Death on a Short Leash by Gwendolyn Southin Page A

leave us in peace,” Brother Francois said smugly as he saw them off the premises. “And don’t come back.”
    It was late when Nat eventually drew the Chevy up outside Maggie’s house, and by that time all she could think of was a hot bath, hot soup and a warm bed. She declined Nat’s offer to come in and wash her back, telling him firmly that she would call him in the morning.
    MAGGIE AWOKE TO brilliant sunshine and Emily gently tapping her face with her velvet paws. “Cat! It’s Sunday and only seven o’clock!” But she reached for her robe. “I’ll make some tea and then we’ll have a little lie-in.” She had just taken the steaming cup back to her room and climbed into bed again, with a sigh of contentment, when the phone at her bedside rang. “Drat!”
    â€œWe need to talk to that Williams fellow, the vet,” Nat said brightly. “I’ll be over around nine.”
    â€œI’ve decided to have a lazy day. Let’s go tomorrow.”
    â€œNo. It’s impossible to talk to the man at his work and I’ve found out where he lives, so we can beard the lion in his den. Besides,” he added, “it’s too nice to be indoors on a day like this. Have breakfast ready.”
    â€¢ • •
    DR. WILLIAMS LIVED in a large, comfortable house in Kerrisdale. Everything was neat, from the carefully weeded flower beds that lined the stone path to the freshly painted brown and cream front door. The blinds on the front windows were properly pulled for privacy, and when Nat and Maggie pushed the doorbell, it rang the Westminster chimes. The door was eventually opened by a tall, willowy ash blonde, her face smudged with yesterday’s makeup. She was dressed in a red satin dressing gown and matching slippers and sporting a large glass of orange juice. “If you’re selling something, I don’t want any,” she said, taking a swig from the glass.
    â€œUh! I’m Nat Southby and this is my assistant, Maggie Spencer.” Nat handed her one of the agency’s cards. “Could we talk to your husband?”
    â€œThat’s a laugh.” She gave a gentle sway before taking another slug of the juice. “Have to get my glasses,” she said. Putting the juice down on the hall table, she fished into one of the pockets of her gown and pulled out a pair of granny glasses. She perched them on the end of her nose and peered at the card. “You’re a detective,” she accused. “You detecting that son of a bitch of a husband of mine?” She laughed and reached for the juice.
    â€œWe just wanted to ask Dr. Williams a few questions about his late employee, Johanna Evans.”
    â€œJohanna . . . poor li’l Johanna. She’s dead. Dead as a mackerel.” She gave a huge hiccup. “But you can’t ask him any questions, because the bastard’s not here.” She opened the door wider. “You wanna come in?” And turning away from them, she wove her way toward an open kitchen doorway at the far end of the hall. “My name’s Prudence,” she said, making straight for the oak table that held a large glass pitcher of orange juice. “I’m Pru. Take a pew.” She giggled. “Hate people standing over me.” She pointed to the wooden chairs. “You wan’ some . . .” she peered into her empty glass “. . . juice?”
    â€œNo, thanks,” Maggie and Nat said simultaneously.
    â€œSure you do.” Prudence gave a little giggle. “Everybody loves orange juice.” While Pru searched her cupboards for two more glasses, Maggie quickly surveyed the kitchen. A kitchen she would die for. Copper-bottomed pots were suspended over a central working area that also contained a stainless steel sink and oodles of room to prepare food. A large Harvest Gold refrigerator and matching up-to-date stove were on the far wall, and there were masses of