Death as a Last Resort by Gwendolyn Southin Page A

grandparents emigrated to Montreal in the early 1900s. And I met Hadeya in Montreal when she came to visit her sister after the war.”
    Nat nodded before asking if either of them had seen Maurice on that particular Saturday afternoon. But Dario said he had gone fishing with that strange Englishman Smith, and his wife had been with the other women in the lodge.
    â€¢ • •
    MAGIE AND NAT ARIVED back at the office within a half hour of each other.
    â€œSo how was lunch?” Maggie asked, taking a bite of the sandwich she had brought from home. “Did George enlighten you?” George had called Nat the previous day to arrange one of their regular lunch get-togethers. “You never know,” he had said to Maggie before she had left for her interview with Bakhash. “George might let something slip on why he was at the Dubois funeral.”
    â€œNo. He asked a few questions about the other guests at the resort. But as I told him, we’ve only just started to interview them ourselves. So tell me about Bakhash?”
    â€œHe has an accent, but his English is impeccable. I would say he’s the product of an expensive English boarding school of some sort. But that factory is something else . . .” And she proceeded to fill Nat in on the interview and her visit to the cutting room.
    â€œCan’t imagine anyone working in those conditions,” Nat commented after she told him about the row upon row of sewing machines.
    â€œI would think a lot of those women are immigrants with very little English,” Maggie said sadly, “and they can’t get any other kind of job.”
    Nat filled her in on his brief visit with Robert Edgeworthy. “So apparently no one at the fishing resort actually saw Maurice Dubois leave.” He paused for a moment. “But I did learn some more about that ski resort investment of Nancy’s.” He threw the brochure over to her. “Take a look at that.”
    Maggie looked up from reading the brochure. “A fifteen hundred dollar deposit! Does Nancy have that kind of money?”
    â€œNo,” he answered grimly. “What’s next on the agenda?
    â€œYou’re off the hook tomorrow, but I’m seeing Henry and Rosie Smith around ten. And I’ve arranged for us to see Liam Mahaffy at his stud farm in Delta on Saturday. Oh, that must be Henny,” she added, hearing the outer door open.
    â€œDid you get message?” Henny asked, poking her head into Maggie’s office.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt is on your desk.” She rummaged among the papers on Maggie’s desk until she came up with a torn-off scrap, which she handed to Maggie. “It’s that funny French lady. She called and said it is urgent for you or Mr. Nat to call her back.”
    â€œDid she say what it was all about?”
    â€œNo. She just say it is very urgent. I tell her that you and Mr. Nat are out on business, like you tell me to say,” she said disapprovingly.
    Maggie hid a smile as she reached for the telephone.
    â€œSomebody has robbed my house,” Jacquelyn said when she answered the phone.
    â€œHave you called the police?”
    â€œ Non, non! I have already told you I cannot do that. You must come!”
    Maggie glanced at the wall clock. “We’ll be with you about two-thirty, okay?”
    After she hung up, Maggie told Nat, “I think I’ll order some telephone notepads for Henny. What do you think?”
    Nat grinned. “Might not be a bad idea.”
    â€¢ • •
    THE DUBOIS ADDRES WAS rather impressive. It was a large red brick house behind wrought-iron railings and gates on Southwest Marine Drive. Maggie realized that it was not far from the home of her elder daughter—but Barbara’s house was just half the size of Jacquelyn’s.
    A woman in a black dress and apron let them in and showed them into a living room where antique tables jostled for place with two red velour