Death on a Short Leash by Gwendolyn Southin Page B

glass-fronted cupboards on the two remaining walls. The oak table they were sitting at was set into a recess that overlooked an acre of immaculate lawns, shrubs and autumn flowers, and in the distance, covered in some kind of vine, was an eight-sided gazebo. Looks as if Dr. Williams is doing all right for himself. This place must employ an army of gardeners. She stole another look at her tiddly hostess. I can’t see our Prudence getting herself dirty.
    By now some of the orange juice from the jug had made it into the two extra glasses, and their hostess, peering at the excess liquid that had spilled onto the table, carefully dabbed at it with her fingers and then slowly licked them one by one. “Here’s mud in your eye . . . Now, why would anyone want mud in their eye?” she mused.
    Maggie took a sip and then gulped for air. “My God,” she spluttered. “It’s nearly straight vodka.” She looked over to Nat, who was just raising his glass to his lips. “Watch it. You’re driving.”
    He put his glass down. “Perhaps we could ask you a few questions, Mrs. Williams?”
    â€œCall me Pru. Ask me anything you like. But Carl and li’l ol’ me aren’t exactly buddy-buddy, and he tells me nothing.” She gave a little grin. “Not a shausage.”
    â€œYou knew Johanna?” Nat asked.
    â€œJohanna! Ah, yes, Johanna. Sad.” She peered into the now empty jug, tipped it up and shook the last drops into her glass. “I’ll get some more.”
    â€œNo, no,” Nat assured her. “Perhaps coffee . . .”
    â€œGood idea,” Maggie said, getting up. “Where do you keep it?”
    â€œInstant. Over there,” Prudence pointed toward the stove.
    â€œYou sure you don’ wan’ some more . . . juice?” She reached across the table, picked up his glass and drained it.
    â€œAbout Johanna,” Nat continued.
    â€œCarl’s office . . . nice girl. She liked my little Rosie.”
    â€œRosie?” Nat asked.
    â€œMy little doggie . . . but that son of a bitch took her away.
    Said she’s sick.” She began to cry. “She’s a seal . . . seal . . . you know, cute li’l dogs. Got a black patch here.” A wavering finger indicated the area around her eye. “She’s a Sealy-something.”
    â€œSealyham?” Maggie said.
    â€œTha’s right. Shealyham.” She laid her head on her arms and sobbed. “She was jush in heat, poor li’l thing, but he hates the mess.” She gave a loud hiccup. “Thash weeks ago.”
    â€œHere,” Maggie said, putting a cup of instant coffee in front of her. “Drink this.” She turned to Nat. “She’s in no fit state to answer questions. Let’s get her to where she can sleep it off.” But before Maggie could get even a few drops of coffee down her, the woman had passed out, sliding from her chair onto the kitchen floor. “Let’s get her into that den down the hall,” Maggie suggested. “There’s bound to be a sofa or something there.”
    It sounded like a good idea, but when they tried to lift Pru, she sagged like a rag doll, and they ended up dragging her down the hall and into the den.
    â€œAnd what do you think you’re doing?”
    They were so engrossed in getting Prudence onto the sofa, they hadn’t heard Carl Williams enter the house. Startled, they staggered the last few steps and the three of them landed in a heap.
    â€œAs you can see,” Nat puffed as he slid out from under the inert Prudence, “we’re helping your wife to lie down.”
    â€œI don’t appreciate coming home and finding it occupied by complete strangers.” Williams moved toward the phone. “I’m calling the police.” He stopped and looked closer at Nat. “I’ve seen you before.”
    â€œAt your animal hospital,” Nat replied. “And call the