Free Death on a Short Leash by Gwendolyn Southin Page A

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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œWe 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?”
    â€œWhat 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.”
    â€œI didn’t mention runaways. Can we please go inside?”
    â€œYou can wait in the porch while I consult with Brother Francois.”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œCan’t imagine anyone leaving home for this,” Nat whispered back. “Where’s this bloody brother or whatever they call him?”
    â€œWould 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.
    â€œHe’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?”
    â€œNo,” he answered, barely looking at the picture. “What’s her name?”
    â€œJohanna Evans,” Maggie said. “You sure she didn’t come to see you?”
    â€œI would remember a name like that. All the followers of the True Light have