Death in a Family Way (11 page)

“How? We don't even know where we are.”

“Rosedale Farm, Linton Road.”

“How did you find that out?”

“I was in labour for a long time, Debbie,” Sally answered, “and they got careless. I managed to walk down the passageway to the nursing station before they found me.”

“So?”

“It was on the desk, a letter headed
Rosedale Farm, Linton Road.
It's on Bainbridge Island, in Washington State.”

“We're on an island?” Debbie stood up. “I thought we were someplace near Seattle.”

“I don't think we're far from it,” Sally answered. “I was brought
here by car, but it was very late at night. I've no idea which direction we took after Seattle, but I do remember taking a small ferry.”

“Just knowing where we are is not going to get your baby back, Sally.”

“I'm going to find out who's bought her,” Sally cried fiercely, “and I'll make them give her back.” She turned to look at Debbie. “That's what they're doing, Deb. They're selling our babies.”

“So? You know what that woman said,” Debbie said quietly. “If we make a fuss, we won't be allowed to go home.”

Sally lifted herself up on her elbow and looked intently at her friend. “What makes you think they'll ever let us go? They're making a fortune out of selling our babies. And we could talk. We're a danger to them.”

They were both silent for a moment, then Sally said, “Deb, we've got to get away from here.” She clung to her friend's arm.

“You must.” Debbie sat down on the edge of the bed. “How can I . . . like this?” She patted her stomach.

“I'll find a way . . . I'll get to a telephone . . . or something.”

•  •  •

SERGEANT BRIAN TODD
of the Missing Persons Branch closed the file drawer with a bang, walked to the window and stood staring down at the busy street below.

“What's up?” Staff Sergeant George Sawasky asked as he entered the office.

“It's this rash of missing girls,” Todd answered him. “Five within the last three months.”

“Prostitutes?” Sawasky asked, straddling the wooden chair beside Todd's desk.

“No.” Todd walked back to his desk and picked up a file. “That's what's odd about it. Most of them are high school students.”

“Any pattern emerging?” Sawasky asked. “The reason I'm
asking,” he continued, “is that I'm looking into the death of a teenager, too. A Jane Doe.”

“Well, these are all teenagers,” Todd answered. “Take this one, Sally Fielding—sixteen years old, good family, and up to five months ago, an A student.”

“What happened five months ago?”

“The Fieldings say she just became a changed girl. Depressed, irritable. Grades fell off and they couldn't get her to talk to them.”

“All teenagers go through that stage, Brian,” Sawasky answered, taking the file to examine the photos the family had provided.

“I said as much to the parents, but they said it had to be something more. It was too much of a change too quickly.”

“Drugs?”

“They don't think so.” Todd walked over to his filing cabinet and picked out another folder. “And look at this one—Debbie Shorthouse. Seventeen, still in school when she went missing.”

“What are the parents like?” Sawasky took the file from him.

“Professional couple, father an electrical engineer, mother a nurse at Vancouver General. Just days prior to the girl's disappearance, they'd found out she was pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” Sawasky stared hard at the face of the girl in the photo.

“That your Jane Doe?”

Sawasky shook his head. “No. Mine's blonder than this one.” He closed the file and handed it back. “How'd the parents react?”

“Not too pleased.” Todd continued. “Father did the old ‘how dare you sully my good name' routine. Mother suggested an abortion or a prolonged visit to a distant aunt back east, but the girl absolutely refused and told them she could look after herself. She disappeared less than a week later.”

“What about the others?”

“There's a June Cosgrove, went to the same school as Sally Fielding.” He handed the Cosgrove file to Sawasky.

“Was she pregnant, too?”

“If the parents knew, they didn't tell me.” He began fishing out another file.

“Hold it,” Sawasky said. “I think this may be my Jane Doe.”

“Where was she found?”

“Washed up on one of the Gulf Islands a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh yeah . . . something about a stolen boat, wasn't it?”

“That's right,” Sawasky answered. “The
Seagull.
We actually found the boat about a week before the body turned up.”

“What's the connection?”

“She was wearing a life jacket from the
Seagull.”

“Hard to identify after a week in the sea.” Todd gave an exaggerated shudder.

“It's not my idea of fun.”

“You find the owner of the boat?”

“A guy named Collins. He maintains that his wife's young brother took it. Says he's going to kill him.” He grinned. “We're hoping to find him first.”

“The body still in the morgue?”

“Yeah,” Sawasky said, reaching for his coat. “You wanna go down?” He tucked the Cosgrove file under his arm.

A short while later, the two officers were looking with revulsion on the remains of the fair-haired girl. “My God!” Todd muttered and turned away.

“You think that could be the Cosgrove girl?” Sawasky asked, passing the file over. “Looks about the right age to me.”

“Could be,” he answered, “but she's too decomposed to be sure.” Sawasky picked up the x-ray of the corpse's teeth just as Todd fished the dental records out of the Cosgrove file. They
stared from one to the other. “Yeah,” Sawasky said and he gave a curt nod to the attendant for him to re-zip the white body bag.

“I'll have to get the parents over to
ID
her,” Todd said, watching as the body was returned to Receptacle No. 30.

•  •  •

ONCE AGAIN, ARMED WITH
a brand new wicker basket, Maggie found herself walking up Violet Larkfield's front path. “This is getting to be too much of a habit,” she muttered as she steeled herself for another encounter of the worst kind.

“Thought it'd be you,” Violet greeted her. “He gets you running all his errands, doesn't he?” Grabbing the basket out of Maggie's arms, she pointed in the direction of the all-too-familiar living room. “You can wait in there. Take awhile to round her up.”

Maggie skirted the cat pole that, to her relief, only had a couple of cats on it, neither one the Siamese. She was so concerned with her safety that it was a moment before she saw the man writing at the desk. “Oh, I'm sorry,” she said, “I didn't realize anyone was here.”

He turned toward her. “Come for that cat, I suppose.”

“Yes, I . . . Good heavens, it's Mr. Collins!”

“My aunt said you'd be coming. Take a seat.”

“Your aunt?” Maggie asked with surprise.

“Stephanie's aunt, actually.” When Maggie looked puzzled, he added, “Steph's my wife.”

“Oh, I see. I saw your car here once, but . . . I didn't realize . . .” Her voice trailed off as Collins turned back to the desk. “Have you heard anything more on your brother-in-law?” she asked his back.

Without bothering to face her, he said curtly, “As a matter of fact, I heard yesterday. Sprained wrist, dislocated shoulder and a lot of bruises.”

“Where was he all this time?”

“Victoria General. He had a concussion, and it was days before he was able to tell them who he was.”

“But it's more than a month since he disappeared!”

“Stayed with a friend after he was discharged. The little shit was scared what I might do to him, I suppose.”

“But he must have realized the police would've been looking for him.”

Collins shrugged. “He does now.”

The sharp voice of Violet Larkfield came from the doorway. “There you go again! Picking on the boy when he's down!” She thrust the basket into Maggie's arms. “Here's the cat, and this'd better be the last time.”

“I hope it is too, Mrs. Larkfield,” Maggie answered her sweetly. She turned back to Collins. “Goodbye, Mr. Collins, I'm glad . . .”

“Don't keep her in that thing too long,” Violet interrupted. “Cats hate to be cooped up.” And Maggie once again found herself outside the front door.

By the time Maggie reached the office, Emily was thoroughly fed up with confinement and had set up a constant meowing and pawing at her wicker cage.

“Can't you shut that damn thing up?” Nat said, emerging from his office, looking irritated.

Maggie didn't answer. She just stood there with a wide grin on her face.

“Okay, never mind. Tell me. What happened at Violet's?”

“Phillip Collins! That's what happened.”

“Not another fleeting glimpse of a silver car?”

“In the flesh and sitting in Violet's living room. She's his wife's aunt.”

“Aunt!” he said slowly. “Maggie, it looks like I owe you an apology.”

“You certainly do.” She smiled. “And in exchange, I'll give you
some more juicy news.” She paused dramatically. “Larry has been found—alive and not so well.”

“Has he, by God?” He watched as Maggie released the frantic cat from the carrier. “Where was he found?”

“Collins didn't say where exactly. But he's been in the Victoria General, recovering from concussion, a sprained wrist and a dislocated shoulder.”

“Sounds as if Collins was quite talkative.”

“I might have got more out of him if Violet hadn't come back with the cat. She sure had me out of that front door in a hurry.”

“This puts a different slant on things,” Nat said thoughtfully. He bent down, gave the cat a tentative pat, and returned to his office.

An hour later, Emily, curled up in a fluffy white ball on the visitor's chair, lazily opened one eye to look at Nat as he came from his office.

“I'm off, Maggie,” he said, reaching for his coat. “Got an appointment to set up surveillance for Wong Industries at one.”

“But what about Mrs. Read? She's coming in at one to sign the agreement and collect the cat.”

“Damn! I forgot.” He glanced at his watch. “You don't mind waiting for her, do you?”

“I hope she's on time,” Maggie answered. “Harry came home yesterday and I've shopping to do.”

“Come on! You know you're curious to see what she looks like,” Nat said, and with a wicked grin, he sped through the door.

But it was well after two o'clock before Mrs. Read, a thin, sour-faced woman, opened the door. Her resemblance to Ernie was uncanny.

“It's too hot in here,” she complained, sinking into the nearest chair, “and those stairs are a killer.”

“Why don't you take your coat off and I'll . . .” Maggie began.

“Haven't time.” Dorothy Read fixed her pale grey eyes on Maggie. “Where's that Southby fellow? He's supposed to meet me and go over things.”

“There's only this agreement for you to sign at the moment,” Maggie answered smoothly, putting it in front of her. “He'll be in touch with you later.” She passed a pen over to the woman. “Oh, and we do have your father's cat here for you.” She pointed to the basket behind her desk, where Emily now resided quietly.

“I'm not taking that animal!”

“But Mrs. Read, you've got to take her.”

“Out of the question! I hate all cats and that one in particular.” She set her mouth in a tight line. “Take it to the vets and have it done away with. Put it on my bill. Southby will overcharge me anyway, and a bit more won't matter much.”

Maggie opened the basket and revealed Emily daintily washing behind her ears. “You know, she's quite a nice clean cat,” she pleaded. “And it seems a shame, when your father was so fond of her.”

“That thing hates me. Here, I've signed this.” She pushed the paper back across the desk and got up from the chair. “Anyway, it got him killed, didn't it?”

“Why do you say that?”

“He called me that night.”

“Did he?”

“He'd been looking for the thing all day and he said he was going out again.”

“Can you remember what time he called you?”

“Must've been after six. The old skinflint always waited for the cheap rate time to call me.”

“Did he say where he was going to look?” Maggie asked hopefully.

“Said something about going back to where it was found before.”

“I see. Did your father carry large sums of money with him,

Mrs. Read?”

“You've got to be kidding,” she said, starting for the door. “Kept it all in the bank, he did. And look where it got him—dead, with his head bashed in!”

To Maggie's surprise, there was a catch in Dorothy Read's voice. “Mrs. Read,” she said, “won't you reconsider taking Emily with you?”

“No. You keep the damn thing if you like it so much.” She took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “He wasn't all that bad, you know. You tell that Southby to find out who killed him.” And she stamped out the door.

Maggie sat for a few minutes before picking Emily up in her arms. “Well, puss,” she said, stroking the soft fur, “it looks as if we're stuck with each other.” She eased the squirming cat gently back into the basket. “God knows what Harry is going to say.”

•  •  •

”
YOU KNOW I'M
allergic to cats,” Harry sulked.

“Oh, now, Harry, how can you say you're allergic to cats when we've never had one before?”

“Mother always worried about my allergies and she never allowed a cat into the house.”