Death on a Short Leash (27 page)

Cane in hand, she opened the closet door and began moving swiftly in her stocking feet along the passageway to where the baby still screamed.

“Let go of the kid.” He had his back to Maggie and was bent over the cringing Marigold, who was curled up against the wall, clutching the baby to her chest. “Let go of it,” he yelled at her again. “Or I'll put the knife through him, too.”

The girl loosened her hold on the infant at the same time that Maggie, using all of her strength, crashed the walking stick hard down on Hans' head.

• • •

IT WAS MARIGOLD'S
piercing scream that galvanized Nat and George into action as they entered the farmyard and ran to the front door of the house, only to find it was locked.

“Stand back!” George yelled and he lunged at the door.

“Round the back!” Nat yelled as George readied himself for another charge. The back door was wide open, and he tore into the house just as George burst in the front door. “Maggie! Where are you?” Nat yelled.

“Upstairs!” George said. The two men raced up the stairs and into the room, where they found Maggie, walking stick in hand, bending over the unconscious Hans.

“It's about time you got here,” she said wearily. “Let me introduce you to Johanna's killer.”

T
hings moved swiftly after George called in the Abbotsford RCMP for help. Hans was transferred immediately to Vancouver for his arraignment for the murder of Johanna and the attempted murder of Jasmine. Then, after extensive questioning, Maggie and Nat were allowed to take Marigold and Luke back with them to be reunited with Jasmine.

Visiting hours were nearly over when they entered the hospital room, but Jasmine was still up and sitting in a chair by the window. The look on her face when her baby stretched his arms out to her was worth all the terror they had gone through that day.

“I knew you would find him for me,” Jasmine said tearfully, holding him close. “But what happened to your face?”

“It's a long story,” Maggie replied, touching her bandaged forehead. “But we're here now, safe and sound. So what are your plans?” she asked, after Jasmine's joyful tears had dried up.

“I'm getting out of here in a couple of days and I'm going back to Prince Rupert with my mom. I know my dad will kick up a stink about the baby, but,” she said, smiling down at her son, “Luke will bring him around.”

Maggie prayed she was right. “What about you, Marigold?”

“I don't know,” she answered fearfully.

“Come to Prince Rupert with me,” Jasmine ordered. “You saved Luke's life, and on top of that, I need you to look after him until I'm on my feet.”

“You mean it?” Marigold answered. “Really?”

“Really. You can stay at the motel with my mom until we leave on Friday.”

“And I'll be at the bus station to see you safely aboard,” Maggie said. She sincerely hoped they would make it onto the bus before someone discovered Marigold was wanted for attempted bank robbery. She decided not to mention this fact to Nat and George.

• • •

IT WAS LATE
the following friday morning when Maggie returned to the office from the bus station. Jasmine, still visibly very weak, had clung to Maggie before being helped up the steps of the bus by her stern-faced mother. But Marigold's happy smile as she held Luke in her arms compensated for Mrs. Pollack's dour face, and Maggie hoped that all would go well for the two young girls.

“Here you are at last,” Henny greeted her as she opened the door. “Mr. George has come to tell us everything,” she added, taking Maggie's coat and hanging it up.

“I don't know everything,” George protested, “but I'll fill you in on what I do know.”

“I still can't understand how Hans could be the murderer,”

Henny said, sitting down with her hands folded in her lap.

“But he was,” Nat said.

“But he loved her.” Henny shook her head. “How could he kill her? She was so young, so pretty.”

“He wanted her for himself,” George cut in. “He became enraged when he discovered she was working in a strip joint and making money as a prostitute, and at the same time she was treating him with contempt.”

“But she
did
ask him to take her to Abbotsford,” Henny protested.

“Yes, she did. And that must've been the last straw,” George answered. “She only went to him when she wanted something, and Hans wanted her to love him.”

“Poor Marie and David,” Henny said sadly. “They trusted him like a son.”

Maggie nodded in sympathy. “Yes, it must be very hard for them. First to have your daughter murdered and then to find out that the man they hoped she would marry was in fact her killer.”

“So what did Farthing have to say to you?” George asked, turning to Maggie and Nat.

Maggie laughed. “The first thing he asked was did I realize how dangerous it was to be in the same car as a killer? And when I told him that I had no idea that Hans was one until I was well on my way to Abbotsford, he told me that was what happened when amateurs got themselves mixed up in police business.”

“He's just peeved because we solved the case before he did,” Nat said. Then, turning to George, he asked, “Did you have any idea who the killer was?”

“We had our suspicions,” he answered. “However, we also suspected Peterskill and Williams, but they seemed to have unshakeable alibis for that whole weekend. On the other hand,” he continued, “so far as we could see, so did Hans.”

“I wouldn't have realized the truth either, if Jasmine hadn't told me about Johanna arriving in a long black car at eight in the morning,” Maggie said. She paused for a moment. “Unfortunately, I didn't put two and two together until I was well on the way to Abbotsford with Hans, and then it was almost too late.”

Nat gave a shudder. “That was one very close call.” He put an arm around her shoulders, then turned to George again. “But what I don't understand is why he killed Brother Francois?”

“Ah!” George said. “But he didn't.”

“Then who did?” Maggie asked slowly. “Come on, George tell us.”

“Yes, Mr. George,” Henny beseeched, “spill the beets.” She looked surprised when they all laughed.

“Okay,” George said slowly. “We took Dr. Williams into custody last night for the murder of Brother Francois.”

“You mean our Dr. Williams? He killed Francois?”

“But why?” Maggie asked.

“He had one beautiful scam going,” George replied. “As the vet in charge of the pedigreed dogs at Silver Springs, he knew when any of them were ripe for breeding. He would then tell the owner that the dog had died or was very sick and needed to be hospitalized, and he would sell the animal to Brother Francois for his puppy mill.”

“So that's how Francois got his dogs,” Maggie said. “What a low-life. Do you realize that Williams even took his wife's dog?”

“Yep,” George answered. “They were making a mint on those poor pooches. They sold them to unscrupulous pet stores and by advertising in the papers.”

“And our Johanna found out,” Henny said. “You see? She was a good girl after all.”

“Yes,” George answered. “Johanna really loved animals. Anyway, after her body was found, Williams was suddenly in the limelight and was being questioned by the police.”

“And I guess he got really scared when Nat and I started asking him questions,” Maggie cut in.

“But how do you know that he was responsible for Francois' death?”

“When those thugs you and Maggie located in Chilliwack thought they were going to be charged with Francois' murder, they couldn't wait to squeal. According to them, Williams showed up and demanded his dogs back because people were asking questions. Francois told him to get lost and threatened him with a gun. There was a scuffle, and somehow Francois was the one who got shot.”

“Over a bunch of puppies?” Maggie asked.

George nodded. “Williams will probably be charged with manslaughter and, of course, the theft of valuable dogs.”

“And get off with a plea of self-defence,” Nat commented.

“Although Williams is one slimeball, he's not really a killer.”

“You could be right,” George answered. “Anyway, when his wife gets through with him in divorce court, I bet he'll wish he'd killed her instead of Francois.” Then he looked over to Henny. “I'm very sorry about Johanna.”

“Thank you, Mr. George. It will take a long-time for me to get over her.” She stood up. “But life go on. How about a nice cup of coffee and one of my special cookies?”

I
t was two days before Christmas and a very cold night when the
TCA
plane touched down at Dorval Airport, a few miles outside Montreal. The flight had taken over six hours, and with the three-hour time difference, both Maggie and Nat were exhausted.

“How far is this St. Eustache place?” Nat asked while they waited for their baggage.

Maggie consulted the letter she had received from her aunt's lawyer. “It's a one-hour train journey from Montreal's Central Station.”

“And we're staying where tonight?”

“He booked us into the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. Apparently, it's brand new and has been built right over the top of the train station.”

“Over the top?” Nat asked in surprise.

Maggie nodded. “The station itself is underground,” she explained.

Large snowflakes alighted on their heads and shoulders as they waited in line for a taxi. They were being welcomed in a true Quebec manner.

The next morning, in brilliant sunshine, they boarded the train for St. Eustache. The carriage had seen better days. It had twenty-four uncomfortable seats and an antique oil heater standing just inside the sliding door, but it was the old oil lamps that were fastened above the dirty windows that Maggie couldn't take her eyes off. “But we have electricity now,” the conductor assured her proudly in his thick French-Canadian accent, and he pointed to the light bulbs in the ceiling of the car. “The diesel up front gives us all the heat and light we need.”

“You can say that again,” Nat muttered, unbuttoning his new, thick winter overcoat. Suffocating heat was belting out of the registers running along each side of the carriage.

They were fascinated with the names of the stations and by the way that the conductor would poke his head in the carriage door and shout out the names in a mixture of French and English. “Suivant, next, Mont Royale! Suivant, next, Monkland! Suivant, next, Val Royale!” A few more names were called and there it was. “Suivant, next, St. Eustache!” End of the line.

As they struggled down the rusty iron steps, the crisp, cold air hit them and virtually took their breath away. While the guard unloaded their suitcases, they watched the engine being disconnected and switched to another rail. And then, amid the loud clanging of bells and whistles, it backed up to the coaches for its return journey to Montreal.

“Mrs. Spencer?” A well-dressed woman in a hooded coat stood behind them with two dogs, a spaniel and a poodle, pulling on their leads. “Jeanne Benoit,” she said, holding out her gloved hand. “I bet you're glad to get off that train! It's either too hot or the heater's given up and you freeze to death. Now,” she ran on, “do you think you can carry all your luggage? Your aunt's house is only a five-minute walk away.” They set off up Boulevard Du Lac and turned along Rue Grande Moulin. Beside them ran a fast-running backwater of the Mille Iles River, which was edged with a thin crust of ice that sparkled in the bright sunshine.

The house was exactly as Maggie had imagined. It had a minute front garden, now covered in a couple of feet of snow, a wooden gate, a stone path, recently swept clean, and a bright red front door, which Jeanne Benoit opened before standing aside for Maggie and Nat to enter the small stone-tiled foyer.

“I hope everything's okay for you,” Madame Benoit said as she followed them into the square living room. “I lit the space heater, and the place is nicely aired out. I've left you a few groceries to get you started,” she added. “And there's a general store near the station when you need more.”

“I don't know how to thank you,” Maggie said as the woman turned to go out.

“I loved your aunt,” she replied. “Oh, I almost forgot—this is Oscar.” And she bent and unclipped the leash from the black-and-white dog at her feet. “He's mostly spaniel and a real dear. I know you'll love him.” And with a cheery wave, she and the other dog walked out of the front door, leaving Maggie and Nat looking down at the funny-looking, long-eared animal who seemed to be giving them a lopsided grin while happily thumping his tail on the polished wood floor.

“Well, Oscar,” Maggie said, bending to stroke his head, “you'd better show us around.” The dog immediately ran into the kitchen, and they heard him lapping noisily from a bowl of water before racing back to them in the pretty living room.

There was a cretonne-covered sofa set under the large, square window that faced the road and a stand of leafless maples bordering the water. Two deep armchairs were on each side of the fireplace, which was already laid and only needed a match to make a cheerful blaze. In one corner of the room was a china cabinet with fragile Royal Doulton ladies, eggshell-thin cups and saucers and miniatures. A coffee table and upright piano held masses of photographs, and Maggie was delighted to see a photo of her mother and aunt when they were young, another of her aunt and her husband, and one of herself with Barbara and Midge that she had sent to her aunt a few years earlier.

Nat picked up one of the suitcases. “Let's take these upstairs.”

With Oscar leading the way, they struggled up the narrow carpeted stairs and into the front bedroom. Its window looked through the maples on the far side of the road and gave a perfect view of the river. The double bed, covered with a handmade quilt and piled high with pillows, looked so inviting that it took a lot of willpower for them to drag themselves back to the ground floor again.