Death on a Short Leash (28 page)

“We'll unpack later,” Maggie said once they were in the large kitchen that overlooked the fenced-in garden. “Shall I make some tea?”

Nat picked up the bottle of red wine and the corkscrew that Madame Benoit had left for them on the scrubbed wooden table. “Instead of tea, how about finding us a couple of glasses?” After pouring them each a glass, he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a buff-coloured, legal-size envelope. “Merry Christmas,” he said, handing it to her.

Oscar took up his station between them, his tail wagging happily as Maggie opened the envelope. When a key fell out onto the floor, he checked it for edibility. “But . . . but this . . . ,” she said as she scanned the letter, “this is . . .”

“. . . a full partnership in Southby's Investigations.” He bent, picked up the key and held it out to her.

“A partnership? What a wonderful Christmas present.” She glanced down at the key in his hand.

“For your new office,” he said, his face crinkling with pleasure.

“I rented us the empty office next to mine. Renovations should be complete by the time we get back in the new year.”

“Do you honestly think I'm ready?”

“Ready?” Nat laughed. “You're more than ready! I can't possibly run the business without you.”

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “I love you, Nat Southby.”

“Maggie, old girl,” he said, giving her a kiss back, “we're going to make beautiful music together. Now let's get to this wine.” And he picked up a glass and handed it to her. “First, we drink to your aunt for leaving you this lovely little house, then we drink to this funny-looking dog, and—most of all—we drink to us and our new beginnings!”

M
aggie was beginning to tire as she manoeuvred her skis around the final bends on Hollyburn's cross-country trail. Then she missed one altogether and fell headlong into a snowbank. After righting herself, she rested a moment, her back against a snow-covered log; then, realizing that Nat would now be far ahead of her, she dug her poles into the snow and tried to get back onto her feet. But her weight shifted the log, and she found herself falling backwards, arms flailing, to land beside it. “Drat!” Sitting upright again, she slipped the loops of her ski poles from her wrists, unlatched her skis and rolled over onto her knees, dislodging the thin layer of snow on the log. “Oh! My God!” The frozen fingers of the hand that emerged from the snow seemed to beckon to her.

“Nat!” she screamed, inching away from the grotesque fingers.

Nat turned instantly and began slogging his way back up the trail. “I'm coming,” he yelled. “Just stay put.” Imagining her with a broken arm or leg, his mind was in turmoil. How was he going to get her back to the parking lot? “What's the matter?” he asked, when he found her standing in the middle of the trail, apparently unhurt.

Her answer was to point down.

“Bloody hell!” He kicked off his skis and knelt beside her to brush the snow off the “log.” The man was most definitely dead. And frozen stiff.

Maggie's voice quivered. “His head's covered in blood. Do you think he had a fall or something?”

Nat looked all around him then shook his head. “No broken branches, and he's sort of tucked behind those bushes. Besides, he's not wearing skis . . . or ski clothes.” He got to his feet. “We'd better get some help.”

“You can ski faster than I can,” Maggie answered. “You go and I'll wait here.”

He shook his head. “No way. It's already getting dark.”

“But we can't just leave him.” She peered back up the way they had come. “There's bound to be someone else coming down the trail soon.”

“I doubt it. We're probably the last on the mountain.” Nat thought for a moment. “By the look of him, he's been dead for quite a while, so another hour won't make any difference.”

Maggie shivered as the cold wind blew the thickening snow into their faces. “I do hope the police won't want us to come back up here tonight.”

“One of us will have to come back, I guess,” Nat answered. “You got a hanky or something that we can tie on the bushes to mark the spot?”

“Here, take this,” she said, taking off her red silk scarf and handing it to him.

It seemed an eternity before they reached the parking lot. They piled their skis into Nat's old Chevy and then drove to the nearest phone booth, which was outside a coffee shop. “They want us to wait back at the parking lot,” Nat said after he had replaced the receiver. “They're sending someone.” He opened the door of the store. “I'll get them to refill our Thermos, okay?”

They drove back to the deserted lot and huddled close to the car's feeble heater while they sipped their tepid coffee and waited. Finally, an
RCMP
car drew up beside them. Nat reluctantly got out to meet the two officers who emerged.

“You the one found the stiff?”

Nat nodded. “I suppose you want me to go up the trail with you.”

“Naturally. How far is it?” The second officer had opened the trunk of the police car and was hauling out a sled and some blankets. “I'm Sergeant Murray, and this is Constable Jefferies.”

Nat nodded acknowledgment. “Southby,” he said. “The body's a half mile or so up the trail.”

“Let's get going then. You get to carry the lantern.”

Nat opened the passenger door of his car. “Will you be okay here on your own, Maggie?”

“I didn't know you had someone with you.” Jefferies walked over to peer into the car. “You saw the dead man, too?”

“Yes,” Maggie replied miserably. “I found him.” All she could think of was being home in her own house by her own fire.

“Don't go anywhere,” Jefferies ordered.

Maggie felt like asking where the hell he thought she would go, but she watched in silence as the three of them, Nat leading the way with the lantern, trudged through the snow and disappeared into the entrance to the dark trail.

GWENDOLYN SOUTHIN
was born in Essex, England and launched her career after moving to the Sunshine Coast of Canada. She co-founded The Festival of the Written Arts and the region's writer-in-residence program. She co-edited
The Great Canadian Cookbook
with Betty Keller and her short stories and articles have appeared in
Maturity
,
Pioneer News
and
Sparks from the Forge
. She lives and writes in Sechelt, British Columbia.

Stay tuned for more adventures in the Margaret Spencer series which currently includes:
Death in a Family Way
,
In the Shadow of Death
,
Death on a Short Leash
, and
Death as a Last Resort
.

“The flow is smooth, the action well-paced.”
—Quill & Quire

“A good puzzle plot and an engaging character to carry it along.”
—Globe and Mail

“[Margaret] has her way with the reader . . . you want to find out how she's going to make out as a detective (she seems better at it than the professionals).”
—The Vancouver Sun

“Satisfies throughout. Fascinating story.”
—Sunstream Magazine

“Margaret Spencer is a smart and feisty woman to whom people open up. Original.”
—The Saskatoon Star Phoenix

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