Death in a Family Way (7 page)

“Ernie Bradshaw has met with an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Well—he's dead.”

“Dead? His heart give out?”

“No, not his heart. He seems to have been murdered. We . . . Mr. Southby and I . . . found him a short while ago.”

“How come you found him?”

“It's a long story. Most likely it was a robbery.” Maggie shifted uncomfortably. “You can blame me for bringing Emily to you. I know she likes it here and you do seem to like cats . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Violet looked hard at her. “How long do you expect me to keep her this time?” she said, putting Emily down on the floor.

“Until we contact Ernie's daughter, if that's alright with you?” Maggie watched Emily pad over to sniff the wicker cat basket that was on the floor. “Oh, I see Mr. Bradshaw brought your cat basket back.”

“Haven't seen hide nor hair of him.”

“But isn't that it over there?” Maggie said, pointing to it.

“No, I've got several of them.” She opened the door. “You'd better go. Your boss is waiting.”

“Everything okay?” he said as she slid into her seat.

“I suppose so,” she answered absently. “It was just a little strange.”

He put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. “Violet's always strange.”

“Yes. I mean no . . . It's just that I asked her if Ernie had returned the cat basket and she said he hadn't.”

“Knowing Ernie, I can understand that.”

“But I saw it there.”

“She must have more than one.”

“Yes, that's what she said, only . . . Mr. Southby, I recognized that particular basket. It's the same one I used the other day.”

“You sure?”

“The opening wouldn't stay closed and I had a problem keeping Emily inside. Eventually, I jammed it shut with a bobby pin. I always have a few in my handbag.”

“And?” he prompted.

“The basket in her hallway still had the bobby pin in it.”

“So that means she either collected it herself or Ernie was there sometime between Friday and noon yesterday.”

“Why yesterday?”

“By the look of him, he'd been dead for at least ten or twelve hours.”

They drove the rest of the way back to the office in silence. “There has to be a logical explanation,” she said as she got out of the car. “He probably left the basket on her doorstep.

Didn't want to face her.”

“Possibly,” Nat said. “But why deny it's the same one?” “Didn't want to get involved?”

He bent down and locked the car doors. “I guess you want to go home?”

“Yes, I think I will. My car's parked in the lot on the next street.” She stepped off the curb. “Oh, by the way, did you hear any more from Phillip Collins?”

“No. He was supposed to call me. He may have left a message with the answering service.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, then. And please, no more murders.”

Nat Southby laughed. “I'll do my best. Go on. Go home and put your feet up and try and forget old Ernie. We've a busy day tomorrow.”

If Maggie had bothered to glance back at her employer as she crossed the road, she would have seen a strange, bemused expression on his face as he watched her every movement. Back in his office, he relit his half-smoked cigar, leaned back in his leather chair and closed his eyes. A fit of coughing brought him abruptly upright. “Damn it,” he muttered. He stubbed out the offending cigar in an oversized glass ashtray and then drew a lined pad toward him. “Gotta give those things up.” He started to write.

Maggie, on the other hand, was doing her best to follow her boss' advice and put the morning's horror firmly out of her mind.
A cup of tea, a long hot bath and the rest of the day with my feet up.
Slipping her coat off and hanging it in the hall closet, she
caught sight of herself in the mirror.
And a touch of makeup,
she amended.

The bath did wonders, and after lighting the living room fire, she put an
LP
on the turntable and then looked through a pile of library books.
It's definitely not the time for a whodunit,
she thought, and chose a light romance called
A Shining Morning.
She snuggled down into her old terry cloth robe.
Thank God, Harry won't be home for supper tonight.

It was the insistent ringing of the doorbell that woke her.

“Blast! Who can that be?” She struggled from the chair and walked to the window. “Barbara—today of all days!”

Tall and slim, Barbara stood waiting for her mother to open the door. A gust of wind blew a strand of blonde hair into her eyes and she brushed it away with an impatient gesture.

“Barbara, how nice to see you.” Margaret tried to put some enthusiasm into her voice. “Come on in, dear.”

Barbara studied her mother. “Are you sick or something?”

“No, just having a rest.” She led the way into the room. “Sit down by the fire. I'll make some tea and you can tell me your news.”

“Can't stay long.” Barbara slipped her coat off and laid it beside her on the sofa. “I called before, but there was no answer. Were you out?”

“Yes,” her mother said. “I was out. Now just relax. I'll only be a minute.” When Margaret returned with the tea, she saw her daughter still sitting tensely upright.
If only she'd loosen up a bit,
Margaret thought.
She's every inch her father.

“Dad's worried about you,” Barbara said in her abrupt manner.

Margaret paused in the act of passing her a cup. “Whatever for? There's lemon on the tray.”

“I can see why he's worried. Just look at you! The middle of the afternoon and you're not even dressed.”

“But . . .”

“Just because he's out of town doesn't mean that you should let yourself go.”

“When did he tell you he was worried?” Margaret tried to hold onto her temper. “He never mentioned it on the phone last night.”

“He called me right after speaking to you. He said you were distracted. Didn't take in anything he said.” She took a sip of tea. “He says that you never listen to him these days.”

He hasn't said anything worth listening to.
Instantly, Margaret felt guilty for the thought.

The telephone gave a welcome jangle.

“I'll get it.” Barbara reached over the back of the sofa and picked up the telephone. “I'm sorry, I think you must have the wrong number,” she said. “Yes, this is 8876 . . . Yes . . .”

She turned to her mother. “Some man wants to speak to . . . Maggie!”

Margaret couldn't help grinning at the expression on her daughter's face. “That's me,” she said, taking the receiver. “Hello, Mr. Southby!” She listened for awhile, then said, “Okay. I'll see you at 9:30. Bentley Street Police Station. Yes, I've got it . . . I know where it is. No, there's no need to pick me up. Bye.” She replaced the phone. Barbara sat with a look of astonishment on her face.

“Who was that? What's that about a police station?”

“It was just a friend. I . . . uh . . . we were witnesses to an accident today. We have to make a statement.” To Margaret's chagrin, the lie came easily.

“Oh! Is that all?” Barbara replied. But the look on her face made Margaret realize that she had only raised a new spectre in her daughter's mind.

“What time does Charles get home?” Margaret asked, to change the subject.

Barbara took the bait. “Six. Oh dear, I didn't know it was so late.”

“Give him my love,” Margaret said as she helped her daughter into her coat. “You'd better come over for dinner when your dad gets back.”

After Barbara left, Margaret closed the door and leaned against it.
That's it. I've got to tell Harry.
She returned to the living room and sank into her chair, but her peace of mind had gone and she started to go over and over the events of the day.

•  •  •

AFTER TOSSING AND TURNING
for hours, Margaret eventually fell into a troubled sleep, and then the weird dreams began. She found herself following the white cat along a dark, tree-lined path that suddenly opened out into a unkempt baseball field with tall grass rippling like waves in the wind. In the distance she could see a coffin with its lid open. She was terrified but felt compelled to walk toward it. As she neared the coffin, she could see the cat circling the bier. Standing on tiptoe, she looked down into the casket. Harry lay there, his eyes wide open and staring right at her. “Margaret!” he said in an authoritative voice, “Where have you been?” Then, abruptly, he sat up and reached toward her. She tried to scream, but as in most dreams, no sound came. Turning from the coffin, she began running blindly back the way she had come. But there was no escape. The heavy footsteps pounded behind her, getting closer and closer. Back through the tunnel of trees she ran, but the path was even darker now and there were golden cat's eyes glinting at her from the low branches. Suddenly, a large black Siamese, its blue eyes gleaming with hate, leapt from a branch toward her. She awoke, her mouth open in a scream, but it was the noise from the alarm clock that was ringing in her ears. She reached over to shut it off and lay back onto her pillow, heart thumping. But this time she didn't close her eyes. “I can't go on like this.”

By the time the darkness made way for the day, Margaret,
now showered, dressed and with a cup of coffee in hand, allowed herself to think about the impending visit to the police station. Even though she was a law-abiding citizen, the prospect of the forthcoming interrogation was appalling to her, perhaps all the more so because of the lack of familiarity. And to make matters worse, it was another rainy day!

Her boss was waiting for her outside the precinct, and she followed him up a flight of stairs and along a dusty corridor to Mark Farthing's office. “Chin up, this is going to be rough,” he said as he knocked and then opened the door.

“Ah, Southby. On time, I see. And you too, Mrs. Spencer.” He reached across his very tidy desk and shook her hand. “Sit down and I'll call the steno in.” He reached for the phone. After the steno arrived, Farthing led them bit by bit through the events of the two previous days. “And you still maintain you know nothing of what he wanted?”

“I've no idea,” Nat Southby answered.

“Why did you wait until yesterday before you tried to call him?” Farthing persisted.

“I didn't pick up the weekend's messages until yesterday morning.”

Farthing turned to Maggie. “You met Bradshaw. Did you think he had something serious on his mind when he came to your office?”

“Other than finding his cat, no.”

“How long have you been working for Mr. Southby?”

“I started last week.”

“And you feel you could make that assumption on such a short acquaintance?”

“Yes, I feel I could make that assumption, Sergeant Farthing. He was a very self-centred and bad-tempered old man. All he was interested in was his cat.”

“Given that he was a bad-tempered man,” he said, turning to Nat, “what made you two run over there so promptly?”

“For God's sake, Mark!” Nat exploded. “What makes anyone of us do such things? Call it a hunch, if you like.” He stood up and glared down at Farthing. “How the hell were we to know he'd been murdered?”

“My name's Sergeant Farthing, if you don't mind,” he said, glaring back. “Now cool down. You two have got yourself into this mess and you'll answer any damn questions I please to ask.” He turned curtly to the steno, who was sitting with his mouth open. “You can type up those statements and have them ready for their signatures. And after you two have signed them, you're free to go.”

“Have you any idea who did it?” Maggie asked as she stood up to leave.

“At this minute—no,” Farthing replied. “But
we'll
be the ones finding out. Is that clear?” He reached for the telephone. “I take it you know where the duty office is?”

“Jackass!” Nat Southby said under his breath as they walked down the dark corridor.

“He certainly seems to have it in for you,” Maggie answered quietly.

“Yeah! I can't quite figure out why, though. After all, he stepped into a damn good job when I left. Think he'd be pleased.”

•  •  •

PHILLIP COLLINS WAS WAITING
for them when they arrived back at the office. “I've been trying to get hold of you.”

Nat led the way inside. “What can I do for you?”

“I've decided to call off your investigation.”

“You've found your boat?”

“No, but my wife feels that Larry will turn up soon. Like he always does.”

“Well, it's up to you, Collins. But the boat's been missing now for nearly ten days. That's a helluva spree, isn't it?”

“I'll pay you for your time so far.”

“What did you say your boat's worth? Twenty grand? And you're suddenly not worried about it?”

“That's none of your business,” Collins answered. “I said I want to drop the case.” He arose from his chair and took out his cheque book and a gold pen. “How much do I owe you?” Nat named his figure, Collins wrote out a cheque and was gone a few moments later.

From the window they watched him get into his car.

“Of course!” she cried suddenly. “That's what's been bothering me.”

“What?”

“The car. Collins' car. I've seen it before.”

“Of course you have. It's the same one he was driving last week.”

“I know that. But it was also at Violet Larkfield's. You know, last Friday when I went to her house. That car was in the driveway.”

“There have to be a dozen Jaguars in this town.”

“Not silver-grey ones. I'm sure that's the same car I saw leaving Violet Larkfield's driveway.”