Pleasantly Dead

by Alguire, Judith

  He glanced at his watch. What in hell was keeping Creighton?

  Out on the veranda, Thomas poured another glass of wine for Aunt Pearl. Mrs. Millotte made her way from the dining room with a tray of lemonade and iced tea. The Sawchucks turned their faces to her in beatific unison as she slid the carafe of iced tea onto their table. Brisbois wondered what Mrs. Millotte, a straight-laced, straight-shooting kind of woman, thought about this bunch of flakes she worked with — a cook who wore a velvet rose on his lapel, a waiter who seemed to make a study in high camp, the maid, who looked like the prim young thing out of an Agatha Christie novel, the kind who ended up being the one who did it, Rudley, who showed the guests scarcely more courtesy than he showed the staff, and Lloyd, who would have fit in nicely at the Bates Motel. He shivered. This place was just a ritzier version of the Bates, with people dropping dead and disappearing all over the place, but not a person struck him as having the time or potential for manslaughter (although one of them surely had) nor was there a damned piece of useful physical evidence — so far.

  Except for the shoe. Even that could be a plant. But they were working on it. He sighed, knowing his case might rest on a shoemaker with a good memory.

  Five minutes later, Creighton appeared with Miss Miller. Brisbois escorted her to Rudley’s office and motioned her to a chair beside the desk.

  “Mr. Leslie was murdered this morning,” he said without preamble.

  She drew in a sharp breath. “Leslie?”

  “This is the first time you’ve heard this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because?”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Because I haven’t been out and about.”

  “You didn’t hear the sirens?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Where were you this morning, Miss Miller?”

  “You know where I was.”

  He looked at her for a long moment. “I know where we found you. Where were you this morning between six-thirty and seven-fifteen?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “What would you say if I told you an eyewitness saw you climb out of your window, climb down the trellis, and rendezvous with Peter Leslie at the back of the Pleasant?”

  She sighed. “I would have to say your eyewitness was telling the truth.”

  He watched her.

  “I did climb out of my window. It was about six-thirty. I climbed down the trellis and met with Peter Leslie, as we had previously arranged.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I made the suggestion to him, but it’s not as you think.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I did it to get back at him.”

  “Go on.”

  “We went down to the Low Birches. He told me he wanted to have a bath first. He went into the bathroom. He ran a bath. A few minutes later, he called me. I went in. He was in the tub, stark naked.”

  “And that surprised you?”

  “Not really. He was lying there, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He wanted me to bathe him. But first, he wanted me to shave him. He said it was a turn-on. He said, and I quote, ‘My ladies always shave and bathe me.’”

  “Except for his wife, who didn’t understand.”

  “He didn’t mention his wife.”

  “So you shaved him.”

  “I started to. Then I heard someone at the door. He said it was probably Tiffany dropping off his linens. He said walking in on us might be an education for her. I went out the window.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t want to be seen with him.”

  “Leslie didn’t care.”

  “No. He even suggested Tiffany might want to join us.” She grimaced.

  “You didn’t like that.”

  “No.”

  “He thought he was God’s gift to women?”

  “Worse. He thought he had a right to use women as he wished.”

  “But you were intrigued enough to go to his cottage.”

  She pushed her hair back with both hands. “I didn’t go there to have sex with him. I went there to humiliate him.”

  Brisbois raised his brows. “Go on.”

  “I saw him pinch Trudy. One day in the dining room. I should have dealt with the problem right then and there. I didn’t. So I came up with a different revenge.”

  “Why all the sneaking around? Everyone here is an adult.”

  “I didn’t want Simpson to know. He wouldn’t have approved.”

  Brisbois tapped his notebook. “I don’t understand. Why the grand revenge? You could have slugged him, made him look like a fool in front of everyone.”

  She shook her head. “I sensed the gesture would be misinterpreted. Sometimes, a man like Leslie likes that sort of thing. You know, like John Wayne in his westerns. It simply confirms his dominance.”

  He sighed. “You set out to be Trudy’s avenging angel.”

  She sniffed. “I felt he had deliberately selected someone vulnerable, someone young, someone who desperately needed that summer job.”

  Brisbois watched her for a moment. “It sounds as if you’re speaking from experience, Miss Miller.”

  She hugged herself. “In the summer before I started university, I worked as a waitress. I had a customer very much like Peter Leslie. I complained to the manager. He said I was overreacting. He said I was paid to be nice to the customers.”

  “You either had to put up with it or quit.”

  “As it turned out, I didn’t have to do either. One of the other waitresses stood up for me.”

  “You were repaying an old favour.”

  “Yes.”

  Brisbois sat back, pinching his upper lip between thumb and forefinger. “So you were shaving Leslie and you heard someone at the door.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you hear a key in the lock?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had the razor in your hand.”

  “Yes. I put it down on the side of the tub and said I was leaving. That’s when he said it was just Tiffany and she might want to join us. I said no thanks. I climbed up on top of the toilet tank, pushed up the window, unhooked the screen, and went out the window. I heard him laughing as I ran off.”

  “You didn’t get your revenge.”

  “No. I was planning to wait until the critical moment, make some disparaging remarks, and walk out.”

  “Instead, you ended up scrambling out the window.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I crept back to the inn and went in through the back door.”

  “And back to your room?”

  “No. I went to the dining room to see if Mr. Simpson had come down.”

  “Had he?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “I went to his room.”

  “Then what?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “This is a murder investigation. Everything is my business.” He made a note. “I’m not looking for a play-by-play. Did you tell Simpson what you had done?”

  “No. I suppose you’re going to.”

  “Only if I have to. It might be better if you told him yourself.”

  She frowned. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I think so. Okay, when you knocked on Simpson’s door, was he there?”

  “Yes, I woke him up.”

  Brisbois reviewed his notes. “Okay, let’s back up. Did you see Tiffany come into the cottage?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone in or around the Low Birches?”

  “No.”

  “I guess you weren’t too upset when you heard Leslie had been murdered.”

  “Not particularly.”

  Brisbois kept Miss Miller waiting while he completed his notes. “We’ll be talking to you later. In the meantime, don’t leave the jurisdiction.”

  “We’re being held prisoner. I don’t think that’s legal.”

  “If I had a dollar for everyone wh
o’s told me that this week, I’d be rich. You can go out on the lake, you can go into the woods, you can go into the village. That’s it.” He paused. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me? Seeing as how you seem to be somehow involved in everything going on around here.”

  She gave him a defiant look.

  He tried to stare her down, but gave up. “Okay,” he said. “You can go.” He got on the phone to Ruskay. “Send Simpson down. Make sure he doesn’t stop to chat to Miss Miller.”

  Simpson arrived, flushed, his hair standing up in cowlicks. He was stunned to hear about the murder and had nothing to offer.

  “That guy doesn’t have a clue,” Creighton said when they released him. “I don’t think he could lie if you paid him.”

  Brisbois flipped open his notebook. “Question: What was Miss Miller’s demeanour when she arrived in your room this morning? Answer: Wonderful.” He snapped the notebook closed. “Do you think she did it, Creighton?”

  “And arrive in Simpson’s room looking as if she’d stepped out of a bandbox?”

  Brisbois traced an eyebrow with his middle finger. “The man sounds besotted. He probably wouldn’t have noticed if she’d arrived dripping blood with an axe slung over her shoulder.”

  “Do you think she would have the nerve?”

  “She’s got plenty of that.”

  “If she killed Leslie that leaves us with two different murderers. I can’t see her connection to John Doe.”

  Brisbois yawned. “I don’t think she killed either of them. How long do you think we can keep this group on a short leash?”

  “Probably forever. They’re having a ball with this.”

  “Let’s see how the guys are making out.”

  “Not my favourite skirt,” Aunt Pearl said. “Do I have to give it to you?”

  “I’m afraid so, Miss Dutton. It will be returned as soon as possible.”

  The Sawchucks handed over their colourful leisure wear. “We’ll have to phone Land’s End right away and have some new outfits sent down.”

  “You’ll have them back soon.”

  “If I had murdered someone in this, you wouldn’t need a microscope to find out.” Gregoire indicated his crisp white uniform.

  “Probably not, but hand it over.”

  The team took Miss Miller’s outfit.

  “I wasn’t wearing anything,” Simpson murmured.

  “Just check his closet,” Creighton told the forensics officer.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Thomas, handing over his khakis and windbreaker. “I was out on the lake in plain sight while the murder is alleged to have taken place. Your investigation must be on shaky grounds if you must resort to stripping the guests. What do you expect to find on Sawchuck’s droopy drawers?”

  “That remains to be seen.” Creighton smiled as the forensics team wrapped the clothing in paper and labeled each package.

  “It’s a waste of time,” Brisbois murmured as Creighton joined him in the lobby. “But I’d like to keep them off balance.”

  “Telephone for you, Detective,” Tim sang out.

  Brisbois took the call. When he returned he was smiling.

  “They’ve found the shoe repair shop,” he said.

  Chapter Ten

  “I’m sorry, Edward.” Miss Miller sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her robe around her. Simpson stood in his shirt and shorts, staring in pained disbelief. “I didn’t confide in you because I didn’t think you’d approve of my methods.”

  Simpson swallowed hard. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have approved. Your plan was dangerous and stressful for you. If you had told me what he had done, I would have taken him out and given him a good thrashing.”

  “Chivalry is not dead, Edward.” She floated to him, gave him a lengthy kiss on the cheek.

  Simpson flushed. “I won’t say I’m glad he was murdered. But I can’t say I feel much regret. The man was a cad.”

  “All I could think of was how helpless Trudy must have felt.” She pulled out a pale-blue linen jacket. “I think you would look quite dashing in this.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Let’s go down for breakfast.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Do you think they’re still serving?” He sighed. “It seems wrong to be hungry with all that’s been going on.”

  “You have nice legs.”

  “I’m a rather good horseman.” He took the trousers she handed him.

  “I wish I’d had the nerve to go out the front door of the Birches. I would have seen who came in. I would have prevented Leslie’s murder, saved Tiffany.”

  “You could have been killed or injured yourself.”

  “Mr. Rudley said Tiffany suffered a concussion. I hope she’ll be all right.”

  “She should be perfectly fine.” Simpson followed Miss Miller to her room and stood looking out the window as she dressed. “I got conked on the head once. My horse threw me. I still don’t remember a thing about the accident.”

  She smiled. “Why are you standing with your back to me?”

  “Because if I turn around, we’ll never get to breakfast.”

  Her hands drifted up his back. He turned to find her in a pert blue and yellow sundress.

  “We have all afternoon, Edward.”

  “If it had been any other shirt,” Rudley said. “It’s the most comfortable thing I own.”

  Margaret straightened the collar of a MacGregor tartan. “It’ll be worth it, Rudley. To find out what’s going on around here.” She sat down heavily.

  “Are you all right, Margaret?”

  She shook her head. “Not entirely. We’ve had two murders this week. Tiffany’s in the hospital. I don’t think I can ever look at lime Kool-Aid again. The sanctity of the High Birches has been compromised. We have a new slate of guests arriving in two weeks and I don’t think the police are any further ahead than they were when they started.”

  Rudley cast a mournful look toward the register. “I don’t think we can put the MacLarens in the Low Birches.”

  “We can offer them the High Birches. I can’t imagine the police will be wanting it too much longer.”

  “I’ll check with Brisbois. Damned man. What a lot of trouble he’s caused.”

  “I don’t think he’s had much choice.”

  “I suppose not. Still, he’s damned inefficient. Your car sitting in plain sight at the Pines and it’s Lloyd and I who have to find you. It doesn’t give me much faith in his capacity for detection.”

  “I think he’s doing his best.”

  “He’s pestering the neighbours now. I don’t know what in hell he expects anyone across the lake to have seen.”

  “Brisbois,” — Creighton appeared in the doorway and took him aside — “Beckel brought this fellow around. Thought you’d like to talk to him.”

  Brisbois stared past Creighton to the cruiser in the parking lot. “Tell Beckel to bring him in the rear entrance.”

  “This is Jason Turner,” Beckel said. “His parents own that cottage directly across the lake.” When Brisbois shook his head, he added. “That big white job with the four boathouses.”

  “Okay.” Brisbois motioned him to a chair. “Sit down, son. Let’s hear your story.”

  Jason gave Brisbois an angelic look. “Your officer came around. He asked me if I’d seen anything going on at the Pleasant around seven this morning.”

  “Okay.”

  “I was looking at the lake with my binoculars around then. I was looking for loons.”

  Brisbois turned a page in his notebook. “You like to look at birds.”

  “Yeah. And I saw this guy coming out of the cottage. The one furthest down from the inn.”

  “What guy?”

  “That old guy with the prissy moustache. He’s staying here.”

  Brisbois glanced at Creighton. “Do you know this old guy’s name?”

  “No, but I’ve seen him fishing when I’m out on my jet ski.”

  “So you’re the one who was
roaring around here the other morning.”

  “Hey, it’s not illegal.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.” Brisbois took a moment for this to sink in, then said, “Could you identify this guy if you saw him again?”

  “Sure.”

  “You saw him coming out of the cottage. What time?”

  “Around seven. When your officer said this thing happened.”

  Brisbois frowned. “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

  “Dark brown shirt. Brown jacket. Khakis. And a Tilly hat.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Huh?”

  “After he came out of the cottage.”

  “He took off into the woods.”

  “Which way?”

  “That way. West.”

  “Did you see anyone else around that time?”

  “No.”

  “Have you seen this man since?”

  “Sure, he was sitting on the veranda when we came around the side of the house.”

  Creighton shifted against the wall. “Don’t all old people look alike to you kids?”

  Jason gave him a long look. “He’s got a smirk.”

  Simpson and Miss Miller decided to go into the village after brunch.

  “Where to?” Ruskay stopped them as they came out the door.

  “We were going into the village.”

  “You can go. I can’t give you back your licence, though. What I’m giving you is a chit to confirm you have a valid licence.” He handed Miss Miller a card. “Which car are you taking?”

  “Mine,” said Miss Miller. “The blue Toyota.”

  Ruskay consulted his list. “I’ll come down with you to check the mileage.”

  Thomas was coming up the path as they went down.

  “Would you like a ride into town, Mr. Thomas?”

  “No thanks, Simpson. I may go later for the walk.”

  “Cheerio.”

  “Yoo hoo.”

  They turned to see Aunt Pearl wobbling down the path toward them.

  “Are you going into town?”

  “Would you like to come with us, Miss Dutton?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Mr. Simpson took her arm.