Nat started the engine and pushed the old Chevy into gear just in time to see Collins make a right onto Fourth Avenue. “He’s heading downtown,” he muttered. He soon realized that it was going to be very difficult to keep Collins in view and not be seen. He had to content himself with staying well back as he drove through the light Monday night traffic, hoping the occasional silver glint he saw reflected from the overhead street lamps would lead the way. Nat knew that Collins had a factory on Johnston Street on Granville Island, but when Collins turned onto the Granville Street Bridge, it became apparent that it was not his destination. His route took them instead onto Georgia and then through Stanley Park and over the Lions Gate Bridge before heading for Marine Drive in West Vancouver. Nat overshot Collins’ next sharp left turn toward the water onto Bellevue Avenue, and by the time he had made a quick U-turn to follow, he was just in time to see that the Jaguar had been parked in a RESIDENTS ONLY car park adjacent to the luxury, eight-storyed apartment building that Collins was entering. Nat parked his car further up the street and walked back to the apartment building. There was a securely locked, strong glass door leading into a sumptuous lobby, and according to the residence list outside the door, Collins and his wife lived on the second floor. Although there was a faint possibility that Maggie was being held prisoner in their apartment, he somehow doubted it, because the man would hardly have left her there to go and see to his aunt’s cats. He spent a few more minutes looking for Violet’s or Maggie’s cars outside the building, then climbed wearily into his own again. That was one helluva wild goose chase, he thought, as he headed back to Violet’s place. There has to be a reason why she left in such a hurry. And I still think the reason has to be Maggie.
It was close to midnight when he arrived once again at the house at Seventh and Larch, and he spent the next hour scouring it for clues, even searching the desk in the living room amid the menacing cats, but finding nothing incriminating, he let himself out the back door, locked it behind him, and walked dejectedly to his parked car. “So,” he said, reaching for his notebook, “she’s not with Collins. She’s not at Violet’s. So where the hell is she?” He pushed the key into the ignition and then paused. I wonder if Violet took her car?
• • •
EXCEPT FOR A LITTLE FRAYING on the edge closest to the door, the rug was in good condition. The nail scissors she kept in her handbag would have cut the stitches that held the braids together in a matter of fifteen minutes, but she had left her bag in her car when she decided to become a super sleuth. Think, Maggie, think. There must be something sharp somewhere in this prison. Heart pounding, she crept to the door to listen once again for Cuthbertson’s voice. Then, lying flat on her stomach, she peered under the bed. Nothing! The medicine cabinet in the bathroom was completely bare. Not even a safety pin. Apart from the one towel on the rack, a bar of soap and a toilet paper roll, that seemed to be it.
She knelt on the floor and looked under the old-fashioned, claw-footed bathtub. Thick grunge covered the floor under it, but in the far corner she could see a small silver handle sticking out of the filth. A man’s safety razor! She stretched her right arm as far as it would go—it was so close, but not close enough. She stood up to survey the room for something to extend her reach. Then, hot and frustrated, she leaned over the tub to pull up the plastic slatted blind and open the very small window. The blind came clattering down again. “Damn!” Climbing into the tub, she snapped it up again, holding it up while she opened the window. And then it came to her. “Of course,” she said almost happily, “one of these lovely slats will do it.”
She yanked the blind down, pulled one of the slats out, then, down on her stomach once again, she began scraping the razor toward her. The slat seemed to have a mind of its own, and as she pushed, it bent double and suddenly sprang back to edge the razor further into the grunge. Maggie lay flat for a moment. “Patience, patience,” she said, gritting her teeth, but it was all she could do to remain calmly on her stomach when she knew that even now they could be on their way up to kill her.
She tried again. This time she slowed her movements and concentrated on keeping the slat as taut as possible. Gradually, it came toward her and the razor was in reaching distance. With a cry of triumph, she grabbed it and sat up. “Oh my God . . . Violet must have heard me!” She sat still and listened. But all was quiet. Taking her treasure into the bedroom, she sat on the floor and began sawing at the stitches binding the braids together, but the blade was dull and rusted, and each stitch took minutes of hacking.
It was dark by the time she managed to separate two complete rounds of braid and sever them from the rug. She went to the window and looked down. A radio was playing in another part of the house, and leaning further out of the window, she could see light streaming from one of the downstairs rooms. Wonder if that’s Violet’s room? The night was moonless now, so it was too dark for her to see the ground below and the awful distance she would fall.
Gathering up the braid, she was dangling it out of the window when she heard the dreaded footsteps. Violet was coming back for the tray. Maggie hauled in the braid, threw it into the open doorway of the bathroom, switched out the light and ran for the bed. It wasn’t until she was wriggling down inside the sleeping bag that she remembered the razor. Oh! No! It lay right where she had left it on the edge of the rug. But it was too late. Violet was opening the door. Maggie, desperately trying to keep her breathing even, prayed that Violet wouldn’t put on the light to look at her and decide to give her another hypodermic. Please, please, don’t let her see the razor. She lay still while the woman bent over her.
“You’re not fooling me, lady. I heard you running around, but it’s not going to do you any good. Your time’s about up!”
Maggie heard her start to walk toward the door, then stop. Oh God. She’s coming back! But Violet continued to the door and left the room. Maggie willed herself to stay motionless until at last she heard Violet’s footsteps going down the stairs.
Trying not to make the bed squeak, she climbed out of the sleeping bag, bent down and removed her shoes so she could move more quietly. There’s got to be something I can use for a weapon in case she comes back. Even if she risked putting the light on, she knew that it was futile to look for anything in the bedroom. I’d better pee before the great escape. Feeling her way into the bathroom, she sat on the seat and leaned against the tank. The lid shifted a little, and automatically she reached around and pushed it back into position, but her hand paused there. “My weapon,” she whispered. Carefully, she lifted the heavy porcelain lid, then carried it into the bedroom to place it upright beside the door to the hall.
Dragging the braid from the bathroom, she took it to the open window and dangled it down the side of the house again. The wind was rising now and in the blackness down below, she could hear the waves raging against the rocks. She waited until her eyes became accustomed to the dark, and when the moon made a brief appearance, she leaned out the window. Even in the dim light she could see that the braid would only reach halfway down the huge rock face below the house. She hauled it back up, then sat on the floor and desperately hacked at the rug until she had another twenty feet of braid, then tied it to the first section.
I’ll need something light-coloured to show me where it ends. She felt for the little scarf she had knotted at the neck of her sweater. “Gone, dammit!” she muttered. The towel will do the trick. While she tore at the towel, her mind went to the next step of her escape. She would need something to tie the braid onto. The bed was the only thing heavy enough, but to be of any use, she would have to drag it nearer to the window. Carefully, she double-knotted the braid to one of the bed legs, then tied a piece of towel to the other end, and began tugging the bed toward the window.
Anxiety rising, she dangled the braid out of the window, then, leaning out to check on it, she froze. The light from the uncurtained downstairs window was flooding the area below, and before she could haul the rope higher, a sudden gust of wind blew
the knotted towel against the glass. She held her breath, expecting Violet to come storming up the stairs, but nothing happened. Calm again, she decided that she was as ready as she’d ever be.
It was while she was reaching for her shoes to put them on again that she heard Violet’s tread on the landing. Oh, no! Not yet. There was no time to haul in the rope or push the bed back. Instead, she slipped behind the door, and picking up the tank lid, raised it as high as she could.
“What the hell’s going on . . . ?”
Violet’s enraged voice was suddenly cut off as the porcelain lid came crashing down on her head, and she sank to the floor without so much as a groan. Maggie knelt beside the woman and was relieved to discover that she was still breathing. Taking her by the legs, Maggie dragged her further into the room, then rushed over to the window and hauled in the braid. It took valuable minutes to tie Violet up and make a gag with a strip of the towelling, then she raced out of the room and down the stairs.
Wrenching the front door open, she ran out into the night and realized that it had started to rain. Cold reason made her stop. A jacket! Running back into the house, she pulled coats and sweaters off the pegs beside the door until she found a floater jacket. Shoes! I left my shoes upstairs! Fearing that Violet would come to, she stuck her feet into the hiking boots parked beside the front door. Damn! They’re too big. It was then that she heard the sound she had feared—a boat engine. “Oh my God! He’s coming.”
Slithering on the loose stones in her oversized boots, she was halfway down the steep path to the water when she realized that the engine had stopped and the dock landing was bathed in light. Diving into the wet bushes beside the gravel path, she huddled there, praying that Cuthbertson hadn’t heard her rapid, noisy descent. She couldn’t control her body shaking, or the dry, rasping breaths that wracked her chest, and she clasped her hands over her mouth to stifle the sounds. It seemed an eternity before she heard his boots crunching on the gravel path as he climbed toward the house, and then, just as he approached the place where she was hiding, he suddenly stopped. He’s seen me. But Cuthbertson was only stopping for breath, and after a few minutes, he continued plodding his way up. She eased her cramped legs and stood up.
“Violet!” Cuthbertson roared. “Why the hell’s the front door open?”
Galvanized into action, Maggie slipped from her hiding place and started down the path again. But as she neared the dock, the lights went out and she was plunged into a velvety blackness. Oh my God! Cuthbertson must have put them out from the house. That means he’s likely to put them on again when he realizes that I’m gone. Panicked, she pushed her way into the bushes to the left of the dock and found a rough trail that followed close to the water’s edge. Salal and blackberry bushes lined the path, catching Maggie’s hair and clothes as she hurried past in the darkness. The rain that had started as she left the house had settled into a steady drizzle, as she stumbled over slippery rocks and treacherous roots. The hiking boots were far too big for her, and the effort of tensing her feet to keep them on slowed her down.
The trail swung inland. The blackberries gave way to small fir trees and low bushes, and the path became steeper. She clambered up the incline by hanging onto roots, her feet skidding on the loose rocks and sending small stones clattering down the hill. Then, panting with exertion, she managed to haul herself up onto a flat ledge of rock, where she lay, too exhausted to go any further. Home—and even Harry—would be a welcome sight at the moment. She wondered if she’d ever see them again.
• • •
CARRYING HIS EMERGENCY LANTERN, Nat retraced his steps to the back of Violet Larkfield’s house. This time, however, he carried on past the porch until the lantern’s beam flicked over the rear of the garage. It was then that he realized there was also a small shed attached to its rear wall. He tried the door, but it was locked, and heavy drapes covered the small window. The back entrance to the garage was also locked, but that door had a window in it, and he felt around in the dark garden until he found a hefty stone. “Better not wake the neighbours,” he muttered as he wrapped his raincoat around his find. Seconds later he had a hole big enough so that he could reach inside and unfasten the lock.
His light flicked over the small red Morris parked inside. He checked the licence plate. VBB 545. Maggie’s car! The driver’s door was unlocked, and slipping into the seat, he reached across to the glove compartment. Violet had left nothing to chance—even the car’s registration was missing. He checked under and down the sides of the seats, leaned over and searched the back seat, and then thrust his hands down the side pockets. As he reached up to the sun visor, a slip of paper fluttered down onto his lap. He scanned it eagerly, but it was just a grocery list. “Damn!” he said. He was about to crumple the piece of paper but stopped. There was some faint writing on the back. He flattened the paper on his knee and focussed his light on it. Coffee creamers, it read. “That damn coffee cream again,” he exclaimed, and hauling himself out of the little car, he thrust the paper into his pocket.
It took him longer to break into the little room at the back of the garage, because the window was smaller and the glass thicker. Frustrated, he slammed the stone so hard on the window that he was sure that all the neighbours would come running. Sinking into the shadows of the garage, he waited, but there were no shouts of alarm or flinging up of windows. Feeling safer, he pulled out enough of the glass so that his arm would go through. Once inside, he fished in his pocket for his not-too-clean handkerchief to wrap his bleeding knuckles, then, throwing caution to the wind, put on the electric light. There wasn’t much to see. A small living-kitchen area and at the back an alcove with a single bed.
But on the floor beside the bed, contents spewed, lay Maggie’s handbag. He would know it anywhere. She had bought it with the first paycheque he had handed her and had laughingly called it her Independence Bag. Frantically, he wrenched open the doors to the closet and the tiny bathroom, but there was nothing. Where could they have taken her? It had to be they of course, because Violet couldn’t have done it on her own. She would need help. Who? Collins? Somehow he didn’t think so anymore.
He had stuffed the contents back into the bag and started toward the open doorway when he noticed the muddy footprints on the linoleum floor. It must have been raining when she was here. He knelt on the floor to examine the prints. These look like runners. And they’re the right size for Maggie, but these larger ones are . . . deck shoes!
A few minutes later he was sitting in his car, with the rain pelting on the roof. “Deck shoes,” he muttered. It has to be Larry! And if it is him, Maggie was taken somewhere in a boat. He looked at his watch. “Bloody hell! It’s nearly two o’clock! What am I doing just sitting here?” He slammed the car into gear and drove off.
He made it to the yacht club in less than half an hour and eased the car into the first empty parking spot. Only a half dozen cars and as many boat trailers were parked on the lot, so the field was narrowed considerably, but he had no idea what kind of car Violet drove.
Within fifteen minutes, he had examined every car and boat on the lot, flashing his light into interiors and looking under each vehicle and into every boat, without seeing anything that he could tie to Maggie’s disappearance. Cubby’s boat was not in its berth, he noted with regret. “I could have used his help right now,” he muttered.
Returning to his car, he flashed the beam on the rear of each vehicle as he passed it. Then suddenly, he stopped! Hanging out of the trunk of a dark green Mercedes was the corner of a pale blue silk scarf. “It’s Maggie’s!” For the moment, he was frozen. “Oh my God, she can’t be in there!” He banged frantically on the lid. “Maggie! Maggie!” Then, racing to his own car, he opened the trunk, and among the collection of junk, found the tire wrench. He pelted back to the Mercedes. “Hang on, Maggie! I’m coming.” Frantically, he tried to pry the lid open, but Mercedes are built to thwart theft, and all he managed to do was badly scratch the paint. He leaned back on the car to catch
his breath, then, with grim determination, walked to the front of the car and, with a mighty swing, smashed the passenger window. He paused for only a second to listen for someone raising the alarm before reaching for the hood lever to see if the owner, like so many other drivers, kept a spare key hidden there.
Luck was with him, at last. There, hidden behind the wind-shield washer container, was taped a shiny key. Yanking the key from the tape, he raced to the rear of the car and unlocked the trunk. Empty! He stood there, crushing Maggie’s scarf against his face. “My God, Maggie, where has that bitch taken you?” He studied the car again, running his flashlight over it from front to back in the first streaks of dawn light. “Wait a minute. This isn’t Violet’s car. This is the car Cubby drove off in this morning!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was barely dawn when Maggie awoke with a start. Then the horror came flooding back to her. I can’t stay here. It had stopped raining and in the increasing light, she could see the trail that she’d climbed in the dark. From the ledge of rock she was standing on, the path led upward more steeply through thick salal with tall firs and arbutus overhead. Looking downward, she caught a glimpse of the sea below. In the night it seemed that she had climbed for miles, and it came as a shock that she wasn’t as far from the house as she had hoped. There were two boats at the dock now, and she thought she recognized one of them as the Seagull. “I was right about Collins.” Then she saw a move ment below on the path. They’re coming! As she plunged into the salal, the voices of her pursuers wafted up to her in the still morning air.
Death in a Family Way Page 16
