The tool shed had a big transom-like window. He could push it up and it would be just like being outdoors. The bugs got in, but he didn’t worry about that. Bugs never bothered him; mosquitoes never bit him. Mrs. Phipps-Walker said it was because he had the wrong blood type. Tim said it was because he never bathed except in the lake, therefore he smelled like a fish and the bugs wanted no part of him. He knew Tim was joking, but he thought he might be right.
He thought it was funny the way the police did things. He wasn’t sure if they were that smart. They were like most people, he guessed, looking for things in strange places when what they wanted was right under their noses. Rudley was like that too. He thought if he couldn’t find something, it must be lost. He couldn’t get it through his head that he just wasn’t looking where it was.
Lloyd told people his parents lived down east and he had come up here on the train, looking for a job because he had heard it was a good part of the country to find one. People then started asking why he never went home. So, after what he thought was a decent interval, he told them his parents had died. The truth was they were alive and well and living about twenty miles east of the inn, where his ancestors had lived for generations. He took Rudley’s truck to visit them often. He didn’t feel bad about being untruthful. And after he made his parents dead he couldn’t make them alive again. Besides, he’d learned that people liked to hear tragic stories. He’d once heard Mrs. Rudley tell Gregoire he was to give him all the pie he wanted: “Give Lloyd all the pie he wants, Gregoire. He’s an orphan.” That’s what she said.
He thought of his parents as he saw Brisbois and Creighton picking their way up the uneven path. His parents, who were aware of his tendency to change things to suit the situation, told him it was all right as long as he never lied to a minister or a policeman. He didn’t know which of the two it was worse to lie to so he decided it would be best to be accurate with the police. Ministers didn’t always seem to like the truth. He usually told Rudley that things were the way he thought most people would say they were because Rudley seemed a lot like the police — mad all the time and as suspicious as a hen with an egg.
The police were stopping periodically. He realized they were examining the plants along the path. Most of the plants were herbs, but he didn’t think the police would know that. Gregoire loved his herbs and for that reason allowed him into the kitchen to get the first of anything good. He’d found he could give most people something they liked: Gregoire liked his herbs. Tiffany liked the way he moved furniture for her on washing days. Mrs. Rudley liked him being sweet: “Lloyd is sweet” she liked to say. Tim liked him because he listened to his jokes. Rudley liked him because he had good ears and could hear him muttering almost as well as he could hear him yelling. He didn’t think Rudley realized he yelled because sometimes he kept his voice up when he was standing right in front of him. But maybe that went along with the business of not being able to see what was in front of you, and Rudley never did.
The police thought they saw what was in front of them and what was behind them too. He knew their eyes weren’t as good as they thought. There was something he knew they didn’t know and he hoped they wouldn’t ask. He didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. He turned sideways to the path, hoping they might not see him.
“They make good use of the land here,” Brisbois said. “They’ve planted herbs all along the path.”
“Oh, I thought those were weeds.”
“No,” Brisbois said, pointing, “there’s basil and dill and rosemary. And there’s some summer savoury. I should try that.”
“I didn’t know you were a gardener.”
“You’ve never been at my place. I’ve got the best perennial garden in my neighbourhood.”
“There’s Lloyd,” said Creighton who had nothing to offer about horticulture. “He’d make a good scarecrow.”
“He’d make a good something.” Brisbois was still miffed about the wet socks. He tightened his tie and strode to the edge of the garden. “Lloyd.”
“You were wanting me?” Lloyd said without turning.
“You ran off before I had a chance to talk to you this morning.”
“I had to hoe the beans.”
“Come on over here.” Brisbois gestured toward a rough log bench parallel to the garden.
“Okay.” Lloyd put the hoe down. He ambled over to the bench, sat down, and gave Brisbois a grin.
“I have some questions for you.”
“Okay.”
“What time did you start work here?”
“Maybe five years.”
“I mean this morning.”
“Around nine.”
“I didn’t mean here in the garden. I meant what time did you start your day?”
“When I got up.”
“And what time was that?”
“After I woke up.”
Brisbois dug his hands into his thighs. “Are you giving me the runaround, Lloyd?”
“I’m trying to tell you like it is. I get up after I wake up. Then I work.”
“Any special time?”
“Usually as soon as the sun comes up.”
“What about this morning?”
“Early. But I didn’t get up right away. There was a chipmunk walking around. She comes to get the crumbs I put down. So I just lay there quiet for a long time. Maybe six-thirty on my watch.”
“So you were awake at six-thirty.”
“Yup.”
“What time did you leave the bunkhouse?”
“I weren’t in the bunkhouse.”
“Where were you?”
“In the tool shed.”
“The one behind the inn?”
“That one.”
“Did you happen to see Mr. Leslie this morning? While he was still alive, I mean.”
“Did.”
“And what time was that?”
“Around then. Maybe a little later.”
“Was he running?”
Lloyd shook his head. “He weren’t running.”
Brisbois’ grip tightened on the pen. “What was he doing?”
“He was walking.”
“Was there anybody else around? Did you hear him arguing with anybody?”
“He was talking to Miss Miller.”
“When?”
“Around then.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He was talking to Miss Miller around when I saw him.”
“Did you hear what they were saying?”
“Not much. They were kind of laughing.”
“Did they seem pretty friendly?”
“I guess. Maybe Mr. Leslie was laughing because Miss Miller came out her window and climbed down the trellis.”
Brisbois stopped writing. “You saw Miss Miller climb down the trellis.”
“Not all the way. There was a bush. But I saw her come down from the window and get a toehold in the trellis. And Mr. Leslie was watching and then she came out from behind the bushes and he laughed again.”
“Then what?”
“Then they went down through the trees.”
“Which way?”
“To the west side.”
“And then?”
“Don’t know. I couldn’t see them once they got into the trees.”
Brisbois rubbed his forehead. “Let me get this straight. You saw Miss Miller with Peter Leslie minutes before he was found dead and you didn’t say anything?”
“Nobody asked. Then you told me to get out. So I just went to work. There was a lot of weeds.”
“You didn’t happen to see Miss Miller coming out of Peter Leslie’s cottage.”
“Nope.” Lloyd wrinkled his forehead. “Next time I saw her she was going into the inn.”
“Up the trellis?”
“In the back door.”
“When was that?”
“Just after.”
“Five minutes, ten, fifteen?”
“Just that.”
“Miss Miller. What did s
he look like? Did she seem upset?”
Lloyd cogitated on that for a minute. “She weren’t crying or nothing. She was just hurrying along. I guess she didn’t want to miss first pickings.”
Brisbois blew out a long breath. “Okay, Lloyd. Did you see Miss Miller and Peter Leslie together before?”
“Just to eat sometimes.”
“Did they seem friendly? Do you think they liked each other?”
“Don’t know.” He frowned. “Don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Wouldn’t be nice.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s nice. This is a murder investigation. You’ve got to tell the truth.”
“Mr. Leslie pinched Trudy on the bum. Miss Miller didn’t like that.”
“When did this happen?”
“Lunch. Day before yesterday.”
“How do you know Miss Miller didn’t like it?”
“She was mad.”
“How do you know?”
“She didn’t sit with him. She poked Mr. Simpson on the arm and told him to sit away from Mr. Leslie.” He grinned. “She likes Mr. Simpson.”
Brisbois nodded, flipped a page in his notebook. “Did Trudy complain to anyone?”
His face clouded. “It was bad. Trudy went into the kitchen and cried.”
“Did she tell you what happened?”
“I just saw.”
“Do you know if she told anybody?”
“She told Gregoire. He was mad. And Tim was mad. Gregoire said he’d talk to him, man to man.”
“Did he?”
“Don’t know. But he was mad. He smashed an egg and got shells in the frying pan. Then he got mad, the way he does when I scare him, and smashed an egg on the floor.”
“Did Mr. Rudley know what Mr. Leslie did?”
Lloyd shook his head. “Gregoire said we shouldn’t tell him. He said Mr. Rudley might choke Mr. Leslie and it wouldn’t be good for business. He said Mr. Rudley wasn’t much of a dipplemat.”
“Diplomat.”
“That too.”
“Did Mrs. Rudley know about Trudy?”
“Tim said Mrs. Rudley would hit Mr. Leslie with the frying pan if she knew.”
“So nobody told her either.”
“Gregoire said he needed the frying pan. He said he’d figure out something.” He grinned. “I guess it would have been better if he had got hit with the frying pan.”
“Did Gregoire say what he’d figured out?”
“No. Didn’t hear him say more.”
Creighton picked a stalk of timothy and pulled it between his teeth. “Did you like Mr. Leslie?”
“Not too much.”
“Do you know anybody else who didn’t like him?”
His face darkened. “I guess Trudy didn’t like him. And Gregoire didn’t like him. And Tim said he was a dirty old man. Mrs. Millotte didn’t like him either.”
“Did he pinch her too?”
“Don’t know.” He ducked his head. “She has a skinny behind.”
“Did Tiffany like him?”
“Never said.”
Brisbois reclaimed the interrogation. “Did you see anyone else around this morning?”
“Just who I always see.”
Brisbois waited, pen poised.
“Mrs. Millotte drove up with Trudy. She gives her a ride.”
“Anybody else? What about delivery people?”
“Nope.”
“What about the guests?”
“Some of them was around.”
“Did you notice anybody in particular?”
“There was some out in the boats. Mr. Phipps-Walker and Mr. Thomas. And Mr. George. He was feeding the ducks by the dock.” He giggled. “Tim says he looks like the Frankenstein monster.”
“That big square clumsy-looking guy?” Creighton asked.
“Gregoire said his shoes look like the bumper cars at the fair,” Lloyd said.
“Did you notice anyone else?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Then I went in to get breakfast. I got four slices of bacon and three slices of cheese — cheddar — on a bun — whole wheat — and a cup of milk.”
“And then?”
“Mr. Rudley called me to go look for Tiffany. Said nobody was supposed to be out by themselves. So we went looking and there she was in the Birches like Snow White. And then there were people all around. And you told me to wait outdoors.”
“Why did you and Rudley go to the Low Birches? Did you hear something?”
“We spied her linen cart parked out front.”
“And you and Rudley were together the whole time?”
“Every minute. Until you put me outside.”
Brisbois sent Lloyd back to the garden.
Creighton chuckled. “Didn’t you want to know if that milk was 1 percent or 2 percent?”
Brisbois glared at him.
“I think this investigation would be easier if we hadn’t interviewed him.”
“He has a knack of complicating the picture.”
“What I don’t get,” said Creighton, “is that the sun’s barely up and the place is hopping.”
“You’ve taken too many vacations in Mexico,” Brisbois said. “Place like this, morning is where it’s happening. Fishing. Nature walks. Nap in the afternoon and back at it when the fish are biting.” He reviewed his notes. “Okay. We have Leslie pinching Trudy. Miss Miller sees him do it and, apparently, doesn’t like it. Lloyd didn’t like it. Neither did Gregoire nor Tim. The Rudleys wouldn’t have liked it if they had known. If they had, Rudley would have throttled him and the missus would have hit him over the head with a frying pan.”
“Which is why nobody told them.”
“So,” Brisbois continued, “Leslie was a grabber. And a pincher. Lloyd assumed Miss Miller didn’t like that. But maybe she did. Maybe what she didn’t like was that the attention wasn’t directed at her. She did climb down from the trellis to meet him.”
Creighton snickered. “She’s a librarian. Some of those artsy women can be pretty flakey. Maybe a little mild S & M turned her on.”
“But she’s been making eyes at Simpson.”
“So Leslie was a little diversion, something on the wild side.”
Brisbois spun to face him. “Maybe. It got out of control. He did something she didn’t like. Maybe something that frightened her. Maybe threatened to tell Simpson if she didn’t go along. So she whacked him on the head, then slashed his wrists just to make sure he was dead.”
“Her clothes were scattered on the floor in Simpson’s room. There wasn’t a drop of blood on them.”
“So she was in the nude when she killed Leslie.” He paused. “There wasn’t any splatter.”
“She eliminated that problem by holding his arms under water while she cut.”
“That would take a bucket of cold-blooded intent. Not to mention unwavering decisiveness. She wouldn’t have had much time to dither.”
“Are you going to haul her in?”
Brisbois stood, taking a swipe at the seat of his pants. “I’d like to haul them all in, including that old arthritic bat and the birdwatcher. Lock them up — to keep them from killing anyone else — or getting killed.” He looked gloomy. “First, we’ll interview the young lady.”
Brisbois waited in the foyer while Creighton went upstairs to retrieve Miss Miller. Garrett Thomas sat on the veranda, nursing a scotch and entertaining Aunt Pearl. By the sag of her cigarette and her exaggerated gestures, Brisbois guessed she was half-smashed.
The Sawchucks were coming up the steps, he clutching the railing, she clutching his arm. They wore identical navy shorts, red Hawaiian shirts, white cotton socks, and black orthopedic shoes. He sniffed. Brisbois resented the expensive carelessness of the wealthy as much as he resented their ostentation. The Sawchucks’ shorts cost a hundred bucks each, he imagined. If he’d been wearing a pair of pants that cost a hundred dollars, he would be watching where he sat, constantly guardi
ng against snags and stains.
He conceded that not all the guests were wealthy. Mr. Simpson and Miss Miller had probably saved for the vacation, forgoing a trip to Europe, while the Sawchucks could enjoy both and probably did. The Pleasant seemed a cut above the other lodges in the area — the fine old building, the incomparable chef and the flower lady, the fine china, and expensive-looking silver. He thought of Rudley and his plaid shirts and Margaret and her simple dress and felt confused. He didn’t know how to measure the Pleasant and it bothered him.
He guessed his idea of summer at the cottage was his grandparents’ camp in Northern Ontario, an uninsulated cottage where the rain drummed heavily on the roof, where you whacked your head if you sat up in your bunk bed, and the bathroom was a basin on the stoop and an outhouse in the trees. Where the dock rode low on a reedy waterfront. Or it was the lodge up the lake where they sometimes went for a burger, a place where the whole family worked like dogs, and the fishermen and working-class families inhabited housekeeping cottages with rough board interiors, tiny bathrooms with stained sinks and mildewed shower stalls, where the food was served in a dining room with a cracked linoleum floor and the tables had oilcloths and a mishmash of chrome and vinyl chairs usually in a dull ruby red or opaque amber. He loved that place. It was a place you could go to in a bargain-basement shirt and shorts still stiff with sizing, in tube socks (the kind that came three to a pack with different coloured bands), and down-at-the-heel Hush Puppies or brand-name-knock-off sneakers. Where the meals were meat and potatoes and apple pie and coffee that tasted like real coffee served on a collection of china with cutlery that looked as if it had been picked up willy-nilly at yard sales. He didn’t feel comfortable walking into the dining room here, even in his suit and tie. He imagined the guests totting up the value of his clothes and sniggering behind the stiff linen napkins as they paused over appetizers of calamari and entrées of filet mignon. He had to admit that Rudley ran a tight ship and everyone worked hard, but he couldn’t understand why people enjoyed working for a grouch like him or why a sweet person like Mrs. Rudley had married him.
Pleasantly Dead Page 10
