And We Shall Have Snow Read online

  She crouched down, held out a hand. The dog approached cautiously, his head down, the tail wagging tentatively. As soon as he sniffed at her fingers, she scratched his ear, then reached for his collar.

  “You know where she lives?” she asked the woman. She didn’t want to get sidetracked into taking care of a stray dog tonight. “I think I have a piece of rope in the trunk. You can use it as a leash.”

  Roxanne handed the dog to the woman and gave her the rope. Soon she was on her way again. There was time to go to Sprucewood and run. After, she would go back to the hotel and call Finn before he went to bed. Then she’d email Brian. It was the best course of action. He was in charge, after all. He’d probably come out tomorrow. She would like to be the one who solved this case, but she couldn’t act alone on this new lead. And maybe it was just another dead end. Maybe Archie had it all wrong.

  She had just let herself into Sprucewood Hall when her phone buzzed. “Hi, Matt,” she said.

  “I’ve just had a call from Phyllis Smedley. She’s at Margo Wishart’s house in Cullen Village. Sasha Rosenberg is with her. They say the Wishart woman has gone missing. Shall I go there and have a look?”

  “How long has it been?”

  It had been two, three hours. Not long, but the murders, and the fact that Margo Wishart had visited the detachment earlier and her dog was running loose, added up to something. But what?

  “I’ll see you there,” Roxanne said. When she got to Margo’s house she found Sasha and Phyllis seated at Margo’s table. There was no sign of Margo. The dishwasher had finished a cycle. It was still warm. Margo’s car was gone, her red puffer jacket was gone, her boots were gone. An open bottle of red wine sat on the kitchen counter, a used wine glass beside it. On the table was an almost empty bottle of brandy and a crystal tumbler. The same black dog she had seen earlier came to meet her and then went to lie down in a dog bed in the corner.

  “She must have just gone out,” Roxanne suggested. “She forgot about the dog.”

  “Never,” Sasha asserted. “No way she’d leave that dog outside loose on a night like this. And what was he doing out on the street anyway? She has a fenced yard. Freya Halliday brought him over to my place, to see if he really was Margo’s dog. The house was all locked up. The dog was hungry and thirsty. Margo would never leave him like that. Something’s wrong here.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “Spare key. I have hers and she has mine. Freya’s gone home, had to feed her husband his dinner, but I called Phyllis and she knew how to get hold of Constable Stavros.”

  “It is very strange,” said Phyllis. “We were here this afternoon. She didn’t say a thing about going out this evening.”

  “Who else was here?”

  “Roberta Axelsson. Panda and Annie, you know them?”

  “Did anything unusual happen?”

  The two women looked blank. Nothing. They’d talked, that’s all. It had been after 4:00 pm when they left. They had all gone at the same time.

  Matt came through a door that was connected to the garage. “Everything’s locked up. I can’t see anything unusual. Maybe something unexpected came up? She has a cellphone?”

  “I tried,” said Sasha. “Says it’s out of the area.”

  Roxanne looked at the brandy and the wine bottles. “Does she drink much? When she’s alone?”

  “Not really,” said Sasha, her brow furrowed with anxiety. “Hardly ever. A glass of wine, maybe. Not enough to get drunk.”

  “And she wouldn’t drive when she’s drunk,” Phyllis added, her voice sharp and insistent. “We had dinner recently and she was driving. Didn’t touch a drop. Look, there’s been two murders already. And my George has gone missing. You might have caught him if you’d been quicker off the mark. Shouldn’t you be organizing a search?”

  It was still only three hours, but she had a point. Did they know Margo’s licence number? No, but she drove a blue Honda Civic. Did she have relatives? There was a daughter in Toronto, a son in Vancouver. Was there a recent photograph of her anywhere?

  Phyllis thumbed through images on her phone. She found Margo’s Facebook page. “She didn’t take selfies. But there’s this.” The photograph was of the book group. Margo sat in the middle, Sasha and Roberta on one side, Panda and Annie on the other. Phyllis had taken the photo herself.

  Matt had gone to his car to fetch bags for the bottles and glasses. He’d have to find a way to recork the wine. She followed him outside. “Okay, let’s do it. Find the number of the Honda and get a call out on it. I’m going to go and talk to your aunt and Annie Chan. What’s the quickest way to get to their place from here?”

  “I can take you.” He had his phone out already. “Or I could call Panda. Will I get her to meet you at the detachment?”

  “No,” she said. “I need you to take care of things at this end. Send these two home and stay here. Margo Wishart might show up. Call me if she does. Now, which way do I go?”

  Margo Wishart struggled to regain consciousness. It was too dark to see anything. And cold. She was disoriented, her hands felt numb. She patted her body. She must be wearing her thick, puffy jacket, but no gloves. That was not good. Her head hurt. She touched her forehead. It was sore, tender, crusted with something. Blood?

  The taste in her mouth was disgusting. Stale brandy. A memory swam into focus of eyes that were hard and hateful, a long, shiny blade, the threat of death, having to drink, glass after glass. Her mouth was dry. Had she vomited already? She should be more drunk than she was. Maybe danger had helped sober her.

  She was lying at an awkward angle, her head lower than her feet. There was something solid underneath her, under her belly, rectangular and hard. She touched it, felt around with her palms. Her fingers were stiff and cold. She recognized the console of her car. That was where she was, sprawled over the front seats, in the dark, somewhere out in the cold.

  She reached out and touched the steering wheel. Above and to the left there were rectangles of faint light. She squinted at them, forced her fingers to grab onto the wheel. It was frigid, but at least it wasn’t metal, so her skin didn’t freeze to it. She pulled herself upright. She needed to get her fingers warm so they didn’t get frostbitten. She pushed each icy hand up the opposite sleeve. This jacket was not warm enough. She had a big down-filled parka for going outside at minus forty. She wished she was wearing it now. She would die out here in the cold if she didn’t get help. But that was the plan, wasn’t it? She remembered. This was supposed to look like an accident, like she had driven into the ditch, drunk. And then she had frozen to death, out here in the dead of winter.

  Where was she? All she could see was grey light through the windshield. It was frosted over. So was the side window. Reluctantly, she pulled a hand out of the sleeve and felt around for a handle. She wound the window down, about three inches. It was even colder outside. Above, the sky was thick with stars. A satellite blipped its way across the dark expanse. Just you and me out here, she thought. The only things moving on this black, lonely night. She wound the window up again, unlocked the door and pushed up against it. It was heavy at this angle. She got it six inches or so open and pushed her head outside. The air was so cold she could hardly breathe. She could see the edge of the road, up above her. The car was deep in a ditch, in a snowdrift. Should she try to climb out? You were always told to stay in the car. Don’t leave it. Wait to be found. Would anyone be looking for her? Would they find her, out here? She remembered hearing of a man who lived in the village, whose car had stalled on a cold night and he’d tried to walk home. He hadn’t made it. He had frozen to death. They had found him in a heap at the side of the road.

  She was shivering. She flopped back into the driver’s seat and the door slammed shut above her, like she was being shut in a tomb. She realized that she hadn’t been belted into the seat. She stuck her cold fingers into her pockets. No wallet, but the
re was her cellphone. She pulled it out and clumsily poked at the screen. There was no service. Of course there wasn’t. Just how remote was this spot? It had been chosen deliberately, so no one would come by and find her. A road not travelled, at least on cold winter nights, one where she wouldn’t be found for a long time. She was entirely alone. The car, she knew, had been cleaned out of anything that might help her survive. The blanket she kept for the dog on the back seat, her winter survival kit, in the trunk, with its candles and matches. Flares. A small shovel. A tin that you could melt snow in. She was thirsty. Perhaps she could eat snow? The passenger side of the car was buried. She could open the window and grab a handful. But swallowing it might make her colder, and what would that do to her hands? The last thing she needed to do was get them wet and have that moisture freeze on her skin.

  She had a thumping headache. It was difficult to think straight. She took her right hand out of her pocket and reached for the ignition. Her cold fingers remembered where it was. Muscle memory. The key was there. She turned it. The engine coughed then died, and she remembered something else. The tank had been drained, deliberately, while she had been sitting at her table, forcing down all that alcohol. There must have been enough gasoline left to get her here, wherever this was. The engine must have been left running while she lay here, unconscious. How long had that been? The whole plan was so thoroughly thought out, so ingenious. It was just like the other murders.

  The cut on her forehead throbbed. How had that happened? She had no recollection. She reached for the glove box and felt around in it. There had been a flashlight. It was gone. So was the bag of candies she kept there, so she could suck one on a long drive home, when the greatest danger was that you might fall asleep at the wheel, mesmerized by the straight road ahead. Now she was in real danger. She wouldn’t be found in time. She would freeze to death out here. She would die.

  Her finger touched the dashboard. She remembered that there was a bar at the top, one with the red triangle on it. Hazard lights. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She didn’t have gasoline but her car battery was good. She pressed. Red lights blinked on, wreathing her car like a beacon, on and off, on and off. Would they be reflecting brightly off the snow? If anyone at all was out there, surely this would attract their attention? The killer hadn’t thought of that. It was a mistake, one that just might save her. Perhaps there was hope after all.

  What she had to do now was stay awake. It was so tempting to sleep. She needed to keep her eyes open and stay as warm as she could in this frozen icebox. She pulled her hood over her head and tied the strings as tight as she could. She tucked her face into the car seat to protect her nose and her cheeks from the cold. Her collar was up as high as it would go, her hands were tucked back up inside her sleeves. She curled herself into a ball, like a small animal. Her legs were cold. At least she had warm socks on and leather boots. Her feet were not too bad. She tried not to shiver, not to let her teeth chatter. She started to sing to herself. That might keep her awake

  “Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are…” Her daughter used to play that on the violin, years ago. Then “I see the moon, the moon sees me.” Except tonight there was no moon. She kept on singing, over and over again, alone, out in the cold in the middle of nowhere, fighting off the need to close her eyes and give in to sleep.

  Roxanne drove out of the village, wondering if Margo’s disappearance was linked to what Archie had told her. She shouldn’t be doing this alone, but Matt was the last person she needed with her. She stopped the car and texted Izzy, then drove to the highway and turned south. Shortly after, she reached the intersection she needed and turned west again. The night was clear, moonless. The bright light of a satellite crossed the sky.

  She was still two intersections away when she saw a red glow above the trees. It moved, flickered and grew brighter, redder as she drew closer. She stopped the car, stepped outside, smelled the smoke and called in a fire alarm. As she climbed back into her car she saw a burst of flame above the treetops.

  She pulled in just short of the driveway, leaving it clear for the fire crews, and ran towards the house. The top part of the A-frame was ablaze. Flames had burst through the skylights and ignited the roof. Through the lower windows she could see that the centre of the ground floor was also engulfed. The front door was locked. She peered in the window of the garage. Only one car was parked there. No sign of the red Sierra truck, which meant Annie and Panda might not be trapped in the fire. No one was in the adjacent workshop either. Her ears pricked to the sound of a siren over the roar of the blaze. A fire truck was racing from the direction of Cullen Village. One from Fiskar Bay wouldn’t be far behind. She turned to see Izzy’s car pull up behind hers.

  “Bill Gilchrist and the guys are on their way,” Izzy shouted, joining her in time to witness a glass window on the ground floor explode. “Geez! How did that take hold so fast? Where’s Matt’s aunt? And Annie Chan?”

  “I don’t know,” Roxanne replied. “But their truck’s not here.”

  Izzy glanced at her. “The Sierra? It’s parked down the road. I passed it on the way here.”

  They jumped into Izzy’s car. As they retraced Izzy’s route from Fiskar Bay, a fire truck raced past them, then an RCMP car. Sergeant Gilchrist raised a hand in acknowledgement from the window.

  Soon, Roxanne could see the truck, off the road, on a track that led towards a forest, one used by hunters in the winter. They stopped, stepped out, switched on their flashlights and cautiously approached the vehicle. It was unlocked and empty. On the front seat was a large brown envelope. Matt’s name was scrawled on the front in black marker. It was sealed.

  In the back of the cab a large, painted canvas was propped up behind the seats. Izzy pulled it out and shone her flashlight on it. It was one of Annie’s. It showed Angus Smith, his wiry old body torqueing down through the hole in the ice, his feet twisting into the water, his arms stretched above his head, his face distorted into a grimace of horror and outrage.

  “Look at this!” Izzy gasped. “You’d think she’d actually seen it.”

  “She did, Izzy. She was there.”

  “You must be kidding!” Izzy stepped back, appalled. Her flashlight beam swung away, illuminating the back of the cab. Roxanne spotted a dark shadow behind the painting. She put down her own light, pulled the painting forward and found a large, rectangular art portfolio. When she opened it she found the original drawing of Stella and a couple of sketches, studies for the painting of Angus.

  “Grab my light, Izzy, so we can see better.”

  Izzy had recovered from her initial shock. She held up both lights, one in each hand. It was bright enough to see another big sheet of paper, shining white in the light beams, surrounded by black shadow. It was covered with drawings, done quickly, little more than dark, curved lines. But they were explicit, and what they described was clear. A woman falling into the front seat of a car. The same car in a snowdrift in a ditch. The same woman sprawled out on the front seat of the car, a gash on her head, obviously dead. She was quite recognizably Margo Wishart.

  26

  Margo lay in a hospital bed, the lump on her forehead swollen and red, the gash covered with tape. Her cheeks and nose were ruddy from frostbite, her fingers bandaged. She had concussion. She also had a wicked hangover.

  “Did one of them hit your head on the door frame when they put you in the car?” Roxanne was sitting by her bed. Brian Donohue leaned against the windowsill.

  “I don’t remember. Do you think they shoved the car into the ditch with me in it?”

  “It looks like they pushed it with their truck. You’ve got a cracked back fender. The car’s being checked out for paint scrapes and for traces of blood on the frame.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be keeping it.” Margo shuddered, thinking of how close she had come to dying in her little Honda. “How long was I out there?”

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p; “Brad Andreychuk came along around nine, so it would have more than three hours.”

  Brad had been out on his skidoo, skimming along the ditches, heading home after a day’s fishing and drinking. He’d had a few beers out on the lake then some more with his pal Billy while they gutted their catch, so he’d taken the back roads home to avoid being caught driving drunk. He had spotted the flashing red lights and gone to check them out. He had saved her life. Now he was a hero, redeemed in the eyes of the village.

  “You got lucky,” Roxanne said. “No one lives out on that road. You were cold, but it could have been a lot worse. It went down to minus forty-two last night. People were out looking for you by then, but it would have taken them a long time to find you, where you were.”

  “So would I have frozen to death?”

  “You wouldn’t have made it through the night.”

  “Then Annie’s plan would have succeeded.”

  Margo had been hypothermic when she arrived at the hospital, and the alcohol in her system hadn’t helped. But she hadn’t been outside long enough to lose any fingers. She would recover.

  “You think it was Annie’s idea?” Roxanne asked.

  “I know it was. Annie was the killer. She found a knife in my kitchen. My best boning knife, it’s really sharp. She wanted to kill me with it, right away, but Panda talked her out of it. She said they needed to make it look accidental. So they taped my arms behind the back of the chair with duct tape and Panda held the brandy glass up so I could drink. I had poured myself a glass of wine. I think seeing it on the table gave them the idea of making me drink it, but Panda said they needed to get me really drunk, and faster. She found the brandy in my kitchen cupboard. I used it for cooking, at Christmas. Hardly any of it was gone. Annie said she’d stab me if I didn’t drink all of it. She meant it. I knew she did.”