Death on a Short Leash (8 page)

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 across 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!”

“We need to talk to that Williams fellow, the vet,” Nat said brightly. “I'll be over around nine.”

“I've decided to have a lazy day. Let's go tomorrow.”

“No. It's impossible to talk to the man at his work and I've found out where he lives, so we can beard the lion in his den. Besides,” he added, “it's too nice to be indoors on a day like this. Have breakfast ready.”

• • •

DR. WILLIAMS LIVED
in a large, comfortable house in Kerrisdale. Everything was neat, from the carefully weeded flower beds that lined the stone path to the freshly painted brown and cream front door. The blinds on the front windows were properly pulled for privacy, and when Nat and Maggie pushed the doorbell, it rang the Westminster chimes. The door was eventually opened by a tall, willowy ash blonde, her face smudged with yesterday's makeup. She was dressed in a red satin dressing gown and matching slippers and sporting a large glass of orange juice. “If you're selling something, I don't want any,” she said, taking a swig from the glass.

“Uh! I'm Nat Southby and this is my assistant, Maggie Spencer.” Nat handed her one of the agency's cards. “Could we talk to your husband?”

“That's a laugh.” She gave a gentle sway before taking another slug of the juice. “Have to get my glasses,” she said. Putting the juice down on the hall table, she fished into one of the pockets of her gown and pulled out a pair of granny glasses. She perched them on the end of her nose and peered at the card. “You're a detective,” she accused. “You detecting that son of a bitch of a husband of mine?” She laughed and reached for the juice.