“Repulsive.” Gregoire threw up his arms and stormed back to the kitchen.
“It’s not nice to ask him to prepare a meal with substandard ingredients, Rudley.”
“Everyone has a dream, Margaret. If Mr. Sawchuck wants to eat a fish he caught, far be it for me to interfere. Gregoire will just have to be especially brilliant.”
“You should have told him that.”
“His ego is as big as a barn as it is,” Tim said.
“I don’t like the part about the worms.”
“Nonsense, Margaret. Every piece of cod you pick up in the supermarket is full of worms. They cook up quite nicely.” He turned back to his work. “Besides, that was all for show. Gregoire will look through the fish the other guests have put away until he finds something of like size.”
“You mean he’ll steal someone else’s fish?”
“Exactly.”
Margaret smiled. “How splendidly devious of him.”
Gregoire selected a cooler and peeked inside. “Mr. Phipps-Walker has one nice trout.”
“No can do.” Tim spun the tray on one finger, flipped it, and tucked it under his arm. “He’s saving his catch for his grandchildren. He promised them a cookout with Grandpa’s fish when he returns.”
“At the rate he’s going, I hope he doesn’t have many grandchildren.”
“How about Mr. Nuttal?”
“Minnows.”
“Mr. Coteau?”
Gregoire flipped open the container.
“For Christ’s sake, it’s a snake.”
“You’ve been around Rudley too long. It’s an eel.” Gregoire closed the lid. “I’m not in the mood to cook an eel. Besides, even a novice like Mr. Sawchuck would recognize a catfish from an eel.”
“Take Thomas’.”
“He would notice and make a big fuss.”
“He’s gone. I just saw him leaving. Either he forgot his fish or he doesn’t want to be reminded of his stay here.”
“Perhaps. I thought some of them would have liked to have taken home movies.” Gregoire checked the container. “He has put masking tape around it.”
“No problem.” Tim took out a kitchen knife, slit the tape.
Gregoire sorted through the treasures. “This trout is the smallest.”
“It’s still twice as big as Sawchuck’s catfish.”
“I’ll trim it down. I’ll say they swell when they are cooked.”
Margaret came into the kitchen. “Gregoire, whose fish did you steal?”
“Mr. Thomas’.”
“Mr. Thomas would want his fish.”
“He must not have. He left them here.”
“I’m sure he would want them. He forgot them because Detective Brisbois upset him.” She seized the container. “I’ll send Lloyd after him.”
Margaret hurried out into the lobby, plunked the fish down on the front desk where Brisbois was leaning, talking to Rudley. “Mr. Thomas forgot his fish.”
“That’s what happens when you pester the guests,” Rudley told Brisbois.
Brisbois looked down, defeated.
“You wouldn’t be going into town, Detective?”
“Pardon?”
“I thought if you were going into town you might be able to catch Mr. Thomas before he leaves.”
Lloyd came up the veranda steps.
“Oh,” Margaret said, “Lloyd can do it.” She beckoned to him. “Lloyd, Mr. Thomas forgot his fish. Could you take them to him? What time does the train leave?”
“Train left at three.”
She glanced at the clock. “Oh, dear, it’s too late.”
Lloyd grinned. “It’s gone. Maybe he ain’t.”
“Did he miss it?”
“Guess so. I took him to the train. But I stopped at McCoy’s for ice cream and I saw him walking on the dock.”
“If he missed the train…you should go back and look for him, Lloyd.”
“Don’t know. He went into a boat.”
“What kind of boat?” Brisbois asked.
“One of them you can sleep in under.”
“What was the name on it?”
“Said it was The Gimme.”
“Lousy name for a boat,” Rudley said.
“What would you call a boat, dear?”
“I’d call it The Margaret.”
“Rudley, how very sweet.”
“Give me the fish, Mrs. Rudley.” Brisbois reached for the cooler. “I’m on my way into town. I may as well look around for him.”
“Will we be seeing you again, Detective?”
“You’re damned right you’ll be seeing me again, Rudley. I’ve got two murders to solve.” He took the fish and left.
“If he’d stop reminding us, we just might be able to forget about it,” Rudley said.
“We could almost pretend it happened some other year.”
“We could.”
“I don’t know why Detective Brisbois wants to pester Mr. Thomas. I’m certain he drove him to leave early.”
“I think he’s jealous of his suits. His look as if he’d made them out of feed bags.”
“Don’t be classist, Rudley.”
“I don’t really think it’s the suits, Margaret. It’s his body. He envies his body.”
“Mr. Thomas is trim.”
“And Brisbois is a forty-five-year-old man with a paunch.”
“Be nice, Rudley.”
“Aren’t I always?”
Lloyd grinned.
Miss Miller steamed into the lobby with Simpson in tow. They had taken a day trip by canoe and had come fresh from the dock.
Margaret was at the desk. “Did you have a nice trip?”
“Lovely, Mrs. Rudley.” Simpson’s face was sunburnt. “We stopped for our shore picnic at the park. We must compliment Gregoire.”
“He’s a gem. And how did you manage with your leg? I hope you didn’t have too much pain.”
“I sat with it propped up all the way. Elizabeth took care of the paddling.”
“You’ll need a good rest then and a stiff drink.” Margaret reached under the desk. “Mail for you, Miss Miller. Priority post.”
Miss Miller checked the address on the packet. Her eyes lit up.
“Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable on the veranda? I’ll send Tim with double scotches.”
The Sawchucks were coming up the path from their pre-dinner ramble as Miss Miller and Simpson settled themselves on the veranda, Mrs. Sawchuck stabbing the ground with her walking stick. A rowboat eased toward the dock, bearing the Phipps-Walkers.
“The Pleasant has predictable rhythms,” said Simpson. “No matter what else is happening, everyone pulls in from their treks at the usual time. They tidy up, have a nap and a pre-dinner cocktail. No matter how much people claim they crave excitement, I believe they thrive on routine.”
Miss Miller had missed Simpson’s soliloquy. She was engrossed in her letter. “Look at this, Edward.”
“What have you got there?”
“It’s a reply from my friend in Toronto. Look what she’s sent.” She handed him a blurry black and white paper copy.
“Chicago Tribune,” Simpson murmured. “Leslie was right. He did remember seeing something about Thomas in the paper.”
Chicago Man Killed in Fiery Crash
Lawrence “Ned” Thomas, 24 years old, was killed when his car jumped a guardrail near Joliet. The car rolled down the incline and burst into flames. Mr. Thomas, who studied drama at Northeastern, had appeared in local theatre and several off-Broadway plays. He is survived by his mother, Adele Thomas, and his brother, Garrett Thomas. His father, Robert J. Thomas, a prominent local businessman, predeceased him.
“Must have been traumatic having a brother die so violently,” Simpson said. “Perhaps that explains his cynicism.”
“Terrible picture,” said Miss Miller. “Barely more than a silhouette.” She tossed the paper aside.
“You seem disappointed.”
“I was expecting s
omething more dramatic. Something that might tie the murders together. Thomas was from Chicago. Leslie studied in Chicago.”
“Chicago is a big city.”
“Still…”
“That would be like assuming I’m the great-grandson of Jack the Ripper because I’m from London.”
“You could be, Edward. No one knows who Jack the Ripper was.”
“My great-grandfather was a career military man.”
“Nothing is ruled out. We have to put our heads together, Edward, and figure out what this means.”
He smiled. “I’m game for that.”
She gave him a nudge. “Later.”
Brisbois stopped at the Middleton train station.
“Did the train leave on time?” he asked the stationmaster.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see a man get on? Middle-aged. Fancy dresser.”
“A well-dressed man bought a ticket earlier.”
“Where to?”
“Montreal.”
“Did you see him get on the train?”
“I can’t say I was looking.”
“If he missed it, could he get a later train?”
“Not until tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you.” Brisbois returned to his car. He supposed he should hustle down to the pier, just in case Thomas was still around. Try to deliver the fish. Or maybe he’d take them home and eat them himself. Maybe he’d just leave them at the curb. Let them rot. He shook his head. Why did he feel so much enmity toward Thomas? He supposed it had to do with his unsavoury connections, his arrogance. Because he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d missed something. But, as the inspector sergeant said, the case against Thomas was purely circumstantial. There wasn’t a shred of physical evidence. Then there were the alibis. As good as gold. He grimaced. He just didn’t like the guy.
He drove down to the dock, parked the car in the lot beside the snack bar, and started walking down the boardwalk. A small inboard, The Icicle, was just getting underway. An older couple. Probably in the village for dinner, eager to get back to their cottage across the bay before dark. A couple of outboards with serial numbers he guessed belonged to guys in town for beer. The Excelsior, a yacht as big as a house. He’d heard it belonged to a guy who had come to the area to judge a horse show. The Patrick Henry, a trim little inboard in battleship grey, decked out in American flags. Old navy guy, he guessed. The next few slips were empty. He stopped at the last boat, a modest inboard that could sleep two. The Gemini. He shook his head. Clearly, Lloyd couldn’t read.
“Thomas.” He hunkered down on the dock. “It’s Brisbois.”
No answer. He chuckled. No surprise.
“I’m not here on business,” he said. “I brought your fish.” He glanced up and down the dock, hoping to spot someone he could entrust the fish to and go. If Thomas had left, maybe the friend who owned the boat would enjoy them. He set the cooler of fish on the deck and eased into the boat, clinging to the side. He’d never been much good in boats. His leather soles didn’t help. He dropped to the deck, retrieved the cooler, and looked around.
The cabin door was open a crack. He eased it open with his foot. Almost dropped the fish.
“Jesus.”
Creighton entered the lobby. “Does anyone know where Brisbois went?”
“He went into town to take Mr. Thomas his fish,” Margaret said. “I’ve since discovered Aunt Pearl appropriated his lovely tie clasp.”
“He’s delivering fish now?”
“Mr. Thomas forgot them. Detective Brisbois said he was going into town and he would take them.”
“Did he say when he was coming back?”
“No. I suppose I’ll have to mail it to Mr. Thomas.” She paused, her brow wrinkling. “I could have sworn he had it on when he checked out.”
“Damn.”
“It was quite distinctive.”
“What?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m sure Detective Brisbois will be back soon. In the meantime, why don’t you join us for dinner?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m afraid that isn’t allowed.”
“It’s not as if we can influence your investigation with a plate of liver and onions.”
“Well, if you have liver and onions. I’ll expect a bill, of course.”
Margaret slipped her arm through his. “Nonsense.” She led Creighton into the dining room, deposited him at a table. “Tim, the detective is our guest tonight.”
Tim drew himself up, practically clicking his heels. “We have a nice prime rib. Baked lake trout. And, if you’re partial to French cuisine, coq au vin.”
“Liver and onions, please.”
“The prime rib is to die for.”
“Liver and onions with mashed potatoes, if you have them.”
“Liver and onions it is.” Tim whirled away to the kitchen, closed the door, and gave Gregoire a smug smile. “Detective Creighton is dining with us tonight. He wants liver and onions with mashed potatoes.”
“Well, he can’t have it. The only liver I have thawed is a piece I have set out for Lloyd.”
“Lloyd will have to eat prime rib.”
“Very well, but you will have to tell him.” Gregoire got down a cutting board and a bag of seasoned flour. “If you will hand me a skillet. No, not that one. That small one is for Mr. Sawchuck’s fish, which, with any luck — and God knows that is a scarce commodity around here — will be thawed nicely in a half-hour. I hope he’s not sitting by the door, salivating.”
“I told him we’d call him just as the fish strikes the butter with an orgasmic sizzle.”
“Very well.” Gregoire swiped Lloyd’s liver through the flour. “Go out, please, and find if Detective Creighton would like asparagus or something more fitting with his low-class English palate. Frozen peas, for example.”
Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson arrived in the dining room just as Detective Creighton tucked into his liver and onions. Margaret Rudley and Aunt Pearl had joined him.
“Why don’t you kids join us?” Aunt Pearl said. She grabbed Simpson’s sleeve and held him.
“We’d love to.”
“Alone tonight, Detective?” Miss Miller asked.
“Yes. It seems Brisbois is delivering fish.”
“Mr. Thomas forgot his fish,” Margaret explained.
“You know,” Miss Miller said, “I’ve always thought there was something suspicious about Mr. Thomas.”
“I see.”
“We — Edward and I — were sitting with Mr. Thomas when Mr. Leslie first arrived. We asked him to join us. When Mr. Leslie found out Mr. Thomas was from Chicago he said he had been a student at the University of Chicago and remembered seeing something about Thomas in the newspaper. Thomas said his was a common name, that he was probably thinking of Garfield Thomas, a former councilman.”
“Thomas is a common name.”
Miss Miller leaned across the table. “Leslie was right.” She reached into her purse, took out the newspaper clipping, and handed it to Creighton.
Creighton shrugged. “We know his brother died young. So he burned to death. Thomas probably doesn’t like to talk about it.”
Miss Miller made a face. “I would think you would be more interested.”
“I’ll bet you like Agatha Christie.”
“Not particularly.”
“Oh, I thought you might like the idea of the amateur sleuth solving the case while the incompetent officials muck it up.”
Miss Miller sat upright, folded her hands. “No, I am not interested in being another Miss Marple. It seems to me, however, that the police have overlooked a few things.”
“Such as?”
“Thomas’ connection to the first victim. He was from Chicago too, wasn’t he? Unless he went there specifically to have his shoes repaired.”
Creighton shrugged. “Actually, the case against you is better.”
Aunt Pearl patted her arm. “Don’t feel bad, dear. As much as I liked Thomas, I thou
ght he was a sinister number.” She took the clipping, pulled it toward her. “A shame. Such a gentleman. And look at those nice tight ears.”
“I think…”
Creighton’s words were lost as someone in the kitchen screamed.
Brisbois’ mouth sagged. Thomas lay across a narrow bunk, legs dangling. Blood seeped through his shirt and spotted the patchwork quilt. Brisbois eased the cooler to the floor, stepped forward, and leaned to check Thomas’ carotid.
The man was clearly dead.
The door closed behind him.
“Keep your hands where I can see them, Detective,” a familiar voice said. “I have a gun and, as you can see, I have nothing to lose.”
Brisbois flinched as the cool metal nuzzled his neck.
“Now, I want you to take those handcuffs from your pocket — slowly. That’s good.” A hand reached around him for the cuffs. “Step forward. All right. Now, put your right hand behind your back.” Brisbois felt the metal, heard the click. “Now the other hand. Good.” The deck creaked as the man stepped back. “You may turn around now.”
Brisbois’ eyes widened.
The man smiled. “Surprised? I’m dead, aren’t I, lying on the bed where you found me.” He tilted his head. “Do you know who I am?”
“I’ll bet you’re Ned Thomas.”
“Or maybe I’m Garrett Thomas.”
Brisbois shrugged. “I’d say you were Ned. You’ve got a different sort of smirk. Otherwise, I guess the two of you are identical.”
“So it would seem.”
“If you’re Ned, you’re supposed to be dead.”
“If you say so.”
“I guess there’s something to be said for mob connections.”
“You do a lot of guessing.”
“Sometimes I’m right.”
Thomas shrugged. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time for speculation.”
Brisbois gestured toward the ruined suitcases. “You didn’t get the diamonds, did you?”
Thomas’ jaw tightened.
“All that planning. Three murders. A kidnapping. Assault on a police officer and you’ve ended up with nothing. The stash was just a legend after all.”
“Sit down.”
Brisbois eased down against the wall.
Thomas took a length of nautical rope, made a loop. Brisbois kicked at him.
Thomas waggled the gun. “Cooperate, or I’ll shoot you now.”
Pleasantly Dead Page 16
