But there must have been something. Damage to the body on the side she’d never got to see? Inflammable cargo? Acid dripping out of broken carboys into—what? Crates of kitchen matches? If the driver had hijacked the truck, he might not have known how to drive it properly, and that was why it tipped over. Maybe he’d then set the fire himself before he ran off, trying to cover up what he’d done. Anybody who’d steal a lone woman’s lovely new car and leave her stranded in the middle of nowhere when she’d only been trying to save his life would do anything. Janet finished her brandy and went to sleep.
Chapter 2
SHE WOKE AT HALF-PAST seven on the dot. Her watch said so. That meant she’d been stuck on this hill for four solid hours, and still nobody had come. Unless there’d been cars going by while she slept. But how could they? That mass of wreckage must still be blocking the road. They’d have honked or got out and tried to move it, or seen her lamp and come here to ask what had happened. Besides, she hadn’t been asleep so very long, probably not more than an hour by the time she’d been held up by the wreck, blown down with the barn, waited around all that time for the fire to go out so she could get in here and do the various things she’d done before she nodded off.
She had to go and do one of them again pretty quick. She must have caught a chill in her kidneys standing around out there with wet feet. She’d better fetch in more firewood while she was about it. Sighing, Janet stuck her feet back into her boots, warm and fairly dry inside by now, thank the Lord, picked up her security blanket for company, and dragged herself back to the woodshed.
What the heck had she been dreaming, anyway? Something about dinosaurs prowling around outside, making strange noises. That must have been the wind. Up here, with nothing to break its force, it was roaring loud enough to wake the dead. If she were to get stuck in this old shack all night, she’d have to hump some to keep herself from freezing.
But first things first. Janet was attending to her most urgent need when all of a sudden she heard voices beyond the door she’d instinctively closed. And here she was, the wife of a detective inspector in the RCMP, with her panty hose down around her knees.
That embarrassing circumstance no doubt saved her life. Now they were in the kitchen, two men, talking plenty loud enough to hear.
And the first thing she heard was “Did he have sense enough to kill the woman before he took her car?”
“He claims he did, says he knocked her down and kicked her head in, then tossed the body in the barn under some boards so it would look as if she was killed when the roof caved in.”
“The hell he did. That kid would say anything. I’ll bet the crazy bugger didn’t even wait to make sure she was dead. She might still be down there, yelling her head off.”
“Not by this time she isn’t. Anyway, who’d have heard her? Come on, quit swilling that rotgut. We’ve still got work to do.”
“Like what, for instance?”
“Lug the furniture out in the road and set it afire.”
“I thought he said to torch the whole house.”
“Yes, but we’ve got to account for the burnt patch in the road. With the wreckage gone, people are going to wonder what caused it. We take away the detour signs when we leave, remember. The blaze is bound to attract attention then, and it’s got to look reasonable.”
“What’s so reasonable about burning the furniture in the road?”
“Nothing, that’s the point. We’re just teenage vandals having some fun.”
“Oh, I get it. Not bad. What gets me is why the kid bothered to light the stove and the lamp. He claims he took off right after the truck went over.”
“Huh, I know that lazy bastard. He’d never dream of hiking out on foot. He came in here, made himself comfortable, and waited for a lift. Along comes this woman, sees the lamp he’s put in the window for bait, and comes trotting up here looking for somebody to move the nasty old truck so she can get by. So he whomps her one, dumps the body, and takes off in the car. I’m surprised he didn’t just leave her here.”
“Damn shame he didn’t. We might have had some fun with her. Here, quit hoggin’ that brandy. I’ve got a mouth on me too, you know.”
There was a pause, then the sound of glass smashing against the wall. Teenage vandalism. Janet didn’t know what else to do, so she simply froze where she stood until the dishes quit crashing and the men left the kitchen. She didn’t leave the woodshed then, either, though she did make sure her garments were in order. From the grunts and curses she could still hear, she assumed they must be juggling that gone-to-pieces chesterfield out the door. There was silence for a bit, then some more tramping and swearing and sounds of splintering wood, then a great crash that must have been the parlor stove going over, then a small explosion that was no doubt the oil lamp tossed on to whatever they’d piled up for kindling. Then the fire began to catch and the flames to outroar the wind.
They wouldn’t wait around now. No doubt they’d already set fire to the stuff in the road. They’d toss a bottle of burning gasoline into what was left of the bam, then they’d make tracks. As for herself, it looked like a case of fry or freeze.
The woodshed had an outside door, frozen shut, with drifts piled against it probably higher than the door. Janet wasted no time there. She did the only thing she could do: wrapped the emergency blanket around her, ran back into the kitchen with smoke tearing at her lungs and flames already licking in through the doorway; tried the one window, found it stuck, pulled the tough plastic over her head, and jumped through, glass and all.
Chapter 3
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR MADOC RHYS had gone off duty. This was a matter for mild jubilation, since he’d been on a good deal longer than he’d intended to be. Time had been when hours meant nothing to him, but now he was a married man with a wife to come home to. He savored the thought of his Jenny waiting for him in the house his mother had badgered them into buying, or imagined she had. Lady Rhys could badger as effectively long distance as she could in person, but nobody badgered Janet, not really. She just let them think they had, if it made them happy.
They’d bought the house simply because they’d needed a place to live. The miserable bachelor pad he’d occasionally roosted in before his unexpected marriage at Christmas time hadn’t been worth trying to make livable for the two of them. They’d read all the articles, listened to scads of advice, then gone out one Sunday afternoon and seen a place vacant with a cupola on top and etched glass panels around the front door, and that was it.
Like most New Brunswick women, Janet had a passion for antiques, or reasonable facsimiles thereof. She’d insisted they do the house in period, partly because it was obviously the only thing to do and partly because it meant they could use a lot of old furniture various relatives had tucked away in their lofts and attics. If she wasn’t at home right now, it was because she was out chasing down a Morris chair or a black walnut whatnot. She’d get the seller to deliver it free of charge, too, not by coercion or seduction, heaven forbid, but because she was Janet.
Jennet, she called herself. That was the way they said it around Pitcherville. Madoc’s brother Dafydd, the famous operatic tenor, had teased her about that. “A jennet’s a lady mule,” he’d insisted. She’d just given him the full force of those dark gray eyes, shown her dimple ever so slightly, and replied, “That’s right.” Madoc treasured the memory.
Madoc ran the old Renault into the carriage shed, raising his eyebrows when he noticed the empty other half. Then he went in through the side door, kicked off his boots, hung up his storm coat, and went to put the kettle on for tea. He was surprised Janet wasn’t here to do it for him, not that he minded waiting on himself but because he’d told her he’d be home early tonight for once and she’d been glad to hear they’d have a little extra time together.
She’d put some beef to marinate in a basin beside the sink, he noticed. Red wine, bay leaves, and various other odds and ends; one of Annabelle’s mother’s recipes, no doubt. Janet had known he
’d be hungry for something special after living on what snacks he could grab for the past two days and nights.
He opened the refrigerator door and stood staring in, the way men do when their wives aren’t around to say, “Shut it.” She’d got salad greens crisping, mushrooms ready sliced to put into whatever would come out of the basin. She’d promised him a pie; where was it? All Madoc could see was a blob of what might well be piecrust dough wrapped in waxed paper.
“Resting its gluten,” Janet had explained rather hilariously after she’d watched a cooking program on television. The Wadman women had always let their dough set a while before they rolled it out, but they’d never quite known why. Madoc didn’t know why now. It was a quarter past five, early for him but still later than he’d meant to be. Damn it, why wasn’t she here rolling out that piecrust?
If she were, he might have coaxed her into doing something other than rolling piecrust, but that was beside the point. Madoc began to fret. This was not like Janet. Had she popped down to the grocery store for something she’d forgotten, and run into a problem with the car? Why should she? The car was new, but they’d had it long enough to get the bugs worked out. Anyway, she could have had the kid from the garage drive her home while it was getting fixed. She could have phoned their neighbor Muriel and asked her to pin a note on the door. She could have called headquarters and asked him to pick her up himself. Not that he meant to be a possessive husband, but where the bloody hell was she?
Madoc was drinking his tea, thinking up any number of perfectly harmless and innocent reasons why Janet might have had to pop out on the spur of the moment, when the phone rang. Ah, there she was now, stuck with a flat tire she wanted him to come and fix. He sprinted for the phone. “Hello, darling!”
“That you, Inspector?” replied a basso profundo voice.
Madoc gritted his teeth. Didn’t they know he was officially, positively, irrevocably off duty? “What’s the matter, Sergeant?” he snarled.
“Sorry to bother you, Inspector, but we’ve had a report.”
“About what? Well, come on, spit it out.” If they thought he was going anywhere tonight—
“Er—would Mrs. Rhys be with you now?”
What the hell? “No, she’s not.”
“You haven’t heard from her?”
“No, I’ve just been—look, what is this?”
“Now, Inspector, don’t get excited. The thing of it is, her car’s been reported found.”
“Found? What do you mean? Found where?”
“Gone off the road down near Harvey Station.”
“Harvey Station? What would she be—Sergeant, what about my wife? Where is she?”
“They don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be any sign of her, except her pocketbook. It was under the seat, with all her stuff in it. Money and everything. Some kids on a Skidoo found it.”
“What about the car keys?”
“Still in the ignition.”
“Oh Jesus!”
Madoc didn’t realize he’d whispered. The sergeant started talking faster.
“The car wasn’t smashed up, Inspector. It may have been deliberately ditched. There were no footprints, no bloodstains, no—”
No body, that was what the man was trying not to say. Of course there weren’t any signs in the snow. Those kids would have mucked them up with their damned snowmobile, trying to be heroes. Blast their souls to hell. No, that was not fair. They’d only done what anybody would who didn’t know better.
“How deep is the snow there?”
That was a stupid question. Deep. There hadn’t been a real thaw since December. On the other hand, there hadn’t been a fresh snowfall recently. The snow wouldn’t be soft and fluffy, the kind an unconscious person could sink into and smother. The crust would be thick. Thick enough, God willing. If the sergeant answered, Madoc didn’t hear. He was already on the case.
“Send around a car. Now.”
He wouldn’t trust himself to drive the Renault. Anyway, he wanted lights flashing, sirens whooping. He wanted time to sit and get his head together. He wanted both arms free for Janet.
What the bloody, flaming hell could she possibly have been doing at Harvey Station? Nothing. Therefore, maybe it hadn’t been Janet who ditched the car. She was a careful, sensible driver. She wouldn’t go off that far without letting him know. She wouldn’t leave the car without taking her handbag.
But suppose she’d had her handbag snatched. The thief would then have her keys and registration. Suppose he’d located the car, driven off hell-a-whooping toward Harvey, skidded off the road, panicked, and run, forgetting about the money in the bag.
That wouldn’t explain why Janet hadn’t called. If it was a simple case of snatch and run, she’d have got a message to him somehow by now. Unless it hadn’t been only that. Unless she’d been knocked out and dumped in another ditch, someplace where she wouldn’t be found.
Driving himself crazy wasn’t going to help. Madoc put on the coat and boots he’d been so glad to take off, and started out the door to meet the car they were sending. Then he stopped. What if Janet was all right? What if she tried to phone home and nobody was here to answer? Why hadn’t he asked for a spare man?
Because he knew damned well everybody who could be spared was already either out there or on the way, sticking long poles down into the churned-up snow around the little blue car, hoping to God they wouldn’t hit anything solid.
Muriel, the neighbor, she’d come. He picked up the phone again. Muriel was over in a flash, a coat clutched around her, house shoes on her feet, nothing on her hands.
“But I talked to her just at noontime,” she was protesting. “Janet was fine then.”
“What did you talk about?” Madoc demanded. “Did she say she was going anywhere?”
“Not that I recall. She said she was sewing on some curtains for that spare bedroom she’s fixing up for when your mother comes. Oh, and I told her about the washstand.”
“What washstand?”
“Well, you know Janet’s been wanting one. The old-fashioned kind, with a hole cut out for the basin and a shelf underneath to set the pitcher. It’s to hold that nice decorated ironstone set your friend over in Pitcherville gave her. You know, that belonged to the old lady Janet was so fond of.”
Madoc knew. Marion Emery, Bert and Annabelle’s neighbor, had brought it over from the Mansion. She’d thought Janet would like a memento of the late Mrs. Treadway. She’d also, as Annabelle pointed out, saved herself the price of a wedding present. Madoc could see Janet now, laughing over the gift and dashing away a tear or two at the same time. Yes, she’d mentioned a stand, but she hadn’t been about to pay what they were asking for one in the antique shops.
But Muriel had seen one in a flea market out on a back road somewhere. At least it hadn’t been a real flea market, just somebody’s barn with a few bits and pieces, most of which a person wouldn’t give houseroom to. But there’d been this perfectly decent washstand they were only asking thirty dollars for, and she’d thought Janet would want to know.
“Did you tell Janet where the place was?” Madoc asked with his heart thudding against his back teeth.
“Oh yes. She asked me about four times, till she was sure I’d got it straight. You know how I am about directions.”
Madoc did know how Muriel was about directions. He made her go over them a few times, too, scribbling frantically on Janet’s grocery list as he listened. They looked easy enough once he’d got her pinned down, but Muriel’s directions always did. Janet and he had found that out on a couple of other abortive missions.
The one clue that popped out of his jottings was that if Janet had in fact gone to look for the washstand on the strength of what they purported to indicate for a route, she might have wound up in one of several places, all of them fairly close to Fredericton and none of them on the road to Harvey. So now what did he do? He had to check out Janet’s car for himself, but instinct told him to head the opposite way. He comprom
ised by switching on the siren and telling the driver to go like hell.
Yes, that was her car, all right. Madoc opened the door, stuck in his head, and sniffed like a hound on the trail. At first the interior didn’t smell anything but cold. Gradually, though, he picked up a trace of—what? Oil and smoke. He put his nose to the nylon carpeting and sniffed harder. Oily smoke, no doubt about it, and a smudge of grease in front of the gas pedal. He reached into the glove compartment for the flashlight he’d put there himself, and beamed it at the stain.
“Who’s been in here?”
“N—nobody.”
That was one of the kids from the snowmobile, chilled to the marrow, no doubt, but not about to quit while there was any excitement going. “We couldn’t see anybody through the window, so we opened the door.”
“Both doors were properly shut?” Madoc snapped.
“Yeah, that’s right.” The kid’s teeth were chattering. “Just shut. Like as if you just got out and shut the door and walked away. Only there weren’t any footprints. None at all. We looked.”
“How? Did you drive around in the Skidoo?”
“No, we had snowshoes. But we didn’t need ’em, really. The crust bears you up.”
“So it does.”
Madoc realized he hadn’t even thought about putting on snowshoes himself. He was not a big man, but he outweighed Janet by at least thirty pounds. She could have walked away from here without even cracking the surface. Only she hadn’t, because she wouldn’t have left her pocketbook.
Unless she’d been dazed. She hadn’t been dazed. She hadn’t been here. Somebody had got the car away from her, as Madoc had thought from the first. Somebody with big feet and heavy boots, who stank of burning.
“Any fires around here today?” he asked the kid.
“Fires? You mean like a house burning down?”
“Or a dump, or a car that caught fire. Give a sniff.”
A Dismal Thing To Do Page 2
