Death as a Last Resort (4 page)

“We have to be in the front pew,” the elder of the two announced in a loud voice.

“The front pew is for family, madam,” the usher said quietly.

“We
are
family,” the woman retorted. “Isabelle is Maurice's daughter.” And pushing the poor man aside, she sailed down the aisle, dragging a very reluctant teenaged girl behind her, and they ensconced themselves in the family pew.

The organ music suddenly quieted and the usher, with a look of panic on his face, grabbed Maggie's arm, rushed her and Nat to the front and practically pushed them into two seats near the choir stalls.

“At least we can see what's going on,” Maggie whispered.

“Shh!” Nat hissed as the incense bearer and the priest entered the nave, followed by the coffin with a huge ornate floral arrangement on it and three pallbearers walking on each side. Jacquelyn Dubois, leaning on a now obviously embarrassed Arnold Schaefer, sobbed daintily into her black-edged handkerchief. But Maggie noticed that the tears dried up very quickly when Jacquelyn realized that wife number two and daughter were sitting in her place and wife number one and son were coming up fast behind her.

Arnold Schaefer bent over wife number two. “Please move along, Edith,” he said, but Edith Dubois wasn't about to be jockeyed out of her spot. She totally ignored him.

“Get out of my seat!” Jacquelyn hissed. Then realizing that Edith was not going to move and that the congregation was agog at this sudden drama, she furiously climbed over the huge tapestry hassock and sat down—only to have to get up again as wife number one and son pushed past mother and daughter and then Jacquelyn to sit down on her left. Jacquelyn looked wildly about for Schaefer, but he had quickly left the arena and crossed the aisle to sit with his well-dressed wife, who was in a wheelchair.

Maggie was hoping there would be more fireworks, but Jacquelyn, realizing that she had been out-manoeuvred and that she was playing to a church full of people, sank onto her knees on the hassock, doing a fairly good imitation of the exhausted widow overcome with grief.

The funeral, accompanied by a full mass, droned on. The priest, who obviously had never met the deceased, extolled all his wonderful qualities as a husband, father and breadwinner. “I wonder if he knows that there are three Mrs. Duboises sitting in the front pew?” Maggie whispered to Nat.

“He's probably getting a huge donation from the merry widow,” he whispered back, “so doesn't care how many wives there are.”

The long service finally came to an end, but Maggie and Nat waited until most of the congregation had filed out of the church before following the procession to the cemetery.

• • •

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL winter day, and the 106 landscaped acres of Mountain View Cemetery on Fraser Street were at their best. “What a gorgeous place,” Maggie breathed as they parked the old Chevy.

“You haven't been here before?” Nat asked, surprised. “All my relatives are buried here.”

“Look,” Maggie said, pointing. “The hearse has arrived, and there's all the family. Come on.” She grabbed Nat's hand.

“But apart from the three merry widows,” Nat panted as he followed her, trying to get his breath,“we really don't know who to look for.” He stopped short. “Isn't that old George over there?” George Sawasky, a detective sergeant in the Vancouver Police homicide squad, had been Nat's partner when he had been in the force.

“He's seen us. Why don't you go and have a word with him,” Maggie replied, stopping beside a huge maple tree. “I'll watch the show from here.”

“Good idea!”

Maggie watched him walk toward his old friend before she too moved a little closer to the circle of people around the grave. She stopped beside a woman, probably in her early thirties and dressed in a mid-calf, dark grey wool coat, standing apart from the others.

“I can't believe dear Maurice has gone,” the woman said suddenly. “He was so full of life.” She wiped her eyes. “And to think that we were with him just a few days before he died.”

“Had you known him long?” Maggie asked, pulling up her coat collar against a sudden gust of cold wind as it swept across the open cemetery.

“Quite a few years,” she replied. She attempted to push a few stray strands of auburn hair back under her black felt hat before continuing. “He was a real ball of fire before that Jacquelyn got her . . .” She stopped suddenly. “I mean, before he married Jacquelyn.”

Maggie had a sudden thought. “You didn't happen to be up at the fishing lodge with him over New Year's?”

“We were, as a matter of fact,” she answered. “That's my husband, Robert, over there. He was one of the pall bearers.” She pointed to a tall, stern-looking man standing beside another couple. “Why?”

“My partner and I are looking into Maurice Dubois's death.”

“Are you the police?”

“No,” Maggie answered. “Private investigators. Look, I've a list that Mr. Schaefer gave me. Would it be possible for you to help me match up some names with the people here?”

“I'm not sure . . . perhaps you should ask Robert.”

“And your name is . . . ?” Maggie said as she whipped the list out of her handbag.

“Stella, Stella Edgeworthy.” Reluctantly, she took the list from Maggie's hands and looked around her. “Well, for a start, that couple standing over by that ugly stone angel are Jerrell Bakhash and his wife, Sharifa. He's Lebanese and I think she's Egyptian. Funny mix, eh?”

“Well, it's the same part of the world, I guess. What line of business is he in?”

“He's got some kind of ready-made garment factory. The couple next to them own an Italian restaurant . . . Romeo's Palace or something like that . . . and his name is Dario Grosso, and that's his wife, Hadeya, next to him. She's Sharifa Bakhash's sister.” She stopped and gave a slight nod toward the open grave. “You said that Arnold Schaefer gave you this list, so you already know him, and that's Thelma, his wife, in the wheelchair next to Jacquelyn Dubois.”

“Do you know Maurice's former wives?”

“Not really. I heard that Maurice and Annette were very young when they were married and they broke up soon after moving to Vancouver.”

“What about his second wife?”

“Edith? He was married to her for quite a long time—maybe fifteen years. Then, of course, Jacquelyn happened.” She stopped talking as her husband started toward them, and she thrust the list back into Maggie's hands. “Here, you'd better take this.”

“Would you please call me?” Maggie said as she quickly pushed one of the agency's cards into Stella's hands. “You've been such a help.”

“Come along, Stella.” Robert Edgeworthy took his wife firmly by the elbow and hurried her down the path.

“Who's the woman you were talking to?” Nat asked as they walked toward their car.

“Stella Edgeworthy, and she and her husband were on that fishing trip. She gave me quite a bit of information on the other guests, too,” she added as she got into the passenger seat. “Then her husband turned up and hustled her off. I've asked her to call me but I don't expect she will. Why's George here?” she asked as she stowed her handbag on the floor. “Don't tell me he's working on this case, too?”

“Not exactly. The West Van cops have the murder in hand, but George says the Vancouver police have an interest in the late Maurice and his friends.”

“That's going to make things interesting.”

“You can say that again,” Nat said grimly. “Especially if Inspector Mark Farthing gets a whiff we're on the case, too.” Nat and the inspector didn't exactly see eye to eye. When Nat retired from the Vancouver police force, Farthing had taken over his old job. Since that time, the man had been promoted several ranks and really felt his position.

• • •

TO MAGGIE'S SURPRISE, STELA Edgeworthy did phone just after ten the next morning. “Robert said I should call you.”

“That's great!” Maggie said, but she was a little puzzled. Stella's husband hadn't appeared too happy to see them talking together. “You could be a great help in the investigation. After all, you were probably one of the last people to see Maurice alive.”

“I suppose so,” Stella answered. “If you really think I could help . . .”

“What about two this afternoon?” Maggie said. “You have our address?”

“Two's fine.”

• • •

“I'VE NEVER BEEN IN a private detective's office before,” Stella said after Maggie had settled her in the visitor's chair. She had discarded the sombre clothes from the day of the funeral and was now wearing a leaf-green wool dress and matching coat that accentuated her curly auburn hair and hazel eyes. “Whatever made you take up a job like this?”

“Long story,” Maggie replied, smiling. “Now, while we're waiting for Henny to bring in some coffee, what about taking another look at these names and telling me if anyone is missing?”

“For a start,” Stella replied, taking the sheet of paper from Maggie, “there are only six names here.” She laughed nervously. “Of course, Schaefer gave you this, so he wouldn't count the women.”

“I've already found that out,” Maggie said, handing her a pen. “So how about completing the list for me?”

“I see you've filled in the ones I gave you yesterday.” She opened her large handbag and dived down into its depths. Maggie's heart sank as she watched Stella pull out a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter. “You don't mind, do you?” she asked, lighting up before looking down at the list again. “Do you have an ashtray?”

“I don't smoke,” Maggie said pointedly, “but I'll try and find you one.” She pressed the intercom button, hoping that Henny wouldn't panic.

It took a few minutes, but eventually Henny's voice boomed, “What you want, Mrs. Maggie?”

“Have we any ashtrays?”

“Why? Only Mr. Nat smoke.”

“My client needs one.”

“Oh!” Maggie could hear the disapproval. “I find something.”

“And Henry Smith's wife is Rosie. They come from London— Cockneys, I think they're called—and she wears the most godawful clothes you've ever seen. Absolutely no taste whatever.” She flicked her ash onto the carpet just as Henny walked in carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and an extra white china saucer.

“Here,” Henny said pointedly, placing the saucer next to Stella. “For ash. And here is coffee.”

“Uh . . . thanks.” Stella glanced back at the list. “Where was I?”

“You were describing Rosie Smith.”

“They own the Exotic Eastern Emporium on Pender.” Stella gave a derisive laugh. “It's sort of an antique store. And their two sons were there, Job and Noah. A couple of thugs, if you ask me.” She took a drag before carrying on. “And the last name on the list is Liam Mahaffy. He's not married and he's into horses. You know,” she added seeing the confused look on Maggie's face, “race horses. Has a stud farm out in Delta. Oodles of money. And he's quite a dish.”

“So that makes nine men and five women.”

“No, just four women. Thelma Schaefer never comes to things like that,” she answered as she crushed out the cigarette. “And it only adds up to nine men if you count Maurice.”

“Had you met any of them before?”

“Yeah, Maurice had us all come to an
informative lunch,
as he called it.” When Maggie looked puzzled, Stella continued, “You know the kind of thing—overcooked chicken and soggy rice and peas, projector with slides of the area, artist's impression of how it will look when completed . . .”

“You knew Maurice and his wife socially, I take it?”

She shook her head. “Robert knew him through business deals.”

“What kind of deals?”

Stella shrugged. “Robert never brings his business home,” she said evasively.

“Were both the Schaefers at that lunch?”

“Just Arnold. He was very loud and sceptical. Thelma's a real saint to put up with him.”

“Do you know if any of the women have careers?”

“Rosie helps her husband run the Emporium. I don't know about the Egyptian sisters.”

“What does your husband do?”

“Real estate.”

“He sells houses?”

“God, no,” she answered disparagingly. “Big land deals, businesses, that sort of thing.”

Maggie reached across the desk for the list. “So was your husband in on these deals with Dubois?”

She shrugged. “As I said, he doesn't bring business home.”

“Schaefer intimated that Maurice had a roving eye.” Maggie said.

“Well, yes, he liked to flirt. No real harm in it.”

“Did you see him leave the lodge that Saturday?”

“No. But I saw him down on the dock just before lunch. I thought it was odd because I assumed he'd gone fishing with the others, then I got talking to Rosie Smith—she was ranting on about her miserable grandchildren—and I forgot all about it.”

“Did you tell the police you'd seen him on the dock?” Maggie asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

Stella shook her head. “They didn't ask me.” She reached into her handbag for another cigarette and Maggie noticed the slight tremble in her hands as she opened the pack.

“So when did you know that he was missing?”

“When he didn't turn up for dinner that night at the lodge. Arnold went over to his cabin, but there was no sign of him or his gear.”

“Did the lodge organize a search party?”

“It was too dark, so we had to wait until morning, then we split up and searched the trails and along the beach. I don't think anyone looked too hard, because all his stuff was gone from his cabin, you see, so we figured he'd got a lift back to Vancouver.”

Maggie looked up as Nat walked quietly into the room. “Stella, I'd like you to meet my partner, Nat Southby. We're just about finished,” Maggie told him. “Just one more question, Stella. You said you thought he might have got a lift back to the city. Were there other guests at the lodge outside of your party?”