Pleasantly Dead
Judith Alguire
Doug Whiteway, Editor
© 2009, Judith Alguire
Print Edition ISBN 9781897109373
Ebook Edition, 2011
ISBN 9781897109-68-7
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Doowah Design.
Photo of Judith Alguire by Taylor Studios.
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Alguire, Judith, 19–
Pleasantly dead / Judith Alguire.
I. Title.
PS8551.L477P53 2009 C813’.54 C2009-905736-0
Signature Editions
P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon, Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7
www.signature-editions.com
To my dog, Bob.
Contents
Map
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Prologue
The prison infirmary looked like heaven; the fluorescent lights reflected off the pure white walls, creating an aura that even the suggestion of an old man’s urine couldn’t desecrate.
Frank Conway lay propped up on three pillows, his nose skewed by nasal prongs. The hairs on his forearms seemed to have sucked out his strength, taking on a life of their own. They twisted long and dark against his pale skin. The humidification bottle bubbled in the background.
Garrett Thomas sat on his right, his knees pressed into the mattress.
“Are they treating you all right, Frank?”
“Sure they are.” He grinned, showing a mouth of chipped, ill-fitting dentures. “What would they want with beating on an eighty-five-year-old man?”
“The warden tells me you asked for a priest.”
“Imagine that.” Frank rolled his head on the pillow and winced. “You know what they say. When you know you’re near the end, you go back to where you came from.”
The visitor didn’t answer.
After a long silence, Frank said, “I guess you want to know why I sent for you.”
“You want your sentence commuted on compassionate grounds. I’ve started the paperwork.”
Frank shook his head, coughed. “That ain’t it.”
“You don’t want to die in prison.”
“I don’t want to die nowhere. But if I have to…hell, I’ve been here thirty-six years.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Frank hesitated, captured a breath. “It’s kind of a will. Except I don’t want nothing in writing.” He waved off the visitor’s frown. “You’ll know why in a minute.” He gathered his thoughts. “It’s kind of a way of thanking you for not walking out on me even though there wasn’t nothing in it for you.”
“Charlie liked you.”
“Yeah. Maybe I’m doing this for Charlie then. I guess I already did you a favour.”
Thomas shifted uncomfortably.
“So this is for Charlie. And since he’s gone, you’re entitled to it. As his heir.” Frank glanced toward the Plexiglas-enclosed nursing station. The nurse looked up, then returned to his paperwork. Frank rolled to one side, plucking at Thomas’ sleeve. “Listen, I already told Joe. I told him you was to get a cut. Twenty-five per cent. That should be a good haul. They was top of the line, the real…” The words tailed off into a paroxysm of coughing.
As Frank’s face turned from grey to purple, the nurse popped out of his booth to adjust the oxygen.
“Hang on, Frank. I’ll get you an inhalation.” He glanced at Thomas. “You’ve been talking too much.”
“We’re almost finished,” Thomas said.
The nurse left to set up the inhalation. Frank feasted on the oxygen. Finally, the fear left his eyes. “That’s it,” he said. “You work with Joe. He’s not too bright. You can’t trust him too much. But he’s my grandson, so that’s the way it is.” His eyes followed the nurse as he prepared the medication behind the Plexiglas. “The Ambre-Gris. They might call it something else now, but they’re still there…”
“I’m a lawyer.”
Frank choked out a laugh. “That don’t mean nothing.” He patted the visitor’s arm. “Joe knows. They’re right where we left them.”
Chapter One
Two months later…
Margaret Rudley, co-proprietor of the Pleasant Inn, faced her husband, Trevor, across the front desk. “Rudley” — her Yorkshire accent was polite but firm — “Frances wants an apology. From you. There’s no way around it. She won’t accept one from me.”
Rudley folded his arms and thrust his jaw forward. “When hell freezes over.”
“You know she’s sensitive about her flowers.”
“I’m sensitive about her flowers too, Margaret. I like them alive and in their natural colours. These looked as if she’d killed them, then tie-dyed them in poster paint.”
“You could have let it pass this once. Her flowers are usually splendid.”
“I could have, but I didn’t.” Rudley seized the register, rifled through it, then slammed it shut. “At any rate, it’s done and over with.”
“Apologize, Rudley.”
“I will not. No one ever apologizes to me.”
“No one ever needs to apologize to you.”
“I’ll let that go, Margaret. In the meantime, I remain firm. I’m a fair man. I compliment Mrs. Fusspot when her flowers are exceptional. These were not exceptional. They were not normal.”
“Rudley, you can’t go around insulting people. I want you to tell Frances you’re sorry.”
“I’m not sorry.”
Margaret gave him a long look. Finding him intransigent, she went into her purse and took out a brace of keys. “If you wish to speak to me, Rudley, I’ll be at the High Birches.” She sorted through the keys, put them back into her purse, closed it with a decisive snap, and left.
“I believe your wife has lowered the boom on you, Rudley.”
Rudley turned to see one of the guests leaning against the end of the desk. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Thomas. What can I get for you?”
Garrett Thomas chose to walk the three miles into Middleton. He stopped at the kiosk on the dock, purchased a bottle of green tea, and sauntered toward the wooded area at the rear. A middle-aged man in a Tilly hat, Hawaiian shirt, and khaki shorts sat at a picnic table, staring down toward the marina.
“I should have brought you a ginger ale.”
The man waved him off.
Thomas glanced around. “Pretty little town, isn’t it?”
“It will do.”
“I understand summer people account for ninety per cent of the population.”
“Cut to the chase, Garrett.”
“We can get keys.”
The man looked away from the water for the first time. “Tell me.”
“There are two sets of master keys. The innkeeper has one. His wife has the other.”
“So?”
“They’ve had a tiff. The wife is staying at one of the cottages.”
“I see.”
“A hundred and fifty yards back f
rom the inn. On the rise. Plenty of foliage.”
“Convenient.”
“Yes.” Garrett paused. “The cottages are fitted with single-tumbler locks.”
“Hers?”
“I assume.”
“Assume nothing.”
“If not, the windows are easy. Old-fashioned screens held in place with wing nuts.”
The man was silent.
“It’ll be much safer if you have the keys.”
“Safer for you.”
“I imagine you can overpower a woman.”
The man shrugged.
“You’ll have to deal with Joe, of course.”
“Of course.”
“After, you’ll want to muddy the waters.”
“A distraction?”
“A distraction and an alibi.”
“An alibi for you.”
“For both of us, Ned.” Garrett avoided Ned’s stare. “The lady’s car is parked beside the cottage. There’s a place two miles east of here. The Whispering Pines. It’s half a mile in on a gravel road. The sign’s still up, but it’s abandoned.”
“Completely?”
“Completely.” Garrett hesitated. “It’s not my intention that the lady come to any harm. You understand?”
“Of course. What do you take me for?”
Garrett Thomas didn’t answer.
Chapter Two
A cry slit the darkness. Joe froze. “Jesus Christ, what was that?”
“An owl.” Ned nudged him along the side of the building.
“That window looks good.”
“I don’t want to land in the bedroom.” Ned turned. “Come on, we’ll try the door.”
Joe trudged after him. “My feet are cold.”
“That’s your fault.”
The door had three small windows at the top, covered by a white lace curtain.
Ned glanced around. “Try your card.”
Joe took a Visa card from his pocket and inserted it between the lock and the frame.
“What’s wrong?”
“I think it’s hooked from the inside.”
“You’ll have to break the glass.”
“What if she wakes up?”
“Then we’ll deal with her.”
Joe gave the window a poke, winced as the glass shattered. “I think I cut my hand.”
“Get the lock.”
Joe fumbled, gasped with relief. “It’s just a hook and eye. I got it.” He unhooked the lock and eased the door open.
Ned slipped inside. Joe followed, holding his wounded hand to his mouth.
“Close the door,” Ned said.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want a damned skunk wandering in behind us.” Ned took a flashlight from his pocket. The beam swept the floor.
“Where do you think she keeps them?”
Ned stood still, eyes darting over the room. “The usual places. On a hook, on the coffee table. In her purse.”
“What if she’s got them in her bedroom?”
“Then we’ll have to go in there, won’t we?”
The owl shrieked again. A nighthawk answered.
A floorboard creaked.
Ned gestured toward the kitchen. “Check the cupboards.”
“Can’t you do anything?”
“I’m watching your back.”
“They ain’t in the drawers. Nothing on the hooks. Are you sure they’re here?”
“Yes.” Ned eased toward the bedroom, peeked in. He beckoned to Joe.
Joe appeared beside him and pawed at his sleeve. “We’re going to wake her up.”
“Then be ready.”
The flashlight flickered over a lump in the bed, then lit on the bedside table.
“Try the drawer,” Ned whispered.
Joe tiptoed toward the table and reached into the drawer. “Got them.” He stepped back. His heel settled onto something soft and furry.
The cat shrieked and swiped at his ankle.
“Jesus Christ!”
The lump in the bed sat bolt upright.
“Get her.”
Joe clapped a hand over the woman’s mouth and gave her a whack on the side of the head. She sighed as she sagged against him. He looked over his shoulder to find Ned missing. “Where are you?”
“In the kitchen.” Ned returned with a roll of duct tape. He hacked off a piece, handed it to Joe. “Tape this over her mouth and tie her up.”
“With what?”
Ned went to the bureau and rifled through the drawers. He found two pairs of pantyhose rolled into tidy balls. He tossed them to Joe. “Truss her up. Not too tightly.” He grabbed a scarf from the top of the bureau. “Use this for a blindfold.” He poked the curtain aside with the flashlight and looked out. “Is she all right?”
“She’s breathing.”
“Good. Let’s get going.”
Chapter Three
Rudley knelt in front of the cupboard. The bottom three drawers hung open as he glommed through, tossing papers and cursing.
“Where in hell did that go?”
Tim, the waiter, leaned over the front desk, a tray tucked under his arm. “Gregoire wants you to know the strawberries that came in last night are as hard as bullets.”
“Then send them back.”
“He had to use maraschino cherries to complete the palette of his fruit salad. He’s not happy.”
“Tell him I don’t give a damn.” Rudley yanked the bottom drawer off its runners and turned it upside down on the floor. “Where in hell is the damned linen inventory?”
“I’ll tell Gregoire you don’t give a damn.” Tim flipped the tray into the air, caught it, turned on his heel, and waltzed back toward the dining room.
Aromas promising Belgian waffles, asparagus crêpes, and French roast coffee drifted through the lobby. Seven o’clock. The kind of morning that inspired even people on vacation to be up and about. Tim paused and stepped out onto the veranda.
The lake dazzled with lazy swells capped with sea gulls. The breeze released the fragrance of pine resin that blended with clean water and the aroma of cranberry-orange muffins from the kitchen exhaust. Tim spotted Garrett Thomas on the lake, casting off toward the flat rocks. Norman Phipps-Walker coasted near him. Phipps-Walker was stretched out in his rowboat, letting his line drift on the swell. Soon they would be dragging in to deposit their catch in the freezer on the back porch. Gregoire would not have the fish in his kitchen freezer. Mongrels, he called the local fish. Tim chuckled and went on into the dining room.
Several of the guests were already at their tables. Leo George, from Toronto, who was in hardware, sat alone in a window seat facing the lake, working his way through a plate of waffles and bacon in a businesslike manner, a newspaper propped against the salt and pepper shakers. In his three-piece suit and tie, he looked as if he had just come from a business meeting instead of a stroll by the lake.
Geraldine Phipps-Walker watched the lake between bites of fruit salad, periodically taking up her binoculars to monitor Mr. Phipps-Walker. He had fallen asleep. She checked to make sure he was wearing his life jacket. He was. She turned her attention to a loon. Before she could focus properly, it dove. She waited patiently, sweeping the binoculars back and forth across the lake. Bird watching was Mrs. Phipps-Walker’s first passion. Norman was somewhere on the list.
Doreen and Walter Sawchuck were retired people from Rochester, New York. They had been coming to the inn every summer for thirty years. Doreen had osteoarthritis. Walter had prostate trouble. Otherwise they hadn’t changed much since they married fifty years before. They loved the Pleasant because it was homey. Trevor Rudley catered to them as he catered to all his guests — by meeting their every need and swearing a lot.
The Sawchucks wore matching outfits of which they had a seemingly unlimited supply. Today, they wore pale-yellow golf shirts, forest-green Bermuda shorts, white athletic socks, and brown orthopedic oxfords. Mrs. Sawchuck had hooked her cane over the back of her chair. The Sawchucks ate
heartily and sat close to the bathroom.
Tim stopped at their table. “Can I get you more coffee?”
“No, thank you, Tim,” Mr. Sawchuck said. “Lloyd’s getting a rowboat out for us.”
“Our doctor says rowing’s good for Walter’s joints,” Mrs. Sawchuck said.
Edward Simpson was a young man from England. He had come to Canada a year earlier to do postgraduate work at the University of Toronto. A friend had suggested the Pleasant as the perfect place to enjoy the Canadian cottage experience without the disadvantage of outdoor privies and black flies.
Simpson had arrived three days before, intending to stay three weeks. He wished he had booked for the entire month. The food was excellent, his room comfortable, and the ambiance, apart from the perpetual rudeness of the innkeeper, humanely gracious.
One of the first people Simpson had set eyes on upon arrival was Elizabeth Miller, a librarian from Toronto, who, he guessed, was close to his age. Miss Miller had sat at a table across from him the previous two evenings, just at enough of an angle to allow him a discreet perusal. This morning, she was sitting along the wall near the sideboard. He was, once again, able to observe her undetected. He noted she seemed comfortable eating alone, nibbling on a piece of toast while absorbed in a well-worn copy of Wuthering Heights. He wished he were Heathcliff. Miss Miller, he believed, was too fine to be interested in an ordinary chap like himself. Simpson was one of those rare handsome men who didn’t realize he was.
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