Death on a Short Leash (16 page)

“Good idea,” he answered, clearing a space on the bed. “I'll lay everything out here where I can go through the pockets before packing them.” But apart from a couple of theatre stubs and several books of matches that had obviously come from nightclubs and restaurants, there was very little to show for the double life the girl had led.

Maggie was down to the last drawer when she tried to pick up several sweaters at once, and they spilled out of her hand with a thump caused by a brass-locked diary, the kind so popular with teenagers.

“Look,” she said quietly, passing it over to Nat.

“Locked,” he said as he took it from her. “Where would she keep the key?”

Maggie sat back on her heels. “Probably in her jewellery box.” She hauled herself to her feet. It took only a minute for her to locate the key in a small drawer of a wooden jewellery box. “Shouldn't we pass it over to the Evans?”

“Not until we've looked at it first,” Nat answered, unlocking the book and slipping it into his pocket. “I've about done here, how about you?” He moved toward the doorway. “I think Peterskill's arrived.”

Rolland Peterskill obviously had money. A man in his late forties, he was slightly Nordic-looking—fair skin, blue eyes, blond wavy hair—and he wore an immaculate grey silk suit. When Maggie and Nat walked into the room, he had his arm around Marie's shoulders. “I am so sorry,” he was saying. “So very sorry. She was like a daughter to me.”

Seeing Maggie and Nat, Marie gently pulled herself away from him and dabbed her brimming eyes. “These are the investigators looking into Johanna's death,” she said in a choked voice. “Nat Southby and Margaret Spencer.”

Peterskill extended his hand. “I hope you manage to find the murdering bastard that killed our little Johanna,” he said. “If there's anything I can help you with, please call me.” He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket. “And I mean anytime.” He handed Nat a gilt-edged business card.

Nat glanced at the card before pocketing it. “Your office is on Georgia Street,” he said, noting the address. “That the same office block as Nash Advertising?”

Peterskill was surprised. “Yes. You've been there?”

Nat nodded.

“Nash isn't in any trouble, I hope?” Peterskill said, laughing.

Nat smiled. “No.” He turned back to Marie Evans. “We packed everything in the bedroom,” he said. “And if there's nothing else we can do for you, Maggie and I should get back to the office.”

“Did you find anything helpful?” David Evans asked.

Nat shook his head.

“Well,” Marie said, “thank you for your help.” She paused, staring at the pile of boxes in the middle of the room. “Luckily, Mr. Peterskill's new tenant wants to buy the furniture, and the clothes are going to the Salvation Army. There's only that small box of things to take over to Johanna's friend Laura.”

“We'll take it for you,” Nat said, picking up the box. “We're stopping in to see her, anyway.”

When Laura opened the door, it looked as if she had been crying. “Everything okay?” Maggie asked.

The girl nodded and invited them in, closing the door behind them. “I saw Johanna's parents had come to pack up her things . . . it's just got to me, that's all. Is this for me?” She took the box from Nat's arms. “Did I see Mr. Peterskill there?”

“Yes,” Maggie answered. “He seems a very nice person. He's very upset about Johanna.”

“He knew her since she was a kid.”

“What about you?” Nat asked. “How long have you known him?”

“A couple of years. Since I rented this place.” She turned and placed the box on the wicker sofa. “I answered an ad in the
Sun.
”

Maggie looked around the comfortable room. “I remember you saying you had to have two jobs to be able to afford the rent here. What do you do?”

“Uh . . . receptionist,” she answered.

“And your second job?” Nat asked. The phone rang.

“Waitress,” she answered. “At a restaurant down the road.” She sat at the small telephone table and drew a notepad toward her. “Hello. Where?” She quickly wrote an address down. “Eight o'clock. Okay.” She replaced the phone and turned to them. “I hope you don't think I'm rude, but I'm running a bit late.”

Maggie glanced at her watch. “My, I didn't realize the time. Midge will be wondering what's become of me. Would you mind if I used your phone to call my daughter?”

“Of course not,” the girl answered, tearing the top sheet off the notepad and pocketing it. Maggie picked up the receiver and dialed the operator. “I'll have to call the operator for her new number.” Giving the operator Midge's address, she picked up Laura's discarded pencil and wrote the number on the notepad, then dialed the number. Midge wasn't at home.

“What was all that in aid of?” Nat asked later, holding the passenger door open for her. “You know Midge's number off by heart.”

Maggie spread the sheet of paper out on her lap. “I wanted to see the address Laura wrote down. And it certainly isn't a restaurant,” she added, peering at the indentations on the paper. “It's the Georgia Hotel. Suite 406.”

“Perhaps it's a friend staying there.”

“She didn't sound friendly on the phone.”

Nat shrugged. “Well, I suppose it's her business.” He started up the car. “Let's grab some lunch and have a look at the diary.”

“Nothing much here,” Nat said despondently, handing the diary across the lunch table to Maggie. “Lot of girl stuff. Doesn't look as if she's kept it up for months.”

Maggie leafed through the pages and noted dates, parties, phone calls, but as far as Maggie could see, the girl hadn't made any entries for nearly six months.

“We may as well give this to her parents,” she said, closing the book and returning to her bacon and tomato sandwich.

“Before we do that, why don't you take it home and go through it page by page?” Nat suggested. “Maybe you'll see something we've missed.”

She nodded and slipped the diary into her handbag. “I'll give you a call if I find anything interesting.”

• • •

THAT EVENING, AS MAGGIE
settled in a comfortable old bathrobe before the fire, she was glad she had told Nat that she needed the rest of the weekend on her own. She was constantly aware how easy it would be to slip into a more permanent relationship, but she dreaded losing her newfound freedom after the claustrophobic life that she'd had with Harry. And to her continuing surprise, Nat understood.

She went through the little diary several times, and the only fresh information she found was that Johanna had known Hans Van Dyke longer than six months, because the initials HVD started to come up before Christmas of the previous year. The last entry beside his initials, written in May—about three months before she was killed—had the brief notation, “Getting too serious, time to call it quits.”
That's curious. Hans spoke as if they were still dating. Maybe she changed her mind.
Then as she put the book back into her handbag, she thought,
Perhaps the parents liked him more than Johanna did.
She had just settled Emily on her lap to watch TV when the phone rang. It was Joan Betteridge.

“Thought you'd like to know that my next-door neighbour has just left in his car.”

I've a feeling I'm going to regret asking Joan for help
, Maggie thought.

“Took a suitcase with him,” Joan continued.

She must be constantly looking out of her window.

“Thought you'd like to know.”

“He could be taking a few days off,” Maggie replied at last.

“I bet he's gone on a spree,” Joan answered nastily.

“He could have gone to be with his wife.”

“But where is she then?” Joan Betteridge persisted. “You know how he lied about her mother being ill.”

“Perhaps he had a good reason,” Maggie answered cautiously. “After all, we don't really know all the circumstances.”

“He could've done away with her,” Joan answered ghoulishly. “Do you think we should call the police?”

“No,” Maggie said in alarm. “He could sue you for everything you've got if you make accusations like that.”

“But where is she?”

“Maybe she just needed time away from him.”

“But I told you he practically pushed her into the car. And it still seems fishy to me.” Silently, Maggie had to admit that it all seemed very fishy to her, too. “I think I'll slip into the house,” Joan continued, “and have a look around.”

“You can't do that! You might get caught!”

“But he left with a suitcase,” Joan countered,“and I know where Pru hides her key . . .”

“Wait there,” Maggie said firmly. “I'm coming right over.”

“Great! I'm glad you agree. Come in by Forty-third Avenue,” she said conspiratorially. “Park your car and then walk along the back alley to the fifth house. I'll wait behind their garage.” The alleyway was unlit and potholed, and Maggie, using her flashlight sparingly to grope her way, wondered if she was doing the right thing.
Nat will be furious if he finds out, but I can't let her go into the house on her own. Ah! This must be the one.
Quietly opening the gate, she stepped into the Williams' well-tended garden. Unlike her own place, where the garages were entered from the back alley, the houses on Wiltshire in Kerrisdale were much larger and the garages were attached and faced the street. In the blackness of the moonless night, the journey up the meandering garden paths amid bushes, plants and trees was perilous, but even though the Williams house was in complete darkness, Maggie was very reluctant to use her flashlight. She drew in a sharp breath as Joan materialized from behind a huge rhododendron.

“Thought you'd never get here,” Joan whispered. “Come on.”

“Perhaps this isn't such a good idea,” Maggie whispered back.

“We're trespassing.”

“You want to know what's happened to Pru, don't you?” She opened the back door into the garage. “We'll make it quick.”

“Yes, but there are other ways to find out.”

“No time like the present. Wait there while I find the light switch.”

“No! For God's sake,” Maggie hissed sharply. “Use your flashlight! You said you knew where the key was.”

“It
was
over the door,” Joan said, mounting the two steps to the door that led into the house and reaching up to run her hand along the ledge. “But it doesn't seem to be here now.”

Maggie swept the flashlight beam over the neatly kept shelves with their tins of nails, screws and other assorted hardware, then over the wooden workbench, the stacks of flowerpots, garden tools and a pegboard that was nailed to the wall—Williams kept his tools in rigid rows. “You absolutely sure it's not over the door?”

“Positive.”

Maggie mounted the steps and ran a hand along the top of the door frame. The sound of a car passing the house made her freeze and turn sharply, causing the small mat on the top step to ruckle under her feet. Bending down to straighten it, she felt a familiar shape. “Voila! One key. Now, where do we go from here?”

“Bedroom, of course,” Joan answered. “I'll lead the way.” A short passage led them past a small laundry room and downstairs toilet before they emerged into the stone-tiled hallway where the stairs curved to the upper floor. “The master bedroom's in the front.”

“Make sure the drapes are pulled,” Maggie said, following closely on Joan's heels. “We don't want the people opposite getting suspicions. They're likely to call the police.”

”Yeh! They're a nosy lot,” Joan answered.

Maggie suppressed a smile. “It looks awfully tidy,” she said as she stood just inside the bedroom.

“Cleaning lady came the day before Williams took Pru away,” Joan explained. “Comes in once a week. So what do we look for?”

“Anything that gives us a clue where Pru's gone,” Maggie replied as she opened the mirror-fronted closet doors. “By the look of this closet,” she added, “Pru was travelling light.”

“Why do you say that?” Joan asked, coming to stand next to Maggie.

“It's jam-packed and there are only a couple of empty hangers.”

The drawers of the vanity were the same—crammed with lingerie, stockings, scarves, gloves. “What was she wearing when she left?”

“Slacks and a sweater. Pink, I think . . .”

“Do you see anything else missing?”

“Not really. Let's look in the bathroom.”

In the bathroom, toothpaste, toothbrushes, soaps and creams were scattered over the yellow-tiled countertop and around the oval sink. An open cosmetic bag, its contents spilling onto the counter, lay beside several lipsticks, eyeshadow and mascara.

“I don't think she would've gone far without her makeup,” Joan commented. “I've never seen her without it, even when she's sloshed.”

Maggie swept the beam of light around the bathroom and then moved back into the bedroom. “I don't see any sign of that velvet housecoat she was wearing on our first visit. I'll bet it was in the suitcase Williams took with him tonight.”

“But why didn't she take it and her makeup and toilet stuff when she left?”

“Did she have a suitcase with her?”

“I didn't see one, but by the time I looked out of my window, he was already pushing her into the passenger seat.”

“Let's have a quick look into the other rooms and then get out before he comes back,” Maggie said, moving along the passageway and peering into the other rooms. There were two more bedrooms, another full-sized bathroom and a very small room that looked as if it had been converted into a study. As it was located at the back of the house, Maggie made sure the blinds were down and then switched on a desk lamp. A great portion of the room was taken up by a large oak desk, swivel chair and filing cabinet. Moving behind the bare desk, she pulled open the top drawer. Nothing of interest—pens, pencils, the usual. The next drawer contained a neatly kept household expense book, stapled receipts and bills. The third, a much deeper drawer, held hanging files, which Maggie quickly riffled through. “Aha! Silver Springs Nursing Home.”