Free Pleasantly Dead by Judith Alguire

need to sign a contract, leave a deposit.”
    “Just a rental agreement, ma’am.”
    “You don’t worry about someone stealing one?”
    “Sometimes. I had one stolen just the other night, as a matter of fact.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Simpson. “I suppose the police will catch the culprit.”
    The proprietor grimaced. “I doubt it. Whoever took it has probably painted over my number by now.”
    Simpson nodded. “Thank you for showing us around. We’ll come back when we have time to take one out.” He took Miss Miller’s arm. “Won’t we, dear?”
    “We will, Alex.”
    They backed away, waving.
    “We have to go back to the boathouse.”
    “Why?”
    “To see if we can find anything else interesting about the canoe.”
    “Such as?”
    “Fibres and so forth.”
    “I believe that sort of thing is called ‘evidence’,” he said. “We mustn’t tamper with evidence.” He looked at her as sternly as he could. “Elizabeth.”
    She smiled. “Don’t worry, Edward. I have a plan.”

Chapter Six
    Margaret Rudley knew where she was and feared her situation was rather desperate. It could take days before someone thought to look for her here. She was locked in a cabin at an abandoned lodge on the bad side of the lake. Bad in that the shoreline was jammed with weeds. Good for a wildlife sanctuary. Hopeless for swimming or launching a boat. Thick with mosquitoes and cursed with an obnoxious sulfur odour from a stagnant pond. The cottages huddled on little islands of hardpan connected by wagon roads. The remainder of the property was largely bog and quicksand.
    One moment, she was snug in her bed at the High Birches; the next, attacked by two men, bound hand and foot, gagged, and blindfolded. Some time later, one of the men returned. He dragged her from her cottage and shoved her into the back seat of her car. She knew it was her car because it smelled of lavender. She had purchased some in Middleton the day before and guessed a few sprigs had spilled onto the floor.
    Her captor brought her to the Whispering Pines, a ridiculous name given the decidedly unpinelike smells of sulfur, rotting wood, and mildew. He had loosened the shackles on her legs but left her hands tied quite tightly. He had fastened a thick rope around her waist and tossed it over a beam, allowing her a ten-foot circle of freedom. Rather like being a dog on a tie out, she thought. He had cut a small hole at the centre of the duct tape. She remained blindfolded. The door was locked from the outside. She had discovered this by throwing her shoulder into it several times.
    Her captor had left her a chamber pot of sorts — an empty lard bucket she assumed — that he had scavenged from the defunct kitchen. Since she had been captured in a knee-length nightgown, using it had not been impossible. He had left once and returned with a jug of Kool-Aid with a straw. The hole in the duct tape was just large enough to accommodate the straw. He then muttered something about it being 4:30 and left.
    He hadn’t been back since.
    By rubbing her head against the wall like an elk shedding velvet, she managed to dislodge the blindfold. It settled over her left eye, giving her a rakish air she might have appreciated if her circumstances had been less dire.
    She focused on staying calm and reviewed her options.
    At the moment, they seemed limited.
    The worst part — for the moment, at least — was that she hadn’t shown up to pick up Aunt Pearl. “Rudley,” she had said to his back as he rummaged in the closet, “I’m leaving early tomorrow to pick up my aunt.” She sighed. Knowing Rudley, he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
    She regretted she and Rudley had parted in the process of an argument. They had been married twenty-seven years. They had had their share of disagreements, most of them the result of Rudley blowing his lid over trivialities. In her experience, Rudley behaved much more sensibly in desperate circumstances. He could be a