A Lesson in Love and Murder by Rachel McMillan Page A

for two plates of stew and half a loaf of the homemade soda bread from the kitchen. It wasn’t ahigh-end establishment, but he enjoyed the luxury of having someone cook for him and not subsisting on the beans and coffee he made for himself, the frozen, salted meat that saw him through lean winters, and the hard crackers he purchased in large quantities from the mercantile at Glenbow.
    Night in Toronto greeted him no more easily than it had the day before as he took an after-dinner stroll. † He tried to blend with the throng, sidling into their stream and falling in with their quick steps. He was easily caught in as they knew their destination and he wasn’t quite sure of his. Until he made out a silhouette under a streetlight: long cotton coat, trousers that stopped above the ankle, boots, and a walking stick. He followed the line up to springy bobbed curls peeking out from under a bowler hat.
    Merinda Herringford.
    She leaned on her stick, looking quite striking as the light haloed her from behind. But the movement of the crowd hurried him along before he could speak to her. People funneling out from a stopped trolley barred his movement in her direction. He stepped back before he could be rammed into a wall.
    Once the throng had dissipated, he wandered a little farther south, making out Lake Ontario beyond the buildings sloping down to the harbor. A strange juxtaposition of the nature he loved with the booming commerce of Canada’s busiest street. Nearing Wellington, he thought he made out Merinda again—and who was that with her? He squinted in the dark, wondering if she was out with a beau. He shook his head. What was it to him if she had one beau or a dozen? Theirs was a professional relationship. More likely than not, she was out investigating with Jem.
    His ears perked up at a footfall behind him. Turning, he saw that it belonged to a man who not seconds later swerved around him and picked up pace in the same direction as Merinda and her friend.
    A few thoughts rumbled through Benny’s mind, but all ended with those plainclothes detectives he had read about. If he could make out Merinda from this distance, it stood to reason this chap could too. Benny quickened his pace and saw that, indeed, the man was in pursuit of Merinda Herringford and her companion.
    Determined to intercept before they could be accosted, he jogged up and grabbed Merinda’s shoulders from behind. She yelped, swung around, and thwacked him with her stick. Then, recognizing him, she scowled. He ignored her string of less-than-ladylike adjectives while her companion (who, despite being dressed in men’s clothes, was most assuredly not a man) stared mutely on.
    The pursuing man confronted Benny. “You mean you were on her too?”
    â€œYes! I’m taking her and her friend in. This one’s mine.”
    When the man pressed further, blocked from Merinda but grabbing Jemima, Benny fell back on the physical training from the wrestling and boxing he learned in Regina. Two jabbed hooks and the fellow fell backward.
    Jem smiled her thanks, and Merinda looked at him as if he hung the moon. He raised his chin slightly.
    â€œI appreciate a man who can make out a menace from miles away.” Merinda beamed at him. “And now we can continue our investigation. Important detective work,” she said with a sniff.
    â€œI am not your only case?”
    â€œNot when there is the immediate problem of Miss Murdle’s runaway cat, Gingerbread,” Jem snickered.
    Merinda huffed.
    Benny tried to think of something—anything—quippy and smart. But all that came out was, “I… well… good luck. I’m glad I happened to come by.”
    The line fell flat under the fizz of the girls’ excitement and laughter.
    â€œYou two aren’t at all shaken or concerned?”
    â€œBenny Citrone,” Jem said brightly, “If we had a dollar for everytime we ran into the Morality Squad, we