“And so I can enjoy the remainder of my Benson & Hedges in peace.” He took a deep drag. Sublime.
He had just finished his cigarette when Margaret reappeared, waving her way through the haze. “If you’re going to smoke, Rudley, you need to blow away the fumes.” She got a fan from the hall closet and plunked it down on the desk.
“Yes, Margaret.”
The door opened. A stolid-looking man entered carrying two suitcases and stopped at the desk.
Margaret smiled. “Good morning.”
“Bill Bostock,” the man said.
Margaret hesitated. “Oh, yes, Mr. Bostock.” She turned the register toward him. “If you would care to sign in. We have you at the Pines.”
He grabbed the pen and scribbled his name.
“And how was your trip?”
He stared at her. “Fine.”
“Have you got a car?”
“Should I?”
She glanced at Rudley, who turned and began to busy himself in the cupboard. “No, no, it’s just that if you have a car we take down the details, show you to your spot, and so forth.”
“I took a cab out.”
“Well, then.” She handed him the key. “I’ll call Lloyd to help you with the luggage.”
“I can carry my own luggage.” He continued to stare. “Where’s the cottage?”
“Oh, out the front door, turn to your left, follow the path. You’ll see the sign.”
He weighed the key in his hand a moment, then stuffed it into his pocket. He picked up his suitcases and left.
“Pleasant chap,” said Rudley.
Margaret frowned. “What a strange man.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Margaret. Most of our guests are insane, eccentric, or at least interminably irritating. He should fit in.”
“But our guests are usually more social.” She sighed. “He’s probably just one of those types who takes a bit to warm up.” She shook her head. “Frankly, Rudley, he was rude.”
“Not everyone is as blessed with social graces as I am.”
She ignored this. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Our guests have a right to be as rude and nasty as they wish.”
“Some of them have even been murderers, Margaret.”
“Yes, but they were always congenial.”
“He’s just booked in for two weeks, Margaret. He shouldn’t bother anyone too much. The Benson sisters won’t know he’s here. Mr. Bole will find him intriguing. The Sawchucks exist in their own realm. If he irritates the children, that’s a bonus.”
“He could be a tragic figure, Rudley. Perhaps he’s suffered some trauma, lost his entire family or such, and has taken on an uncivil veneer to protect his tortured soul.”
“Or perhaps he’s just an ignoramus.”
Pearl came out of the drawing room at that moment, bumping into the doorjamb. She teetered as Rudley rushed to her aid.
“Are you all right, Pearl?”
She gave him an aggrieved look. “I wish people would stop moving things.”
“You ran into the doorjamb, Pearl.” He coaxed her toward the desk. “Now, where were you headed?”
“The dining room.”
He took her arm, escorted her into the dining room, and sat down opposite her at a table near the kitchen. “I think it’s time for cataract surgery.”
She waved him off. “I left my glasses at Whittingdon’s for new frames. I’m wearing an old pair that aren’t quite up to snuff.”
“Didn’t you break your most recent pair walking into the newel post?”
She gave him a withering look. “I took them off to clean them and Tim stepped on them.”
“I see your memory’s going too,” he said. “And did you know your lipstick was askew?”
She whipped out her compact to see mirrored a blurry image of Unbridled Passion. “It looks perfectly fine to me.”
He rolled his eyes. “Will you be safe if I leave you here?”
“Of course, Rudley.”
He returned to the desk. “Margaret, if that woman doesn’t have cataract surgery soon, she’ll break her nose.”
“She’s never had surgery, Rudley.”
“No time like the present.”
“She’s apprehensive.”
He shook his head. “What could possibly happen to her during cataract surgery?”
“It isn’t the surgery,” she said patiently. “It’s what happens before. The doctors order scads of X-rays. The X-rays show an abnormality that leads to surgery for a condition you could have lived perfectly well with. Or they find your blood is low. The iron pills make you sick so the doctor orders iron injections. The nurse hits your sciatic nerve. You are in agony the rest of your life and still iron deficient. You then get influenza because, after the injury to your sciatic nerve, you won’t let anyone come near you with a needle again. You get pneumonia as a complication of the influenza and are admitted to the hospital where you get an infection and die.”
He looked at her dumbfounded. “Whoever told you that?”
“Aunt Pearl.”
“The font of all wisdom,” he murmured.
“She’s survived very nicely so far, Rudley. She hasn’t fallen into the lake or been hit by a car.”
“Or murdered.”
“Bite your tongue, Rudley.”
Chapter Eight
“Rudley” — Margaret hurried up to the desk — “I want you to get some lunch. It’s going to be a hectic afternoon.”
He folded his newspaper and tucked it under his arm. “If you insist, Margaret.”
“Have the scallops. They’re especially nice today.”
“What’s for dessert?”
“Coconut-cream pie, mocha cake with butter-cream frosting, peach Melba, and Jell-O with whipped cream.”
“I think I’ll forgo the Jell-O.” Rudley took off for the dining room.
Margaret was about to review the linen inventory when the door opened and a young man entered, carrying a suitcase and duffel bag. He slammed the door, causing Margaret to utter a startled yip and drop her papers. He approached the desk, apparently oblivious to her reaction.
“May I help you?” Margaret asked, picking up the papers.
He smiled. “Yeah, I’m Eric Turnbull. I’m taking the canoe trip.”
“Oh, yes.” She turned the register toward him.
He scribbled his name. “Nice place.”
“I’m glad you like it.” She took note of the room number and reached for the key. “Did you bring a car?”
“It’s out front.”
“Do you happen to know the plate number?”
“Uh?” He looked at her blankly, then recovered quickly. “HRR…something.” He sighed. “It’s my girlfriend’s car. I’ll have to get it for you.”
“You’re in room 306. You can park your car in the lot at that number. It’s just as you come in.” She handed him the room key. “And we’re asking our canoeists if they’ll leave their car keys at the desk while we’re away. Just in case the car has to be moved.”
He flipped the room key into the air and caught it. “Great. I’ll just stow my gear, then I’ll move the car.” He looked around. “Where’s the elevator?”
She pointed to the stairs. “We have just two flights up, Mr. Turnbull.”
He shrugged and headed for the stairs.
Margaret paused in thought. She and Rudley had never considered an elevator. The cottages were completely accessible and they had a ramp available if one were needed for access to the main inn.
She didn’t have long to contemplate the merits of an elevator because Mr. Turnbull pounded back down the stairs and out the front door, nearly bowling over Norman and Geraldine who were on their way in.
“That young man seems to be in a hurry,” said Geraldine.
“That was Mr. Turnbull,” said Margaret. “He’s one of our adventurers.”
“He seems energetic,” said Norman. He and Geraldine went on into the dining room.
A few minutes later, Rudley returned to the desk, carrying a plate of scallops and a piece of cake.
“You just missed Mr. Turnbull,” said Margaret. “He’s gone to park his car.”
“I expect I’ll catch him later,” Rudley said, adding, “or perhaps now,” as Turnbull zipped up the steps and into the lobby.
“Lunch is being served in the dining room,” Margaret called out as Turnbull stopped in front of the dining room door and peered in.
“Great.” He took off into the dining room.
After a moment of silence, Rudley said, “It seems the young people we’ve had to date have been more of the mature, sober types.”
“I rather like his youthful energy,” said Margaret.
“I never had an ounce of youthful energy.”
She looked at him, bewildered.
“What I mean to say is I’ve always had a good metabolism. My energy level has always been most satisfactory.” He smiled a jaunty smile. “Consider, Margaret, a mature man, up at the crack of dawn, working tirelessly throughout the day, seldom in bed before midnight.”
She smiled back. “Oh, Rudley, I remember the days you could go day and night. My father thought you were taking amphetamines.”
By moving rapidly room to room, I was able to avoid lengthy conversations with him, Rudley thought. “As I matured, Margaret, I harnessed my youthful energy to purposeful tasks.”
Before she could challenge this, the door opened and a young couple, laden with luggage, entered.
“Mr. Rudley, Mrs. Rudley.”
“Elizabeth, Edward.” Margaret went around the desk and exchanged hugs with the new arrivals.
“Miss Miller, Mr. Simpson,” said Rudley. “How refreshing to see someone normal.”
Simpson’s forehead crimped. Miss Miller didn’t miss a beat. She pulled the register toward her and signed in. “We would have been here earlier but we had a flat tire.”
“Elizabeth changed it,” said Edward, “but we had to find a garage to get a regular tire.”
“I don’t know why they don’t include a decent spare,” said Miss Miller. “It’s one more example of forces conspiring to make us less independent.”
“Yes, wonderful clunky things, those old spares, taking up half the trunk,” said Rudley. “People were always removing them and leaving them at home so they could fit in their luggage.”
“I imagine one could write a rather fascinating travel article about that,” said Simpson.
“Oh, the good old days,” said Rudley, “when all we needed was a patch and a pump.”
Miss Miller smiled. “You should enjoy this adventure, then, Mr. Rudley. Seven days of living without modern clutter.”
“He’s really looking forward to it,” said Margaret.
“I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to it.”
“We’ll take our luggage to our room and be right back down,” Miss Miller said.
“Can we help with the luggage?” Margaret noted how Edward was sagging under the weight.
“Oh, Edward will be fine. Room 206?”
Rudley handed her the key. “As always.”
He sighed. Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson — a lovely young couple, he thought. Refreshing after the last two boobs who had signed in. He’d known them for three years, since they had arrived separately, he a graduate student at the University of Toronto, via London, England, and she a young librarian. They had been inseparable since. Miss Miller was brave, cool-headed, and imaginative. Mr. Simpson was a lovely, kind-hearted young man who had been besotted with Miss Miller at first sight. Having Miss Miller on the trip would ensure, at least, that any emergency would be well in hand.
Miss Miller had developed into a freelance writer who travelled the world in search of unique stories for The Star. She had had some fascinating experiences — he reminded himself to ask her about her trip to Baja California. Mr. Simpson taught at the university and wrote learned tomes. In spite of their life of adventure, the couple continued to find their way back to the Pleasant on a regular basis. Of course, no experience could hold a candle to those at the Pleasant. More murders per square foot than any place on earth — a fact Rudley would prefer to ignore, but Miss Miller showed quite an instinct for solving homicide cases. Better than that twit of a detective, Brisbois, he considered, or that dandy, Detective Creighton, neither of whom could recognize a clue if they fell over one. He smiled. There was one bright spot about being away. He could be sure that for seven days he wouldn’t see either of them.
“Wonderful young couple,” Rudley remarked to Margaret.
“Yes,” she said. “I can’t wait to hear about their trip to Baja California. It looks so dusty on the maps.”
“Indeed,” Rudley murmured.
Margaret uttered a sigh of contentment. “Rudley, at four o’clock tomorrow morning we’ll be off. Our gear is packed. Our itinerary is set. The van is topped up and tuned up. Our guide has confirmed our meeting place, the canoes, and equipment. Mrs. Millotte will be here at the crack of dawn to relieve you. The extended forecast suggests we’ll have prefect conditions. Pleasant temperatures, minimal cloud cover, no precipitation.”
“Sounds like a walk in the park, Margaret.”
“The terrain will be sufficiently challenging for those who desire such and pleasant for those who prefer something more relaxing.”
Like myself, he thought. He let Margaret rattle on about the preparations. Why did people feel they had to go out into the wilderness to be challenged? Life was challenging enough where you found it. It was a challenge, for instance, to hold reality together every day for a group of ninnies fighting to let go of it. He had no desire for a vacation; being on vacation always made him feel at loose ends. He loved the Pleasant — sixty acres of Eden, beautiful lake, splendid woods, thriving collection of anurans. He paused. Anurans. He’d have to remind Tim about the frogs.
When he and Margaret took the key from Mr. MacIntyre almost thirty years ago, he felt as if he’d at last arrived, the way a nursery sapling might when finally tipped out of its pot and planted firmly in its permanent home. Like that sapling, his roots were now sunk deep in the soil and stretched out the width of the tree canopy.
His reverie was broken by Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson coming back down the stairs and turning toward the dining room.
Miss Miller waved to Rudley and Margaret. “Join us when you can,” she called out.
Margaret was about to look for Tiffany to take the desk when the door opened and a young man with a bag and a backpack entered. He looked around uncertainly. Margaret smiled. “You must be Mr. Peters.”
He approached the desk. “Yes, Vern Peters.”
She offered him the register. “If you’ll sign here please. You’re in room 309.”
He signed carefully and turned the register back toward her.
“Do you have a car here?”
He frowned. “I parked it where it said ‘visitors.’”
“Oh, that’s all right. You can move it to its assigned space later.”
“Fine.”
“Do you happen to know the plate number?”
He recited it. “I’ll move the car now.”
“Why don’t you leave it where it is for now? If you leave your keys, the staff can move it, if needed, while we’re away.”
“I’m taking the car with me.”
Margaret hesitated. “You can, of course. But we’ve rented a large van. There’ll be plenty of room.”
“I get sick on buses and vans.”
Rudley crossed his eyes. Margaret said, “I understand completely. I had that problem when I was a child.”
Peters didn’t respond; he just stared at the key in his hand.
“Would you like some help with your luggage?” Margaret continued.
Before he could answer, Turnbull came out of the dining room, carrying a large piece of cake. “No rule against taking food out of the dining room?” he asked as they glanced his way.
“Not at all,” Margaret responded. “Mr. Turnbull, this is Mr. Peters. He’ll be with us on our adventure.”
Turnbull smiled. “Sure. Eric Turnbull.”
Peters nodded vaguely.
“Lunch is being served in the dining room,” Rudley said to Peters whose eyes sought the floor.
“Oh?” Peters seemed to come out of his trance. He looked at his key and headed up the stairs.
Turnbull took a bite of his cake. “Now that is one seriously weird dude. He looks as if he escaped from a freak show. You could drive a train through those nostrils.”
“Well…” Rudley began.
“Mr. Turnbull,” Margaret broke in, “why don’t you finish your cake on the veranda?”
Turnbull shrugged and ambled out as suggested.
“Mr. Turnbull’s remarks were uncalled for,” Margaret said when the man was out of earshot.
“You have to admit, Margaret, Peters does have large nostrils.”
“He has a slightly upturned nose.”
“And his ears, they’re almost at the same level as his mouth.”
“Nonsense, Rudley, it’s an illusion. He has a high forehead.”
“Yes, it does go on and on. If he had any hair it would help.”
“Rudley,” Margaret said impatiently, “he has hair. It’s just very fine and pale.”
“And thin. Perhaps he could grow a beard. It would even things out.”
“It’s cruel to make fun of someone’s appearance.”
“You’re right, Margaret, it is.” Rudley gestured toward the veranda. “I don’t think we’ve ever had two such disparate types check in on the same day.”
“It was bound to happen, Rudley. Statistically speaking.” Margaret smiled. “I think it’s a good omen for our adventure.”
“How so?”
“A variety of personalities creates a stimulating environment.”
Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant Page 7
