Pleasantly Dead

by Alguire, Judith

  “And you didn’t notice if he came back?”

  Guy gave him a sour look. “I thought we were supposed to be watching the crowd. I didn’t know we had to babysit Brisbois.”

  Rudley and Margaret took the stage.

  “Don’t ask me,” Gregoire said to Creighton’s increasing consternation. “I’ve been slaving over these chafing dishes since I finished my number. I’ve hardly had time to notice an errant detective.”

  Trudy and Mrs. Millotte shook their heads.

  Rudley and Margaret danced into the wings.

  Creighton accosted them in the dressing room. “Have you seen Brisbois?”

  Margaret waved Creighton off. “They’re calling us back for an encore, Rudley.”

  Creighton paced until they returned, Margaret smiling, Rudley mopping his brow.

  “At times like this, I think we should consider air conditioning.”

  “It would destroy the ambiance, Rudley.”

  “Brisbois,” Creighton rasped. “Have you seen him?”

  “Are you telling me he’s missing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t say that pains me.”

  “On Music Hall,” Margaret said. “I’m sorry, Detective. He’s probably just out investigating something.”

  “That wasn’t the plan.” Creighton spotted Lloyd wandering past the door. “Have you seen Brisbois?”

  “He was watching my song.”

  “I know that. When did he go out?”

  “Before Tiffany.”

  “And you didn’t see him again?”

  “Nope. When I saw him he was holding up his cigarettes and pointing.”

  Creighton’s shoulders slumped. “So nobody’s seen him for almost an hour and a half.” He considered calling in reinforcements, surrounding the property in search of Brisbois. He got on the phone to the inspector sergeant, Max Mallen.

  “What do you need more men for? You’ve got half the detachment there now.”

  “They have specific assignments.”

  “Well, reassign a couple to go out to crawl around. When the evening’s over and everyone is tucked into bed and you still can’t find him, you can send the whole damn detachment looking for him.” He paused. “If I know Brisbois, he’s thought of something and he’s gone to check it out.”

  “He would have let me know if there’d been a change of plans.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. I partnered with him for two years. He’s the kind of guy who would go out to pick up coffee and decide to take a side trip to the warehouse district to check out a drug dealer.”

  “Brave.”

  “Stupid.”

  “So you’re advising me to do nothing.”

  “No. I’m advising you to spring two guys to look for him. If you don’t find him by the time the crowd clears out, reassign the rest of the crew to look for him — except the guy on the door.”

  “Owens?”

  “Yes. And if you still can’t find him, I’ll come down myself.”

  I don’t want you to come down yourself, Creighton thought.

  “When you find him, tell him to give me a call.”

  Creighton knew he was supposed to say ‘yes, inspector sergeant’, so he did.

  “And he’s wrong about this being an inside job. He should have deployed most of his people at the perimeter. Isn’t that what you would have done?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s what I would have done. This is what happens when you get too fond of a theory. You get yourself boxed in.”

  “Sir.”

  “Don’t try to defend his damned theories.”

  Creighton wasn’t about to, but it didn’t matter. The inspector sergeant had hung up.

  What the inspector sergeant was saying was true. Brisbois did work with blinkers on most of the time. But eighty per cent of the time his theories were right. Those, Creighton thought, were good numbers. The inspector sergeant was correct about another thing: Brisbois was a loner. That could be dangerous.

  If only he weren’t so fond of his cigarettes. If only they hadn’t banned smoking in public places. Creighton took a deep breath. For the time being, at least, he was in charge.

  Brisbois licked his lips. He was thirsty and wanted a cigarette. Desperately needed a cigarette. The package mocked him from his left breast pocket. He shivered and was glad he had worn a tweed jacket. He tried to distract himself from his craving by trying to make sense of his predicament. Clearly, he had not been kidnapped for ransom. The inspector sergeant wouldn’t pay for him. He suspected his boss would be happy to have him go missing for a few days. He concluded he had been taken because he had interfered with the commission of a crime.

  He considered the available suspects. The Sawchucks? He attempted a laugh, imagining the old lady thumping him over the head with her stick and the old man trundling him off to wherever he had been trundled off to. The Phipps-Walkers? He might worry about them if he were a bird. He shook his head. Who knew what anybody was capable of? He comforted himself with the knowledge his boys and girls had been watching. When he reviewed their notes, something would shake loose. Once he got out of this mess. If he got out of this mess.

  Guy came back up to the veranda. “We’ve combed the property, Creighton. There’s not a sign of Brisbois.”

  “He couldn’t have left the property.”

  “Maybe he crawled in behind the steps for a nap,” Lloyd said.

  Creighton turned to him. “What steps?”

  “The steps at the side. They swing out and there’s a little room in behind.”

  Rudley stared at him. “What little room?”

  “Behind the steps.” Lloyd persisted. “I knocked against them one day, and lo and behold, they swung open. And there behind was a little room. There wasn’t anything in it.”

  Rudley’s eyes crossed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I figured you knew.”

  Creighton blew out a long breath. “Does anyone here have a flashlight?”

  Miss Miller led Edward Simpson to his room and leaned against the wall while he opened the door.

  “I don’t know, Elizabeth,” he said. “With everything that’s happening around here. With Brisbois missing.”

  She followed him into the room. “All of this intrigue has made me hungry for action.”

  “You’re such a tiger, Elizabeth.”

  “I’ll keep my claws in, Edward.” She pursued him across the room as he backed away in mock horror.

  Simpson rounded the bed and without warning, crashed to the floor.

  “Edward?”

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but I believe I’ve broken my leg.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The morning after Music Hall, Garrett Thomas walked into town. He had gone first to the train station where he purchased a ticket for Montreal. He then made his way to the waterfront. He looked around to make sure he had not been observed, then slipped onto a modest inboard. He ducked below deck, tapped on the door, swung it open.

  Ned lay propped up in bed, reading a book. He put the book aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  Garrett picked up the book and examined it briefly. “I didn’t know you were a fan of Japanese literature.”

  “Japanese, Chinese, Russian. I’ve had plenty of time to develop my tastes.” He stood up, removed his reading glasses, and set them on the bedside table. “Did you bring them?”

  “No.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Back at the inn. I haven’t checked out yet.”

  Ned stared at him.

  “I’ve decided it would be safer if I took them on the train.”

  “You’ve decided.”

  “Yes. These days…with drug smuggling, everyone’s insecure, it seems better. It’s not inconceivable your boat would be searched.”

  Ned didn’t blink. “I doubt if I’d be a target. A middle-aged man alone. This isn’t a cigarette boat.”

  “I thi
nk it would be prudent to do it my way. I’ll take the train to Montreal, make connections there to Boston. I’ll check into the downtown Marriott and wait for you. I have contacts in Boston. We’ll set the deal. Do the split. You might want to set something up in the Caymans. Then you can get into your boat and head for a new adventure.” He raised his brows as Ned continued to stare. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  Ned reached for his book and ruffled the pages. “I took a lot of risks, Garrett. Killing two men. And now you’re being cute about the diamonds. What are you going to do? Dole them out to me a carat at a time?”

  Garrett stiffened. “You didn’t have to kill Leslie. That was your part of the plan.”

  “He might have remembered something. You said he was giving you some odd looks.”

  Thomas raised his arms in frustration, then let them drop to his sides, smiled. “Well, what’s done is done. I’ve thought this matter out carefully, Ned. I’ve spared you the risk of being apprehended. I’ve spared you the tedious mess with the middlemen. You don’t have to touch a thing. Your share goes directly into an account, which, with my contacts, I’ll arrange.”

  Ned stared off over Garrett’s shoulder. “You always did like making the arrangements.”

  Garrett gave him a self-effacing shrug. “It’s something I’m good at.”

  Ned closed the book, then opened the drawer of the bedside table. “I have a different plan.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The door opened. Thomas stood in the doorway in an olive linen jacket, grey slacks, grey and green striped shirt, and a grey silk tie held in place with a handsome gold clip. His suitcases lay on the bed behind him.

  “Mr. Thomas, I hear you’re ready to get under way.”

  “All good things must end.”

  Brisbois nodded. “You’re right about that.” He pointed to the suitcases. “Finished packing?”

  “Yes.”

  Brisbois indicated the suitcases. “Do you mind?”

  Thomas’ eyes darkened. “Yes, I do.”

  “I just want to make sure you’re not absconding with the towels.” He reached into his pocket. “I have a warrant, signed by a judge this morning. I got it when I heard you were leaving.”

  “Stealing hotel linens is something I gave up in university.”

  “Harvard, I presume.”

  “Northeastern. Boston. Magna cum laude.”

  “Good for you.” Brisbois opened the larger suitcase and sorted through. “Nice shirts.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No towels.” Brisbois opened the smaller suitcase, stared for a long moment, then snapped it close. “Not even a washcloth.”

  Thomas’ brow furrowed. “Are you through?”

  “Could you turn your pockets out?”

  “Why not?” Thomas did as requested.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’ve wrinkled my suit for nothing, Detective.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Guess so.”

  Thomas picked up his suitcases. “Good day, Detective. I must say, I hope we never meet again.”

  “Likewise,” Brisbois murmured.

  He watched Thomas leave, feeling deflated. If he’d had to put money on any of them being guilty, Thomas would have been his first choice. He had to admit that one reason he liked him as a suspect was that he didn’t like the man. He resembled Miss Miller: too many things seemed to happen around him. The difference was that he liked Miss Miller.

  Brisbois, he said to himself, you’ve been barking up the wrong tree.

  Rudley leaned across the desk, staring into space. Margaret brought a vase of flowers for the lobby, pausing to adjust a daisy.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Rudley.”

  “I wish I knew what in hell was going on around here.”

  “I wouldn’t let that sort of thing bother you, dear.”

  “We’ve had Music Hall, Aunt Pearl fell into the costume box, Brisbois got knocked on the head and stuffed into a cubbyhole I’ve never heard about. Someone removed the register from room 206. Simpson fell into the hole and broke his leg.” Rudley shook his head. “First, Mrs. Sawchuck, then Simpson. Who on earth would tamper with floor registers?”

  “He’ll be all right. He doesn’t have to leave for another week, and Miss Miller is looking after him.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s good for his leg,” Rudley muttered. “I can’t believe we had a crawl space under the steps that I didn’t know about.”

  “It wasn’t noted on the floor plan, Rudley.”

  “With a trap door in the ceiling, opening to a register in the pantry.”

  “I suppose that could lead to a rat problem.”

  “We’ll put that cat of yours to work.”

  “Rudley, she’s hardly a professional.”

  “I’m surprised we have any guests left.”

  “Apart from Thomas, everyone seems content to stay.”

  “When all is said and done, two people have been murdered on our premises, and we don’t know anything more than we did in the first place.”

  “These things happen, Rudley.”

  “I don’t like it, Margaret.”

  “These things happen.” Margaret slid behind the counter and squeezed Rudley’s arm. “You’re feeling down because Music Hall’s over.” She kissed him on the cheek. “It will happen again in two weeks and it will be every bit as good.”

  “It’s more than that, Margaret. No one seems to care that two people are dead. It’s as if the whole business were a murder-mystery weekend.”

  “We should put on one of those.” She stared off into space. “Not right away, of course. That would be insensitive. Perhaps during the winter when everyone’s feeling bored.”

  “At the moment, Margaret, I can’t think of anything more repulsive.”

  She turned as Thomas came down the stairs. He stopped at the desk and pulled out his wallet.

  “I’m sorry you’re leaving early, Mr. Thomas. I regret your stay wasn’t more pleasant.”

  Thomas handed Rudley a credit card. “I could have done without Brisbois. Otherwise, my stay was dandy.”

  Rudley swiped the card and handed it back. “Lloyd will take you to the train.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “I hope you’ll come back,” Margaret said. When he hesitated, she added, “We’re thinking of putting on a murder-mystery weekend this winter.”

  He smiled. “I don’t know, Mrs. Rudley. Once you’ve experienced the real thing, anything else, no matter how skilfully presented, would pale by comparison.”

  Brisbois entered the lobby to find the Rudleys, Tim, and Creighton gathered around the desk, their attention focused on a box wrapped in brown paper.

  “Mr. George left it for the next pick up,” Tim said. “I guess he didn’t want to stand in line at the post office.”

  “And?”

  “You said we should let you know if somebody tried to send something out.”

  “I did.” Brisbois checked the box. “Leo George. Addressed to Netta George. Mailing something to his home address. Interesting.” He turned to Tim. “Where did Mr. George go?”

  “He said he was going for a walk in the woods.”

  “Okay.” Brisbois took a pair of gloves from his pocket. “Let’s have a look.” He turned to Creighton. “Get this down, Creighton. Box, about ten inches cubed, wrapped in brown paper, addressed to Netta George, 14 Willow Street, Toronto, from Leo George at the Pleasant Inn, Wood Lake Road, et cetera.” He took a jackknife from his pocket and slit the tape. “What we have inside is a cardboard box.” He opened it. “And inside this cardboard box, we have a light wooden box about eight inches cubed with a lid secured with a silver-coloured hasp.”

  “Maybe it’s a bomb,” said Tim.

  “I don’t think so.” Brisbois opened the lid.

  Creighton jerked. Margaret yipped. Brisbois stared in disbelief.

  “Jesus Chri
st,” said Rudley.

  Brisbois shook his head. “The box contains a clown, a jack-in-the-box.”

  “He’s lovely,” Margaret said. “He’s one of Faith Burgess’. She’s a toymaker in Middleton.”

  Brisbois frisked the toy, then turned to Creighton. “Wrap it up and send it on its way.” He turned on his heel and stalked out to the veranda.

  Brisbois leaned against the veranda railing and stared down at the dock.

  “I wouldn’t feel too bad, boss,” said Creighton. “How were we to know that a man who looks like the Frankenstein monster likes to play with dolls?”

  Brisbois gave him a sour look. “It was a gift for his mother.”

  Creighton suppressed a grin. “What’s next, boss?”

  “I don’t have a clue,” Brisbois said. “Yet.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Tim and the Rudleys grouped around Gregoire as he presented his dilemma.

  “Mr. Sawchuck wants me to cook the fish he caught for supper.”

  Rudley folded his arms. “So?”

  Gregoire looked at Rudley in disbelief. “You see what it is?”

  “It’s some sort of catfish. About eight inches long, I’d say.”

  “It’s also mushy and full of worms.”

  Rudley considered this. “Does Mr. Sawchuck know it’s mushy and full of worms?”

  “I could not bring myself to tell him. He was so proud. It’s the first fish he has ever caught. I think it jumped into his boat.”

  “Tell him he should keep it on ice and take it back to Rochester,” Margaret suggested. “Tell him it will extend his enjoyment of the time he spent here.”

  “He wants to eat it here,” Gregoire persisted. “For dinner. Tonight. He said he has always wanted to eat a fish he caught himself, one cooked over a bed of coals by the lake.”

  “I take it he expects you to prepare a bed of coals by the lake,” said Rudley.

  “I told him we did that just on the fish fry on Monday night. I will not be going down to the lake to fire up the big grill to cook one wormy catfish.”

  Rudley nodded. “I understand.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t think you have a choice,” he said finally. “It’s his fish and he wants it cooked for supper tonight. Use the hibachi. And try to get the worms out.”