Death on a Short Leash by Gwendolyn Southin

leader,” the girl answered, sliding off the seat and out the door. “I’ve got to go before they miss me.”
    â€œWait a minute.” Nat had reached over and grabbed the end of the shawl covering her baby. “Can we take you home?”
    â€œThis is my home,” she replied, pulling the shawl out of his grasp and vanishing into the pouring rain.
    â€œPoor little thing,” Maggie said, turning back in her seat.
    â€œWhat kind of life could she have had before she joined the good brother’s commune?”
    â€œThe bigger question is,” Nat replied, putting the car in gear, “where the hell are these kennels Johanna was looking for?”
    â€œWell, Brother Francois is certainly not going to let us search his grounds to see if they’re there,” Maggie said.
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œWe need to look over your outbuildings,” Nat replied.
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œYou didn’t tell me you’re from the police,” Brother Francois hissed.
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œPerhaps now you’ll