Death on a Short Leash (10 page)

“I see the residents can make their own tea or coffee,” Maggie said, indicating two cups and saucers, a kettle and teapot that were placed on a wide shelf.

“Some of our guests like to have a little independence,” Miss Raintree answered. “There is a well-stocked library next to the lounge, and of course, you noticed the television set.”

Maggie looked around the room. “This suite is not occupied?”

“Not as yet,” Miss Raintree answered. “One of our favourite guests—that's what we like to call them—passed over to the other side last evening. So sad and much missed.”

“And you've already cleaned the suite?” Nat asked, astonished.

“We've a very efficient staff,” she answered tersely, walking toward the door. “I think Mrs. Truebody is expecting you now.”

As they walked back past the doorway to the lounge, Maggie thought she could hear laughing and chatting. Her curiosity piqued, and shooting a look at Nat, she opened the door and walked back in. “Good heavens,” she said, astounded. “Dogs!” The old people had suddenly come to life and were fondling and petting several small dogs that a young man had brought in.

Miss Raintree smiled. “Yes. Their dogs are always brought up at this time of day.”

“But where do they come from?” Nat asked.

“This was a brainwave of our resident vet, Dr. Williams, and it's made such a difference to our residents to be allowed to bring their small pedigreed dogs with them when they move into the home.” She turned and led the way out.” They're kept in a kennel on the grounds and brought up here twice a day.”

“Well,” Mrs. Truebody said, after they had been seated on a low cretonne-covered sofa, “do you think your mother would be happy here? As you no doubt saw, there is a suite vacant. Tea?” she asked, passing Maggie a bone china cup. “Tea for you too, Mr. . . ? I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name.”

“Southby,” he answered, taking the paper-thin cup and saucer from her. Nat hated afternoon tea, especially in china cups.

“Shortbread?” Gingerly he accepted the tiny cookie in his other hand, and Maggie had a job not to laugh as she watched him juggle the rattling cup, saucer and biscuit.

“There's milk and sugar beside you, Mr. Southby,” Miss Truebody said pointedly.

Grateful for an excuse, he put the cup and saucer down and added milk to his tea, although he never took his tea white.

“But I understood you have a long waiting list,” Maggie said, getting back to the matron's question.

Mrs. Truebody gave a slight smile. “There are always ways to accommodate the right kind of people.”

“Ah,” Nat replied softly, “I see.” He picked up his cup. “But Maggie's mother has a good many arrangements to make . . .”

“Yes,” Maggie echoed. “She wouldn't be able to move in right away.”

“All we need is a mere six-month advance—a banker's draft, of course—to hold the suite . . .”

“Of course,” Maggie agreed. She stood up. “We were very interested in the dogs,” she said as she walked toward the door. “What a wonderful idea.”

“Ah, yes. I was a bit skeptical when Dr. Williams suggested it . . . but it's proved very successful.”

“My mother will be so pleased that she'll be able to bring her precious Princess Yum-Yum with her,” she enthused. “She's a remarkable Pekinese with a pedigree as long as your arm.”

“You can assure your mother,” Mrs. Truebody said, rising majestically from her straight-backed chair, “that Dr. Williams will take excellent care of her. You'll let us know as soon as possible?”

“Of course.”

The door had barely closed behind them when Nat suddenly hissed, “Quick!” He grabbed Maggie by the arm and hurried her down the corridor and out of the building.

“Whatever's the matter?”

“Williams!”

“Where?”

“He was getting out of the elevator.”

“Did he see us?”

“I don't know. Let's get out of here.”

E
mily, curled into the crook of Maggie's knees, complained bitterly when she was pushed to one side. “You are one lucky cat.” Maggie leaned over and ruffled Emily's fur. “It's Friday morning, it's raining cats and dogs, and you get to stay in while I have to go earn your food and my bread and butter.”

Her drive to the office was confounded by the weather and traffic, her usual parking spot was gone and it took several minutes to find another. She'd left her umbrella in the office and was faced with walking a couple of blocks in the pouring rain, so she was not in the best of moods when she opened the office door. “Somebody took my spot and . . .”

“She's just come in . . .” Nat was standing by her desk, holding the phone. “Can't make out who it is,” he whispered to Maggie, pushing the phone into her wet hands. “She insists on talking to you. You're wet,” he added.

She gave him a frosty glare and took the phone. “This is Maggie Spencer.”

“It's Jasmine,” a tiny voice answered her.

“Jasmine?”

“You wanted to know about the dogs.”

“The dogs?” Maggie repeated, then asked, “How did you know where to find me?”

“You left one of your cards with Brother Francois. Look, I have to be quick . . . he may come back. I know where the dogs are,” the girl whispered. “Come tomorrow.”

“But Brother Francois . . .”

“He'll be away. Come about eleven.” The phone went dead.

“You catch pneumonia,” Henny said as she charged into the office. She carefully furled her huge black umbrella, hung up her raincoat and then exchanged her no-nonsense rubber boots for the pair of shoes secreted in her huge tapestry carryall. Then, tsk-tsking in disapproval, she opened a small closet door, took out the rag mop kept in there with other cleaning equipment, and while she proceeded to sop up the puddle spreading around Maggie's feet, she ordered, “Get out of those wet things and give me your shoes.” Sighing, Maggie complied, then watched as Henny stuffed the shoes with wadded newspaper and put them on the heat register.

Next, Henny looked around for Nat, but he had escaped into his office before she could get started on him. “I make hot coffee before you all catch your deaths.”

Fifteen minutes later, Maggie gave a light rap on Nat's door before opening it. “Here. Henny has made us fresh coffee and brought some of her wonderful cookies.”

Nat grinned as he avoided Henny's leaden cookies, but he took a gulp of coffee and gave a sigh of contentment. One thing Henny could do was make good coffee. “Who was that on the phone?” he asked.

“Jasmine!” Then, seeing the bewildered look on his face, she repeated the name. “Jasmine. The chicken and goat place in Abbotsford.”

“Oh, the waif. What did she want?”

“She says she knows where the kennels are and wants us to go there tomorrow.”

“I can't, Maggie. There's an old insurance policy that's come to term and Nancy's been onto me to co-sign the damned thing.” He smiled ruefully. “You know how she bitches.” Nat and his ex had been divorced for over eight years, but she was still a thorn in his side. “There's no way that I can put her off again. Call this Jasmine back and arrange another time.”

“Even if I knew the number, I couldn't call her back. The poor little thing sounded terrified that Brother Francois would come in while she was on the phone.” She looked at him in exasperation.

“Jasmine said to come tomorrow at eleven because that's when he'll be away.”

“Maggie,” he said slowly, “don't even contemplate going there yourself. We'll go on Sunday. It can wait another day.”

“But . . .”

“Sunday,” he said firmly.

• • •

MAGGIE AWOKE EARLY
the next morning to find the rain stopped and the sky clearing. “Typical Vancouver weather,” she said, running down the stairs. Emily was already at the door, waiting to be let out. “Raining cats and dogs one day and brilliant sunshine the next. No pun intended, Emily,” she added to the departing cat. After a quick breakfast, she made up a packet of sandwiches and a flask of coffee, put on a hooded waterproof jacket and rummaged in the back of her closet for the ancient rubber boots that had once belonged to Barbara. They were rather worn and a bit too big, but who would see them?

The early Saturday morning traffic was light, and her little red Morris just seemed to sing along, its tires squishing over the still-damp roads.
What a difference the weather makes.
She thought back to their last miserably wet trip to The Path to the Golden Light commune. She felt a bit guilty going against Nat's wishes, but she had left Harry because he wanted to run her life and she wasn't about to make the same mistake with Nat. She had no intention of ever being in that situation again. Besides, Jasmine had sounded really scared.

It was well before eleven when she reached the turnoff to the commune's small farm, and pulling over to make the turn, she was surprised to see Jasmine's small figure waving to her. Maggie rolled down the window. “You've walked all the way from the farmhouse?”

“I didn't want you to come to the house,” Jasmine answered. “The dogs are kept in a barn just a little ways down the main road.”

“Jump in and you can direct me.”

The girl shook her head. “I can't. They may see me.”

“But how . . . ?”

“You can't miss it. Go past the field with the cows and then turn right onto the next dirt road.”

“But what am I looking for?”

“An old barn.” She looked fearfully towards the commune. “It's like this road, kinda hidden by trees.” She gathered the shawl around her. “I've gotta go.” And picking up her long skirts, she ducked into the woods and ran back the way she had come.

“Damn!” Putting the car into gear, Maggie drove slowly along the main road and past the cow field until she saw the dirt track. It was narrow and looked very muddy. “I'm not driving down there,” she muttered. She drove a short way past the track, and then pulled over as far as possible onto the road allowance and opened the door. “Blast!” She looked in dismay at the huge puddle surrounding the vehicle. “Good job I brought my rubber boots.” She sat sideways on the seat to take off her shoes and pull on the boots. Then, after locking the door, she slipped the ignition key into her pocket and splashed her way through the puddle.
“
Damn! I should've worn thicker socks.” And she remembered that Barbara's feet were at least a size and a half larger than her own. “I'll just have to clench my toes.”

Although there were a few cars and trucks passing up and down the main road, the surrounding woods and fields seemed unnaturally quiet and eerie, and she had a job not to turn tail and head back to the car. “Pull yourself together, Margaret,” she admonished herself. “It's just your imagination,” and she marched as firmly as she could in her sloppy boots along the muddy track leading toward a stand of trees. “I've just got to look as if I've every right to be walking down here.” Dodging endless puddles and thick mud that tried to suck the loose boots from her feet, she eventually reached the trees, and just beyond them discovered an old wooden structure well hidden from the road. The front presented a blank windowless face, the huge doors had been nailed shut and the roof looked as if the next high wind would send it flying. The place was completely deserted, and Maggie began to wonder if this really was the barn Jasmine had meant. When she went around to the back of the building, she discovered a litter of rusty farm implements, a forklift, old crates and a large flatbed truck parked against a barbed-wire fence that separated the barn from a cornfield. The ears had been harvested long before, leaving withered, brown papery stalks blowing in the wind. Walking along the back of the building, she almost missed the small door partly hidden by tall grass and weeds, but after looking cautiously around, she tried the handle. The door creaked open, and she stepped into a long, dimly lit barn with a series of light bulbs hanging from the beams. But the smell was the first thing Maggie noticed. The smell and the sound of whimpering.

It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, but as soon as the dogs sensed there was someone in the barn, they started to bark. There were rows and rows of wire cages, two tiers high, running down the length of the building, and as she began to walk slowly between them, the occupants of the cages became frantic and tried to nuzzle her through the wire. Frightened that the noise would bring someone running, she spoke quietly to calm them down. And then, as suddenly as they'd started to bark, each animal went back to its heart-rending whimpering. Every cage contained either a pregnant bitch or one with a litter of puppies, and as she bent to speak soothingly to each occupant, it would stagger to its feet and then aimlessly flop back onto the filthy straw. The awful stench was from the excrement.
They are all so lethargic.
She could understand the very pregnant ones having trouble getting up, but why did the others look at her through glazed eyes? There were numerous poodles and Lhasa Apsos, a couple of Pekinese, a black Scottie and some other breeds that she didn't recognize. Then, in one of the lower cages, she spotted a once-white Sealyham with an unusual black patch around one eye. “Rosie?”

The little dog looked up sharply. “You are Rosie, aren't you?” She knelt down to look into the cage as the dog, hearing her name, struggled to stand up, her sides bulging. “The bugger!” Maggie's eyes filled with tears. “Wait. I'll get you out of here.” Rosie pricked up her ears as Maggie knelt down to undo the latch. “Don't worry, I'll get you home.” But now Rosie and all the other dogs were lurching to their feet again.
Uh-oh. Something's wrong! Voices!
She looked wildly around for a hiding place and had just made it behind the bales of hay piled at the far end of the barn when the outside door burst open. Two cowled men stood on the threshold.