Pleasantly Dead

by Alguire, Judith

  The worst part — for the moment, at least — was that she hadn’t shown up to pick up Aunt Pearl. “Rudley,” she had said to his back as he rummaged in the closet, “I’m leaving early tomorrow to pick up my aunt.” She sighed. Knowing Rudley, he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.

  She regretted she and Rudley had parted in the process of an argument. They had been married twenty-seven years. They had had their share of disagreements, most of them the result of Rudley blowing his lid over trivialities. In her experience, Rudley behaved much more sensibly in desperate circumstances. He could be a trial, could Rudley. She had long had the habit of spending a few days at the High Birches when she’d had enough of him. When she was feeling more kindly toward him, she would return.

  “I’m back, Rudley.”

  “Yes, Margaret.”

  He never harboured a grudge for her retreats. He never apologized for his role in precipitating them. He would never apologize to Frances Blount, although he would be civil next time they met — as civil as his nature allowed. The truth was he never harboured a grudge, never expected an apology and was puzzled when others did.

  She remembered, fondly, meeting him at Birdie’s party. She was attracted to him immediately. He was different from the arty crowd she had been chumming with. She felt secure with him, knew from the moment she laid eyes on him he would never lie, would never be unfaithful. He found infidelity, something many upper-class Brits took for granted, scandalous.

  Over the years, she had tried to imagine Rudley having an affair and always ended up laughing. Saw some young thing flirting with him only to hear him say: “That’s damned cheeky of you, miss. I’m married, you know.” He was a man impervious to the charms of a pretty face. That, she thought, made him extraordinary.

  She got up, hopped to the window, and peered through the pinhole in the decaying wood. She thought it was still daylight. Rudley would be searching for her if he knew she had gone missing. The problem was Rudley was frequently oblivious.

  She knew he would find her though — once he realized she was gone. Rudley was good at finding things. He was also good at losing things. And while he had trouble finding things he had lost, he had the uncanny ability to lay his hands on what someone else had lost.

  She hoped she fell into that category.

  The staff at the Pleasant was preparing for the evening meal. Tiffany had brought in fresh tea towels and was perched on a stool with a cup of coffee. Gregoire leaned against the prep table staring at the carving knives, his expression somber. Suddenly, he turned to her.

  “If Margaret had left voluntarily, wouldn’t she have told us?”

  Tim slid a hand along the counter and snatched a radish rosette. “She’s been staying at the High Birches.”

  “She would have told us if she had planned to be away overnight,” Tiffany said.

  “She must have told Rudley,” Gregoire said.

  They looked at each other and shook their heads.

  Chapter Seven

  “It’s a bit cold to go into the water, don’t you think, Elizabeth?” Simpson stood on the platform inside the boathouse and stared into the water.

  “Nonsense, Edward, it’s bracing.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait until the sun is higher?”

  “Even if it were high noon, it would be cool in here. Hand me the flashlight.”

  “Are you sure you’re accustomed to this sort of diving?”

  “The water’s only six feet deep.”

  “Perhaps I should go in,” said Simpson and shivered.

  She smiled. “Your mission, Edward, is to stand by.”

  “I’m standing by.” He cleared his throat. “I must say, Elizabeth, I believe the reason you’ve embarked on this course is to thwart Brisbois.”

  “Why should he have all the fun?” She smiled and flipped into the water.

  Rudley went to the door, stared toward the lake. “You say they went for a swim?”

  “At 6:00 am,” Gregoire said.

  “Seems a little chilly.”

  Gregoire shrugged. “Perhaps it’s a romantic adventure.”

  Simpson leaned over the side of the platform. “Elizabeth, so far you’ve tossed up an anchor, several lures, a tackle box, an inner tube, and a pair of suspenders. I’m sure Detective Brisbois could get the equipment to do a proper dredging.”

  “I’m not finished, Edward.” Miss Miller smiled and disappeared below the surface.

  Thirty seconds later, she emerged gasping, holding up a brown oxford. “Edward, this is it.”

  “It looks rather ordinary,”

  “But I don’t think it’s been in the water long.”

  “Doesn’t look as if.”

  She put the shoe on the platform and pulled herself up beside it. She squinted. “Glasses, Edward.”

  He obliged. “The heel looks new,” he said.

  She turned the tongue out. “Shoniker’s Shoe Repair.” She grabbed his arm. “This has to belong to the victim.”

  He studied the shoe, nodded. “You may be right.”

  “So what do we do next?”

  He cleared his throat. “Elizabeth, it’s time to turn this information over to the police.”

  Rudley didn’t have much time to contemplate why Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson had chosen to go swimming at 6:00 am or why they had crept back around the side of the inn, her dripping wet, him dry as a bone.

  “Mr. Rudley.” Geraldine Phipps-Walker steamed up to the desk and gave it a rap with her walking stick. “Norman and I have received some exciting news. Mr. Bole tells me that a particularly large flock of herons has gathered in the reeds up the bay.”

  Rudley gave her a blank look. “They have been known to do that.”

  “We want to get some photographs.” She held up the camera strung around her neck. “We would like someone to take us out.”

  “Lloyd has gone to the dump,” said Norman, who lurked behind his wife like a grey shadow.

  “I take it you would like me to get a boat out for you.”

  “We were thinking of a motor boat,” said Norman.

  “Norman could manage the boat, but we were afraid of getting the motor tangled in the reeds.”

  Rudley had been keeping himself together by denying that Margaret was missing. By pretending she had gone away, to Toronto or Miami or the South Pole, and was even now involved in some adventure, oblivious to the search for her. He welcomed Mrs. Phipps-Walker’s intrusion. “Tiffany.”

  She appeared before him, feather duster in hand.

  “Would you mind watching the desk? I’m running the Phipps-Walkers out to the reed bank to ogle some birds.”

  Ruskay accosted them at the doorway. “Where are you folks going?”

  “We were thinking South America. Uruguay, perhaps. The Caribbean, if we run out of gas.”

  Ruskay smoothed his moustache. “Mr. Rudley.”

  “I’m taking the Phipps-Walkers over to the reed bank to take in the blue heron convention.”

  Ruskay entered this information in his log. “All right, sir. Don’t leave the county.”

  “I’d like to make a run for it, just to spite him.” Rudley galloped off down the veranda steps.

  The Phipps-Walkers followed like hand-fed ducks.

  Rudley gunned the motor and set out across the lake at a clip that had the Phipps-Walkers holding onto their hats while the wind curled their lips in a lurid rictus sneer.

  As they neared the reeds, Rudley cut the motor, flipped it up, and got out an oar. “We’ll paddle in from here.”

  Geraldine put a finger to her lips. “Sh. The herons.”

  “Right.”

  “Oh, there they are, Norman. What a sight! Rudley, how close can you get?”

  “I could probably run right up their rear ends, Mrs. P.W., but I’d rather not crash the boat into those stumps.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  Rudley slipped the paddle into the water. Norman stood, camera poised.

  Geraldin
e grabbed Norman’s legs. “Careful, Norman. We don’t want you in the water.”

  “Rudley would pull me out.”

  “Don’t count on it, Norman.”

  “Of course he would, dear.” Geraldine trained her binoculars on the bank. “Is that a red-tailed hawk, Rudley? I can’t get a fix on it from my position.”

  “Where?”

  “Over there, on that low-hanging branch.”

  Rudley scanned the shoreline. He caught sight of the bird just as it took flight. “Yes, it is, Mrs. P.W.”

  Norman continued to snap pictures.

  “Save some film, dear, in case we spot something special on the way in.” Geraldine adjusted her binoculars. “Have they done anything with that run-down place yet?”

  Rudley was considering a cigarette. He grabbed the binoculars, took a look at the buildings she pointed out. “No, they haven’t done a damned thing. Whispering Pines. They should have called it the Leaning Outhouse. Never was any good. Bunch of cheap cottages. Doesn’t even have a lakefront.” He swung the binoculars around. “I’ll be damned. That’s Margaret’s car. What’s she doing in this godforsaken place?”

  “I thought your wife was missing,” Norman said in a flat, nasal tone that sounded as if he were discussing the price of bread.

  “She must have come up here to paint. I don’t think she could have chosen a less attractive place.”

  “Artists frequently dwell on unpleasant subjects,” said Geraldine. “Remember the painting we saw in Vienna, Norman? That sickly looking man pierced all over with arrows. He looked ghastly.”

  “Saint Sebastian,” Rudley muttered. He passed the binoculars to Geraldine and picked up the oar. “You’ve seen enough of herons today. We’ve got to get back.”

  “So soon?”

  “I’ll have Lloyd bring you out whenever you want. In the meantime, I have to get back, run around, and tell Margaret that she’s the subject of an international manhunt.” He eased the boat out of the reeds, lowered the motor, and roared back to the inn, ignoring Geraldine, who was furiously scanning the scenery with her binoculars while exhorting Norman to catch that loon, shoot that duck, as they rocketed past.

  Ruskay acknowledged their return with a nod and checked them off in his notebook as Rudley scrambled up the veranda steps, bellowing for Lloyd.

  “He’s not back yet,” said Tiffany from behind the desk.

  “How long does it take to go to the dump?”

  “He had to stop at the grocers on the way back. Gregoire didn’t get any arugula on the last delivery. No fennel root either.”

  “I hope he washes his hands in between.” Rudley vacillated. “I suppose he took my truck.”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn. I have to get to the Whispering Pines.”

  “You can borrow my car.”

  “That damned Austin? It stalls every time I take a sharp turn.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  He held out his hand. “Keys.”

  She tilted her head.

  “Please.”

  She fished the keys out of her pocket and dropped them into his hand.

  Ruskay stopped him. “Where now, Mr. Rudley?”

  “Hell, I’m going to hell.”

  Before Ruskay could respond, Rudley had bolted down the steps. He skirted the cottages and headed for the bunkhouse. Tiffany’s orange Mini dozed under the pines. Rudley squeezed in, shoving the seat as far back as possible.

  “Now, do you suppose you can get me to the Whispering Pines without leaving me pushing you out in the middle of nowhere the way you did last time?”

  He turned the key in the ignition. The motor coughed, then spluttered to life. He held his breath and eased down on the gas. “Now, no fancy stuff or I’ll come out at midnight and take a sledgehammer to you.” He pulled the car out, taking an unnecessary pass by the front door just to irritate Ruskay who obliged him by running down the steps, gesturing to him to stop.

  He supposed Margaret had gone to paint the bulrushes. She always said the reeds were especially vibrant at the Pines. He agreed the inlet was vibrant. It was the mess on shore he found depressing. He stalled the car as he paused before pulling onto the gravel, cursing because he had to wait for the gas to clear.

  Why anyone would build a resort on a piece of property whose only water access was a footpath was beyond him. He thought of the Pleasant, its sixty acres of garden and trees, its wide, clean beach, its thriving nature reserve, and felt pity for the humble undertaking. To have a dream, however misguided, and fail was a tragedy of the spirit, he believed.

  He was bumping along, beginning to have some fun with the Mini even though his head dented the roof at every pothole, when a cloud of dust appeared in the rearview mirror. A familiar truck had pulled off onto the shore road.

  “What the devil.” He stared into the rearview mirror, wondering if he should pull over to find out why Lloyd was following him. “Margaret’s going to think I called out the cavalry,” he told the Mini. What the hell, he thought, if Lloyd insisted on following him, let him.

  He continued along the road. Lloyd had caught up to him and was riding his bumper. He turned off onto the access road to the Whispering Pines, hardly more than a wagon road, cursing as the box elders flailed at him through the windows, and cursed at the sight of Lloyd sailing along with branches smacking the roof and hood of the truck. He pulled in behind Margaret’s car, waited until Lloyd parked alongside him, then went to the window.

  Lloyd looked at him in surprise. “I thought you was Tiffany.”

  “Since when did Tiffany develop a bald spot on the back of her head?”

  “I was looking at the car.”

  “And why, may I ask, were you following Tiffany?”

  “The last time she came out here, she got lost.”

  “That was two years ago. She should know her way around by now.”

  “You never know.”

  “You can go home now before that over-priced lettuce wilts.”

  “Can I look at the turtles first?”

  “Oh, all right.”

  “There’s always a bunch of them on the stumps. But you have to be quiet or they’ll slide away.”

  Rudley had no answer to that. He had caused thousands of turtles to scuttle for cover in his time.

  “That’s Mrs. Rudley’s car, you know.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  Lloyd grinned. “Did you come to tell her you was going to apologize to the flower lady?”

  “No, I came to tell her she’s got Interpol on her tail.”

  Lloyd headed toward the lake. Rudley followed.

  “Are you coming to see the turtles?”

  “I’m coming to look for Mrs. Rudley.”

  They walked single file down the path and out onto the listing dock. The owner of the adjacent property had placed a No Trespassing sign on either side, just in case the guests at the Pines got grand ideas. The signs were faded. The old woman who had sold the land to the Pines had retained the land adjacent to the reed bank as a nature preserve.

  The turtles clung to the logs, their bodies blending into the weathered wood.

  Rudley ignored the turtles, stood shielding his eyes with one hand, scanning the shoreline.

  “Mrs. Rudley likes the turtles,” Lloyd said. “That’s why she paints all those pictures of them.”

  “I don’t see her,” Rudley said. “Let’s walk further up, Lloyd. Maybe she’s doing sketches of the rocks.”

  Lloyd abandoned the turtles reluctantly.

  Margaret had hauled herself to the peephole when she heard the car drive in. By the time she reached the door, the motor had stopped. She heard the door slam. When she squinted through the peephole, she saw the truck. Dear Rudley, he had come to rescue her. But why hadn’t he headed for the cottages straight away?

  Of course, it might have been Lloyd driving the truck. She knew he enjoyed coming here to watch the turtles.

  Her heart sank. If Ll
oyd had come on his own he wouldn’t key to the fact her car was here. Even if he knew she was missing, he wouldn’t put two and two together. Lloyd was like that. He drove Rudley mad by taking the truck on side trips and walking home. He had never developed a clear concept of the boundaries of their property. She often thought he made up his world as he went along.

  She was about to give up when she caught a glimpse of Lloyd and Rudley cutting across the open between the truck and the outhouses. When they get close enough, I shall lie on my back and slam both feet into the door, she decided. Surely that would get their attention.

  Rudley and Lloyd had searched the shoreline without result.

  “If Margaret were planning to wander very far, why would she leave her car here?” Rudley said as he and Lloyd returned to the truck.

  “Maybe she didn’t know she was going so far.”

  “I suppose we should tramp around a bit more and give a shout,” said Rudley just as Margaret’s feet crashed into the door of cottage number three.

  “What was that?”

  “Probably a squirrel,” said Rudley who was preoccupied with his visual search and wondering how eager Margaret would be to see him.

  “Maybe a bear.”

  “I haven’t seen a bear around here in years.”

  “I guess there wouldn’t be nothing like that,” Lloyd said. “The door’s latched.”

  Rudley turned to him. “What in hell are you talking about?”

  “The place where the sound’s coming from. Somebody latched the door.”

  Rudley looked toward the cottage just as Margaret delivered a second kick. He eased toward the door, motioning Lloyd to follow. “Is anyone there?” he called out.

  He was answered by a muffled grunt.

  “Get the crowbar from the truck,” he mouthed.

  Lloyd returned in seconds.

  “Now,” Rudley whispered, “I’m going to flip the latch. You stand by with the crowbar in case there’s something more dangerous than Margaret inside.”

  “Depends on her mood.”

  Rudley lifted the latch, flung open the door. “Margaret!” He freed her arms and gingerly removed the tape. “Are you all right?”

  She squinted into the sunlight. “Not particularly.”