Death in a Family Way (9 page)

“I don't see why not.” He stared moodily into the fire.

“I'm not going through this discussion again, Harry.”

“But Margaret, what about me?”

“What about you?”

“This ridiculous job of yours. It's getting in the way of everything.”

“Be honest, Harry. How does it really affect you?”

“It stops you coming away with me. That's how it affects me.”

“Harry,” she said softly, “this is the first time that you've ever asked me to go with you.” She got up quietly and left the room.

Well, Mrs. Spencer, how did your weekend go?” Nat Southby asked as he cruised through the office door, throwing his hat in the general direction of the coat tree.

Bending down to retrieve the hat, Maggie thought of the rotten two days she'd spent with her very stone-faced husband. “Can't say anything exciting happened.”

“Is anything the matter?”

“If you can call a husband who doesn't want me to work the mat . . .”

His face dropped. “You mean here? He doesn't want you to work here?”

“Anywhere.”

“You're not going to quit, I hope?”

She stared at her typewriter for a moment. “No,” she replied, picking up a piece of paper and rolling it into the machine. “Like it or not, Mr. Southby, I'm here to stay.” She gave him a lopsided grin. “And when are you going to get this office an electric typewriter?”

“Good God, woman, you had me worried there for a bit.” He touched her lightly on the shoulder as he passed on his way to his office. “As to the electric typewriter, we'll get that when you've proved your worth,” he said, and ducked as an eraser came flying toward him.

She was on her hands and knees, sorting piles of papers, when the outer door opened to admit an unsmiling Mark Farthing, accompanied by his carbon copy. Both men were dressed in beige trench coats, black shoes and socks, and sported five-dollar haircuts.

Farthing gave her a curt nod. “Mrs. Spencer, my partner, Constable Stan Haddock. Southby in?”

She clambered to her feet, pulling her skirt down to cover her knees. “I'll tell him you're here.”

“Don't bother.” He walked over to Nat's door, rapped and opened it.

“Well, if it's not Sergeant Farthing and friend,” she heard Nat say. “What can I do for you boys?”

The two men entered the room and closed the door.

“I understand you were hired by a man named Phillip Collins recently?” Farthing asked, taking the only available chair.

“He'd lost a boat.”

“Find it?”

“Come off it, Mark. You know as well as I do that it's been found smashed up.” Nat watched in exasperation as Haddock, finding nowhere to sit, entertained himself by picking things up from the desk, looking at them and putting them down again. “I'll get Maggie to bring you a chair.”

“No, I'm fine.” Haddock walked to the window and peered between the slats of the Venetian blinds.

“Anyway, Mark,” Nat said, “what's it to you? You're on homicide detail, not lost and found.”

“How far did you get with your investigation?”

“Not far.” Nat leaned forward to stub out a cigarette in his overflowing ashtray. “Given up cigars,” he said with a grin.

Haddock stopped fiddling with the blind and faced Nat. “What do you mean, not far?”

“Got taken off the case.”

“Why?” Farthing fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a small notebook and flipped it open.

“Collins decided his wife's brother had taken it and gone on a spree. Paid me and called off the investigation.”

Farthing gave an exasperated look at his partner, who was trying to get the wrapper off a stick of gum. “We know you were ferreting around down at the marina,” he said. “What did you find out?”

Haddock, having won the battle with the wrapper, had now turned his attention to the foil. “Did you hear anything about the two of them having a set-to?” he said as he rolled the foil into

a ball.

Nat watched Haddock in fascination as he slowly folded the gum into his mouth. “Yeah, but my source said he was too far away to know what it was all about.” He turned at Mark Farthing. “What gives, Mark? There's more to this than a smashed-up boat, isn't there?”

“Larry Longhurst seems to be missing.”

“But how does homicide get into this? You did say missing, not murdered.”

Farthing looked down at his notebook. “I hear you were looking over Collins' boat yourself on Friday.”

“We tried to, but we were warned off.”

“You sure there's nothing else to tell us?”

Nat shook his head. “Like I said, I was taken off the case.”

“And you believed Collins' explanation?”

“Why not?” Nat said. “It made sense.”

Farthing got up from his chair and gave a nod to Haddock. “That's all for the present. As I said before, Southby, this is police business and I want it to stay that way.” He opened the office door. “You do understand?”

“I look after my business,” Nat said. “You look after yours.” He followed them into the outer office.

“Maybe you should stick to divorce cases, Southby. Oh, wait, I forgot, being on the take is more your style, isn't it?” Farthing said, dripping sarcasm. “By the way, how is your ex? Haven't seen her around town lately,” he added as a parting shot.

“On the take? What the hell are you talking about, Farthing?” Nat demanded. “Come back here, dammit!”

“You forget, Southby,” Farthing replied with a smirk as he grabbed the handle of the outer door. “I not only took over your desk when you left, but I got all its contents too.”

“What the hell are you talking about . . . ?” Nat yelled. But the two men had exited smartly and were by now clattering down the stairs.

“What in heavens name was that all about?” Maggie asked in a shocked voice.

“Beats me,” he answered. “I haven't a clue what he meant.”

“Why did he come in the first place?” she asked.

“A fishing expedition, Maggie. Just ferreting. Knew I'd been to look at Collins' boat,” he answered. “Hoped I'd let something slip, I suppose.”

•  •  •

MAGGIE WAS HALFWAY HOME
that afternoon when she changed her mind, turned the car around and drove back to Violet Larkfield's house. Parking the car, she walked up the path and rang the bell. The front door was opened abruptly by Violet.

“You again!” she said, looking down at Maggie. “What do you want this time?”

“Uh . . . I wondered how Ernie's cat was.” It seemed such a lame excuse that she was sure the woman would see through it.

“A lot better than if she'd stayed with that old man.” She started to close the door.

Maggie thought quickly. “Could I see her?”

“What for? I told you she's okay.”

“It's just that . . . I like her . . . and cats . . .” she finished lamely. “I sort of feel sorry for her.”

A thin smile appeared on the woman's lips, and to Maggie's surprise, she said, “Is that so? Well then, I suppose you can come in.”

The smell of cat still permeated the house and Maggie was sure it was the same Siamese that had previously attacked her sitting on the top perch, watching her every move.

“I'll try to find Emily for you. You can sit down.” Violet Larkfield indicated the cretonne-covered sofa. “She prefers the outdoors.”

Maggie realized that she had only a short time before Violet would be back. But what to look for? How to start? The desk under the window seemed a good place. She looked nervously up at the cats, all seated on their perches and staring silently at her with their green and amber eyes. The desk had several drawers, all locked, of course. Quickly, she flicked through a pile of letters and papers on the desktop. Nothing unusual, mostly bills. She was turning away from the desk when she saw an open film envelope. Picking it up, she tipped the contents out onto the desk and scanned the photos. One of the snaps showed Phillip Collins and his wife standing beside the silver Jaguar. Maggie heard the sound of a door banging, and she reached for her handbag from the sofa and slipped the photo into it. Then, willing herself not to panic, she stuffed the rest of the photos back into the envelope and sat down, just before Violet, with Emily in her arms, came back into the room.

“Here,” she said, dumping the cat into Maggie's lap.

The animal struggled to get away. “Nice pussy,” Maggie forced out, gamely holding on to the cat and stroking the fur furiously. But Emily had other ideas. “Damn you!” Maggie yelled suddenly as she felt the sharp claws digging into her leg. Emily gave her a
disdainful look, swished her tail, jumped down onto the floor and stalked, with dignity, out of the room.

Maggie lifted her skirt and looked at the blood running down her leg. “Vicious little beast!”

“Well,” laughed Violet, “I thought you liked cats.”

Maggie, needing a Kleenex to clean the blood off her ruined stockings, looked around for her handbag.

“Funny,” the sarcastic voice carried on, “first my Satan attacked you and now Emily. Cats know. People you can fool. Cats—never. And if you're looking for your purse, you left it on my desk. Now get out!”

•  •  •

MAGGIE WAS MAKING
coffee the next morning when Nat came in. She handed him the picture as he went past on his way to his office. A moment later he was back. “Where'd you get this, Maggie?”

“From Violet. I went to see her yesterday afternoon.” She sat and pulled the cover off the typewriter.

“Maggie,” Nat said with a worried look, “as you yourself reminded me, I hired you to be a secretary, not an operative.”

She took her hands off the keys and stared at him in disbelief. “You didn't mind sending me off on errands last week!” she said haughtily.

“Well, that was different. That was just to take the cat back . . .”

Maggie was silent.

“What in hell did you think you'd find out?”

“When you've calmed down,
Mister
Southby, maybe I'll tell you.”

Nat groaned. “All right, Maggie, I'm calm now. Honest. So you'd better tell me everything from the beginning.”

“I was at her desk, you see. And there was this photograph of Collins,” she added excitedly. “Everything was going quite well,”
Maggie looked up to see how he was taking her explanation, “until Violet came back in the room before I could look any further . . .”

“Didn't you realize the risk you were taking? Did she see you at her desk?”

“No, no, she couldn't have. She came in and dumped the cat on my lap, and then the little beast dug its claws into me. But I was right,” she ended triumphantly. “There is a connection between Collins and Violet.”

He studied the snapshot more closely. “And what happens when she finds it's gone?” he asked.

“She'll think she's mislaid it, I hope.”

“So do I, for your sake.” Photo in hand, he walked toward his office. “I hate to dash your great detective instincts,” he said over his shoulder, “but you know, Maggie,” he waved the snapshot at her, “this doesn't prove a thing.”

“Of course it does. We've been looking for Collins' boat, his brother-in-law's missing, Violet's related to him in some way and . . .” she paused for breath, “and she's somehow connected to Ernie's death, too.”

“Oh come on, Maggie, that's pushing it. How can you connect her to his death?”

“Ernie knew where to look for his cat when it went missing. And he must have been out looking for the damn thing when he was killed.” She sat silent for a moment. “He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

•  •  •

THE REGISTERED LETTER DEMANDING
Margaret Spencer's attendance at the coroner's inquest into Ernie Bradshaw's death happened to arrive at the Spencer household at the same moment that Harry, concerned that he had a cold coming on, had arrived home for lunch. Since he had to sign for the letter, he felt it was his right to open it.

Margaret arrived home a short while later to be met by an angry and ashen-faced Harry.

“This came for you,” he said stonily, handing the envelope over to her.

“You've opened it!”

“Anything that concerns you concerns me, Margaret.”

“But you had no right to open my mail,” Margaret said furiously.

Harry pursed his lips. “I saw the official address on it. And besides, I signed for it.”

“Meaning, I suppose, that you're the only one important enough to receive official letters?”

“That is beside the point, Margaret.” He took the envelope out of her hands and opened it again. “It says here,” and he pointed to a line in the document, “that you are being summoned to attend an inquest on the murder of somebody called Ernest Bradshaw on Thursday, April 2. I want to know who this man is . . . uh . . . was?”

“He was a client of the agency.”

“But why do you have to attend? You're not the detective or whatever it is he calls himself.”

“It's quite simple, Harry. We discovered the body together.”

“You what?” Harry exploded.

“I was on the case,” Margaret answered, trying her best not to smile.

“And you didn't tell me?”

“Why would I tell you? You've made it very clear you're not interested in my job.”

“Your job! What kind of man takes you to places where there are dead bodies?”

“Oh, Harry, be reasonable. How would he know that the man was dead when we went to the house?”

“You had no right to be traipsing around town with a strange man.”

“Strange? I work for him, for God's sake.”

Harry looked shocked. “You never used to swear.”