Death as a Last Resort (3 page)

“He and his wife are, how do you say . . . stuffy.”

“What about family, Mrs. Dubois?” Maggie asked. “Children?”

“Maurice and I are only married for six months. But he has a son and daughter from his previous marriages.”

“Marriages?”

“Oui, he was married two times before.”

“And they all live in Quebec?” Nat asked.

“
Non, non
. They live here in Vancouver. René used to work at logging for Maurice, but he was no good.” She shrugged. “Now he works somewhere . . .” She waved a hand dismissively. “And has his own apartment. Isabelle, she is at some kind of school— hair-dressing or something like that.”

“So she doesn't live with you.”

“
Non-non
. She lives with her mother.” Then, twisting her handkerchief in her well-manicured hands, she looked piteously up at Nat. “So it is the estate, you understand. I must get it settled. But, of course, I must know who killed my dear, dear Maurice in this . . . awful way, oui.”

Nat, who was not easily fooled by the ‘poor-little-me' act and could see that the girl, at least twenty years younger than her deceased husband, was probably more concerned about what the estate was worth than the man's murder, asked, “Who is the main beneficiary of your husband's will?”

She hesitated for a moment before answering. “Naturally I am, but what is money if I don't have my dear Maurice?” She dabbed her eyes again before adding, “His children get five thousand each.”

“I see. Have the police released the body?” he asked.

“He is in the Mountain View Funeral Home,” she said, dabbing her eyes once more. “My Maurice look so peaceful and I will give him a beautiful funeral.”

“And where will that be?” Nat asked.

“Two o'clock on Thursday at Holy Rosary Cathedral. You know it?”

Nat nodded as he made a notation on his yellow pad.

“And you will find the maniac who kill him?”

“If you're sure that's what you really want,” Nat answered, “but it could be very expensive for you.”

She stood and gathered up her coat and purse. “You want me to sign something?”

“Maggie will take you to her office and explain our retainer system and our contract. Then if you still wish us to take on the case, she will have you sign a contract.”

“Well,” Maggie said, after she had shown their new client out, “are you really up to tackling such a young and beautiful widow?”

“I've a bad feeling about all this, and it's not just because Nancy's mixed up in it.”

“So have I,” Maggie answered. “I mean, why did Dubois leave that fishing lodge up the coast and end up dead on the mountain? And,” she added, “where do we start on this one?”

“First, we'll get Henny to set up appointments for us.”

“I suggest that the partner, Arnold Schaefer, should be at the top of the list and that we both go to see him,” Maggie said. “You know . . . first impressions . . .”

“And presumably he can give us a list of everyone who was at the fishing lodge.” He reached over to his console. “Henny, how would you like to bring in your notebook?”

• • •

ARNOLD SCHAEFER'S SECRETARY informed them that her boss was out of town until Wednesday and the only time she could fit them in that day would be at ten o'clock. She didn't know who had been up at the lodge with him but said she would ask as soon as her boss came in.

“I've a hunch this is going to be a long investigation,” Nat said, replacing the receiver. “So how about we have a relaxing dinner out tonight?”

“I've a much better idea,” Maggie answered with a smile. “How about a leisurely dinner at my place—candles and the works? Six o'clock?”

“Ahh . . . I especially like the idea of
the works.”

• • •

OSCAR, THE SPANIEL CROSS left to Maggie by her aunt, greeted her at the front door with his lead in his mouth. As she bent to pat his head, she noticed there was a fresh scratch on his nose. “Where's your pal?” she asked in trepidation. Things hadn't gone too well since she had brought him home to live with her and Emily, the white cat that had once belonged to the elderly victim in her first-ever murder case.

But when Maggie checked the kitchen and living room, she found that everything was in place. Even the rugs! After picking up pieces of china each time she came home, she had removed her few remaining ornaments to safer places. But tonight Emily was sitting on the windowsill, fastidiously washing, and Maggie was sure she had a satisfied look on her face.

“You've put Oscar in his place, I see.”

The cat ignored the remark and went on washing.

Nat, always on time for a meal, arrived with the wine. Oscar was so pleased to see him that he nearly sent him and the bottle flying. “Hey, watch it, dog,” Nat said, nudging the exuberant animal away with his foot.

Laughing, Maggie grabbed Oscar's collar with one hand and the bottle with the other. “Well, do I get a kiss for saving you from this ferocious beast?”

“You bet! But only after you've safely put that bottle down.”

Nat had become so much a part of Maggie's life that she couldn't imagine what it would be like without him. She realized that their families, friends and business acquaintances knew that their relationship was more than platonic. This fact must have been on Nat's mind, too, as after the supper dishes had been done and they were sitting on either side of the fireplace, he said, “Heard anything from Harry lately?”

Maggie and Harry, a lawyer for Snodgrass, Crumbie and Spencer, had been separated for three years now, but Harry still lived in the hope that she would see the error of her ways, give up her job with the detective agency, and return to their family home.

“No. But Barbara called a few days ago and said that he had been made vice-president in the firm. He deserves it really,” she added. “He works very hard for them.”

“Isn't it time you divorced him, Maggie?”

“You know that it's out of the question,” she answered. “Neither Harry nor I would ever collude by staging a sham adultery. I just couldn't do that to him. And I'm not about to have you named as co-respondent, either.” She was silent for a moment, thinking about her estranged husband. Even though Harry's picky ways had irritated her until she had to leave him, she still felt some loyalty to him. After all, he was the father of her two daughters and she had been married to the man for over twenty-five years.

“Does he know that you're a partner in the business now?”

Maggie shook her head. “I haven't even told the girls yet. Guess I'm waiting for the right moment.”

“Maggie,” he replied, standing up, “you've got to
find
the right moment.” He walked over to the closet and took his coat off the hanger. “And I mean not only the partnership but the situation between you and Harry.” He bent over her chair and kissed her on the forehead. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“You're not staying over?” she asked, feeling a little disappointed.

“No. Got some things I have to do.”

Maggie sat thinking for quite a while after he had gone, and she realized that deep down she didn't want to confront Harry about a divorce.
Why can't things just go on as they are?

CHAPTER THREE

I
t was quite easy for Maggie and Nat to find Schaefer's Lumber and Building Supplies in North Vancouver. As they drove through the gates, they could see that the yard was humming with workmen driving trucks and forklifts—it looked like a very busy and lucrative place. The lovely smell of wood that drifted from the planning mill and the drying kilns stayed with them in the cold air as they parked outside the cedar-shingled office.

“Mr. Schaefer will just be a moment,” the dark-haired receptionist informed them. “He's running a bit late.” Then she added in a whisper, “He's on the phone with that Mrs. Dubois, helping her with the funeral arrangements.”

“That's tomorrow, isn't it?” Maggie asked.

The receptionist nodded. “Isn't it awful about Mr. Dubois's murder? Such a nice man,” she ran on. “Who would want to murder him?”

“Have you worked here long?” Maggie asked.

“Six months. But he was always so nice to me.”

“Mr. Southby . . . ?” A short, red-faced man with a decided paunch stood in the doorway of one of the offices.

“And this is my partner, Mrs. Spencer,” Nat filled in.

”Partner?” he said. Maggie could see him sifting this bit of information before extending his hand toward Nat. “Arnold Schaefer. Well, I suppose you'd better come in.” And he led the way into his office. “What on earth does that woman want to employ a private dick for?” he demanded and then, without waiting for an answer, he eased down into his ox-blood leather chair and continued, “Waste of money. Let the cops do their work. That's what we pay our taxes for.” He indicated that the two of them should sit. “And she's even got me doing the funeral arrangements,” he said disgustedly.

“Are you talking about Mrs. Dubois?” Maggie asked.

Schaefer continued as if she hadn't spoken. “Why doesn't she get that lazy René to help? He's left me in a terrible mess.”

“Maurice Dubois has left you in a mess?” Maggie asked, feeling thoroughly confused.

“As if I haven't got enough on my plate with the lumberyard and logging operation and then—wouldn't you know—my accountant up and left,” he continued, ignoring Maggie's question.

“Mr. Dubois was a partner in the firm?” Nat asked.

“Not really. We had a working contract. His logging companies supply . . . or should I say
supplied
. . . lumber for my yard.”

“You were one of the guests at St. Clare Cove over New Year's?” Maggie asked.

Hardly glancing at her, he turned to Nat to answer. “Yes. Maurice had this hare-brained scheme of pulling all those disgusting cabins down and building something he called condominiums there. As if anyone in their right mind would buy anything that far up the coast.”

“So you were all invited up to see the property,” Nat said.

“You knew the others who were there?” Maggie asked.

He hesitated for a moment before actually answering her question. “I'd met one or two of them before.” He looked toward the door as the secretary came in holding a sheet of paper. “Put it on the desk, girl. Don't just stand there.”

“Any idea who would want to murder him?”

“Maybe a jealous husband? He's always had a roving eye. Anyway,” he continued maliciously, “he was certainly enjoying himself at the lodge—and without his missus, I might add.”

“Do you know what Jacquelyn did before she married Dubois?” Maggie asked.

“A dancer or something like that. Like all the bits of fluff that Dubois chased.”

“So was he enjoying himself with some of the other wives at the lodge? Anyone in particular?”

“He flirted with them, but there was a barmaid . . .”

“Did he go up to Pender Harbour by car?” Maggie interrupted.

“He went up with me.”

“What day was that?” Nat asked.

“Thursday. Picked him up at the airport. He was in Montreal over Christmas.”

“So you picked him up on December 27.”

“Yeah. Then we caught that damned Blackball ferry from Horseshoe Bay.”

“And what day did he disappear?”

“Must have been sometime on the Saturday while we were out fishing.”

“Did you have time to make us a list of those at the lodge?” Nat asked.

“That's what the girl just brought in,” he said, passing the typed sheet over to Nat. “But they won't know any more than I do.” Just then the phone rang and the two of them sat waiting while Arnold Schaefer reamed out the caller. “What do ya mean the truck is stuck in the mud?” he yelled. “That load was supposed to be here by nine today. I don't care
how
you do it, just get the bloody thing out.” He slammed down the receiver and stood up. “Can't get good help anywhere these days,” he muttered. “You can let yourselves out.”

“Did you all go out fishing that day?” Maggie asked, getting to her feet.

“All the men. The wives did whatever you women do.”

A tall, blond, moustached man sitting in the reception area looked up expectantly as they left Schaefer's office.

“If he's applying for that vacant accounting job,” Nat said as he slid behind the wheel, “he's going to need lots of stamina.”

“I wouldn't work for that man for any money,” Maggie said as they drove out of the gates. “He's a real bully.”

“His wife must be a saint,” Nat said, laughing. “But I think we've just got to find time to make it to that funeral tomorrow.”

• • •

THERE WERE NO PARKING spaces left near the Holy Rosary Cathedral on Richards Street, so by the time Nat had manoeuvred the old Chevy into a tight spot on Homer and they had walked back, the church was full and the coffin had arrived at the impressive front doors. One of the black-dressed ushers solemnly held back the latecomers while the chief mourners jockeyed for the place of honour behind the coffin. Besides Jacquelyn there was one other heavily veiled woman who was trying to push a dark-haired young man in his early twenties to the front, but she hadn't reckoned on Jacquelyn, who hissed, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“René is Maurice's only son and he has the right to be first behind the coffin,” the other woman hissed back, “and I am
still
his wife in the eyes of the Church.”

But Jacquelyn, lace handkerchief at the ready, leaned on a grim-faced Arnold Schaefer and pushed into the lead.

Maggie was hoping to see the outcome of the confrontation, but Nat led her into the church. There they waited for the usher to take them to a seat, but he was caught up in an argument with another two heavily veiled women.