Death as a Last Resort

DEATH AS A LAST RESORT

Gwendolyn Southin

Dedicated to my faithful readers who ask for more,
to those who are discovering Maggie and her adventures
for the first time, and as always, to my family and friends.

PROLOGUE
1943–Asyût, Egypt

T
he military police were everywhere. Not that the soldier thought they were following him, but it was a good idea to know exactly where they were.

It was dusk, and the narrow streets were still busy. Carpets were piled on the ground beside stalls where bolts of linens and cottons were displayed beside gaudy vases, figurines, faux relics and souvenirs. Scrawny goats and squawking chickens added to the general confusion of the other vendors hawking vegetables, dried fruits and spices. Women in traditional dress and a few on-leave soldiers fingered the merchandise, haggling loudly before making a purchase, moving from one stall to the next. Between them were small shops and cafés, their owners standing in open doorways to entice potential customers to come inside.

The soldier expertly stepped his way through the throng, dodging sellers and the hoards of ragged children clutching at his uniform. “
Imshi. Imshi.”
he yelled at them. Once free of the children, he glanced in both directions and then entered a small alleyway where he knocked on a scarred wooden door. The woman who answered wore a white linen robe and the traditional hyab so that her hair and shoulders were completely covered.

“
Salam alekum,”
he greeted her.

“Wa alekum es salam,”
she answered, carefully keeping her eyes downcast.

“Bititkalimy Englizee?”
he asked hopefully.

“A little.”

“I,” he touched his chest, “to meet Akhum.” He handed her a sealed envelope. “Give to Akhum.”

Taking the envelope, she moved to the back of the shop and pushed her way through a curtain of brightly coloured beads. He could hear a rapid exchange in an unfamiliar dialect before the beads swung abruptly aside, and a thin-faced man in his late fifties wearing a white jalabiya appeared.

“
Salam alekum
. And how is your respected father?” The man was holding the envelope.

“He sends you greetings, Akhum.”

“Come through. First we have coffee. You follow in your father's footsteps, then?” Akhum said as he poured thick coffee into small cups. “He was in British Army when first we met.”

“He told me you are the best.”

Akhum bowed to acknowledge the compliment. “I have only a few pieces that I can show you now.” Rising, he opened a cupboard and withdrew a cloth-covered packet. “Only a few pieces, as I said, but exquisite.” He unrolled the packet and the lamplight glinted on the turquoise and beaded necklace and bracelet.

The soldier gasped as he picked up the ancient jewellery. “How old are they?”

“They're from the tomb of Maiherpri—Eighteenth Dynasty.”

“How much?”

The haggling began . . .

CHAPTER ONE

M
argaret Spencer was having a terrific day until she found the man frozen in the snow.

She had felt that she was at long last getting the hang of this cross-country ski business. It was all a matter of rhythm, she thought. She leaned to the left to negotiate the next bend in the trail and promptly skidded straight into her partner, Nat Southby, sending both of them flying into the snow-laden bushes.

“Wow!” he gasped as he untangled himself. “And just as I was going to compliment you for catching on so quickly.”

Maggie's reply was a scoop of fresh snow that hit him on the neck with a whomp. “No need to be cocky just because you've been skiing since you were a kid,” she told him. “And,” she added,” if you hadn't stopped right there in the middle of the trail, I'd have been just fine.” Then she started to laugh. “I must admit that I wish I'd taken this up long ago.” Struggling to get back on her feet, she glanced up at the sky. “It's starting to snow again. I guess we'd better get back before it gets any worse.”

“I guess,” he replied reluctantly as he offered her a hand. “There's an easy trail down just ahead,” he added. “We'll make for that.”

Maggie and Nat, the owners of a Vancouver detective agency, had just returned from a snowy Christmas and New Year's in Quebec where Maggie had enjoyed her first experience with cross-country skiing. Now, back in Vancouver on the last day of their vacation, they were trying out their new skis on Hollyburn Mountain.

“Lead on,” she said as she slid her skis to and fro to free the lumps of ice that had formed under them.

Nat waited until a family of four had passed—even the littlest one seemed to be an expert. He pulled on his gloves and pushed back onto the trail. “I'll take it slow,” he teased, “so that you can keep up.”

“I'll get you for that remark later,” she shouted to his departing back.

Fifteen minutes later he came to an abrupt stop at the entrance to a narrow trail. “This leads down to the car park.”

“What's
that,
Nat?” Maggie asked as she caught up to him. She pointed with her ski pole to the right.

He glanced up the side of the mountain that was just visible through the sparse trees. “I don't remember that clearing,” he said. “And by the look of it, I'd say it's been cut quite recently.”

“What a pity,” Maggie answered. “It'll take years before the trees grow back.”

“I heard that some company was going to open several more ski runs up here,” he continued, “but why clear such a big area?” He sighed. “I guess that's progress for you.”

“We should come back and have a look when the snow's gone,” Maggie answered.

“You won't want to see it without the snow. That's the only thing that's hiding the mess the loggers have probably left behind. Come on, let's go. I'm starving.”

Maggie was tiring as she manoeuvred her skis around the final bends on the downhill trail. Then she missed one altogether and fell headlong into a snowbank. She righted herself and then rested a moment, with her back against a snow-covered log. When she realized that Nat would now be far ahead of her, she dug her poles into the snow to get back onto her feet. But her weight shifted the log and she found herself falling back, arms flailing.

“Drat!” Sitting upright again, she slipped the loops of her ski poles from her wrists, unlatched her skis and rolled over onto her knees, dislodging a thin layer of snow from the log. That was when she saw the frozen fingers on the hand that emerged from the snow. “Oh my God,” she breathed. The hand seemed to beckon to her.

“Nat!” Maggie screamed, scrambling on hands and knees to get away from the grotesque fingers.

“I'm coming,” he yelled as he turned and began slogging his way up the trail. “Just stay put.”

When he reached her, he found her standing in the middle of the trail, apparently unhurt. “What's the matter?” he asked.

Her answer was to point down.

“Bloody hell!” He kicked off his skis and knelt to brush the rest of the snow from the log Maggie had leaned against during her brief rest. It wasn't a log at all, but a man. A man who was most definitely dead. And frozen stiff.

Maggie's voice quivered. “His head's covered in blood. Do you think he had a fall or something?”

Nat looked all around, then shook his head. “No broken branches, and he's sort of tucked behind those bushes. Besides, he's not wearing skis . . . or ski clothes.” He got to his feet. “We'd better get some help.”

“You can ski faster than I can,” Maggie answered. “You go and I'll wait here.”

He shook his head. “You're not staying here by yourself. It's already getting dark.”

“But we can't just leave him.” She peered back up the slope. “There's bound to be someone else coming down the trail.”

“I doubt it. We ‘re probably the last on the mountain.” Nat thought for a moment. “Besides, by the look of him, he's been dead for quite a while. Another hour won't make any difference.”

Maggie shivered as the cold wind blew the thickening snow into their faces. “I do hope the police won't want us to come back up here tonight.”

“One of us will have to come back, I guess,” Nat answered. “You got a hanky or something that we can tie on the bushes to mark the spot?”

“Here, take this,” she said, pulling off the red silk scarf that she was wearing and handing it to him.

It seemed an eternity before they reached the parking lot, where they piled their skis into Nat's old Chevy and drove to the nearest phone booth, which was outside a coffee shop.

“They're sending someone,” Nat said after he replaced the receiver, “but they want us to wait back at the parking lot.” He started toward the store. “I'll get them to refill our Thermos, okay?”

They drove back to the deserted lot and huddled close to the Chevy's feeble heater while they sipped their coffee and waited. Finally, a car with the West Vancouver Police insignia on the door drew up beside them. Nat reluctantly pulled himself away from Maggie's warmth and got out to meet the two officers who emerged.

“You the one found the stiff?”

Nat nodded. “I suppose you want me to go up the trail with you?”

“Afraid so. How far is it?” By this time the second officer had opened the trunk of the police car and was busy lighting a gas lantern. “I'm Sergeant Murray and this is my partner, Constable Jefferies.”

Nat nodded acknowledgment. “Southby,” he said. “It's a half mile or so up the trail.”

“Let's get going, then. You get to carry the lantern.”

Nat opened the passenger door of his car. “Will you be okay here on your own, Maggie?”

“I didn't know you had someone with you.” Jefferies walked over to peer into Nat's car. “You saw the dead man, too?”

“Yes,” Maggie replied miserably. “I found him.” All she could think of was being home in her own house by her own fire.

“Don't go anywhere,” Jefferies ordered.

Maggie felt like asking where the hell he thought she would go, but she watched in silence as the three of them, Nat leading the way with the lantern, trudged through the snow and disappeared into the entrance to the dark trail. She took another sip of the now cold coffee, curled herself up on the seat and, hoping she wasn't going to freeze as solid as the corpse, waited.

It was a good hour later before she saw the wavering light coming back down the trail, but she waited until they had reached the car park before opening the door and slogging her way through the deepening snow to meet them.

“Did you find him?” Maggie asked.

“Yeah. Can't move him until the coroner and homicide get here,” Murray answered. “Constable Jeffries will wait here until they arrive. In the meantime, I want you two to follow me to the station.”

Luckily the police station was only a ten-minute drive from the car park, and at least there was hot coffee. Murray took notes as he led them through their finding the body.

“And you're sure you don't know this man? I mean it seems funny that you stumble over a body and you're in the private detective business.”

“We've told you twice that we don't know him,” Nat answered testily. “Now please let me take Mrs. Spencer home. We are both very tired and very cold.”

Murray nodded. “You can go after you've signed a written statement. Be prepared to come in if we need you.”

• • •

BUT NAT AND MAGGIE heard nothing more from the West Vancouver police, and apart from a short item in the newspaper a couple of days later that said the body of an unidentified middle-aged man had been found on the mountain on January 6, the story garnered little attention from the media. The following week was so hectic they completely forgot about the body in the snow. Nat had gone ahead with his plans for expansion by renting the empty office next to the one they already had. It was Wednesday before the builders left after renovating and painting the new room and fitting a door to the original reception area, which was to become the sole domain of Henny, their girl Friday. There was dust everywhere, tempers were short and everything seemed to take twice as long as usual to get accomplished.