Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant

by Judith Alguire

  They were standing around the van, enjoying the coffee and scones when Peters pulled his car in and started fussing with a road map. Margaret waved him over.

  Turnbull climbed out of the van as Peters approached. “What kept you?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I was travelling the speed limit.”

  Turnbull turned to the others. “Were we speeding?”

  Margaret interrupted. “Did you get your sports, Mr. Turnbull?”

  “Yeah.” Turnbull helped himself to another scone. “Oh, there was something about a body in a ditch near your place.”

  Rudley started. “How near?”

  “Not far from the Quebec border.”

  Rudley relaxed. “That’s not too near.”

  “Usually they’re right on the property.” Norman grinned.

  Peters looked at his watch. “Shouldn’t we be going?”

  “We have fifteen minutes to kill,” Norman said. “Are you calculating the legal speed limit in catching the train, Miss Miller?”

  “Yes, Norman.”

  Simpson nodded. “I think that would be wise. I noticed two patrol cars on the highway a few minutes after we pulled off.”

  “There’s no need to rush,” said Norman. “The train won’t leave without us if we’re a few minutes late.”

  “We won’t be late, Norman.”

  Margaret clapped her hands. “Isn’t this exciting, Rudley? Boarding a train and riding off into the unknown.”

  He smiled. “I’m tickled pink, Margaret.”

  ·

  Gregoire lifted the lid of a pot, standing well to one side.

  “What’s the matter?” Tim said. “Are you afraid you might find a rat?”

  Gregoire stared at the pot. “That would not be a surprise.” He stepped forward cautiously, looked into the pot, and sighed. “It is those children. What they did to my pinwheels is the last straw. I told you this morning a snake jumped out of my flour bin just after I arrived. They must have snuck down during the night to put it there.” He brought the pot over to the stove, reached for a canister, recoiled. “My whole kitchen is probably booby trapped.”

  Tim chose a pear from the fruit bowl and examined it. “You have to admit, they liven up the place,” he said, biting into the fruit.

  “The place is lively enough for me as it is.”

  “And they were so well behaved when they first arrived.”

  Gregoire picked up a spatula and opened the cupboard doors. “That is because the parents were trying to give the impression they would be no trouble. They probably bribed them to behave until they had made their escape.”

  “I’m surprised Rudley agreed to have them in the first place.”

  “He agreed because he thought they were older and because he knew he would not be here.”

  Deciding the cupboards were safe, Gregoire took down a set of mixing bowls and placed them on the counter. “And to imagine I have been working my fingers to the bone, preparing the kinds of things kids like. My special macaroni and cheese, rice pudding the way kids like it, fruit bowls carved out of grapefruit and cantaloupe with trail-mix sprinkles and my special secret strawberry dressing, hot dogs with all the trimmings, chocolate pudding with whipped cream and three maraschino cherries.”

  Tim shrugged. “I agree you’ve knocked yourself out for the little wretches. Maybe they’d behave better if you fed them gruel and turnip soup.”

  Gregoire glowered. “That is disgusting. I would not stoop to insulting my kitchen. And they are guests.”

  “More like an invasion of locusts.”

  Gregoire eased open a drawer. “Where are they now?”

  “Gone. I told Lloyd to take them up to the woods to show them the wild zebras.”

  “What zebras?”

  Tim smiled. “There aren’t any zebras. But it will take them an hour to find out.”

  “At least I can prepare lunch in peace.”

  “We have four reservations,” Tim said. “Mr. and Mrs. Mishtook are in town with their boat. They phoned ahead to say they are bringing their own catfish.”

  “Which they will want rolled in Shake ’n Bake.” Gregoire sighed. “I could do so much more for their catfish if they would let me.”

  “And the Clows,” Tim continued. “He’s dyspeptic. No onions, garlic, or hot spices.”

  “Their palates must be dying of boredom.”

  “And the Stevenses. They’re new people on the lake. Vegan.”

  “I will prepare them a black bean soup and tofu loaf that will have their taste buds giving standing ovations.”

  “And the Noonans.”

  “Are they still dressing identically?”

  “We’ll have to wait to see. I would guess yes. And they will order the same thing.”

  “They are a very strange couple.”

  “And we’ll probably have a few walk-ins. I’ve heard a rumour that the guests at the West Wind aren’t crazy about their chef.”

  “I have heard he is trying to break his contract.”

  “When his cooking reaches the level of Mr. Cadeau’s, he’ll probably get his wish,” Tim remarked.

  “Mr. Cadeau should not insist on making a specialty of wild game in an area where people come to see Bambi skipping through the forest.”

  “Just to say, we’ll probably be inundated for the next week or so.”

  Gregoire shrugged. “No need to worry. I have everything under control.” He reached into the cupboard and took down the asparagus cooker.

  Tim exploded with laughter as Gregoire removed the lid and a polka dot snake spiraled across the kitchen.

  ·

  Detective Michel Brisbois got out of the car and started up the path toward the Pleasant.

  “Here we are again.” Detective Chester Creighton paused to adjust his fedora.

  “Yes, here we are again.”

  “At least there are no dead bodies around here this time. As far as we know.”

  Brisbois pointed out a shrub to Creighton. “That’s a new one Lloyd’s put in. Mock orange. Nice fragrance when it’s in bloom. The flowers look and smell like real orange blossoms.”

  “Looks good,” said Creighton, who wouldn’t have known a Douglas fir from a rock.

  Brisbois tramped up the steps to the veranda, pausing to turn and look back at the lake. “Seems odd not to see Norman or the Sawchucks out on the lake.” He opened the door and stepped into the lobby. “Where in hell is everybody?” He peeked into the drawing room, then the ballroom. “Anybody home?” he called.

  “Maybe this will work.” Creighton gave the bell on the front desk a smack.

  A tall, thin woman in a blue blouse and grey slacks appeared. “Detective Brisbois, Detective Creighton.” She didn’t seem surprised to see them.

  Brisbois removed his porkpie. “Mrs. Millotte.” He surveyed the room. “Where is everybody?”

  “Communing with nature.”

  “Come again?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Rudley and a select group of guests are off on a week’s jaunt in northern Ontario. A canoe trip into the wilderness.”

  “Which guests?”

  “Miss Miller, Mr. Simpson, the Phipps-Walkers, and a pair of young fellows, a Mr. Peters and Mr. Turnbull, who are new to us.”

  “Canoe trip.” Brisbois smiled. “I have a hard time seeing Rudley doing that kind of thing.”

  “He can do that sort of thing. He just doesn’t like to.”

  “So you’re holding the fort.”

  “Along with the rest of the staff.”

  “Any of the usual guests?”

  “The Benson sisters.”

  “How are they getting along?”

  “They don’t look a day over eighty-five.” Mrs. Millotte paused. “Mr. Bole is here and the Sawchucks. Plus their ado
rable grandchildren.”

  “I didn’t know Rudley took children.”

  “If they didn’t belong to one of our charter guests, I don’t think he would.”

  Brisbois nodded. “I’m sure you’re wondering why we’re here.”

  Mrs. Millotte didn’t skip a beat. “I suppose you were driving by and noticed a dead body on the premises.”

  Brisbois shook his head. “Not this time. We found a John Doe in the ditch just over the border from Quebec. We’re making general inquiries in our jurisdiction. Just in case anyone’s seen anything unusual.”

  Mrs. Millotte gave him an are-you-kidding look. “I can’t remember when I last saw anything usual around here,” she said.

  “We’re asking people to let us know if they notice anyone who doesn’t seem to belong, anyone who’s acting suspiciously.”

  “We’ll do that.”

  “And we’re asking people to be a little extra careful. Keep your windows and doors locked at night or if you’re out during the day. Ask your guests to be aware. Just in case.”

  “I don’t think anyone would want to tangle with me. Besides — ” Mrs. Millotte pointed to the large dog stretched out on the rug in the middle of the lobby “ — we have protection.”

  Albert stirred and rolled onto his back, leaving a puddle of drool. Brisbois gave him a long look. “Lock your windows and doors.”

  The two detectives headed back to the car. Brisbois stopped to light a cigarette.

  “What do you think?” Creighton asked.

  A pair of bluejays erupted from the pine grove. Brisbois watched them settle into a spruce near the dock. “I’d feel better if more of the regulars were around. They’d be more apt to notice something out of place.”

  Creighton watched a sailboat skimming toward the opposite shore. “Don’t tell me you miss Rudley.”

  Brisbois flicked away an ash and sank down onto a bench near the parking lot. “I can do without him this trip,” he responded, fixing his gaze on the lawn running down to the lake.

  Everything in perfect condition as always, he thought. But without the regular crowd it had a lonely feel. He stared out into the lake, hoping Norman Phipps-Walker might materialize, dozing in his boat, waking just in time to retrieve his pole before it slid into the water. Or Miss Miller appear at his shoulder to give him her version of what was happening on the case. Or Rudley butt in to give him hell. Or Margaret…

  He caught sight of Tiffany trundling her linen cart down the path toward the cottages. Funny that a young woman with a master’s degree would stay on as housekeeper at the inn year after year. She’d had some success with her short stories, and the last time he’d seen her, she told him she was working on a novel. He wondered if he might turn up as a character in the book and how she might portray him. He liked to think he was a decent, hard-working guy, ethical, a good father, a faithful husband. He sighed. He hadn’t always been there for his family when he wanted to be. He’d missed his youngest son’s clarinet recital because one drunk had clobbered another. He’d missed his oldest daughter’s first hockey game to stand at a riverbank while the divers brought up a weighted body. The kids’ lives were a blur as he got busier and busier. They’d all turned out well — thanks to Mary. And now that the kids were out of the house, Mary was progressing in her career at the bank. He’d aimed to retire at sixty, buy that cottage, spend whole days with his wife, every day. Now he wasn’t sure if she’d be available to spend all of her time with him.

  Maybe Tiffany would make him a hero, the conscientious, slightly overweight, somewhat melancholy investigator who did his job without drama — an everyman hero.

  Creighton interrupted his thoughts. “Chances are the killer’s already left the jurisdiction.”

  “He starts out in Fredericton,” Brisbois mused. “He kills an eighty-five-year-old man. Belts him on the head. Strangles him. A few days later, he ends up in Ottawa where he kills three people for next to nothing. He incapacitates them, then smothers them.”

  “Unimaginative but effective.”

  “Why would he stop in Ottawa to kill three innocent people for peanuts?”

  “Maybe he hitchhiked and that’s as far as the ride took him. Maybe he blew the take from the jewellery store and couldn’t get any further.”

  Brisbois shook his head. “The old couple and the cabbie were just unlucky.”

  “Yup.”

  “They thought he took the bus,” Brisbois said, “because that’s what the old lady told the cab company.” He took a drag of his cigarette. “This guy’s smart. He went to the train station instead. Bought himself some time. Muddied the waters.”

  “But maybe he didn’t get on the train,” Creighton said. “Or maybe he did.”

  “Somehow he encountered the young couple in the RV. He cranked the guy’s neck, smothered the woman.”

  “The last guy,” said Creighton. “Our John Doe. He was shot. That suggests a different operator.”

  Brisbois stared over the lake. “He used the gun because he didn’t have the opportunity to use his preferred method. Or he didn’t have a gun to use before. Maybe it was the John Doe’s gun.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s got to be the same guy. The RV victims and our John Doe died within hours of each other, two miles apart. That links them. And the preferred MO links the whole kit and caboodle. Mel Turk” — he named the lead detective on the murder in Fredericton — “when he heard about the murders in Ottawa, he glommed onto that right away. Some guy who kills for next to nothing, whose preferred method is suffocation or strangulation.”

  “He’d have to be one cool customer.”

  “One dangerous customer.”

  “He could be miles away from here,” Creighton said. “I don’t think the folks out here are at any particular risk.”

  “What about last night — that guy who ate and ran at the bus station in Lowerton? That’s only eight miles from here, maybe twelve miles from the last murder scene.”

  “You think that’s the same guy? Maybe he was just some guy couldn’t afford to pay for his meal.”

  Brisbois shifted restlessly. “Or maybe a serial murderer who got spooked when the security officer wandered through.” He shook his head. “There was a lot going on in a relatively small rural area for one twenty-four-hour period.”

  “No fingerprint hits,” said Creighton. “Not even the same unidentified prints at any two scenes.”

  “Gloves,” said Brisbois.

  “The RV was a rental. They probably don’t clean them that thoroughly between customers.” Creighton stretched his legs. “Maybe our John Doe was a mob hit.”

  “One shot between the eyes at close range,” Brisbois murmured. “They’re guessing something like a .32. Nothing more definite until later today.”

  “Our John Doe was stripped down to his shorts,” said Creighton. “Maybe to make it hard to identify him. Buy some time.”

  “Or assume his identity,” Brisbois stubbed out his cigarette, tore off a piece of foil, wrapped the butt in it, and stuffed the foil into his pocket. “Anyway, the guy who killed the couple in the RV is the same one who killed our John Doe.”

  “Yup.” Creighton wasn’t sure Brisbois was right, although he was a lot of the time. He didn’t say anything more.

  ·

  Rudley peered out the window as the train slowed. “I don’t know why in hell we’re getting off here, Margaret.”

  She looked past him at the spotty mix of conifers and deciduous trees alongside the track. “Where would you like to get off, Rudley?”

  “Anywhere, Margaret, with a suggestion that a human being had, at some point, set foot on it.”

  Norman leaned over his shoulder. “I’m sure that thousands of human feet have trod this soil. Our Cree friends were widespread. And prior to that, whatever group crossed that isthmus that
used to connect Russia and Alaska.”

  Rudley shot him an irritated look. “A simple sign would be reassuring, Norman. Even something of the ‘You Are Here’ variety.”

  Margaret turned to Miss Miller, who was studying her map. “Rudley is worried we’re in the wrong place.”

  Miss Miller looked from the map to the train window. The train was slowing. “I believe we’re as close to our destination as the train takes us. From here it rounds a curve and loops south to Terrel’s before turning north again.”

  Geraldine trained her binoculars on the tree line. “Is this the confluence of the Little Beaver and the Swine?”

  “It’s the confluence of Outer Hell and East Outhouse, Geraldine.”

  Geraldine swatted him on the back. “You have such a sense of humour, Rudley.” She wrenched her binoculars skyward. “Is that a bald eagle I see, Norman?”

  He grabbed his own binoculars. “Why, I believe it is, Geraldine.”

  “Beautiful specimen,” she murmured.

  The train lurched to a stop. Norman fell into Simpson’s lap. Geraldine tumbled on top of them. Norman chortled.

  “This reminds me of the train we took in India,” Geraldine said. “We were packed in like sardines and ended up stacked in the lap of a former Gurkha soldier. Fortunately, he was a large man.”

  “I’m not,” Simpson squeaked.

  “Oh.” Geraldine wriggled up, “Norman, let’s get you off before you squash Edward.”

  “I’m sure he’s already relieved,” Rudley murmured to his wife. “Geraldine could make a whale say ‘uncle.’”

  “Be nice, Rudley.”

  Turnbull paused to look out the window then began to gather his gear. Peters’s gaze swept the landscape. “Is this it?” He stood up and likewise started to collect his things.

  “Would you like a hand with that?” Simpson offered, reaching toward Peters’s bag.

  Peters snatched the bag away. “I can do it.”

  Simpson recoiled. “Of course.”

  Peters climbed down from the train to join those who had already assembled. “So this is it,” he repeated. “Nothing around.”

  “Not for many miles,” said Miss Miller. She put down her bag to strap Edward into the frame of his backpack.