Death on a Short Leash (9 page)

“We just wanted to ask Dr. Williams a few questions about his late employee, Johanna Evans.”

“Johanna . . . poor li'l Johanna. She's dead. Dead as a mackerel.” She gave a huge hiccup. “But you can't ask him any questions, because the bastard's not here.” She opened the door wider. “You wanna come in?” And turning away from them, she wove her way toward an open kitchen doorway at the far end of the hall. “My name's Prudence,” she said, making straight for the oak table that held a large glass pitcher of orange juice. “I'm Pru. Take a pew.” She giggled. “Hate people standing over me.” She pointed to the wooden chairs. “You wan' some . . .” she peered into her empty glass “. . . juice?”

“No, thanks,” Maggie and Nat said simultaneously.

“Sure you do.” Prudence gave a little giggle. “Everybody loves orange juice.” While Pru searched her cupboards for two more glasses, Maggie quickly surveyed the kitchen. A kitchen she would die for. Copper-bottomed pots were suspended over a central working area that also contained a stainless steel sink and oodles of room to prepare food. A large Harvest Gold refrigerator and matching up-to-date stove were on the far wall, and there were masses of glass-fronted cupboards on the two remaining walls. The oak table they were sitting at was set into a recess that overlooked an acre of immaculate lawns, shrubs and autumn flowers, and in the distance, covered in some kind of vine, was an eight-sided gazebo.
Looks as if Dr. Williams is doing all right for himself. This place must employ an army of gardeners.
She stole another look at her tiddly hostess.
I can't see our Prudence getting herself dirty.

By now some of the orange juice from the jug had made it into the two extra glasses, and their hostess, peering at the excess liquid that had spilled onto the table, carefully dabbed at it with her fingers and then slowly licked them one by one. “Here's mud in your eye . . . Now, why would anyone want mud in their eye?” she mused.

Maggie took a sip and then gulped for air. “My God,” she spluttered. “It's nearly straight vodka.” She looked over to Nat, who was just raising his glass to his lips. “Watch it. You're driving.”

He put his glass down. “Perhaps we could ask you a few questions, Mrs. Williams?”

“Call me Pru. Ask me anything you like. But Carl and li'l ol' me aren't exactly buddy-buddy, and he tells me nothing.” She gave a little grin. “Not a shausage.”

“You knew Johanna?” Nat asked.

“Johanna! Ah, yes, Johanna. Sad.” She peered into the now empty jug, tipped it up and shook the last drops into her glass. “I'll get some more.”

“No, no,” Nat assured her. “Perhaps coffee . . .”

“Good idea,” Maggie said, getting up. “Where do you keep it?”

“Instant. Over there,” Prudence pointed toward the stove.

“You sure you don' wan' some more . . . juice?” She reached across the table, picked up his glass and drained it.

“About Johanna,” Nat continued.

“Carl's office . . . nice girl. She liked my little Rosie.”

“Rosie?” Nat asked.

“My little doggie . . . but that son of a bitch took her away.

Said she's sick.” She began to cry. “She's a seal . . . seal . . . you know, cute li'l dogs. Got a black patch here.” A wavering finger indicated the area around her eye. “She's a Sealy-something.”

“Sealyham?” Maggie said.

“Tha's right. Shealyham.” She laid her head on her arms and sobbed. “She was jush in heat, poor li'l thing, but he hates the mess.” She gave a loud hiccup. “Thash weeks ago.”

“Here,” Maggie said, putting a cup of instant coffee in front of her. “Drink this.” She turned to Nat. “She's in no fit state to answer questions. Let's get her to where she can sleep it off.” But before Maggie could get even a few drops of coffee down her, the woman had passed out, sliding from her chair onto the kitchen floor. “Let's get her into that den down the hall,” Maggie suggested. “There's bound to be a sofa or something there.”

It sounded like a good idea, but when they tried to lift Pru, she sagged like a rag doll, and they ended up dragging her down the hall and into the den.

“And what do you think you're doing?”

They were so engrossed in getting Prudence onto the sofa, they hadn't heard Carl Williams enter the house. Startled, they staggered the last few steps and the three of them landed in a heap.

“As you can see,” Nat puffed as he slid out from under the inert Prudence, “we're helping your wife to lie down.”

“I don't appreciate coming home and finding it occupied by complete strangers.” Williams moved toward the phone. “I'm calling the police.” He stopped and looked closer at Nat. “I've seen you before.”

“At your animal hospital,” Nat replied. “And call the police if you wish.” He pulled Maggie to her feet. “It was your wife who invited us in.”

“Well, you can just let yourself out again,” Williams snarled, pointing to the door. “Get out! I won't tolerate seedy, so-called investigators coming into my house or meddling in my affairs; do you understand?” He walked into the hall and opened the front door. “Out!” The door banged shut behind them, but a minute later they could hear him yelling, “What have you told them, you drunken bitch?”

“What a horrible man,” Maggie said, snuggling down in the passenger seat. “Why does she stay with him?”

“Not many women are like you, Maggie. It takes guts to leave a bad situation.”

Maggie shook her head. “But Harry was never abusive. He just took me for granted.”

• • •

THE FOLOWING WEDNESDAY
, Maggie found the brochure from the Silver Springs Nursing Home waiting for her when she arrived home. “Wow!” she exclaimed. She read it through a second time and then slipped it back into the envelope. “Wait until Nat sees this!” And he didn't disappoint her.

“Well, I'll be damned! Our good doctor Williams is a member of the board.”

“And look at the list of benefactors.” Maggie leaned over his shoulder and pointed. “See? Mrs. Prudence Williams.”

“That's odd. Maybe she's the one with the money. I think a little digging into her past might be in order. Get Henny to find out what her maiden name was.”

“She's a Ball-Harding,” Maggie announced later that same morning.

“You don't say! That's very old money.”

“Yep. She inherited a big chunk of property in the downtown area from her grandfather, and she's the only child of Grace and Charles Ball-Harding, so she's set to inherit quite a bundle from them, too.”

“Wonder why she married Williams?” Nat mused.

“Perhaps he was different from the kind of people her parents expected her to marry.” She paused. “They have a home in the British Properties. I've always wanted to see what it's like up there,” she added in a pensive tone.

“You're not going there on your own,” Nat growled. “You have an awful habit of getting into trouble.”

“You don't really think I'd go and knock on their door and ask why their daughter stays with a jerk like Williams, do you?”

“I wouldn't put it past you.” He grinned as he pulled his yellow pad toward him and started to write. “Get Henny to look into aunts, uncles, cousins or close friends. We, in the meantime, should pay the Silver Springs Nursing Home a visit. How about making an appointment to inspect the place for your aging mother?”

Their appointment was for three o'clock the next day.

• • •

HENY HAD LEFT
by the time Nat returned the following morning from his meeting with the prominent architectural firm that had hired him to investigate a case of industrial espionage. “How did it go?” Maggie asked, looking up to watch him throw his hat at the bamboo stand . . . and miss. She was at her desk, eating a sandwich and catching up with the paperwork.

“Fine. They were pleased with our work and paid up,” he answered, bending down to retrieve the hat from the floor. “I'm starved.” He looked longingly at her sandwich. “I missed lunch.”

“Too bad. Tea in the pot.”

“Surely you can spare one little bite.” He skimmed the client's cheque down in front of her. “What will this buy me?”

“That, my friend,” she answered, “goes to pay our bills. It does not buy my sandwich.” She leaned back in her chair and laughed at him. “I love you, Nat Southby.”

“I'm glad about that.” He walked behind her desk, took her hand and pulled her to her feet so that he could wrap his arms around her. “What time do we have to be at that damned nursing home?” he said, giving her a solid kiss.

“At three,” she answered, returning his kiss, “but you have a client in . . .” she consulted the wall clock, “fifteen minutes.”

“Spoilsport.” He gave her an extra hug, grabbed one of her sandwiches and headed for his office. “She makes good sandwiches, too,” he added, grinning. The eraser hit him squarely on the back of his head.

• • •

“DIDN'T TELL YOU
about the letter I received from Quebec, did I?” Maggie said as they drove over the Oak Street Bridge leading to Richmond.

“From the lawyers?”

“No. From a Roberta Hughes. She looked after Aunt Jessie in the nursing home.”

“What did she want?”

“It was just a note saying how much she admired her. Apparently Aunt Jessie left her something in her will.” Maggie was quiet for a moment. “She also said her death was very unexpected.”

“But your aunt was getting on.”

“Not really, Nat. She was only sixty-eight. And that's not old.”

“She must've been very ill then. What exactly was wrong with her?”

“She'd fallen down some steps and broken her right hip and fractured several ribs. According to this Roberta Hughes, Aunt Jessie was ready to return home when she developed pneumonia, and in spite of their giving her masses of penicillin, she died.” Maggie sighed. “It must've been awful for her to be so sick and not have any family at hand.”

“What about her husband's family?”

“He was an only child. I suppose he must have had some relatives, but she never mentioned them to me.” She peered ahead.

“I think that's the entrance to Silver Springs. On the right there.”

They drove through huge wrought-iron gates that opened onto a wide driveway edged with evergreens. Benches shaded by silver birches and Japanese maples lined the winding paths through immaculate lawns. In the distance, Maggie could see a pagoda beside a pond edged with shrubs.

“Stop the car, Nat,” she ordered. “I'll meet you at the front door.” And she hopped out of the car and set off through the beautiful grounds.

Nat drove the Chevy around an ornate fountain, its water circulating through the mouths of four greenish bronze fishes, and parked in the visitor section. “Must cost a bundle to stay here,” he whispered when Maggie finally met him at the front entrance.

“I'm Maggie Spencer,” Maggie said, smiling at the receptionist. “I called yesterday and made an appointment to look over the nursing home.”

“Mrs. Truebody is expecting you,” the receptionist answered. “Down that hall to the right. First door on the left.”

Mrs. Truebody looked as if she'd been cast for one of the British
Doctor in the House
comedy movies, currently being shown in the local theatres—large, high bosom, blue uniform with a wide black belt and white starched lace cap and cuffs.

“You are making enquiries for your mother, I understand. And her name is . . . ?”

“Mrs. Ogilvy.”

Mrs. Truebody nodded sagely. “The department store Ogilvys?” she asked.

“Distant cousins,” Maggie answered vaguely. “Now perhaps you can give me some information on the beautiful facilities you have here.” She paused. “Of course, my mother would require one of your very best suites.”

Mrs. Truebody beamed. “Of course.” She reached for her phone. “I'll get nurse Ellen Raintree to show you around, and afterwards perhaps you will join me for tea?”

Maggie had to admit that the place was lovely. The nursing home was on two floors, the lower level being a small private hospital with full facilities. Immaculate operating and recovery rooms, one- and two-bed private rooms, a fully staffed kitchen and laundry areas. “Does the kitchen provide food for both floors?” Maggie asked.

Ellen Raintree nodded. “The meals are cooked down here and then sent up by silent butler to the residents' dining room.” She led the way to the elevator. “And the dining room is here on our left,” she continued as they reached the second floor. “The lounge is next door, and as you can see, our residents are having afternoon tea.”

Eight women and four men sat around a table by the fire—four of them seated in wheelchairs and attended to by a couple of young candystripers—and apart from briefly looking up when the three of them walked in, they continued eating. The oppressive feeling, Maggie realized, came from the silence, broken only by the rattling of teacups. Though watery rays from the late afternoon sun splashed over the rose-coloured carpet and furnishings, the residents seemed oblivious to anything but the food that they were stuffing into their mouths. She walked over to the sliding doors that opened onto a long enclosed balcony, which ran the length of the building.

“Beautiful gardens, aren't they?” Miss Raintree said at her elbow.

Maggie nodded. “Do the residents use them?”

“On occasion. When the weather is warm. I'll show you suite 212 now.” She led the way out of the room. Suite number 212 was indeed beautiful. It held a three-quarter bed with satin bedspread, a wing-armed chair covered in the same cretonne as the drapes, a small round table with two upholstered side chairs, and an immaculate bathroom with shiny chrome handrails.