Death in a Family Way (18 page)

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.”

“Do you . . . that's wise?” the voice faded away.

“I make the decisions around here!” Cuthbertson slammed the receiver down. “Bloody hell! They've screwed it up again!”

Maggie struggled to stay awake and make sense of the conversation, but it was no use, and she drifted off again. When she awoke again, the boat engine was silent, and she opened her eyes to see Cuthbertson bending over her. “Where am I?”

“What a classic question! You disappoint me, Maggie.” He bent to untie the straps and pull her into a sitting position. “Get up.”

“Please. I need some water,” Maggie's voice rasped.

“Get up!”

She tried to stand, but the cabin whirled around her and she fell back onto the bunk. He put his arm around her waist. “Come on, up onto the deck.”

The house on the cliff high above the dock was a two-storyed structure set among tall pines and cedars. Maggie stalled, even sitting down on the path leading up the steep slope, but John Cuthbertson twisted her arm behind her back and literally pushed her along in front of him. Stopping only to unlock the front door, he propelled her up the front stairs, finally thrusting her into a large bedroom on the second floor. Although she had put up a good fight all the way, he still managed to throw her on the single bed and jab another needle into her arm.

•  •  •

HARRY SWITCHED OFF
the television and looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock. Where had Margaret got to with his hot chocolate? Pushing himself up from his chair, he went into the kitchen. The house seemed strangely quiet. Even Emily was asleep in her basket. “Margaret?” he called.
I suppose she's not talking to me. Well, two can play at that game.
He reached into the cupboard for the tin of chocolate and put the kettle on. Carrying his cup gingerly up the stairs, he pushed open the door to their room. “I've made my own chocolate. I don't know if you . . .” His voice trailed off. The bedroom was empty. “Sulking in the spare room, I suppose,” he muttered. He got ready for bed.

There was no aromatic smell of coffee wafting up the stairs when he woke the next morning. In fact, the house still had the same eerie silence about it. He showered, dressed and went down to the kitchen. Emily stretched, arched her back and walked sedately to the back door, which he obediently opened for her.
Why isn't Margaret up? She'd never be late for that job of hers. She must've overslept.
He walked back to the hall, struggled into his coat and picked up his briefcase. “Don't worry about my breakfast,” he called up the stairs, his voice dripping sarcasm. “I'll get it downtown.”

Opening the double garage door, he saw that Margaret's car was missing. “I have it,” he said triumphantly. “She wants to worry
me and she's gone to Barbara's.” And carefully placing his case on the passenger seat, he backed his own car out.

•  •  •

THE DOOR TO THE OFFICE
was still locked, and Nat looked at his watch as he fished in his pocket for his keys.
Unusual for Maggie to be late.
He threw his hat in the direction of the coat tree, but it wasn't as much fun without Maggie's disapproving look. He closed his office door and was soon immersed in work. The phone rang three times before he realized that Maggie wasn't going to pick it up. It was Cubby on the line. “You're up early,” Nat said. “What can I do for you?”

“Just thought I'd tell you how much I enjoyed Friday's lunch.”

“Me too,” Nat answered. “And I know Maggie did.”

“By the way, how's that Longhurst business going?”

“Not well,” Nat answered. “Why?”

“Bloody fool taking Collins' boat like that. Deserves all he gets.” He paused. “Give my best to Mrs. Spencer.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Nat replaced the receiver and flung open the door. “Maggie,” he called. He stopped short and looked at his watch. “She's never this late.” He reached for the phone.
I'll call the answering service and see if she left a message,
he thought. “Yes,” the operator replied to his enquiry, “you have three messages. Mr. Matthew Oates reminding you about your golf date; Mr. Pickering, he says you have his number, called for an appointment; and the last one was from your secretary.” She paused for breath. “She said she'd tried to call you at your home but you were out, so she had called the office in the hope that you might be there. Anyway,” the woman finished up, “Mrs. Spencer said it was something important she had to tell you, but it could wait till the morning.”

Nat thanked her and quickly dialed Maggie's home phone. “Answer, Maggie! Answer, dammit!” But the ringing continued.
He slammed the phone down and strode back to his own office. “Accident. She must've been in an accident.”

He reached for the phone again and dialed the police. But as far as they knew, she had not been involved in any accident.
There's nothing for it, I'll have to call her husband.
He found Harry's office number neatly entered into the Rolodex. But it seemed to take forever to get past the guardian secretary.

“If my wife's not in your office this morning,” Harry answered Nat's query, “it's because she's come to her senses and taken my advice.”

“And what advice was that, Mr. Spencer?” Nat asked, his hackles rising.

“To give up that . . . that inappropriate position with you, of course.”

“Did Maggie tell you she was giving up her job?”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line before Harry answered. “My wife knows my wishes.”

“Why didn't Maggie tell me herself?”

“Margaret is visiting our daughter. Now, Mr. Southby, I have work to do.” The line went dead.

“Pompous bastard,” he said, pacing the room. “Something's bloody well wrong. She would've phoned. She wouldn't just walk out on me.” Then a thought hit him and he stopped pacing. “Maybe that's what she was calling about!” he started rummaging through the desk drawers. “Dammit! I don't even know her daughter's name.” He pulled the bottom drawer right out, and papers, notebooks, pens and pencils spilled onto the floor. “And I know that son of a bitch won't give it to me.”

•  •  •

HARRY SPENCER SAT HOLDING
the telephone in his hand, his index finger poised over the dial. “No, I won't give her the satisfaction,” he muttered and replaced it on the cradle.

•  •  •

EMILY WAS WAITING
on the doorstep when Harry arrived home. She mewed impatiently, reaching up to him while he fumbled for his keys. “She hasn't come back, then?” He followed the cat into the cold, empty house. After he'd removed his coat, brushed Emily's hairs off his pants, taken his briefcase into the study and gone through the mail, he walked into the kitchen. Emily stretched up and clawed his leg. “I suppose you're hungry.” He pushed her down. She looked up at him expectantly as he opened all the cupboards to find the cat food. With Emily satisfied, he wandered back into the hall and climbed the stairs to see if there was any sign of Margaret. But the house was still.

After washing down a cheese sandwich supper with a cup of instant coffee, Harry decided that Margaret's place was definitely at home with him. He would have to swallow his pride, but he sat looking at the phone for quite awhile before dialing Barbara's number.

“Hello, Barbara. I would like to speak to your mother.”

“Mother?” Barbara answered in surprise. “Why would she be here?”

“She's a little late. I thought perhaps she called in to see you.”

“Mother is not in the habit of dropping in, Father,” Barbara said icily. “Perhaps she's gone to see Grandmother. Why don't you call her?”

“Perhaps I will,” he answered and replaced the receiver. But he knew it was very unlikely that his wife would have gone to his mother's. The only other place was Mildred's, in New Westminster. He dialed the number.

“Hello,” a man's voice answered.

“I wish to speak to Mildred.”

“Mildred? Oh, you mean Midge. She's making supper; hold on a sec.” He could hear murmuring in the background.

“Father?” Midge's voice sounded wary.

“Mildred, is your mother there?”

“Mother? You two had a fight?”

“That's neither here nor there,” he answered abruptly. “It's just that she's late home and she's not at Barbara's.”

“Did she say she would be late?”

“Uh, no,” Harry answered stiffly.

“You have had a fight, haven't you?”

“Just a few words,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Have you phoned her office?” Midge asked, then, “Jason, watch those spuds. They're boiling over.”

“I can see you're busy,” Harry said.

“No, don't go, Father. What exactly did she say this morning?”

“I didn't actually see her this morning,” he mumbled.

“You mean she wasn't up?”

“Don't worry,” he said hastily, before Midge could ask any more awkward questions. “She's sure to call.”

Midge walked back into her kitchen, a worried look on her face. “I think Mum has up and left him.”

“No, not your mother,” Jason answered. “She's one of the few remaining ‘stiff upper lips.' She'd stick it out whatever.”

“I'm not so sure,” Midge answered. “She's changed a lot since she's had that job. No, something's happened. I'm going to call Barbara.”

Harry's annoyance increased. This was so unlike Margaret. Perhaps he should call the police? But they would ask awkward questions, such as when had he last seen her. And he would look foolish having to admit that it was sometime after supper on Sunday. And he didn't even know if she had come back, or if she had really slept in the spare room.
The spare room ..
. He raced up the stairs and flung the door open. The bed was neatly made up, guest towels on it and absolutely no sign that Margaret had slept there the previous night. He sat down on the bed and put his
head in his hands.
I'll have to call that Southby fellow—but I don't even know his number.

•  •  •

IT WAS AFTER 6:30,
and Nat sat glumly looking at the phone. “Do I ring that stuffed shirt again or not?” Except for Harry's, he'd been unable to find any of Maggie's personal phone numbers when he'd ransacked her desk. “No. What I've got to do is to go around to the house and face that son of a bitch. And he'd better give me some straight answers.”

•  •  •

MAGGIE'S HEAD FELT LIKE
it would come off, her mouth tasted like a sewer and the dryness around her tongue just added to the discomfort of having her hands tied behind her back and her feet securely fixed to the end of the iron bedstead. And as if that wasn't enough, she knew that if she wasn't able to relieve her full bladder soon, she would pee on the bed.
At least the bugger didn't gag me,
she thought as she tried to move herself into a better position.
I must have a pee.
She lay still and took stock of her situation.
It's no good screaming for help—no one's going to hear me. But Harry will be worried. Nat, too. But how will they look for me?
Maggie had to fight to control tears of self-pity.

The door to the room opened abruptly, and Maggie struggled to turn and face the new danger threatening her. It was Violet Larkfield, a gun in her hand.

“You're with us, I see,” she said, kicking the door shut.

“What are you doing here?” Maggie rasped.

“Oh, didn't Cubby tell you? I'm in charge of hospitality around here.”

“Nat will come looking for me, you know,” Maggie said desperately.

“He doesn't even know you're missing. And even if he does decide to look for you, Cubby's ready to help with the search.
They'll never find you!”

“Nat will find my car,” Maggie cried.

“Oh, your car's quite safe,” Violet laughed, “tucked up in my garage.” She turned to leave the room.

“Please, please untie me.”

“Now why would I do that?”

“I've got to use the toilet.”

Violet stood for a moment, deliberating. “Well . . . but if you try anything . . . roll over.” Placing the gun on the table, Violet pushed Maggie over onto her side and slowly untied the rope holding her wrists. Picking up the gun again, she retreated to the door. “You can untie your feet at your leisure,” she said, laughing maliciously. “Hope you make it before you wet yourself.”

Maggie rubbed her wrists until the circulation came back. Painfully, she sat up and moved herself down to the bottom of the bed to where her feet were tied. Undoing the knots was another matter, and long before her feet were free, she was sure that dear Violet would have her wish and she would flood the bed. At last, still feeling dizzy, she staggered into the adjoining bathroom and crouched on the toilet.
Nat must know I'm missing,
she thought. But reality told her that he probably thought she'd stayed home because she was sick. Even if he called her home, Harry would never admit she wasn't there. And if he went to Violet's, the house would be empty and her Morris hidden in Violet's garage. “There's nothing for it,” she said to herself with determination. “I've got to get out of this myself.”