Chapter Eight
Brisbois sat in the armchair in Rudley’s office. Margaret sat on the couch with a gin and tonic.
“Are you sure you’re ready to talk, Mrs. Rudley?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“All right.” Brisbois turned a page in his notebook. “Let’s start from the top.”
Margaret tested her drink. “I was in bed at the High Birches. Asleep.”
“And why were you staying at the High Birches?”
“I was irritated with Rudley. He had offended Mrs. Blount.”
“The florist.”
“Yes. He was in one of his moods.”
“How often does he get into these moods?”
“Several times a year.”
“So you moved into the cottage on…” Brisbois checked his notes.
“Tuesday. We’d spent the previous two weeks getting ready for the summer season. It’s a lot of work. We shut down and really go at it. Rudley always gets a bit edgy. Mostly people understand.”
“Except Mrs. Blount.”
“And a few others, I’m sure.”
“So you last spoke to Rudley on the Tuesday.”
“No, I spoke to him on the Thursday. I told him I was going into town the next morning to pick up Aunt Pearl.”
“Go on.”
“Rudley was messing about in the closet. He grunted. I knew he wasn’t paying attention. I said ‘to hell with it’ and returned to the Birches.”
Brisbois forced himself to keep a straight face. “He thought you were talking about the cat”
She sighed. “That’s Rudley.”
“And then? After you spoke to Mr. Rudley?”
“Nothing much. I picked up some dinner in the kitchen. Gregoire had made an exquisite celery soup. I took some of that and part of a bread stick. Also some chocolate mousse. No one makes it like Gregoire.”
“Sounds good.”
“Indeed. I stopped at the garden for some lettuce. I love leaf lettuce with sugar and vinegar. Don’t tell Gregoire that. He’d have a fit. I went on to the Birches, had my dinner, read for the remainder of the evening, had a cup of tea, then went to bed. The next thing I knew, there was a kerfuffle in my room. Someone knocked me on the side of the head, slapped tape over my mouth, blindfolded me, and bound me hand and foot.” She took a long drink. “Then they waltzed off and left me, half-stunned.”
“They?”
“I’m sure there were two. I could hear them talking back and forth.”
“Did you hear any of the conversation? Recognize the voices?”
“No. I couldn’t hear anything clearly. My head was ringing a bit.”
“Okay. Then what happened?”
“They left. At least, I think they both did. I couldn’t hear anyone around.”
“How long were they away?”
“I couldn’t see my clock. Perhaps an hour. It’s hard to say. It could have been less. Time tends to drag when you’re in that situation.”
He gave her a sympathetic nod.
“One of them came back. At least I think it was just the one. There was just one in the car with me.” She paused. “I don’t think it was the man who tied me up, though.”
“How could you tell?”
“Their scent. The man who tied me up smelled like Brute or something. The man who took me in the car smelled as if he had used a nice soap or cologne. Perhaps Appsley’s Spice. He hauled me off the bed and pressed something against my head. I wasn’t focusing on identifying the cologne. Still, I think it was Appsley’s.”
“He held a gun to your head?”
“I can’t say for sure. I’ve never had a gun against my head. Not even in the theatre. It was something metal. Not particularly pleasant. I thought it best to assume it was a gun and not make too much of a fuss.”
“Then what?”
“He stopped the car after a short while.” Her nose wrinkled. “I knew exactly where we were. The medley of odours at the Pines is unmistakable.”
“Did he talk to you?”
“Not much. He said: ‘There’s a bucket in the corner if you need it and a jug on the table with a straw.’ He made a hole in the tape for the straw to fit into. Considerate of him.”
“And you still couldn’t recognize his voice?”
“No. He spoke quite low. Almost mumbled.”
“Was he alone during this time?”
“I’m sure he was. The floorboards are creaky there. I would have picked up on it if someone else had been in the room.”
“Any idea of size?”
“Average. From the way he gripped my arm. An inch or so shorter than Rudley, I would think.”
“Age?”
“Not very young. Probably over thirty. I’m sorry I can’t be more precise.”
“Okay.” Brisbois scribbled a few notes, turned a page. “What next?”
“He left. He muttered something about it being half-past four. Then he left and never came back.”
“Did you hear a car drive away?”
“No.”
“We assume your abductor had your car keys.”
“Must have.”
“Were there any keys to the inn on that ring?”
“All of them.”
“Including the wine cellar?”
“Keys to every lock at the inn, Detective, including every drawer and closet.”
Brisbois turned to Creighton. “We didn’t find anything on that guy in the wine cellar.”
“Nothing but his clothes.”
“Did Bergeron get out there to secure the car?”
“He’s standing over it as we speak.”
Margaret looked from Creighton to Brisbois. “Detective, the only car left at the Pines was Tiffany’s Austin. Rudley drove mine home.”
“He drove your car home?”
“Yes.”
“Does Rudley have a key to your car?”
“No. I assume mine were left in the ignition.”
“Well, damn it to hell.” Brisbois paused, shook his head. “Pardon my language, Mrs. Rudley, but if they gave out awards for destroying evidence, your husband would win, hands down.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Can’t do anything about it now,” he muttered. He reviewed his notes. “One other thing. You received a letter recently from an Alberta Beckwith.”
“Birdie? Yes, I did.”
“Rather provocative.”
She looked puzzled. “Provocative?”
He looked her straight in the eye. “Don’t give him another cent.”
She thought for a moment, then smiled. “Oh, that. I’d mentioned to Birdie that Eric Lewis — he’s the chap in town who shows my watercolours — was hinting that he’d like a bigger commission.”
Brisbois closed his notebook and slapped it down on the desk. “That,” he said, turning to Creighton, “he remembered.”
“I have an inn to run, Brisbois.”
“And I have an investigation to run.”
The men faced off over the desk in Rudley’s office. Rudley sat in the chair behind the desk. Brisbois stood, hands on the desk, leaning toward him.
“Didn’t it occur to you” — Brisbois straightened, massaging his temple — “didn’t it occur to you that your wife’s car might contain evidence, evidence that might help us find out who abducted her? Might even have assisted in solving a murder?”
“And has it occurred to you that it’s damned hard to run an inn with police hanging all over the place like a bunch of overgrown bats?”
“What’s hard about it, Rudley? Your guests seem to find us very entertaining. Makes me wonder if you didn’t knock off the guy to scare up business.”
“I’ll have you know we’re fully booked for the season — even without your damned murder.”
Brisbois stared at the wall. “Rudley,” he said finally, “we will be going over your wife’s car with a fine-toothed comb, although anything we find will be compromised because of you.”
Rudley set his jaw defiantly. “I may not do everything according to your specifications, Brisbois, but at least I found my wife.”
Brisbois muttered a curt “good day” and left before he said anything he would later regret. He steamed out onto the veranda and down onto the lawn. He stopped part way down, sank down onto a bench, and lit a cigarette.
“Detective.”
Damn, he thought, as Miss Miller skipped across the lawn followed by Simpson, this is all I need.
“Yes?”
He listened to their story, at first impatiently, then with eyes narrowing. “So you and Simpson trekked around to every canoe-rental establishment on the lake until you found one that had serial numbers matching the canoe in the boathouse.”
“Yes.”
“And then you went down to the boathouse at some ungodly hour this morning, dove into the water, and fished around until you found this stuff?”
“Including a brown oxford with a new heel and a stamp on the inside of the tongue saying Shoniker’s Shoe Repair.”
He took the bag she held out. “While Simpson stood by.”
She smiled.
He hefted the bag. “Thank you. I’ll give your theory and your potential evidence careful consideration.”
“As you can see, there’s no other logical explanation.”
Brisbois shrugged. “Try this. The victim removed his shoes because he thought they’d be noisy. He stashed his shoes in the bushes. He got his feet wet in the grass. The guy who murdered him tossed the shoes because he thought we could trace them.”
“You see. They knew each other.”
“Murderers and their victims usually do. Your theory is neat, Miss Miller. But why would you think he came by canoe in the first place?”
Simpson drew himself up. “Miss Miller was a Girl Scout, Detective.”
Miss Miller patted his arm. “Thank you, Edward. No one is talking about a car being found, Detective. The scuttlebutt is they took Mrs. Rudley’s car. They had to get here some way. Why walk when you can come undetected by boat? And if you know anything about canoeing, you can imagine how uncomfortable dress shoes would be. And if you toss them up…”
“Yes, yes. They could fall into the water.” He spread his arms. “As I said, it’s a neat theory. If you’d come to me with this story right away, I would have done the legwork, arranged for a proper search of the boathouse, and we would be further ahead.”
“I didn’t think you’d act on conjecture.”
Brisbois gave her an aha look. “And there you would be wrong, Miss Miller. The police are always grateful for the public’s input in any and all investigations.”
“Then I owe you an apology.”
He consulted his notebook. “So you dove for the evidence and Simpson stood by.”
She gave Simpson an adoring look. “He stood by gallantly, Detective.”
Brisbois flipped a page and studied his notes for a long moment. “Simpson, one question?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is there anything this woman can’t talk you into?” He tucked the notebook into his pocket and strode away.
Miss Miller turned to Simpson. “I’d like to hear the answer to that one, Edward.”
Thomas sat by himself on the veranda, staring out over the lake, sipping a glass of whisky and soda. He stood as Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson came up the steps.
“Would you care to join me?”
“Thank you, Mr. Thomas.” Miss Miller sat on his left. Simpson sat across from her. “Having a leisurely afternoon?”
Thomas sniffed. “Everyone else is playing golf. Seems silly to me. You can play golf in the city or take a golf vacation, if that’s what you want. Do you play, Simpson?”
“I’ve won the occasional most-honest-golfer award.”
“Golfing’s clearly not your game.”
“No.”
“Cricket? Rugby?”
“I find rugby a bit brutal, I’m afraid. Hard on the ears. I’m rather good at bowls. A bit of a master at croquet.”
Thomas grimaced. “That’s an old ladies’ game, isn’t it?”
“Some of those old ladies can whack the ball rather well. Oh, I did sculls at Oxford.”
“That’s a feather in your cap.”
“Quite.”
Thomas tested his drink. “Track was my sport in college.”
“Yes?”
“All-American in my junior year.”
“You don’t say.”
“I played ping-pong once,” Miss Miller said.
Thomas gave her a questioning look. “I beg your pardon?”
“I could feel the testosterone oozing.” Miss Miller paused. “Have you heard the latest, Mr. Thomas? Mrs. Rudley has been rescued.”
“I’ve heard a rumour to that effect.”
“Have you heard how it happened?”
“I’m waiting with bated breath. Tim should be the best source of information, I imagine.”
“Her abductor, the murderer, could be among us.”
“I imagine the culprit has moved on.”
“Do you think so?” Miss Miller sounded disappointed.
“Yes.”
Peter Leslie came up the path at that moment, golf clubs slung over his shoulder.
“If you will pardon me,” Thomas said. “I think I’ll catch a nap before dinner.” He got up and disappeared into the lobby.
Chapter Nine
Rudley stood, one hand curled around his chin, his fingers worrying an imaginary moustache. “Something’s bothering me, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
Gregoire sniffed. “Having a dead body around will do that.”
Rudley shot him a look that would have knocked crows off hydro poles. “Maddening.”
Margaret patted him on the arm. “If you’d relax, Rudley, it might come back to you.”
Rudley shuddered. “Relax? Margaret, this is our most important season. We have a dead body in the wine cellar. You were abducted. The police are crawling all over the place, restricting our movements, and you expect me to relax.”
“I didn’t say it was appropriate to the occasion, just that it might help you remember.”
Tim bounded up the steps and into the lobby. “I’ve brought your car out front, Mrs. Rudley.”
“Thanks, Tim.” Margaret put her purse on the counter and proceeded to dig through it with both hands. “I’m going into town, Rudley. I promised Frances I’d take her for a nice breakfast at the Shoreline and discuss the floral arrangements for Music Hall.”
“Marigolds,” he said.
“Don’t be classist, Rudley.”
“They would match the class of Music Hall.”
“You love Music Hall. Rudley loved England,” she told the boys. “At one time, I thought he might want to emigrate.”
“Probably too small for him and everyone else,” Gregoire said.
“Lucky for you cooks are hard to replace mid-season.”
“Chefs.”
Tim tittered.
“Waiters aren’t,” Rudley said.
“We can’t do without Tim. He’s in Music Hall,” said Margaret. “Tim,” she said in a low voice, “after Aunt Pearl comes down for breakfast, could you and Tiffany discreetly search her room? I think she has Mrs. Sawchuck’s watch.”
“And my garlic press,” said Gregoire.
“Don’t tell me she’s branching out into kitchen gadgets.” Margaret closed her purse and gave Rudley a peck on the cheek. “I’m off.”
“Take Lloyd with you.”
“Lloyd isn’t much help picking out flowers.”
“I don’t want you out alone after what happened.”
“I’m all right, Rudley. It was an ordeal, but I got through it. I feel rather invulnerable.”
“That’s what I’m worried about. You’ll let down your guard.”
“I’ll be fine.” She blew him a kiss and sailed on out the door.
“No one should be going around without an escort,” Rudley
fretted. “Whoever murdered that man and kidnapped Margaret could still be lurking about.”
“You let Tiffany go out with the linen on her own,” Tim said.
Rudley’s eyes widened. “That’s it. That’s what’s been bothering me. Lloyd!” he bellowed. “Lloyd!”
“Do you think she’s dead?” Lloyd stood back as Rudley pressed his fingers against Tiffany’s throat.
“She’s not dead,” Rudley rasped. “Where in hell is that ambulance?”
Lloyd shrugged. “I didn’t think she was dead, seeing as how her chest is rising and falling.”
“Where are the damned police when you want them?”
“Don’t know.”
Rudley tapped Tiffany on the shoulder. “Tiffany, wake up.”
“Maybe she was poisoned.”
“How in hell would she be poisoned?”
“I’m just saying she looks like Snow White in the movie, and she was poisoned.”
“Then if we come across the wicked queen, we’ll have our answer.” Rudley sat back on his haunches. “She must have fainted. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with her. Are you sure you called the ambulance?”
“Did.”
“Her pulse is strong,” Rudley said. He continued to palpate her pulse with his right hand while his left made a rat’s nest of his hair.
“There’s the ambulance, boss.”
The siren rose, then swooned as the ambulance screeched to a halt in front of the inn. A few minutes later, the paramedics barged into the Low Birches followed by Ruskay.
“What’s going on here?” Ruskay demanded.
“We found her,” Rudley said. “Lying here like this.”
“She’s breathing,” Lloyd said.
“Do you know what happened?”
“No,” Rudley said, exasperated. “As I said, we found her like this.”
The paramedics hooked Tiffany up to the monitors, checked her vital signs, and did a blood glucose reading.
“Vitals okay,” one said. “Blood glucose 5.3.”
“Right on,” the other said. He checked for fractures, paused as he palpated the skull. “This could be your answer. She’s got a big lump on the back of her head.” He turned to his partner. “Let’s get an IV going and transport.”
Rudley blanched. “Is it serious?”
“Can’t tell until we get some X-rays.” The paramedic looked at Ruskay. “Could you check the bathroom? Maybe she mixed the wrong cleaners, got woozy, staggered out here, and fainted.”
Pleasantly Dead Page 8
