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

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.