesn't want to help her friend.”

Maggie shot him a look. “Did Amy call you from Seattle, too?” she asked.

“What makes you think that?”

“But she did, didn't she?” Maggie persisted.

“Yeah. But she didn't tell me anything. Get out!” she suddenly shouted. A small boy, his face sticky with jam, was slowly edging into the room.

“Toby, be a good boy and go and see what Josh is doing upstairs,” Roberta Thornton said quietly, “after you've washed your hands.”

“He won't play with me,” the boy said.

“Just get out,” Penny yelled. Toby shot his sister a look of hatred and departed.

Nat waited until the child had shut the door. “She must've said something,” he continued.

“She was crying,” Penny shrugged. “All she said was it wasn't how she thought it was going to be.”

“She didn't say anything else?”

“She didn't have time.”

“Why not?” Nat asked.

“Someone was coming, so she put the phone down.”

“Does she have many boyfriends?” Nat asked.

“She doesn't sleep around, if that's what you mean. She isn't like that.”

Douglas Thornton stood up. “Are these sort of questions necessary, Mr. Southby?” he asked testily.

“If we want to find out where the girl's gone, yes.”

“But Amy fell in love, didn't she, Penny?” Maggie said, interrupting the two men, who were glaring at each other.

“Yes, but . . .” She looked away, trying not to cry. “She said Derek loved her.”

“Derek who?” Nat said.

“Oh shit! Oh shit!”

“Penny!” her father reprimanded.

Penny fished in the pocket of her jeans for a Kleenex and rubbed fiercely at her eyes. “Derek Stone. She said he wanted to get married.”

“But Amy didn't want to?” Maggie asked.

“She said they're too young and . . . she's not like me.”

“In what way?” Nat asked.

“She's got brains. She wants to go to university.”

“But you've got brains,” Roberta Thornton said, getting up and putting her arms around her daughter. “You can go to college, too.”

“Oh, Mum.” Penny wriggled away from her mother. “I'm not clever like Amy.”

“Who contacted her at school?” Nat asked.

“Somebody Derek knew.”

“You mean another student?”

“No. Derek quit,” she said. “It's someone he met where he works.”

“Where's that?”

“It's some kind of place where they fix boats and stuff.”

“Where is it?”

She shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“East Vancouver somewhere.”

Nat sighed in exasperation. “He's dropped out of school. You don't know where he lives. You don't know where he works. Great!”

“Hey! That's my daughter you're talking to!” Douglas Thornton cut in.

“I'm sorry . . .”

“Can you remember the name of this boatyard?” Maggie asked quickly.

“No, but it's in Richmond somewhere. There's this hamburger joint next door. I know because Amy wanted to get a job there, but her dad wouldn't let her.”

“Can you remember the name of the restaurant?” Maggie asked patiently.

“'Captain' something or other.”

Nat handed Penny one of his cards. “Call me if you remember anything else. Please.”

As they drove away, Maggie turned to Nat with a grin. “So, who did hire you? If I remember rightly, Collins took you off the case.”

“It's those girls, Maggie. I've got a gut feeling about them, and the Collins case is smack in the middle of it.”

“And what about Bradshaw? His daughter's expecting a report from us.”

“You're nagging, Maggie,” he said, grinning in spite of himself. “I'll get to that—tomorrow.”

•  •  •

AFTER MAGGIE LEFT HIM
on Sunday afternoon, Nat had driven to Richmond, and with the help of a telephone directory, found a restaurant called The Captain's Table in Steveston, tucked in beside a small boatyard, both of them overlooking the muddy Fraser River. The diner was an old greasy spoon with the smell of fried onions and french fries permeating the air. Next door was Floyd's Boatyard.

As he walked into the yard, Nat saw a man wearing oily trousers rolled up over black rubber boots, and a large, once white, thick-knit sweater that came down to his knees. On his head was a grease-encrusted fedora. He was delving into the innards of an ancient outboard motor.

“Mr. Floyd?” Nat called out.

“No,” the fellow answered without turning around.

“Will he be back soon?”

“Doubt it.” He took off his hat and turned around. To Nat's astonishment, the
he
was a
she,
and the woman could have easily doubled for Marie Dressler in
Tugboat Annie.
She looked Nat up and down. “Been dead these past twenty years or more.”