Death on a Short Leash

by Gwendolyn Southin

  Nat put a hand over his mouth to hide the smile. “I see what you mean. But with the trail this cold, it could take us just as long as the police,” he explained. “In fact, we can’t guarantee results either, and it’s going to cost you money.”

  “We have talked it over,” Evans said, very determinedly. “And what good is our life or our business without our daughter? You find the killer for us.”

  “What kind of business are you in?” Maggie asked.

  “I have a shoe repair shop,” Evans replied. “It’s attached to the house.”

  “And I sometime look after the house of Mr. Peterskill,” said Marie. “He and his wife come up to the coast some weekends. They build a big new house.”

  “Peterskill?” Nat asked, glancing at Maggie. “I’ve heard that name before. What business is he in?”

  Marie shook her head. “I don’t know. He seems to have the finger in lots of pies. But he is kind to Johanna.”

  “In what way?” Nat asked.

  “He owns that apartment block,” David cut in. “And he let her stay there on reduced rent until she had finished her veterinary course.”

  “And got her the job with Dr. Williams,” Marie added.

  “What about Johanna’s job at the nightclub?” Nat asked tentatively.

  “As a waitress,” Marie said firmly. “I don’t understand why she would work in a nightclub. There’s lots of nice restaurants . . .”

  Nat glanced sharply at Marie Evans. “But she was a . . .”

  “You will need to ask questions there,” David Evans interrupted, giving Nat a slight shake of his head.

  “Of course,” Nat responded.

  “Did she mention some kennels in Abbotsford?” Maggie asked, to change the subject. “Both Sandra and Hans said that she was going to look at some kennels there that weekend.”

  The Evanses shook their heads. “Johanna never mentioned kennels,” Marie said.

  “Would your daughter have been interested in a commune?”

  Nat asked.

  “Definitely not,” David answered.

  “Please,” Marie asked, “what is a commune?”

  “A place where men, women and children live together as one big family,” her husband explained.

  “Why would our Johanna go to such a place?” Marie demanded.

  “I’ve no idea,” Nat said. “But now that you want us to continue, we’ll go to Abbotsford and see if we can find these kennels. Unfortunately, as we said earlier, the trail is cold, but we’ll do our best.” He stood up. “We’ll need this Peterskill’s city address, along with anyone else’s you can think of.”

  “He lives somewhere on the north shore,” Evans answered, “but he has an office on Georgia. Apart from Marie’s sister, you have met everyone else.” He leaned forward and shook Nat’s hand. “I know that you will find out what happened to our girl.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Nat answered.

  “Do you have children?” Marie Evans asked Maggie, after she and her husband had signed the contract and written down her sister’s address.

  “Yes, two daughters.”

  “Then you must know what it is like for us . . .”

  “It would be hard to even imagine,” Maggie answered. “Have you spoken to Johanna’s boyfriend lately?”

  “He’s such a nice boy,” Marie answered sadly. “So upset about Johanna . . .”

  “SO, BOSS,” Maggie asked once they were alone in his office, “what do we do now?”

  “Follow up on the commune, talk to the boyfriend again—and this guy Peterskill, of course—and make another visit to Pandora’s!” He was grinning now.

  “Marie Evans seems to have conveniently forgotten that Johanna was an entertainer there.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. I guess it’s a case of denial.”

  “I think the commune comes first,” Maggie replied, ignoring his reference to Pandora’s, “and I could call on the aunt. She lives fairly close to me.”

  “Right. I’ll give George a buzz and find out where this commune place is. He told me that the Abbotsford detachment has already paid the good brother a visit.” He reached for the phone. “We’ll go tomorrow, okay?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Maggie awoke to an overcast sky and the sound of branches striking the side of the house. “Do you still want to go to Abbotsford?” she asked, pulling the comforter up around her shoulders. She drained the last of the tea that Nat had made for her. “Couldn’t we leave it til next week?”

  “Up! You too, Emily.” Nat took the empty cup from her hand and then tipped the sleeping cat off the bottom of the bed. “I’ve been up since the crack of dawn to satisfy your terrible English habit of tea in bed. And I’ve prepared breakfast and had a shower.”

  Maggie snuggled further down in the bed. “Just a few minutes more.”

  “It’s eight o’clock and the sun will probably be out by the time we’re on the road. Come on.”

  But the lovely autumn weather Vancouver had been experiencing the past few weeks had vanished, and by the time they reached the outskirts of New Westminster, the overcast sky had deteriorated to a blustery drizzle. They drove over the Patullo Bridge and into the Surrey countryside, and Nat cursed as the Chevy’s inefficient wipers streaked the grime sprayed onto the windshield from the trucks and cars they passed on the two-lane route.

  “Told you we should’ve stayed home,” Maggie muttered as they turned onto the Fraser Highway. “How long is it going to take us?”

  “A couple of hours,” Nat answered, peering through the grime. “There’ll be a lot less traffic once we’re beyond Langley.” But the journey seemed endless as they slowed to a crawl through the small settlements of Murrayville, Aldergrove and Clearbrook before they eventually wound up in Abbotsford.

  “According to George’s instructions,” Maggie said, reading from a slip of paper, “Cowslip Lane is the first right after the Pioneer Stockyards.”

  Cowslip Lane turned out to be nothing more than a rutted track. Nat, driving slowly to miss the water-filled potholes, thought the road would go on for eternity as his poor old Chevy bounced and slewed on the thick mud. “How much further?” he asked, hanging onto the steering wheel.

  “We must be nearly there,” she answered. “I can see smoke ahead. Watch out!” she yelled. “There’s a chicken on the road.”

  “Tough luck,” he answered back. “Oh my God!” He brought the car to a shuddering stop. “There’s hundreds of them.” The road had ended in a farmyard, and in front of them were the sorriest, most bedraggled-looking chickens, ducks, geese and goats that either of them had ever seen.

  “I think we’ve arrived,” Maggie said unnecessarily as she opened her door and unfurled her umbrella. “I’ll try to shoo the damned things out of the way so that you can park closer to the house.”

  She felt like a female Pied Piper shooing the livestock in front of her, and was so engrossed in her job that she nearly lost her footing when a man’s voice announced, “This is private property. We don’t encourage visitors.”

  “I can see why,” Maggie snapped, pushing vainly at the mud-streaked goat that was nibbling on her coat buttons. She raised her umbrella higher in order to see the bearded man standing in front of her. He was wearing a matted brown woollen hat, a long yellow caftan, and a burlap feed sack around his shoulders, and his muddy feet protruded from what must have once been a pair of leather thong sandals. “I’m Maggie Spencer,” she added. The goat had now progressed from the buttons to her coat pocket, and she swatted at it without having the least effect on its nibblings. “Do you think you could call this thing off?”

  “What do you want?” he said, making no attempt to rescue her. “And who are you?” He glowered at Nat, who, in climbing out of the car, had stepped on one of the chickens. It immediately retaliated by pecking him on the ankle before running off, squawking in protest.

  “We want to ask you a few questions.” He indicated the weather-beaten, wooden farmhouse acr
oss the yard. “Can we go inside out of this infernal rain?”

  “What do you want?” the man repeated. “We want to know if you’ve ever seen this young girl,” Nat answered, pulling a crumpled photograph of Johanna out of his pocket and trying to shield it from the downpour under Maggie’s umbrella.

  The man drew himself up. “We don’t encourage runaways to come here.”

  “I didn’t mention runaways. Can we please go inside?”

  “You can wait in the porch while I consult with Brother Francois.”

  “What a dreadful place,” Maggie whispered as they stood under the leaky roof of a porch that stretched the whole length of the building. Sodden cardboard boxes, sacks of potatoes, pumpkins and unidentifiable squashes jostled for space with rusty garden tools, tired wicker furniture and wooden apple boxes.

  “Can’t imagine anyone leaving home for this,” Nat whispered back. “Where’s this bloody brother or whatever they call him?”

  “Would you come inside?” A girl, probably in her mid-teens and dressed in an ankle-length, faded, pink-flowered cotton skirt, long-sleeved blouse and a head scarf tied babushka-style, stood in the doorway with a baby of six months or so balanced on her hip.

  At least the inside was dry. The wicker furniture/apple box theme had been carried on into the large room, where it now competed with a sagging sofa, a scratched oak-veneered table and assorted chairs.

  “He’ll be with you in a sec,” the girl explained, switching the snotty-nosed baby onto her other hip before disappearing through an inner door.

  Brother Francois, leaning on a heavy, ebony walking stick, turned out to be a slim, thin-faced man clothed in the same type of yellow caftan as the man outside. “And how can I be of help?” he asked in a heavy Quebecois accent.

  Nat hauled the now sodden photograph out of his pocket. “We wondered if you’ve ever seen this girl?”

  “No,” he answered, barely looking at the picture. “What’s her name?”

  “Johanna Evans,” Maggie said. “You sure she didn’t come to see you?”

  “I would remember a name like that. All the followers of the True Light have peaceful flower names.”

  “But you must know their proper names when they join this . . .” Maggie spread her hands.

  “My faithful followers are here to forget their past lives,” the mystic answered softly, a slight smile on his thin face. “They come pour paix et tranquillité. Their old names are best forgotten.”

  The sound of dogs barking suddenly filled the air. Peace and tranquility! Maggie thought. “Do you breed dogs here?” she asked. She wondered if she imagined the fleeting look of apprehension on his face.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “The girl in that picture came to Abbotsford to locate some kennels, and I hear dogs barking,” she answered. “And the name of the kennels sounded similar to your commune—The Path to the Golden Light.”

  “That’s our name. And we have chickens, goats and a small herd of milking cows, but no dogs,” he said with another slight twist of a smile. “Ah. But I tell a lie. We have two bull terriers . . . for protection.”

  “You have a lot of land here?” Nat asked, looking out of the rain-swept window.

  “A few acres. Enough for the needs of the commune.” He walked toward an inner door and opened it. “Jasmine.” He called a second time before the same young girl appeared, still lugging the infant.

  “Yes, Brother Francois?”

  “Do you recall seeing this young woman?” he indicated the photo Nat was holding.

  “No.” She too barely glanced at the picture.

  “Then you may go, child.” Turning to Nat and Maggie, he indicated the outer door. “We cannot help you.”

  “Are there any kennels near here?” Maggie asked. “You know, with a name similar to yours?”

  “I do not know of any. We rarely venture far from our peaceful way of living,” Brother Francois answered. He limped toward the outer door and held it open. “Now I must ask you to leave. You have interrupted our meditation time.”

  They found themselves outside and the door firmly shut behind them. “How do you deal with that kind of insanity?” Nat muttered, turning up his coat collar. “Let’s make a run for it.” Dodging the livestock, they ran for the car. “It’ll be just my luck to get stuck trying to turn around in this muck.”

  They gave a mutual sigh of relief after Nat had negotiated the car around the chickens and goats, and as they bumped down the road and out of sight of the house, Maggie began, “Nat, how are we going to find out . . . ?”

  “Could you stop the car, please?” Startled, Nat stamped his foot on the brake and they both whirled to look into the back seat.

  “What the hell!”

  Looking almost as bedraggled as the chickens, Jasmine, her long wet hair plastered to her head, was huddled on the floor between the front and back seats, her baby now wrapped in a dirty shawl. “You were asking about that girl.”

  “She was here?” Maggie asked quickly.

  “She was asking about the dogs, the little dogs.”

  “What little dogs? Are there kennels here?”

  The girl looked fearful. “I don’t know.”

  “You must know if there are little dogs around,” Nat cut in. “They make enough racket.”

  “Did Johanna find the dogs?” Maggie persisted.

  The girl sidled toward the car door, “I don’t know. But she came back.” She looked fearfully back down the lane toward the house. “I have to go now and do my chores . . .”

  “What do you mean, she came back? To the house?”

  The girl nodded miserably. “Brother Francois was mad . . .”

  “How old are you, Jasmine?” Maggie asked gently. “Fifteen?”

  “Going on sixteen.”

  “What the hell’s going on in that place?” Nat said angrily. “Who is this Brother Francois?”

  “He is our spiritual leader,” the girl answered, sliding off the seat and out the door. “I’ve got to go before they miss me.”

  “Wait a minute.” Nat had reached over and grabbed the end of the shawl covering her baby. “Can we take you home?”

  “This is my home,” she replied, pulling the shawl out of his grasp and vanishing into the pouring rain.

  “Poor little thing,” Maggie said, turning back in her seat.

  “What kind of life could she have had before she joined the good brother’s commune?”

  “The bigger question is,” Nat replied, putting the car in gear, “where the hell are these kennels Johanna was looking for?”

  “Well, Brother Francois is certainly not going to let us search his grounds to see if they’re there,” Maggie said.

  “We can’t go without trying,” he answered, peering through the windshield. “There’s a gate into that field up ahead. I’ll drive up to it and you hop out and open it.”

  “What about me driving and you hopping out?” Maggie asked sarcastically. “No, never mind,” she added hastily, remembering the peculiarities of Nat’s beloved Chevy. “I’ll go.”

  And giving Nat one of her withering looks, she climbed out into the rain and slogged through the mud to the gate. It was fastened by a loop of fencing wire slipped over the post, and, muttering murderous thoughts about her boss under her breath, she struggled until she managed to slide the wire off. But she still had to push the broken-down gate over the uneven ground and the tufts of grass and nettles. Now as bedraggled as the barnyard chickens and in a much fouler frame of mind, Maggie directed her boss to make the turn. Neither of them said a word as they bumped their way back, and it took several bangs on the door before it was eventually opened by Brother Francois.

  What do you want now?” he demanded.

  “We need to look over your outbuildings,” Nat replied.

  “You’re trespassing. And if you don’t leave, I’ll have you both thrown out,” the man of peace shouted. He waved his cane at them and then tried to shut the door on Nat
’s foot.

  Nat reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his licence. “Then I’ll come back with extra help and a search warrant.”

  “You didn’t tell me you’re from the police,” Brother Francois hissed.

  “And if we come back with a warrant,” Nat said, restoring his licence and not bothering to correct the misunderstanding, “your place will look like a bomb has hit it. What’s it to be?”

  The rest of the house was a shambles and already looked as if a bomb had hit it. A large kitchen ran from the front to the back of the house. Two older women and another young girl, dressed in a similar fashion to Jasmine, were preparing vegetables at one end of a long wooden table, and at the other end were a half-dozen misshapen loaves of bread. Steam and the smell of some kind of stew arose from two iron kettles bubbling on a greasy, wood-fired stove. There was one other room on the ground floor that seemed to be an office, as it contained a rolltop desk, a couple of chairs, filing cabinets and a wooden table with a typewriter on it. The uncarpeted wooden stairs led to four bedrooms, each containing a couple of beds and some lumpy mattresses strewn on the floor. The house, its inmates and furnishings made Maggie feel thoroughly depressed.

  The outbuildings held the usual farm equipment and bales of hay. They waded through mud and muck and suffered sullen looks from the scowling male members of the sect, but they soon realized that apart from the two vicious-looking bull terriers chained to a post, there were no other dogs on the property, big or little. There were pigs, goats, chickens, ducks and an old blue van that had seen better days. But there were no dogs.

  “Perhaps now you’ll leave us in peace,” Brother Francois said smugly as he saw them off the premises. “And don’t come back.”

  It was late when Nat eventually drew the Chevy up outside Maggie’s house, and by that time all she could think of was a hot bath, hot soup and a warm bed. She declined Nat’s offer to come in and wash her back, telling him firmly that she would call him in the morning.

  MAGGIE AWOKE TO brilliant sunshine and Emily gently tapping her face with her velvet paws. “Cat! It’s Sunday and only seven o’clock!” But she reached for her robe. “I’ll make some tea and then we’ll have a little lie-in.” She had just taken the steaming cup back to her room and climbed into bed again, with a sigh of contentment, when the phone at her bedside rang. “Drat!”