Death in a Family Way (3 page)

“You know,” Margaret said, “I almost did.”

“Almost did what?”

“Have second thoughts about coming this morning. I don't know that I'll be able to handle the job to your satisfaction.”

Nat laughed. “You'll be fine, “he said. “In fact, you can get the hang of things right away. I have to go out.”

“Go out?” Margaret was horrified at the thought of being left in sole charge. “What will I do if the phone rings or if someone comes in?”

“Don't worry,” he said as he struggled into his overcoat. “If the phone rings, just take a message. Putter around. You can get acquainted with the office this morning.” Nat opened the door.

“Find out where everything is. In fact, you might as well make a list of the things you'll need to get us properly organized.”

“But Mr. Southby . . .”

“I'll be back in a couple of hours,” he called out as he bounded down the hall to the stairs.

She walked slowly over to the desk and sat down. Then, pulling open the top drawer, she examined the sorry state of accumulated mess. Within minutes she had a pile of candy wrappers, broken pens, pencils and bent paper clips on the desk. Then, with a determined jerk, she yanked the drawer completely out and gave it a bang against the side of the wastepaper basket, making a clean sweep of it.

The telephone rang.

As she reached for the handset, she tried to manoeuvre the drawer back into its slot with the other hand. The drawer jammed. Another push and a sharp jerk sent the telephone flying onto the floor with a crash.

She walked around to the front of the desk and picked it up. “Southby's Investigations,” she said, trying to sound as if nothing unusual had happened.

There was a slight pause. “Mr. Southby?” a man's voice asked.

“He's out. I mean, he's just left.” Then she remembered. “Can I take a message?”

A scratching noise on the outer door distracted her from the call, and as she turned toward the sound, she watched in fascination as the handle slowly turned. “When will he be in?” the man on the phone persisted.

“I'm . . . uh . . . not sure,” Margaret answered. The door had inched open a little more, and she could now see four gnarled fingers slipping around the edge. “He said about a couple of hours.” The door suddenly flew fully open, and there, clinging to the frame and gasping for breath, was a wizened old man. “You're
sure I can't take a message?” Margaret added, trying desperately to keep her mind on the man at the other end of the line.

“No. I'll call back.”

She replaced the receiver and looked enquiringly at the old man.

“Elevator . . . not working,” he wheezed. He tottered over to a chair and sank into it.

“Are you all right?” she asked him. “Can I get you a drink of water?”

“You should get that elevator fixed,” he answered, slowly unwinding a red woollen scarf from his neck. “Those stairs are a killer.” He took off his glasses and wiped them with a grubby handkerchief. “She's gone again,” he said dabbing his eyes.

“Who's gone again?”

“My Emily, of course. She left two nights ago,” he answered, blowing his nose loudly into the handkerchief. He then gave his eyes another swipe and stuffed the offensive piece of rag into his overcoat pocket. “I've come to get Mr. Southby to find her. Like last time.”

Margaret rummaged through the pile on the desk, looking for a piece of paper and a useable stub of pencil.

“When did you see her last?” she asked, pencil poised over the paper.

“You don't listen. I told you . . . night before last.”

“Can I have your name, Mr. . . . ?” she asked.

“What for? Southby knows me.”

“But I haven't had that pleasure,” she answered through gritted teeth. “If you give me your name, I can then pass it on to Mr. Southby when he comes in.”

“Oh, all right. It's Bradshaw. Ernie Bradshaw,” he answered. “But you're just wasting time asking all these damn fool questions.”

“Perhaps you could give me a description,” she said as she wrote
Missing Person
at the top of the piece of paper. “Now, what's the colour of her hair and eyes? And then perhaps you could tell me her size and anything else that would be helpful in finding her.” She sat back, feeling quite professional for asking such pertinent questions.

“I told you, Southby knows all about . . .” The look on Margaret's face stopped him short. “Her hair's white and she's got sort of blue eyes.” He paused for breath. “And she's a bit on the heavy side. Should cut her food down.”

“Perhaps she went to visit a friend,” Margaret said slowly. She was puzzling over the bit about
cutting down the food.

“She went to the McCreedys' place awhile ago, but they kicked her out. She wouldn't go back there.”

“Kicked her out?” Margaret said in a shocked voice. “Why would they do that?”

“You don't know the McCreedys.”

“Perhaps she's not very happy?”

“Not happy? My Emily? Of course she's happy.”

“But if she keeps leaving you . . .” Margaret was beginning to feel out of her depth.

“How can you say she's not happy?” Mr. Bradshaw's eyes began to water, and he added in a choked-up voice, “Don't I give her everything she wants?”

Margaret quickly changed the subject. “Have you thought about giving her a night out?”

“A night out?” The old man looked at her incredulously. “Night out! What would I do that for?”

“Well, if your wife keeps . . .”

“My wife?” he butted in. “What do you mean, my wife?”

“Uh . . . your girlfriend, then?”

“Are you crazy?”

“Who in heaven's name is Emily, then?” Margaret said in exasperation.

“My cat, of course,” he replied scornfully. “Don't you know nothing?”

“Your cat!” She suppressed an overwhelming desire to laugh. “I'm sorry, Mr. Bradshaw, but you see, this is my first day, and I don't know Mr. Southby's clients yet. Give me your telephone number and I'll make sure he calls you as soon as he comes in.”

“He's already got it.” He stood up and rebuttoned his coat. “Just make sure you tell him.” And muttering to himself, he went out.

After the door closed, Margaret put her head down on the typewriter and laughed until tears ran down her face. “A cat!” she spluttered. “My heavens, a cat.”

The urgent ringing of the phone pulled her together.

“Southby's Investigations.”

“You're new. Who are you?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“You sure can. First of all, what's your name?”

“Mrs. Spencer,” she answered stiffly. “And yours is Mr. . . .”

“Well, Mrs. Spencer,” he mimicked her, “give my pal Southby a message. Pink Lady, third, Saturday. Got that?”

“And your name?” she insisted.

“Just tell him Prout called. Prout the Tout—he'll know.” And he burst into raucous laughter at his own joke.

“I'll see he gets the message, Mr. Prout,” she said primly after the laughter had subsided.

“You wanna place a bet yourself?”

“No, thank you,” she answered and firmly replaced the receiver.

Margaret got through the rest of the morning with no further distractions. She cleaned out the desk, typed out a list of supplies she would need and made herself a cup of coffee, having found a fairly new and reasonably clean coffee pot and a hot plate under
the debris on a small table beside the filing cabinets. Nat returned at twelve o'clock.

“How's everything?” he asked cheerily. “No problems, I guess, eh?”

“Mr. Southby, do you happen to know a Mr. Bradshaw?”

“Old Ernie. Sure. What's he want?”

“He's under the impression that you'll find a cat for him.”

“Not that blasted cat again!” Nat took his coat off. “This is supposed to be a detective agency, not a lost and found for cats. Anything else?”

“A man called just after you left this morning, but he wouldn't leave his name. Said he'd call back.”

“Okay. Did you make a list of office supplies?” he asked.

Margaret handed him the list.

“I'm meeting a client for lunch in thirty minutes,” Nat said, looking at his watch. “Why don't you leave at the same time and slip over to the office supply store across the street. Just bill it.” As Nat reached the doorway, he turned and threw a set of keys to her. “Here, these are for you,” he said.

At twelve-thirty, Margaret knocked on Southby's office door. “I'm leaving now,” she said.

He opened the door, shrugging into his coat. “See you in the morning,” he said cheerfully.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Another man called—Prout. Prout the Tout, he said. He told me to tell you Pink Lady, Saturday, third. Does that mean anything to you?”

Nat laughed. “He's got to be kidding. I wouldn't touch that nag for all the tea in China.”

•  •  •

THE NEXT MORNING,
as Harry put down his newspaper to butter his toast, he glanced over at Margaret. “I don't remember seeing that suit before.” Then he frowned. “Are you going out again?”

“I thought I'd go into town since it's such nice weather,” Margaret answered as she stacked the breakfast dishes.
How long will I be able to keep this up?

“It's unusual for you to go out three days in a row,” he persisted.

“For God's sake, Harry, what does it matter?” she snapped, but the look on his face made her feel guilty. “Oh, I'm sorry. I'm just a bit jumpy lately.”

“What you need is a change,” he said, as he neatly folded his newspaper. “Perhaps I can manage to take a couple of days off when the next long weekend comes around.”

“That would be nice,” she said as she reached for a clean dish-towel and began to wipe the crockery. “We could both do with a change.”

“I'm going, Margaret.” She came out of her reverie to realize that Harry was waiting at the front door for his briefcase. “That's the second time I've called you,” he said in an aggrieved voice, as she dutifully handed it to him.

“Sorry, Harry. My mind was on something else.”

He bent and kissed her proffered cheek. “Shouldn't be too late tonight,” he said as she closed the door on him.

It only took a few minutes to fly upstairs and straighten the bed. She grabbed her purse and raincoat from where she'd left them on the hall chair, and then practically ran through the front door, slamming it behind her before jumping into her waiting Morris.

That was nice of Harry to leave the garage door open for me,
she thought as she backed out of the garage.

•  •  •

THERE WAS A NEAT PILE
of new stationery waiting on her desk, and she was happily putting it away in the clean drawers when Nat Southby came in. “Hope that's everything you ordered,” he said as he made for his own office.

“Yes, thank you,” she answered, giving him a shy smile.

The phone rang shrilly, punctuating the moment.

“Southby's Investigations.”

“Did you tell Southby about my Emily gone missing?” She immediately recognized the querulous voice of Ernie Bradshaw.

“Yes, Mr. Bradshaw.”

“You sure you told him? You didn't forget?”

“No. I didn't forget. He will call you as soon as he can,” she said firmly as she replaced the phone.

“Who was that on the phone?” Nat asked.

“Mr. Bradshaw. He wanted to make sure I'd told you about his cat.”

“Oh, hell, I guess I'll have to call Violet.”

“Violet?”

“Violet Larkfield. Loves cats and thinks no one else can take care of them properly, especially Ernie Bradshaw. I expect she's got Emily again.”

A short while later, Margaret heard Nat on the phone. “Mrs. Larkfield? Nat Southby here . . . Yes, fine, thank you . . . Have you seen old Ernie's cat lately . . . ? You have, eh . . . ? Come on, Mrs. Larkfield, it could hardly be lost. It only lives a couple of blocks away . . . Yes, okay. Well, would you hang onto it until I can pick it up? Thanks.”

“Margaret,” he called out. “How'd you like to do me a favour and go and pick up that bloody cat from Violet Larkfield's? Ernie only lives a couple of streets over, but he's afraid of Violet and won't go and get the damn thing. It won't take you too far out of your way. You'll find both the addresses on file.”

Margaret arose from her desk and walked into Southby's office. “Mr. Southby,” she said icily, “I was employed to do
office
work. Do you usually ask your staff to pick up lost cats?”

He looked up at her in surprise and laughed. “Not usually.
But this isn't your usual type of office. Look, I'm sorry, I know it's a pain, but you'd do me a great favour if you'd pick up the animal, then whip it over to Ernie and collect the usual ten-dollar fee.”

“A ten-dollar fee for returning a cat?” Margaret said indignantly. “Do you mean to say you actually charge the poor old man? That doesn't seem very honest to me, Mr. Southby.”

“But that's business, Maggie,” he answered with a grin. “My business, anyway. Hey! That's it.”

“What's it?” Margaret asked.

“Your name, of course. Maggie. Much better than Margaret.”

“But I like my name!”

“No. Too elegant for this place. Maggie it is.”

“But . . .”

“So that's settled then,” Nat said, picking up a sheet of paper. “Call yourself a cab and then leave a bit early, okay?” He picked up some handwritten pages from his desk. “Here, these are some notes to type up on a new client. He phoned yesterday afternoon.”

“It must have been that rather rude man who wouldn't leave his name,” she answered, taking the pages from him. “And Mr. Southby,” she added, turning to go out of his office, “I have my own car, thank you, and I still don't think picking up cats should be part of my job.” She closed his door none too gently behind her.