In the Shadow of Death (22 page)

“But they may be in danger!”

“They're a pair of goddamned meddlers.” Brossard muttered, then gave an exaggerated sigh. “Look, the best I can do is take a run over to the ranch later this afternoon and see what Hendrix knows.”

“That may be too late. You should go to Shadow Lake now.”

“Hey, this isn't your big city, you know, Sawasky. We don't have planes just waiting around.”

“Corporal, please . . . ”

“No, keep your nose out of this, Sawasky, or I'll have to call my superior. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got serious work to do.”

Sawasky placed the phone back in its cradle in frustration. “What the hell do I do now?” He called Henny back. “Have you got the Guthrie file handy?” he asked her.

“Ja. Right here.”

“Read me the names of everyone Nat contacted.”

“Wait.” There was a pause while she flipped pages. “Ray Teasdale, Albert Nordstrom. And it say here James Guthrie is Mr. Douglas Guthrie's son and he works for Nordstrom. And he made a call to Mrs. Debra Wright—that was once Mr. Guthrie's wife. She lives in Seattle. And his mother, who is old and is in nursing home . . . ”

“Nordstrom's address,” Sawasky broke in impatiently. “Give me that.”

Twenty minutes later, he was looking for a parking spot close to Nordstrom's office. It took awhile before he found one a couple of blocks away, then he had to run back through the crowded Friday shoppers to the Capitol Furniture store above which Nordstrom's offices were located. The elevator wasn't working, and he was panting with the added exertion of having to climb the stairs, when he faced a startled Agnes Agnew.

“Can I help you?”

“Sergeant Sawasky, Vancouver Police Department,” he said, flashing his badge. “I need to see Mr. Nordstrom urgently.”

“He left yesterday. Gone up to his summer place for a few days.”

“Do you know where?”

“A place called Shadow Lake in the Cariboo. Do you know it?”

Shadow Lake. That clinches it.
“I'd like to speak to Guthrie's son, James. He works here, doesn't he?”

“Yes. But . . . but . . . I don't know where he's gone.” Agnes was obviously thoroughly bewildered.

“Great! That's all I need.” He was about to leave when he realized that the woman was very upset. “Was there something else you wanted to tell me, Miss . . . uh . . . ?”

“Agnew. It really isn't any of my business . . . but . . . ”

“It doesn't have something to do with Mr. Guthrie by any chance, does it?”

She nodded. “It was yesterday morning. Jamie and Mr. Nordstrom were having . . . uh . . . words.”

“Do you mean arguing?”

She nodded again miserably. “Shouting. I couldn't help overhearing.”

“What did they say?” Sawasky pressed her.

“It was about money and something about Jamie's father.”

“And then what happened?”

“I heard Mr. Nordstrom say he was going to Shadow Lake and Jamie should go with him.”

“And did he?”

“I don't know. Jamie came storming out of Mr. Nordstrom's office and he went down the passage to his own,” she said, pointing. “Later, I heard him running down the stairs.”

“What did Mr. Nordstrom do after the argument?”

“He asked me to get Mr. Teasdale on the line.”

Sawasky checked the list of names he had jotted down in his notebook. “He's a friend of Nordstrom's?”

“Oh yes. They've known each other for years.”

“I don't suppose you overheard any of his conversation, did you?”

Agnes was shocked. “I never listen in on people's phone conversations!”

“Just a thought.” Sawasky shrugged. “Did Mr. Nordstrom fly his plane up?”

“Yes. The road to the lake is terrible, apparently, but it sounds like such a pretty place, doesn't it?” she added wistfully.

“Does he have a telephone there?”

“No. He uses the radio-phone on the plane when he wants to contact me.”

“Thank you, Miss Agnew. You've been a great help.”

“Have I? I just wish I knew where Jamie was.”

So do I! So do I!

Back in his car, George thought the situation over: Nat and Maggie were in danger, Brossard was up in Williams Lake and wouldn't get off his butt, and here he was sitting in his car at least two hundred and fifty miles away as the crow flies—and at least double that by road. Although he'd threatened Brossard about going up there officially, he knew it would be useless to ask Farthing to authorize it. For one thing, the scene of the action was way out of his jurisdiction. As well, Farthing hated Nat's guts with a passion, and Sawasky knew that his boss wouldn't entertain the idea of letting him go north if it was to help Nat. The hell with it! He'd do it on his own time! He put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. He would go back to the office and see if the package from the Seattle police had arrived, book time off, pack a bag and head for the Cariboo. All he hoped was that his old, rusty-but-trusty Ford would make the trip in one piece.

• • •

“
HOW'S OLD HARRY DOING
?” Bella Goodman's skirt was hiked up over her ample thighs as she perched on the corner of Doreen Fitch-Smythe's desk. She nodded toward Harry Spencer's closed door.

“Gone to pieces since his wife left him,” Harry's secretary answered, keeping her voice low.

“I take it she's really left him for good?”

“He won't admit it,” Doreen said with a laugh. “I think he had her trained so well that he didn't even know where his clean clothes came from. But he's certainly found out,” she added, with a smirk. “I saw him coming out of that Chinese laundry down the street yesterday with a huge pile.”

“He's such a stuffed shirt, anyway. How you've managed to work for him all these years is beyond me.” Bella slipped down from the desk. “I'd better go before my boss starts yelling.”

Doreen Fitch-Smythe watched her friend walk away. Yes, Harry Spencer was certainly a stuffed shirt, but Doreen had been taking extra care with her clothes and makeup since his wife left him. A lawyer, after all, was a pretty good meal ticket.

At that moment, the object of their conversation sat staring into space in his office and feeling very sorry for himself. The buzz from the intercom brought him back to the present with a start.

“Mrs. Spencer on the line, sir.” His heart leapt as he grabbed the instrument.

“Margaret?”

“Don't be a damn fool, Harry. It's your mother.”

“Oh,” he said. “What can I do for you, Mother?”

“I'm making sure you don't forget to come and get me on Monday. I've had enough of this frightful hospital!”

“How do you feel?”

“Damn fool question. I'm in pain. That's how I feel.”

“Would it be possible for you to stay there a few more days? You see, I haven't found anyone to look after you yet.”

“Where's that wife of yours? She still gallivanting all over the country? It's time you put your foot down, son.”

“I'm doing my level best to locate her, Mother, and I don't need you to tell . . . ”

“Don't you talk to your mother like that, young man. I'm checking out of this place on Monday, and don't forget the wheelchair!”

“But . . . ” The line had gone dead.
What am I going to do?
That stupid woman in Southby's office insists she doesn't know where Margaret is.
He had tried to get Midge to come and look after her grandmother, but the girl had refused point blank. And it was no good asking Barbara. The new baby took up all her time.
How selfish young people are these days!
He reached for the intercom. “Would you look up a reputable home nursing agency for me, Miss Fitch-Smythe?” he asked.

“No word from your wife, then?”

“She's away on . . . uh . . . business,” he replied curtly. “She'll be back shortly.” He didn't want his personal affairs talked about among the office staff. “And ask Information for a telephone number for the Wild Rose Guest Ranch. It's somewhere near Williams Lake.”

Harry, drumming his fingers impatiently on his desk, waited for the call to the ranch to be connected.

“Wild Rose Ranch,” a man's voice answered.

“I would like to speak to Mrs. Spencer.”

“Spencer? Oh, you mean Maggie.”

“Mrs. Margaret Spencer,” Harry corrected.

“She's gone.”

“What do you mean—gone?”

“She and her partner went chasing off to 100 Mile House this morning.”

“Southby! He's there, too?

“Yep!

“Tell her to call me immediately when she gets back.”

“Who shall I say?”

“Her husband, of course.” Harry slammed the receiver down.
What a mess!
He looked at his watch—ten o'clock.
If I leave now, I could be in 100 Mile House by early evening. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll go and get her. I'll make her see that her place is at home with me and looking after Mother.
Having made the right decision, he leapt out of his chair and wrenched open the connecting door. “Miss Fitch-Smythe?”

“Yes, Mr. Spencer,” Doreen Fitch-Smythe said sweetly.

“Hold all calls. I'm leaving for the rest of the day.”

W
hen Nat reached the road above the cottage, he stood for a moment, consulting the map to get his bearings. The tread marks from the truck showed that it had turned left, and though worried that he would meet it on its return journey, he started in that direction. The rain had let up, and a watery sun was trying to get through the scudding clouds. He made good progress for the first half an hour, as the tracks were easy to see and the road fairly straight. But the going got tough as the road meandered up and down, and because the recent rain had filled all the ruts with water, they oozed thick black mud. His new hiking boots, bought especially for this trip to the Cariboo, rubbed his heels sore, but he struggled on, slipping and cursing, until he came to a small, high bridge spanning a stream. Sliding down the bank, he sat on a slab of stone under the bridge to remove his boots. Then, rolling up his pant legs, he lowered his feet into the stream and sighed in ecstasy as the cold water lapped at his blistered heels. With the map spread out on his knees, he made a rough estimate of his location.
Another four miles should do it.
But the thought of walking those four miles made him cringe. While he was trying to pluck up the courage to put his boots on and resume his trek, he heard a truck approaching and saw a flash of red as it drove overhead on its way back toward the cottage. From where he sat, it was impossible to tell how many people were in it. Had they already disposed of Kate up at the mine? Would he find Guthrie's body there too?
I should have tackled them back at the cottage,
he thought.
Why the hell didn't I take one of their guns from the truck when I had the chance?
But even then, the odds of them getting him before he got them would have been far too uneven. It was now noon, and two hours had gone by since he'd seen the three of them leave the cottage.
At least my sore feet saved me from being seen.
Packing his socks with grass, he determinedly pulled on his boots and scrambled back to the road.

• • •

FOR MAGGIE, THE DRIVING
was slow and hazardous, because the gentle rain that had begun as she left the Harkness ranch soon turned into a heavy rainstorm complete with hailstones. She hit every pothole that riddled the road and had to stop frequently to wipe the splattered mud from the windshield. The rain was easing slightly when the engine started to misfire and falter. “Keep going, damn you!” To her relief, it picked up again, but she was just congratulating herself on its recovery when it misfired again. Nothing had passed her in either direction for at least half an hour, and she was terrified that the vehicle would break down completely and leave her stranded on the lonely road. She coaxed the Jeep along, willing it to make it to the small town of Horsefly, where she pulled into the one and only gas station. It was well past noon by this time, and the corrugated tin-roofed building beside the gas pumps seemed deserted. The faded sign over the small office bore the name: Ed Hinkle. Mechanic.
Good!
It was at precisely this moment that the engine gave one more shudder and died.

She sat listening to the rain drumming on the Jeep's roof for several minutes, wondering what to do next, when suddenly a man in greasy overalls appeared at the garage entrance. Maggie rolled down her window.

“Didn't hear yer drive up,” he said through the curtain of rainwater that cascaded off the bit of sloping roof over the entrance. As he spoke, he lovingly polished a piece of car's innards on an oily rag. “What can I do for yer?”

“The damned thing's died,” she answered, “and I need gas.”

“Whacha doin' in these parts?” he asked, carefully laying down the car part before stepping out into the rain to lift the hood. “Yer can't be passing through, 'cause there ain't nowhere to pass through to.” He laughed at his own joke.

“Just touring,” she answered. “Can you fix it?”

“Mmmm. I'll have to push it into the garage and have a look-see.”

“Do you think it will take long?”

He pushed his cap back further on his head. “Can't tell. Come back after yer've et.”

“Et? Oh, okay,” she said, when she realized what he meant. “Where's the best place?”

“Buckskin Annie's, up the road a piece,” he said pointing. “Where yer headin'?”

“Shadow Lake.”

“Shadow Lake?” he repeated, shaking his head and letting the hood clang down. “That road's a corker when it's rainin'. Turn yer insides out.”

Buckskin Annie's was different than any eating place that she'd ever seen. As she opened the heavy wooden door, she reeled back from the smoke, noise and the oily odour of cooking. While she hesitated in the doorway, a huge woman wearing a fringed buckskin vest bounded up to her. “Jest you?” she asked. Maggie gave a slight nod. “Over here then.” She led the way to one of the three long tables in the room. Four men, already seated at the table, looked up at her as one and then resumed shovelling food into their mouths.