Death as a Last Resort (5 page)

Stella began digging in her bag for her lighter. “No. Well, yes, I guess there might have been, but they didn't come into the lodge for meals.” Maggie noticed that her hands were shaking quite badly as she lit her cigarette.

• • •

“WAS SHE ANY HELP?” Nat asked, when Maggie returned from seeing Stella out.

Maggie nodded before walking over to the window and throwing it open to clear the smoke. “A regular little goldmine. Sit down and tell me, what's odd about this list?”

She had barely finished reading out the list of people who had been at the lodge when Nat said, “They have nothing in common—different nationalities, different occupations, different social classes . . .”

“And there's something else, Nat. That woman knows something that she doesn't want to tell me.”

• • •

IT WAS AROUND EIGHT o'clock that evening and Maggie had just relaxed by her fireplace when the telephone rang. It was Harry.

“Margaret, I've been worrying about that house you inherited in Quebec.”

“But . . .”

“Just hear me out. I've just heard on the radio that the weather is at its worst back there and you have left the house empty, and you know you can't rely on neighbours. I've talked to a lawyer friend of mine in Montreal, and he's agreed to look after all the arrangements of putting it on the market.”

“Harry, calm down,” she said when he finally paused for breath. “I have rented it to an aircraft engineer and his wife. They're from England, and he's just started working at an aircraft factory in Montreal. Apparently, they are thrilled to bits with the house.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I was only thinking of your interests, Margaret. I still think you should sell it.”

“I probably will one day. Now, how are you, Harry?” She wished she hadn't asked that question when he began to tell her.

CHAPTER FOUR

M
aggie had been wakened several times during the night by the branches on the big old maple tree banging against her bedroom window. Tired and bad-tempered, she groggily made breakfast for herself and the two animals.

“I don't suppose you'd use the back garden?” Maggie asked the dog, who was waiting patiently at her feet with his lead in his mouth. Oscar, reared in the cold winters of Quebec, just thumped his tail and headed for the front door. Emily, looking disdainfully at both Maggie and Oscar, curled herself into a tight ball and went back to sleep in her basket.

The walk in the wet and windy morning did them both good, and Maggie was in a better frame of mind when she let the dog back inside the house. “That will have to do you until Carole comes,” she said as she removed his leash. Carole, a teenaged neighbour, loved Oscar and willingly took him for a walk after school each day.

After making sure the door was firmly locked, Maggie walked down the long back garden to the garage where she kept her car, her mind already on the day ahead.

As usual, Henny was in the office before Maggie and Nat. A sombre grey suit and matching grey lisle stockings had replaced her usual brown serge. The only concession to contrast was a mustard yellow hand-knitted sweater, but her shoes were still her everyday no-nonsense brown oxfords.

“Your face all rosy,” she greeted Maggie.

“I had a long walk with Oscar,” she answered.

“Mr. Nat's old wife called already.”

“And what did Nancy want?”

“She said to tell him she is coming in to see him about ten o'clock.”

“That's all we need.”

• • •

“HOW ARE WE GOING to split these interviews up?” Maggie asked. They were seated in her office, going over the list of names.

“Why don't you tackle Jerrell Bakhash and I'll visit Romeo's Palace? And although you've interviewed Stella Edgeworthy, I'd like to have a chat with her husband.”

“The real estate angle, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“That's a good idea,” Maggie answered. “Although Stella did give us a good description of the guests staying at the lodge, her husband's view could be quite different. Oh, and by the way, did Henny tell you that Nancy's coming in this morning?”

“Yeah,” he grimaced. “Can't think what she wants this time.”

• • •

“I SAW YOU AT the funeral last Thursday,” Nancy hip-checked Nat's door closed and flung her imitation leopard skin coat over the back of a chair. “I suppose it was too much for you to speak to me?”

“Didn't see you, Nancy. What do you want?”

“I want to know how the investigation is going.”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I invested in Maurice's ski resort.”

“What ski resort?”

“It's on Hollyburn.”

“That big clear-cut on the north side?”

“How should I know? I don't ski.”

“Where did you get the money to invest?”

“None of your business,” she said defiantly.

Nat shrugged. “What about the Pender Harbour deal? Did you get involved in that scheme, too?”

Nancy laughed. “You have to have real money for that one. He was asking thirty thousand a share.”

“Well, if you're so worried about your investment, go and see your friend Jacquelyn.”

“She's not a friend, Nat. After all, the girl's only in her early twenties and she hadn't a clue what her husband was up to. She's only interested in getting Maurice's will settled, because she's running out of money. I don't know why she doesn't sell some of that stuff that Maurice collected—there's a whole bunch of these old Egyptian cats and statues and bowls and old jewellery and stuff like that.”

“Have you seen this stuff, as you call it?”

“Yeah. When I was over at her house a few weeks back.”

“How did you meet her, anyway?”

“It was at that presentation lunch for Secret Valley—that's the ski resort
.
She was acting hostess for her husband and his partner.”

“Partner? Who's the partner?”

“Can't remember his name. Anyway, he didn't turn up. But I guess Jacquelyn gets half the ski resort, too.”

“She didn't do so badly for a six-month marriage,” Nat commented, grinning.

“Yeah!” Nancy answered as she pulled her fur coat on. “She's done okay for herself.” Then she added venomously, “Considering she was some kinda dancer when Maurice met her.”

“Oh?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Anyhow, she won't get much out of it if his two ex-wives have their way. They're going to contest the will on behalf of his son and daughter.” And she sailed out the door.

“How about that?” Maggie exclaimed later when Nat had filled her in on Nancy's visit. “That means that we found Dubois's body right next to his own clear-cut.”

“That's something we've got to look into. And we need to know how he found his prospective investors.” He paused for a moment. “When are you going to see Jerrell Bakhash?”

“Tomorrow. I've got a ten o'clock appointment. Isn't that the same time you're seeing Robert Edgeworthy?”

“Ten-thirty, and then I'll drive back to town for my interview with the Grossos.”

• • •

MAGGIE CLIMBED OUT OF her car and approached the front entrance of Jerrell Bakhash and Son. The business was located in the dingiest part of Powell Street. The scarred wooden building with its filthy iron-grilled windows sent a shudder down her spine. She couldn't imagine why anyone would want to work in such an environment. The faded wooden sign nailed to the scuffed front door stated that they manufactured garments for the whole family.

There was no one attending the reception desk. After calling out several times, she realized that no one would hear her anyway over the volume of noise coming from behind two swinging doors. Pushing them open, she found herself in an enormous room, and the noise, she realized, was coming from the row upon row of industrial sewing machines manned by women of all nationalities. A sea of faces glanced up momentarily at her before bending again over their machines. She stood there for quite a few minutes before a woman in the front row yelled at her over the noise.

“There's no work. All machines taken.”

“I'm here to see Mr. Bakhash.”

“Upstairs in his office. Outside.” She turned her attention back to her machine.

Feeling suitably dismissed, Maggie went back into the deserted reception area.
Outside! Did she mean outside the building?
Then she saw a narrow uncarpeted staircase to the right of the entranceway and a small sign pointing upward.
Office and Cutting Rooms.

The door at the top of the stairs opened onto a narrow walkway, offices and rooms on one side and a waist-high partition on the other that gave a full view of the dusty sewing room down below. Looking over the railing, Maggie could see that there was hardly any room to move between the sewing machine tables, and she wondered how the women could possibly breathe in the lint-filled air. Mr. Bakhash's office, a large glass-fronted room, was halfway down the walkway. She tapped on the door and pushed it open.

“Can I help you?” asked the secretary, a smartly dressed blonde, probably in her early thirties.

“Mrs. Spencer. I called yesterday.”

“He's expecting you. Go straight in.”

Maggie's feet sank into plush carpet as she walked toward the tall man standing behind a desk piled high with swatches of material. Dark brown hair, brown eyes peering at her through horn-rimmed glasses, he was dressed in a well-cut heather tweed suit. He leaned over the desk to shake hands before indicating for her to sit in one of the visitors' chairs. He took a sip from a small cup containing thick Turkish coffee before he turned to Maggie. “Now what's this about?”

“It's about Mr. Dubois,” Maggie answered, handing one of her business cards to him. “Our firm has been retained to look into his death.”

“But I hardly knew the man.” Although Bakhash had a strong Middle Eastern accent, his English was perfect.

“But you and your wife were with him at the fishing lodge over New Year's.”

“That was business.”

“You were planning to invest in the St. Clare Cove properties?”

“You know about that? But what has that to do with Dubois's death?”

“We're not sure, Mr. Bakhash. Would you mind telling me how you got on to this venture?” She glanced up at the secretary and mouthed a “thank you” as the girl placed a china cup and saucer at her elbow.

Jerrell Bakhash leaned back into his leather chair, took a puff on his fat cigar and then a sip of coffee before answering. “It was an ad in the
Sun
newspaper,” he said, riffling through the contents of the wallet he'd taken from an inner pocket of his jacket. “I thought I had kept it, but I guess I must've thrown it out. Anyway, it said in essence that an invitation was extended to discriminating investors interested in an ‘unusual business adventure.' So I answered it and the upshot was an invitation to this lodge—meals and accommodation included.” Then he added with a sly grin, “Who's going to turn down an offer like that?”

“And did you?”

“Did I what?” He looked puzzled for a moment before leaning toward her. “Oh, you mean did I invest? It has its possibilities, but . . .” Slowly he shook his head. “The area is very, very beautiful but it is also very remote.”

“But there is a road all the way to Pender Harbour, isn't there?”

He nodded in agreement. “But imagine anyone slightly interested in the project who has already been on a ferry that has taken forever to cross from Horseshoe Bay to Gibsons Landing, driven over ten miles to get to Sechelt and then has to face at least another ten miles of a road that twists and turns like a drunken snake.” He paused. “Have you been there?”

“Once. But I was a guest offshore, on one of the islands,” Maggie answered, recalling her imprisonment and escape from the island on her very first case with Nat. “But I have to agree with you, it is very beautiful and there must be a lot of people looking for that that kind of tranquility.”

He nodded. “You may be right. Now what did you want to know?”

“Exactly what was Mr. Dubois offering his prospective customers?”

“I think he bought the place figuring he would make money on it as a resort, but it is very old and rundown and it would take a helluva lot of money to fix it up.” He gave a laugh. “So the only way Maurice was going to get his investment back was to parcel it up in lots and sell them.”

“Were you out fishing with the others the day that Dubois took off?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he answered. “There were so many of us that we had to take three boats out. I was with a young man named Noah Smith. Didn't stay out long. Man's a complete bore and the fish weren't biting.”

“Was Dubois there when you got back?”

He shrugged. “Didn't notice. My wife was playing bridge or something, so I went back to our cabin to sleep.”

“Do you think I could talk to your wife?”

“What's the point? She's talked to the police and told them she didn't see Dubois take off.”

“I'll only contact her if I think it's necessary, okay?”

He shrugged. “Phone her first. Miss Willis will give you the number.”

“Thanks for letting me take up your time,” Maggie said, rising from her chair.

“How'd you like a look around?” he asked, opening the door for her. “Come along. I'll show you the cutting room.”

“Thanks. I'd like that,” she answered. “I've always wanted to know how ready-made garments were cut out.”

“It's the same as when you sew at home,” he replied, “but on a much bigger scale, as several garments are cut at the same time.”

“By hand?” Maggie asked.

“No, no!” he laughed. “A cutting machine. Like a big cookie cutter.”