Death in a Family Way (4 page)

Nat grinned as he made a grab for the pile of papers that tried to take off in the sudden draft.
She'll do, if she sticks around
. . .
she'll do just fine.

What cheek!
Margaret fumed as she rolled a piece of paper into her typewriter.
Picking up stray cats. Who does he think I am?
She smoothed out the piece of paper that Nat had given her.
He ought to do his own dirty work.

Phillip Collins, she read. Twenty-five foot, four-seater Chris-Craft Sportsman. Name:
Seagull,
inboard engine, missing five
days. Police not informed.
WHY NOT?
Nat had underlined these two words heavily.

She was inserting the newly typed paper into a buff folder when her boss came out of his office.

“What about a nice cup of coffee?” he asked.

Margaret pushed herself roughly away from her desk.

“No, no. Don't get up,” he added hurriedly. “I was offering. I'll get it.”

“Well, thanks,” she replied, relaxing a little. “I could do with one, actually.” She knew he was trying to make up for asking her to get Bradshaw's cat, and she hid a smile as he busied himself with the coffee pot.

“It's not that I don't want to get the cat myself,” he explained as he handed the coffee to her. “It's just that I'm pushed for time today. I have an appointment with Phillip Collins at eleven, and then I'm having lunch with George Sawasky, my old partner—a business lunch,” he intoned quickly.

“That's all right, Mr. Southby, I'll get the cat for you.” Margaret felt that she'd been neatly outmanoeuvred. “Just this once,” she added. She looked at the clock on the wall. “And if you've an appointment at eleven with this Mr. Collins, he's ten minutes late.”

As if on cue, the door opened and a tall, lean and tanned man walked in. Margaret put him in his mid-forties.

“Mr. Collins?” Nat asked, extending his hand. “Won't you come into my office?” He turned to his new secretary. “Will you please bring your notebook, Maggie.”

“So you've had a boat stolen?” Nat said after everyone was seated. “Why not call the police?”

“It's a bit awkward, Mr. Southby. Not only is my boat missing, but my wife's young brother has gone missing, too.”

“Do you think he's taken the boat?”

“I've let him use it a couple of times. But he runs around with a rotten bunch.” Collins shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “My wife's been after me not to bring the police in. At least, not unless we have to.”

“When did you realize the boat and your brother-in-law were missing?” Nat looked up from the piece of paper in front of him, where he'd been doodling kites and cubes.

“Five days ago. Larry had asked if he could borrow it, but I refused. Hed left it in such a mess the previous time, y'see.”

“Where do you keep the boat?”

“At the Osprey Harbour Yacht Club. You must know it, out in West Vancouver.”

“Sure, I've heard of it,” Nat replied dryly. “You asked around the club?”

“Naturally,” Collins answered stiffly. “I'm not stupid, Mr. Southby. That's the first thing I did. No one remembers seeing Larry take off.” He reached inside his jacket and drew out a snapshot. “But you'd hardly expect them to notice, would you? With all the coming and going in a yacht club.” He extended the picture to the detective. “That's what she looks like.”

The picture showed Collins with a small blond woman, much younger than himself, standing on a dock beside a sleek blue and white runabout. The name
Seagull
was lettered on her bow.

“She looks very new,” Nat commented.

“She's a couple of years old, but I take good care of her,” Collins answered. “That's my wife standing in front of her,” he added, holding out his hand for the picture.

“Could I keep this for awhile?” Nat asked.

Phillip Collins hesitated, and then nodded. “All right, if it will help get her back. That boat's worth twenty grand.”

“I'd like some more details on your brother-in-law. Address, habits, friends. That kind of thing.”

Collins thought for a short while and then said, “He's twenty-two, single, has an apartment over in Richmond, and works in a used car lot on No. 3 Road—it's also in Richmond.”

“Does he live alone?”

“As far as I know,” Collins answered shortly. “I'll kill that little bugger when I get my hands on him.” He stood up. “Anything else you want to know?”

“Well, give Mrs. Spencer Larry's full address and place of work, where you work and a telephone number where we can reach you.” Nat stood up. “I'll also need the boat's registration number and berth number at the club. Then I'll start making enquiries and get back to you as soon as possible.”

“Do you think it will be necessary to bring the police into this, Mr. Southby?” Collins asked.

“We'll be as discreet as possible. I was on the force myself, and I know my way around without making too many waves.” Nat shook hands and nodded toward Margaret. “Now if you'd just be good enough to give my secretary here all the details, we'll get on it.”

Collins followed her out of Southby's office, and a short time later the outside door closed with a click. Nat opened his own door, and crossing Margaret's office to look out of the window, he gave a low whistle.

“Wow,” he said softly. “Would you look at that baby.”

She joined him at the window and looked down to the street below. Collins was slipping behind the wheel of a silver-grey Jaguar. “All that on soap!” she said incredulously. “Imagine that.”

“Soap?” Nat asked, mystified. “What do you mean, soap?”

“Oh, didn't you know?” she replied with an impudent grin. “The Sudsy Specialty Soaps Company. They sell all kinds of cleaning materials as well as soap.”

“Never heard of it,” her boss replied.

“I received a gift package of their products through the mail once. It's surprising how very good it is.”

“See how useful you are already?” Nat said with a grin. “You got all that valuable information about a client without me having to say a word.”

“His father actually owns the company. Phillip Collins is the vice-president,” she added.

“And how did you deduce that piece of information?”

“He gave me this,” she answered with a laugh, and handed him a black-and-gold embossed business card.

Instead of being peeved at Margaret's little joke, Nat seemed pleased by it. “I knew I was doing the right thing in hiring you,” he said, grinning.

Margaret drove to the Kitsilano address that she had found for Violet Larkfield in the files, and parked her car outside a grey stucco house with white trim. She could see a tangle of lilac, cedar and holly branches poking through the broken palings of the tall wooden fence that enclosed the property. The wooden gate protested when she pushed it open to walk up the stone-flagged path.

She paused to look at a colourful clump of mauve crocus that nestled beside the footpath. Glancing around the corner of the house toward the backyard, she could see daffodils in bud beneath the bare branches of the gnarled oak and two maple trees.
How very pleasing,
she thought, and turned to climb the three stone steps to the front door. To her astonishment, the door was suddenly jerked open.

“What do you want?”

In the doorway stood a tall gaunt woman dressed in a brown tweed skirt and a beige sweater. Her iron-grey hair was pulled back into an untidy bun. “What do you want?” she repeated, her steely blue eyes fixed on Margaret.

“I've . . . uh . . . I've come about the cat.”

“What cat?”

“Mr. Bradshaw's cat.”

The woman bent down and picked up the tabby that was winding between her legs. “I thought that Southby feller was coming for it.”

“He sent me instead.” Margaret felt her cheeks flush.

“Why?”

“I'm his assistant.”

The woman looked Margaret up and down and grudgingly opened the door a bit wider. “Suppose you'd better come in.” She turned and led the way into a large, over-furnished room.

The room's inhabitants, Margaret realized, caused the distinct odour of cat. On every available chair, table and cushion sat a cat. And in one corner, a pole had been fixed from floor to ceiling with five padded platforms. On every platform was a cat.

A large Siamese on the top platform slowly got to its feet, fixed its china-blue eyes on Margaret, arched its back, stretched its legs and hissed. Then, with a blood-curdling yowl, it sprang through the air and landed on Margaret's shoulder. She shrieked and tried to push the animal off. Giving her an extra dig with its claws, the cat leapt onto the back of the sofa, from where it eyed her with contempt.

“There, there, Satan my pet. Did she frighten you, then?” Mrs. Larkfield scooped the cat into her arms. “You should learn to have more self-control,” she said, turning on Margaret. “Cats are very sensitive, you know.”

“I didn't do a damned thing to it!” Margaret replied, rubbing her neck. “Which one's Mr. Bradshaw's cat?”

“I'll have to go and find her,” Mrs. Larkfield answered, replacing the Siamese on its perch. “You can sit down if you want.” She turned and walked out of the room.

Better said than done.
With one eye on the Siamese, Margaret walked warily around the room, wondering which cat to evict, until she saw a small grey kitten curled up on an armchair.
At least
it's not likely to retaliate.
Gingerly, she picked the kitten up, and to her relief, it began to purr. She sat down with it on her lap.

The stuffiness of the room and the quietness seemed to close in on her. Suddenly, the ornate clock on the mantlepiece striking one o'clock shattered the silence, giving the full Westminster chimes. She looked around at the cats, but they sat as still as statues, all staring back at her.

“Well, kitty,” she said softly, “at least
you
don't seem to mind me holding you.”

The kitten stretched its claws and dug them into Margaret's leg, kneading in ecstasy. Carefully unhooking them, she stroked its head.
Where is that dratted woman?

“Don't be so stupid!” she heard Violet Larkfield's sharp voice say. “You're always picking on him.”

“For God's sake,” a man's voice answered, “keep your voice down.”

Her curiosity aroused, Margaret got up from her chair, placed the kitten on its cushion and then walked quietly toward the door, but all she could hear was a low muttering. The voices stopped and a door banged shut. The note of a powerful car engine made her walk quickly to the window that overlooked the back of the house. It was then that she realized that the house had a driveway, but its approach was from a side street. She was just in time to see a flash of silver as a car pulled away from the garage and disappeared down the street.
That's odd. I've seen that car before.

There was a cough behind her, and Margaret whirled to see Violet Larkfield standing in the doorway, holding a wicker cat basket. A white Persian cat was trying its best to poke its paws out through the door of the basket.

“Enjoying my view?” she asked sarcastically. “This is what you came for, isn't it? And,” the woman continued, thrusting the
basket into Margaret's arms, “you can tell that Ernie Bradshaw that I want the cage back.”

“I'm sure he will gladly return it to you,” Margaret answered tersely as she walked toward the front door.

“And another thing, you tell him from me that there won't be a next time. She comes back here, it's here she stays.” And she practically shoved Margaret through the door and slammed it shut.

“Now to get you back to your grateful owner,” Margaret said through gritted teeth. The basket seemed to weigh a ton, the door was loose, and with the cat yowling inside, she found it hard to carry it in a dignified manner toward her car. She finally stopped to put a bobby pin on the latch, frustrated and certain the odious woman was watching her every step from the house.

“Pipe down!” she told the cat as she opened the rear door and practically threw the basket onto the back seat. “You just wait until I see you in the morning, Mr. Southby,” she muttered under her breath. “No wonder he didn't want to collect the wretched animal.”

Ernie Bradshaw lived on Eighth Avenue, just two streets over from the Larkfield residence. It was starting to rain as she walked up the broken concrete path that led to a scarred brown front door. She set the basket containing the cat on the ground and looked for a doorbell. There wasn't one. She banged on the door with her fist. Except for Emily's plaintive meows, all was silent.

“That's all I need, for him to be out,” she said angrily and banged again. This time there was a faint shuffling noise and sounds of chains and locks being undone. The door opened a crack, just enough for her to see Ernie's surly face peering at her through the opening.

“You've got her then?”

“Yes, Mr. Bradshaw.” She forced the door open and plunked the basket at Ernie's feet. “Mrs. Larkfield found her wandering in her garden and took her in. And she wants this basket back.”

“Catnapped, more like.”

Her self-control snapped. “Mr. Bradshaw,” she said haughtily, “I would suggest that you begin to take more care of your pet.”

“Hey! You can't talk to me like that . . .”

She started to turn away from him in disgust. “If she disappears again, you know where to look for her, don't you? Oh,” she added, “that will be ten dollars.” Gone were her scruples about taking money from a poor, lonely old man. In fact, she felt it should have been double.

Grumbling, Ernie shuffled back into the darkness of the narrow passageway to reappear a short time later, carrying a handful of crumpled bills. He thrust them into her hands, saying, “Highway robbery I calls it. And I'm going to complain to Mr. Southby about your attitude.”