In the Shadow of Death

IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH

Gwendolyn Southin

To my family—Roger, Steve, Wendy and Peter—May your future retirements be as much fun as mine! To Vic for our many RV travel adventures researching material for my books, and of course—
The Quintessential Writers
, Betty, Rosella, Maureen and Dorothy—for just being there.

“T
here are problems.”

“What do you think I pay you for?” Over his steel-rimmed glasses, Lenny Smith glared at the well-dressed, slightly built lawyer. “You're supposed to look after all the problems.”

Harry Spencer inched closer to the edge of his chair. “But do you really want to acquire a fraudulent business? Friendly Freddie's Used Cars has been operating very close to the line, certainly. Over it, probably. Some of their dealings are . . . ” he paused, “highly questionable.”

“How do you think I made my money?” Lenny answered. “Being weak at the knees?”

“But . . . ” Spencer stammered, “what about your good name?”

“I'll worry about my name, Spencer. You just get them to take my offer. Let's see the contract.”

Spencer was thorough and methodical by nature, despite his nervous anxiety, and he went over the contract clause by clause, pointing out the legal potholes and ethical dangers as he saw them.

“That's enough!” His client jumped to his feet and glared down on the hapless lawyer.

“But Mr. Smith, I . . . ” Spencer stuttered.

“Go on home, Spencer. You're out of your depth here. Leave it with me, I know what I want.”

Humiliated, Spencer left.

Lenny leaned back in his soft leather chair and thought about his rotten day. It had started with a visit to his doctor, and the old fool had tried to scare him by saying that if he didn't take life easier, his heart would give out. The man had even had the unmitigated gall to suggest that Lenny should let his two sons take over the business and earn their keep. What a laugh! The thought of his two inept offspring trying to run Leonard Smith and Sons, Ltd. was enough to give him a heart attack. And now his idiot lawyer was trying to scuttle his latest car dealership acquisition because of “ethical problems.” Thinking about the man nitpicking over every little detail made Lenny's heart begin to thump. He pulled the telephone toward him and called his wife. “I'm leaving the office now,” he told her. “We'll go out to eat.”

As always, Smith was the last to leave the office, and being a man of habit, he pulled his pocket watch out to make sure that it was precisely six o'clock before he gathered up the contract papers that Spencer had left him and stashed them in his briefcase. Then, closing and locking the door carefully behind him, he rode down in the elevator to the underground garage and walked toward his Mercedes in its reserved parking spot.

As he bent to insert the key into the door, a sudden movement reflected in the car window made him whirl around, but in one swift action, a chloroformed rag was thrust into his face, and as he collapsed onto the concrete floor, a woollen blanket was thrown over his head, muffling his weakening cries. Silently, one of the shadowy figures opened the trunk of the car that had been parked next to the Mercedes, and the other two effortlessly picked Leonard Smith up and threw him inside.

H
arry Spencer parked his conservative, dark blue, 1958 Chrysler Windsor sedan, put the push-button transmission into
park
, pressed his foot firmly down on the emergency brake despite the fact that the street was perfectly flat, got out, gazed up and down the street disapprovingly, then carefully locked his door. Checking a slip of paper to make sure he had the house number right, he marched firmly up the wooden stairs of the house and pushed the electric doorbell.

“Yes. Can I help you?” an unfamiliar woman's voice asked through the partially opened, chained door.

“This is 4750 West Second Avenue, isn't it?” He looked anxiously at the brass numbers nailed beside the door. “I . . . uh . . . I thought my wife, Margaret Spencer, lived here.”

“Your wife? Sorry, no.” She was about to close the door when a new thought came to her. “You don't mean Maggie, do you? She lives downstairs.”

“Downstairs?”

“Blue door. Around the side of the house.”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, then turned, walked down the steps and around to the side of the house.

“Harry!” Maggie Spencer greeted her estranged husband.

“Are you aware, Margaret, that multi-family dwellings are illegal in this part of Vancouver?” Harry demanded. “You could be in serious trouble with the bylaw officer.”

“Oh, come on, Harry,” she replied. “I seriously doubt that.” She stepped aside for him to enter, but ignored the hat he held out, expecting her to take it from him. “With the scarcity of housing in this city, the bylaw officers have been turning a blind eye since the war.” Then, watching him look for a piece of furniture to put his hat down on, she added, “And you know it.”

Harry flushed, then said lamely, “No one is above the law, Margaret.”

Once a lawyer, always a lawyer.
She watched him balance the hat on a tiny end table. “What brings you here, Harry?”

“Do I have to have a reason? I'm still your husband, you know, or had you forgotten.” When she didn't answer, he tried a different approach. “You look very well, I must say, Margaret.”

Maggie felt a stab of remorse that she couldn't say the same for him. “You look a bit tired, Harry.”

“So would you be if you were in my position,” Harry answered tersely.

Maggie refrained from asking what that position would be. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

He lowered himself into one of the two basket chairs. “I hate to put you to so much trouble.” He looked around the small room. “Barbara told me how cramped this place was.”

“Suits me fine.”

“Margaret,” he said, getting up again and following her into the tiny kitchenette. “Look here, I've come to ask you once more to forget all this nonsense and come back home where you belong.”

“It's too late, Harry. I'm used to living on my own now.”

“But we can work something out,” he pleaded. “I'm sure we can. We'll go out more. You'd like that, wouldn't you? And you love the house, you know you do.”

“Yes,” she mused, looking around her cramped quarters. “I do.” She poured the boiling water over the tea, then reached up to a shelf for the cookie tin. “You still like your tea black?” she asked.

“You see,” he said triumphantly, taking the cup from her. “You remember how I like my tea.”

I'm hardly likely to forget in less than a year.

As she followed him back to the living room, Maggie's cat, Emily, who always had a soft spot for Harry, waited until he sat down, then jumped into his lap and started to knead and purr ecstatically. He automatically rubbed behind her ears as he sipped the tea.

“And I also remember how you were so against my working,” she answered, watching the traitorous cat sucking up to her husband. She had adopted the animal when Emily's owner, a miserable old client of the Southby's Investigations, had come to a very sticky end, but the cat had demonstrated a greater affection for her husband right from the beginning.

“But Margaret,” Harry went on, taking his cue from his success with the cat. “We can change all that. Just give up this stupid idea of working for that . . . that detective. I've nothing against you having a more . . . er . . . refined kind of employment. Nothing at all. Perhaps we could even find a small place for you in the firm.”

The thought of working at Snodgrass, Crumbie and Spencer, barristers and solicitors, gave her the shivers. She took a sip of her tea. “Harry . . . I'm happy where I am.”

Angrily, he put his cup down on the coffee table. “Mother said you wouldn't listen,” he said, pushing the cat off his lap. “And she was right!”

“How is the old battle-axe?” Maggie asked sweetly.

Harry's face turned a mottled red. “What has happened to you, Margaret?” he asked as Emily, having licked her ruffled fur into place again, jumped back onto his lap. “My mother deserves better than that.”

“This is
my
house, Harry,” Maggie said calmly. “I can say and do just what I like.”

Carefully putting the cat down again, he rose from his chair with all the dignity he could muster, brushed the hairs from his trousers and walked toward the front door, Emily padding sadly in his wake. “You'll come to your senses one of these days, Margaret, I can tell you that. I just hope it's not too late.”

Maggie watched as he threw open the door. “Harry,” she said suddenly, picking up his hat. “Have you heard from Midge?”

“Midge? No, why?”

“She's not mentioned Jason lately. Just wondered if everything is okay between them.”

“Perhaps
she's
come to her senses and found someone from her own class,” he said pompously. He had never taken to their younger daughter's boyfriend.

“Jason suits Midge very well. He's fun. He makes her laugh,” Maggie answered.

“There's more to life than fun, Margaret. Which I'm sure both of you will find out soon enough.”

“So you keep telling me, Harry.” She handed him his hat and watched him march down the path to the street. As he bent to insert the key into the door of his Chrysler, a battered old Chevy drew up behind. Maggie's boss, Nat Southby, emerged from the wreck, and the two men glared at each other before Harry slipped behind the wheel of his car and drove away.

“What's up?” Nat asked Maggie as she closed the door behind him. He bent to pick Emily up in his arms, but the cat, fur ruffled, struggled to get down. “What's wrong with her?”

“I hate to say this, but she's the one female that just adores Harry,” she answered.

Margaret Spencer—Maggie to Nat—looked at the plump, kind face of her boss, owner of Southby's Investigatons, and thought what a difference he'd made to her life. She had gone to work for him in March 1958, just over a year ago, and hadn't regretted one day of it, even though she'd had a close scrape on her first job. He was somewhat overweight, sloppily casual in his clothes, and still fighting an uphill battle to give up smoking cigars, but she wouldn't change one thing about him.

“What did Harry want?” he asked as he followed her into the kitchen.

“The usual. Give up my job and be a dutiful wife and mother again.”

“Maggie,” he said softly, putting his hands on her shoulders. “It's been over a year since you left Harry. Your family must realize there's more between us than just work.”

She nodded. “I suppose they can't help but suspect, Nat. I just haven't had the guts to bring it out in the open.” She handed him a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. “Here, open this while I prepare dinner.”

They had reached the dessert and coffee stage when the phone rang, breaking into their intimacy. “Let it ring,” Nat said. But Maggie couldn't.

It was Barbara, the elder of her two daughters, who had never forgiven her for leaving Harry and the family's prestigious Kerrisdale address. But Maggie was perfectly happy living in Kitsilano: the rent was affordable and the place had the added bonus of being near the sea.

“I've got to talk to you, Mother.”

“Can I call you back, dear? I've company.”

“You've got that awful man there, haven't you?”

“Who I invite to my house is my business, Barbara. Now, what's the matter? Baby's not sick, is he?” she asked.

“No, apart from his teething and me not getting enough, sleep. But the pediatrician says that Oliver is very advanced for his age.” Maggie noticed that Barbara's usually petulant voice took on an almost happy tone when she spoke about her infant son. “But that's not what I called about. I've just spoken to Father and he's very upset. You must realize how helpless he is on his own.”