In the Shadow of Death (8 page)

“And he's ready to rush up here and find Guthrie and show the locals how to do it.”

Keeping a firm grip on herself, Maggie looked Brossard straight in the eye. “If necessary, Corporal Brossard, yes.” She stood up from the table. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I've things to do.”

“Not so fast,” Brossard put out a hand to stop her. “I want to warn you that I won't, I repeat, I
won't
stand for any interference. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

Brossard turned back to Kate, who had been nervously following the exchange. “Now, Mrs. Guthrie, are you absolutely sure you don't know the dead man?”

Kate's answer was to burst into tears. “I've already told you I don't know him. Why don't you believe me?”

Brossard's face reddened. “I have to ask,” he said in a more gentle tone. “It's seems too much of a coincidence that your husband's missing and then this body turns up.”

“Do
you
know who he is?” Maggie asked suddenly.

Brossard nodded reluctantly. “His name is Lewis Sarazine. Lived over Alexis Creek way.” Tucking his notebook into his pocket again, he turned toward Maggie. “I strongly advise you to return to Vancouver, Mrs. Spencer, or,” he added, “stick to horseback riding or whatever one does on a dude ranch.”

“Who could've taken that money?” Maggie exclaimed after Brossard had left. “I swear I put it in the top drawer of the dresser.”

“It had to be the person who shot at you,” Kate replied fearfully.

“But how? We've been in all the time . . . ” her voice trailed off. “Except when we went into Williams Lake yesterday. Did you lock the doors?”

Kate's face paled. “No, I never do. Douglas is always after me to lock the doors during the day, but I always forget.”

“That means,” Maggie said slowly, “that whoever shot at me yesterday has been watching the house for an opportunity to get the pouch back.”

“Oh, Maggie,” Kate grabbed her arm, “I'm so frightened.”

“We'll just have to make sure we lock up in future.”
But it's a bit like locking the stable doors after the horse has bolted,
Maggie thought. “Come on. Let's take a cup of coffee into the den and have a look through your husband's files.”

“Whatever for?”

“We won't know till we look.”

A short time later, the two of them were sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by beige folders—the entire contents of one drawer of Guthrie's desk. At first the files seemed to contain only invoices for running the ranch, covering everything from cattle feed to horses to harnesses and leather polish. All appeared to be up-to-date and fully paid.

“I still don't understand what we are looking for?” Kate said.

“Anything unusual,” she answered, picking up a folder and scanning the contents. “Like this one, for instance.” She passed the file over to Kate. “What's this bill from Johnson and Spiegel's detective agency for?”

Kate took the paper from Maggie. “It doesn't say what it's for. Why would Douglas need the services of a detective?” She sat looking at the invoice and then pointed to a small note at the bottom. “See file on L.S. It's dated January 30 this year.”

“Hang onto that one,” Maggie said, opening another drawer. The deeper she dug into Guthrie's files, the more his personality came through. Everything perfectly neat and under control. The second drawer contained business correspondence, contracts for the ranch workers, and several letters regarding his takeover of the original ranch from his father, as well as the agreement for the purchase of an additional one thousand acres from a man called Doug Rooney. Most of the remaining folders contained information on the farm's employees, both past and present, but the last folder was unmarked. “I think I've found our L.S.,” Maggie announced. She took the single sheet of paper out of the folder. “It's a report from Johnson and Spiegel.”

“What does it say?”

Maggie read it through before answering. “It appears that whoever L.S. is, he came into a lot of money, and for some reason Doug got the detective agency to find out where it came from. It says here . . .” she continued, reading from the paper, “
I could find no trace of the subject inheriting any sudden wealth or any business transaction that would account for increased funds.
” Maggie tapped the folder “L.S.,” she mused, “L.S. . . . that could be Lewis Sarazine.”

“But why would Douglas be interested in where that man got his money?”

The previous day's horse ride had caught up with Maggie and she stood, moved over to the window and stretched. The gentle rain had stopped and everything had a clean, washed look. It was such a peaceful-looking lake. “I didn't realize this was a sliding door onto the deck,” she exclaimed, sliding it open.

“Why don't you go out there for awhile and I'll bring you some lunch,” Kate suggested. “We can tackle the rest later.”

They returned reluctantly after lunch to investigate the last drawerful of files. “Oh, what a wonderful name,” Maggie said.

“What is?”

“Shadow Lake Mine. It's on this contract.”

“That must be the name of the old mine . . . you know . . . near where the Jeep overturned.”

“But there's no lake up there.” Suddenly, Maggie rose and ran upstairs. Minutes later, she was back with the map of central BC that Jodie had given her. She spread it on the coffee table. “Look,” she said, “there's a Shadow Lake north of the Horsefly River.”

“But what about the mine near the ravine?”

“Hendrix told me that it to his knowledge it's been closed for fifty years or so. What did Doug say it's called?”

“He never talked about it to me. Just said it was an old mine and to stay away from it because it's dangerous.”

Maggie reached for the contract on which she had found the mine's name. “It seems this Shadow Lake Mine was started in 1945—fourteen years ago—and there were six partners. They're listed here at the end of the contract.”

At that moment, they heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway, and the dogs began barking furiously. “Wonder who that is?” Kate said. She returned immediately, followed by Corporal Brossard, Constable Dempster and the two Labs. “Down, Jasper! Get down, Mellow.” She pulled the two dogs away from the harassed policemen. “Into the kitchen, the two of you!”

Brossard carefully brushed the dog hairs off his uniform as he eyed the piles of paper on the desk.

“I see you're going through your husband's files, Mrs. Guthrie. We need to see them, too.”

“What do you expect to find?” Maggie asked.

“A link with Sarazine, perhaps,” Brossard answered, not noticing the quick look between the two women. “Your husband disappears, then Sarazine gets shot . . . As I said this morning, it seems too much of a coincidence.”

“You can't possibly think my husband's disappearance is linked to that poor man's death.” Maggie could see Kate was once again having trouble keeping control of her emotions, and she put a hand on her arm.

Brossard nodded curtly. “We'll be as quick as we can.” He walked over to the filing cabinet and then turned back to them. “I'll call if I need clarification.”

As soon as Brossard and Dempster's backs were turned, Maggie picked up the Shadow Lake Mine folder from the chair and followed Kate into the kitchen. The two dogs, chastened, thumped their tails in greeting. Kate picked up the kettle and filled it. “I'll make tea.”

“Good idea,” Maggie answered, spreading the file on the table.

“What's that?” Kate asked.

Maggie put her finger to her lips. “Shh.”

“Is it the file about the mine?” Kate whispered.

Maggie nodded. “I want to look at it before Brossard gets his hands on it.”

Kate remained silent while Maggie carefully read through the document. “Shadow Lake is apparently a gold mine, and there were six men involved in it—your husband, Jack Chandler, George Fenwick, J. L. Macleod—my God, I wonder if that's
the
Jock Macleod who owns those vicious dogs!—V.M. O'Connor
and
Lewis Sarazine.”

“The man in the Jeep,” Kate said excitedly.

“Yes,” Maggie repeated. “The man in the Jeep.” She took a sip of tea. “This was signed April 1945.”

“And Douglas never ever mentioned it to me.” Then, hearing a sound in the hall, she added, “Is that Brossard leaving?” But instead of leaving, the RCMP officer appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.

“There seems little of interest in the files, Mrs. Guthrie. Do you know anywhere else we could look?” His eyes lit on the file spread on the table. “Is that from the filing cabinet?”

“We were going to give it to you,” Kate twittered nervously. “Weren't we, Maggie?”

Brossard walked to the table and picked up the folder. “After your investigator here had looked it over, I suppose.” He scanned the document. “So why didn't you tell me about this mine, Mrs. Guthrie?”

“Because she knew nothing about it,” Maggie answered. “We've only just found out ourselves.”

“Mmm. I see that Sarazine was one of the partners. Who are these others?” he asked, directing the question at Kate.

“I don't know. Douglas' never mentioned the mine or any of those names to me.”

“This appears to be an indisputable link between your husband and Sarazine.” He stared accusingly at Kate.

“Corporal Brossard,” Maggie cut in, “Kate can't possibly have anything to do with any of this.”

“How so?”

“Because she and Doug have only been married a year. That contract was signed back in 1945. He was still with his first wife then.”

“Oh.” Brossard looked discomfited. “I see.” He stopped abruptly.

“Perhaps
you
should track down the others on that contract,” she suggested ironically.

“I fully intend to do so, and, I hope, without your help.” He closed the folder, placed it under his arm and stalked out. A short time later, they heard the front door slam and the police car leaving.

Maggie's mind went back to the leather pouch. Who could have taken it from her bedroom?
Perhaps it was one of the men mentioned on the contract . . . Jock Macleod . . . or that O'Connor fellow, whoever he is . . . or Vivienne?

• • •

IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT
before Maggie reached Nat on the phone, and despite her party line concerns, she immediately launched into an account of Brossard's visit, finding the mine contract and the bill from Johnson and Spiegel's detective agency.

“And this Lewis Sarazine mentioned on the contract, he was the man found in the ravine?”

“Looks like it. I'm beginning to think the two events are related after all.”

“Could be, Maggie. Could be.” He was quiet for a moment. “This cop. You said his name's Brossard?”

“Do you know him?”

“No. But I'll ask Sawasky about him.” George Sawasky, Nat's partner during his Vancouver police days, still kept in touch. They had a strong friendship and helped each other out when needed. “How did he treat you?”

“Very curt! Asked for identification and immediately became very aggressive when he found out that Kate had asked for our help.”

“Kate didn't know any of the names on the mining contract?”

“No. Why don't you run them past Sawasky?”

“Good thinking. I've made an appointment with Teasdale for the morning, and if I've time, I'll look in on Nordstrom as well. I'll call you tomorrow night and fill you in.” Then, before hanging up, he said, “I miss you, Maggie. Please be careful.”

“I miss you, too,” she answered. “How's Henny?” The spluttering noises coming from the phone answered her question, and laughing, she quietly replaced the receiver.

T
he Teasdale Advertising Agency was on the eighth floor of one of the new glass towers on Georgia Street. Nat was glad when the fast elevator trip came to an end, as it had left his stomach down on the first floor, but his feeling of disquiet persisted when the doors opened onto plush blue carpet, electric blue walls and huge bizarre Dali-esque pictures. Nat, of that old school that demanded that pictures should look like pictures and not multicoloured puzzles, regarded them with distaste as he walked along the corridor. The polished teak reception desk inside the Teasdale agency was manned by an equally polished brunette with large tortoiseshell glasses perched on her elegant nose. A gilt-edged nameplate announced that she was Miss Catherine O'Neil.

“Yes. May I help you?” she asked, taking in Nat's crumpled suit.

“Southby,” he said, handing over one of the new business cards Maggie had insisted on ordering for him. “Nat Southby.”

The apparition consulted her appointment book and indicated a line of chairs. “Please take a seat. Mr. Teasdale's running late this morning.”

“How late?” he asked. He didn't relish sitting around in this blue nightmare for long.

“He should be able to see you in about ten minutes. Coffee?” She indicated an electric percolator on a nearby table.

Nat poured himself a cup of the tepid brew. “Have you worked here long, Miss . . . uh . . . ” He looked at the sign. “Miss O'Neill?”

She drew herself up primly. “I beg your pardon?”

“I only wondered if you knew Kate Guthrie when she worked here. I don't know her maiden name.”

“Kate Guthrie. No.” Catherine O'Neill sat down behind her desk again.

“Apart from Mr. Teasdale, do you know of anyone who would have worked with her?”

“I couldn't possibly say,” she answered frostily. The telephone on her desk rang and she was soon engrossed in conversation with the caller. Dismissed, Nat put the cup down on her desk and walked around the office, looking at the art. He was doing his best to make sense of the one in vivid shades of red, blue and purple, which seemed to contain three breasts, two thighs of undetermined gender, and the bottom half of a man's torso with a purple eye peeping out of its navel, when a voice behind him said, “It's Henri Boodle's
Adam and his Three Eves
. He captures everything, doesn't he?” Nat swung around to see a man in his mid-forties extending a manicured hand. He was dressed in a grey silk suit with an open-necked shirt in the palest of pinks. “Ray Teasdale,” he said. “You've come about Douglas Guthrie, I understand.” He led the way into an office of teak and glass and indicated an angular blue chair for Nat to sit on. “You said on the phone that he was . . . missing?” He sat down behind the massive desk and fingered Nat's business card.