Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 1. Whole No. 833, January 2011

Where the Snow Lay Dinted by Sue Pike

A past winner of Canada’s Arthur Ellis Award for best short story, Sue Pike has also been active as an anthologist. She is one of the original members of the Ladies Killing Circle, which began as a critique group “to help each other grow as writers.” Nearly two decades later, they’ve become the longest running critique group in Canada, compiling, along the way, seven anthologies of crime stories. Ms. Pike is also the editor of the anthology Locked Up (see Deadlock Press). But we’re happy to see her put on her fiction-writer’s hat again.

The dog appeared out of nowhere, loping towards her on the snow-covered highway, grinning its silly grin, wagging its crooked tail. Moira stomped on the brakes and clung hard to the wheel as the car slewed into the oncoming lane and back again. Thank God there was no one else foolish enough to be out on the county road in this weather.

She took a shuddering breath and waited for her heart to stop racing. This was ridiculous. It was the second time she’d imagined that silly bitch peering up at her through the blizzard. The first was on Highway 401 as she headed east out of Toronto. Eighteen lanes of traffic and suddenly there was an imaginary dog in her lane. She’d swerved then too and it was only the quick reflexes of the man in the next lane that had saved them both.

The dog was dead, for heaven’s sake. Moira knew that. She’d arranged for her to die. She blinked and the dog disappeared into the blizzard.

Her windshield wipers struggled under the load of snow and her headlights stalled on the swirling vortex in front of her. Moira had been clinging as close as she dared to the rear bumper of a snowplow ever since she turned north at Kingston. There was a measure of safety in his wake, but the flashing lights were driving her crazy. She tried falling back a few yards, but the plow was throwing up such a wake of salt and snow that she pulled closer again. The lights were relentless, sparking first on one side of the truck and then the other with the regularity of a metronome. A band of yellow danced madly across the top of the cab. She tried squinting, rubbing her eyes, humming — anything to keep from falling under the hypnotic spell.

At least there was no sign of the dog. She’d always hated dogs. Her mother had filled her with stories of deadly, debilitating diseases. Rabies. Distemper. Heartworm. But Moira’s aversion was for something altogether different, something sly and malevolent in the way they looked at her.

“Dogs are not moral beings, Moira. There’s nothing evil about them.” Royce was the logical one in the family, the oh-so-reasonable barrister. In all the years they’d been married, she’d never gone to see him in court; wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

The sign for Jones Falls loomed into view and she leaned forward, searching through the squall for the turnoff to Franks Road. It couldn’t be more than a few hundred yards now. She counted them off and when she spotted the gnarled apple tree sagging under its weight of snow and frozen fruit she wrenched the wheel to the left and dove across the highway, praying nothing was coming from the other direction. Her tires spun as she hit a drift before settling into familiar ruts on the dirt road. The Land Rover crawled past fences and outbuildings until finally the farmhouse came into view. Warm light spilled from the parlor windows, illuminating the front part of the long driveway with steep banks on either side.

She could feel the tension draining from her shoulders. Merv had kept his word and come over to get the place ready for her arrival. God knew he wasn’t always reliable, but this time he hadn’t let her down. The handyman lived on the next concession north and did odd jobs around the farm for Moira and Royce while they were in Toronto. Did them or didn’t do them as the spirit moved him.

She turned into the drive and too late realized that any plowing Merv had done must have taken place hours ago. A foot or more had fallen since then. The car floundered. She pressed down on the accelerator, attempting to bull her way through, but the SUV spun its wheels and side-slipped into a drift, burying the driver’s door.

Moira turned the key and threw the car into reverse but only managed to spin the rear tires deeper into the bank. She turned off the motor and let her head fall back against the soft leather of the headrest, wondering what Royce would say about her driving up here today against his advice. Foolhardy, no doubt. A dog with a bone, Royce called her, and not in a kindly way, either. Every Christmas it was the same thing. Good old Moira would drive up to the farm a day or two ahead of everyone else so the family could swan in on Christmas Eve and experience a holiday straight out of Currier and Ives. And every year it took her every minute of that time to put up a tree, decorate it and the entire house, bake the goodies, and prepare the Christmas feast. Royce was always far too busy and the two boys and their wives were just about useless. The daughters-in-law would arrive with a tasteless casserole or a couple of bags of store-bought cookies and think they’d done their bit. The five of them would wolf down her exquisite meals and then race outside to snap on skis or snowshoes, leaving good old Moira to clean up the mess.

She sighed and checked her watch. It was barely four o’clock, but darkness was already settling in. She hoisted herself over the gearshift to the passenger seat before opening the door and stepping into the blizzard. Snow stung her face and sifted down her neck and over the tops of her boots. She pulled up her hood and sidestepped to the back of the Land Rover, holding on to the roof rack to keep from slipping. She grabbed a bag of groceries with one hand and the mesh sack containing the frozen turkey with the other before starting the long trudge to the house through snow halfway to her knees.

The dog appeared from nowhere. With every step she was there nudging Moira, tail wagging, tongue lolling to one side, as ugly and infuriating in death as she’d been in life. Moira tried to kick her aside, but lost her balance and staggered, falling hard on her back, the turkey dropping onto her knee. She cried out and felt tears freezing to her cheeks.

She rolled over, trying to ignore the stab of pain from her knee, and using the turkey to lean on, managed to get to her feet again. She picked up the spilled groceries and shoved them back in the sack and then, grasping everything to her chest, she limped toward the door. Finally, blessedly, she was inside the house. She let the groceries slip to the vestibule floor and before she could talk herself out of it, turned and set off again to get the next load. The phantom dog had vanished.

The phone rang just as she was fighting her way up the steps with the last of the Christmas presents. She kicked off her boots and ran to answer it.

“Hey, Ma. How was the trip?” Her eldest son, Colin, had never quite lost the accent he’d acquired from their four years in Melbourne.

“Horrible. I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of the car.” She shrugged out of her coat and padded into the kitchen to pour a measure of single malt into a glass. “When are you and Louisa coming up?”

“See. That’s why I’m calling. It’s looking like this snow is going to keep up for at least another day. Louisa’s worried about traveling in her condition.”

“What condition?” Moira reached into the freezer for a handful of ice cubes. “She isn’t sick, Colin. She’s pregnant. Everyone travels when they’re pregnant.”

“Don’t start.”

“Don’t start? You’re telling me you’re not coming for Christmas and you say don’t start?” Moira’s voice broke. “I’ve just made the most ghastly trip up here with all the gifts and food.” She took a swallow from her glass. “Not to mention an enormous turkey. What am I supposed to do with this turkey?”

“We tried to tell you we wouldn’t be coming, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“When? When did you tell me that?”

“Oh, Ma.” Colin sighed. “We’ve been saying it since Thanksgiving.”

“But it’s tradition. We always spend Christmas on the farm.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s time we started our own family traditions.” Colin sounded like the stubborn little boy he’d been so many years ago.

Moira clicked her tongue in annoyance. “This was your great-grandparents’ farm. We’ve been coming here since you were an infant. You can’t just stop because you’re too lazy to make the drive.”

“I’ve got to go. Merry Christmas, Ma.”

“Wait a minute.” She put her drink on the counter and held the receiver in both hands. “What about Justin and Emily? Have you spoken with them?”

“I think you better talk to them.”

“Answer me. Is your brother coming up?” Moira fought to keep her voice steady.

“I don’t think so.” His voice sounded distant, as though he’d already turned away from the phone.

“But why? Emily doesn’t have a ‘condition,’ as you call it.”

“But they are trying to get pregnant, Ma, you know that. And besides, I don’t think she’s ever gotten over losing Sadie.”

“Sadie? Sadie was a dog, for God’s sake. Not a child.”

“She was like a kid for Em.”

“Oh please. I’m sick of hearing about it. You have no idea how dreadful it was for me having that animal around. She went into heat. It was disgusting. The other dog owners complained. She dug holes all over the garden. My beautiful roses. All destroyed. And then she ran a—”

“She was just a dog, Ma,” Colin said, “doing what dogs do. I’ve got to go. You take care, okay?”

Moira slammed the phone onto the counter, drained her glass, and poured herself another. How dare he? How dare he throw Sadie in her face? She’d never asked to look after her. Royce was the one who’d capitulated. Couldn’t see the harm in taking care of the animal for six months so Justin and Emily could have a sabbatical in England. But had Royce looked after it as he’d promised? Of course not. It fell to good old Moira to do that chore as she did everything else. And then they’d all blamed her when the creature disappeared. She carried the phone and her drink into the living room and sank onto the sofa. A beeping sound told her a call had come in while she’d been on the phone with Colin. She keyed in the code to listen to the message.

“Moira?” Royce said. She could hear laughter and loud music and remembered that the firm’s Christmas party was tonight. It sounded warm and comforting and she felt a small stab of regret but quickly shook it off. She’d stopped going to the company party years ago. Why start missing it now? “There’s no way I can make it up there in this weather.” She had to press the receiver to her ear in order to hear his low voice over the din. “The forecast is for more snow and strong winds. They’ve already closed part of the 401.” She heard someone call his name. “Look. I’ve got to go. I’ll try to call again tomorrow.”

Moira rolled the cold glass back and forth against her forehead, trying to quell the angry thoughts, the thousand small resentments of a long and disappointing marriage. She took a long breath and dialed Justin’s number.

Emily answered in her little-girl voice. “Justin’s not here just now.”

“Well, dear, perhaps you could tell me what’s going on. Are you coming to the farm tomorrow or not?”

“Um. Hang on a minute.” The phone went quiet and Moira could hear footsteps on the hardwood floor. She waited and remembered the first time Justin had brought Emily over to meet them. The girl had reminded her of one of the strays he was forever bringing home for approval: starving dogs, feral cats, wild baby rabbits. And finally this pale little creature with a withered arm, some kind of reaction to a childhood vaccination, apparently. “A bird with a broken wing,” she remembered saying to Royce when Colin had left to take Emily home that evening. “He’s found the human stray of his dreams,” she’d said, but Royce had merely looked at her over the top of his glasses and she’d never said another word to him about the girl.

Emily came back on the line. “Um. I’d rather you call back when Justin’s here.”

But Moira had heard her son’s low, urgent voice in the background.

“It’s a simple question. Yes or no?”

“Okay then.” Emily’s voice quavered over the line. “No. No, we’re not coming. I’m supposed to be resting up for my in vitro fertiliza—”

Moira punched the disconnect button. She refused to hear of their unnatural efforts to get pregnant. The thought of it repelled her.

So that was that. No one was coming. She’d driven all this way, risking life and limb, and not one single member of her family could be bothered to come. How could they do this to her? Christmas at the farm was a tradition going back to Moira’s childhood, when she and her parents would spend most of Christmas Eve driving up here from Toronto, long before superhighways had cut the trip to a mere four hours. Moira remembered feeling carsick in the airless backseat of a Buick sedan, her parents chain-smoking and arguing about her father’s driving. She remembered her father’s long silences, her mother’s theatrical sighs.

She’d inherited the farm when her own boys were little. She and Royce had spent a fortune renovating it and making it the perfect weekend getaway. They dug a pond on the back forty and would come up every weekend when the boys were young. But for the last few years she’d driven up on her own, hiring Merv to fix things around the place and to keep the furnace going all winter so the pipes wouldn’t freeze. All this so the whole family could come up for Thanksgiving and Christmas. How long had it been since they’d all been here together? Was it last Christmas? The year before? She refused to think about it.

It was the damned dog’s fault. All of it. Sadie, an elderly Rhodesian Ridgeback. “Rhodesian swayback, more like,” she’d joked when she first saw the creature — only nobody had laughed. She was a rescue, Emily had said piously, as though she herself had fought her way across the grasslands of Zimbabwe to snatch the animal from the jaws of a lion.

How Moira hated the mangy bitch. Hated her wantonness, the disgusting teats swinging from her slack belly like overripe fruit, the look of disdain she’d given Moira the first time she went into heat and started flagging her tail at male dogs. She’d marched her off to the clinic to have her spayed, but the young veterinarian had refused. Too old, he’d said. It would endanger her health, he’d said. What about my health, Moira had wanted to wail. What about me?

She raised the leg of her trousers to examine her knee. It didn’t look good. A deep purple bruise was spreading over the swollen kneecap and an inch or two up the tightening skin on her thigh. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, fished some ice cubes from her glass, and knotted them into a wet parcel. She yelped as the scotch hit raw skin.

At that moment, the lights went out. She listened as the refrigerator stuttered a couple of times and fell silent, and within a few seconds she heard the furnace click off. She waited until her eyes adjusted to the dark before heaving herself to her feet and, clutching her empty glass, limped slowly into the kitchen and felt through the drawer for a flashlight. When she turned it on, a weak yellow beam was all it could offer. She ran her hand over the counter until she found the scotch bottle, spilling some on her fingers as she poured. There were logs in the fireplace and a jar of matches in the cupboard above the fridge, but her knee felt too wobbly to risk climbing onto the stool to reach it. She wandered back to the living room and when her foot found the sofa again, she sank into it.

She woke to a definite chill in the air and a pounding headache. She should eat something, but the groceries were still in bags on the vestibule floor and she couldn’t muster up enough energy to search through them in the dark. She felt around on the floor for the flashlight, but the batteries were finally dead. There was no dial tone on the portable phone in her lap but she remembered the landline on the bedside table. She felt her way into the bedroom and punched in Merv’s phone number.

“You know what time it is?” Merv’s voice was hoarse with sleep.

“How am I supposed to know what time it is? I can’t see an inch in front of my face.” Moira’s mouth was dry, her throat scratchy.

“Hydro trucks are out, but it’s going to be awhile before they get things going again.” Moira could hear him lighting a cigarette, taking a long drag. “What made you drive up in this storm?”

Moira ignored the question. “You’re going to have to come over and start the generator. I’m freezing to death.”

“It’s midnight, Mrs. Tappin. I’m not going out in this weather. I’ll try to get over on the snowmobile first thing in the morning.”

“Morning?” Moira cried. “I’ll be dead by morning.”

“I laid a nice fire for you. You won’t freeze.”

“I can’t reach the matches.” She was crying now, tears coursing down her cheeks.

“Bundle up and you’ll be fine until I get there. Just don’t turn on the taps. The pump’s off and—” A dog barked close to the phone.

“Wait a minute,” she interrupted him. “Whose dog is that?”

There was silence on the line.

“Merv? You don’t have a dog.” Her head was pounding.

“Well, sure we do, ma’am. Got ourselves a nice little puppy since you were here.” Merv’s voice had gone very quiet.

“That wasn’t a puppy. That’s Sadie, isn’t it? You didn’t shoot her after all.”

“Sure I did. She’s right where you told me to put her. In that big hole she’d dug by the barn.” Merv was speaking quickly now, anxious to get off the phone.

“I don’t believe you.”

“So long, Mrs. Tappin. See you in the morning.” Moira heard the click as he hung up the phone. She hit redial but the line went straight to voice mail.

“Coward!” she shouted into the darkness. “If I find...”

She stumbled back to the parlor, shivering in her wool sweater and corduroy pants. She found her coat on the chair where she’d dropped it and limped into the vestibule to feel around for her boots among the fallen groceries.

The wind flattened her coat against her body as she stepped into the storm. Once off the steps she turned and moved slowly along the side of the house, supporting herself with her hands against the cold stone until she made her way to the back deck. She turned away from the house and into the gale. Fifty feet ahead of her the barn loomed black through the blizzard. She squinted and thought she could just make out a dimple in the snow where two months ago Sadie had dug her last enormous hole, throwing up stones and precious rosebushes in her wake, ignoring the screams and frantic pounding of Moira’s fists on the window. She knew she’d never get outside in time and had watched helplessly from behind the glass as the dog finally tired of her mad burrowing and lowered herself into the new lair.

Moira had reached for the phone and the deal was struck. Merv told her to tie the dog to a fence post when she left for the city and leave the check under the mat on the front verandah. Later, he would come over with his rifle. When the deed was done he would bury her in the hole she’d just dug. That was the way Moira wanted it. That way justice would be done.

But Merv had betrayed her, hadn’t he? Kept the dog and kept the money, too. The thought filled her with rage. She pushed her hands deep into her pockets and, leaning into the wind, set out, wincing from the pain in her knee and the sting of icy pellets on her face. Each footstep seemed to sink deeper than the one before. Her right boot stuck and she pulled her foot free and continued on in her sock. She tripped over a snow-covered boulder but kept going, crawling now and flailing snow out of her path with numb, bare hands. Somewhere along the way she lost the other boot and her mitts. No matter. She was nearly there.

She slid into the depression Sadie had made. There was an explosion of pain from her swollen knee as it hit a rock. She cried out and floundered, trying to scramble up the other side, but the pain was excruciating. She turned back and saw that the lamps were back on in the parlor, spreading their warm light across the snow beneath the windows. She smiled and rested her head against the side of the cavity, letting the snow cover her like a huge eiderdown. She wondered if the dog would come.