Officer Stubbs stood in the doorway, reeking of skunk. “Are you all right?” he asked with as much dignity as he could muster.
She put a hand over her nose. “I’m all right. There was an intruder in the kitchen.”
“Where did he go?”
“He went out the front door.”
He hesitated. “Stay right here. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”
“All right.” She locked and bolted the door, then flattened herself against the wall, feeling about for a weapon. She had located the doorstop and was hefting it in one hand when she heard steps on the veranda.
“It’s Stubbs.”
She lowered her weapon and opened the door.
“I did a perimeter check,” he said. “Your intruder came in through the pantry window. He cut the screen.”
“Are you sure he’s gone?” She put her hand to her nose once again.
“I didn’t see him,” Stubbs replied. “I’ve alerted dispatch. We’ll have reinforcements here to take a look around. In the meantime, we’ll make sure the inn is secured.”
She stayed fast by the door. Fifteen minutes later she heard sirens. A short time later, the lobby came alive as the remaining staff, Mr. Bole, and the Sawchucks poured into the lobby.
·
Brisbois pulled up to the Pleasant, stepped from the car, and stretched his back. Creighton smoothed the brim of his fedora and set it at a rakish angle.
Officer Vance, who was standing by his patrol car, looked up in surprise. “Sir, what brings you out here?”
“I was scanning the police blotter from last night and saw there’d been a break-in here.”
“It was pretty routine. It looks as if a homeless guy tried to raid the pantry.”
Brisbois glanced around. “How many homeless guys do you think there are out here?”
“Not that many.” Vance checked his notes. “Tiffany gave a description. She didn’t get a good look at him but she believes he was young, of slender build, and filthy. Sounds as if he’d been living rough for a while.”
“Any good prints?”
“He left dirty fingerprints all over the place. And half the forest floor, dirt, needles, leaves.”
“Okay,” said Brisbois, “let’s go see what we can see.” Before he could take another step, his cell phone rang.
“What’s up?” Creighton asked when his boss had completed the call.
“We’ve got a ransom note.”
·
“The letter was delivered to the local rag,” the duty sergeant told Brisbois and Creighton when they arrived at the local police station in Middleton.
Brisbois examined the letter and envelope in the plastic evidence bag. “No stamp.”
“None. A lot of the letters that arrive there are hand delivered. They have a slot in the wall for that.”
“And when was this one delivered?”
“Could have been anytime from yesterday afternoon to this morning.” The sergeant shrugged. “The Reporter’s a small paper. One-and-a-half-person operation. The big story yesterday was the dog show. They were out all day on that. Didn’t have time to review all the letters that came in.”
“A piece of plain brown paper, torn in half, but kind of a ritzy envelope,” Brisbois murmured. “Hand delivered. That means local.” His eyes brightened. “Surveillance cameras? There must be at least one surveillance camera in the area.”
The officer shook his head.
“Nothing? Not even one measly stationary camera?”
“The only one is at the ATM at the Bank of Montreal. It doesn’t show anything beyond the ATMs, the foyer, and the section of sidewalk directly in front of the bank. Nothing else.” He checked his notes. “We’ve got fingerprints from the mail slot so we’ll send the envelope and letter to see if there’s a match. But we wanted you to have a look first.”
“Good work.” Brisbois studied the envelope. “This looks kind of familiar.”
He reached into his pocket and took out the envelope containing the Polaroid the Benson sisters had given him. “Would you say these envelopes were the same?”
The sergeant studied them. “Looks like it to me.”
“Can you get these envelopes around here?”
“Sure. Cowperthwaite’s Stationery.”
“Cowperthwaite’s?”
“Yeah, it’s on the main drag between the coffee shop and the lawyer’s office.”
“Anyplace else?”
“Not around here. I know that because I buy envelopes like these for my wife’s aunt. She likes the mint-coloured ones but they all have the same pattern on the inside — little daisies.”
“I think they’re primroses,” Brisbois remarked. He returned the Bensons’ envelope to his pocket. “Ask forensics if they can match any prints on that envelope delivered to the newspaper with prints on file from the Pleasant.”
“You think the sisters kidnapped the kids?” Creighton asked.
“No. But I think one of their envelopes may have ended up in the hands of the guy who did the kidnapping.”
“A lot of people could have bought the same envelope at Cowperthwaite’s,” Creighton argued.
“Why don’t we ask?” Brisbois examined the note again. It was written in crooked print with a pencil. “‘Five thousand dollars or the kids die. More later,’” he murmured. “No mention of a date or a drop location. I guess that’ll be in the ‘more later’.”
“Five thousand dollars.” Creighton laughed. “The guy must know the kids. He figures nobody would give more than that.”
“Or he forgot to add more zeroes.”
Creighton shrugged. “We don’t know that much about the parents’ finances. The grandparents seem to be pretty flush.”
“Although they probably wouldn’t think it was their responsibility to pay the ransom.”
“They’d think it was Rudley’s.” Creighton laughed again. “Why don’t we just take up a collection at the station? Or maybe we could take it out of petty cash.”
Brisbois gave him a sharp look as he headed for the door. “Cool it with the jokes. We’re talking about kids here. I’d take the money out of my personal account if that would do the trick.”
Creighton jingled some change in his pocket. “Since you’ve got that much money, you can buy your partner lunch.”
·
Cowperthwaite’s was a rainbow of colour. Brisbois and Creighton browsed casually among the lap desks, boxed stationery sets, and multitude of single sheets and mix-or-match envelopes. After several minutes, a slight man in ecru slacks and a blue-and-white striped shirt with matching tie emerged from the rear.
Brisbois turned to greet him. “Mr. Cowperthwaite?”
The man hesitated as Brisbois introduced himself and showed him his police badge. “Actually, it’s Fred Lewis. I bought the shop from Mr. Cowperthwaite.” He paused. “What’s this about?”
Brisbois held up his envelope. “We’re trying to track down where this envelope came from. Do you sell something like this?”
Mr. Lewis took a close look at the envelope. “Yes. It’s from Cheltham. This particular one is called Chantilly Lace.”
“Do you sell a lot of this?”
“No. Chantilly Lace isn’t popular nowadays. It’s a rather heavy antique ivory. People these days tend to be seduced by the bubblegum colours.”
“Can you tell who purchased Chantilly Lace recently?”
“If they paid in cash, probably not.” Mr. Lewis sighed. “I don’t handle all of the transactions personally and I don’t always know the names of customers, particularly summer residents.”
“Could you check your sales records?”
“Certainly.”
Brisbois expected Mr. Lewis to haul out a dusty box. Instead, he went to a computer at the back of the store and scrolled down a screen.
“LB will pick up,” he muttered. “Oh, yes.” He turned to Brisbois. “We’ve sold three boxes this year. LB will pick up.” He nodded. “All three went to the Pleasant Inn.”
Chapter Sixteen
The campers were on the river paddling slowly, glad to be away from the stretch of turbulent water.
“That was rougher than Gil thought,” Margaret said.
“I, for one, would have preferred not to have had to be so alert for hidden rocks,” Rudley said. “A vacation should be a relaxing experience, Margaret.”
“Although Mr. Simpson had trouble keeping Miss Miller from plunging into the worst of it.”
“I think that’s been his problem from the start, Margaret.”
She looked over her shoulder at him reprovingly. “Oh, Rudley, I think Mr. Simpson has always enjoyed Miss Miller’s adventurous side. I imagine that’s one of her attractions. I suspect he’s always longed for adventure but has always been a little timid about undertaking risk on his own. I don’t think he realizes how brave he is.”
“Consorting with Miss Miller is the definition of bravery.”
She gave him a smile. “Now, haven’t you always liked my adventurous side, Rudley?”
“I have, Margaret. I’ve just been smart enough not to be drawn into it.”
She started to respond, but a large bird circling overhead caught her attention. “Ooh,” she uttered admiringly. “Rudley, look at that magnificent hawk.”
“He is a beauty.”
“I feel sorry for the little creature he’s after.”
“Yes, Margaret. Nature is red in tooth and claw.”
·
Seeing no one at the desk of the Pleasant, Brisbois tapped the bell.
“Keep your shorts on, for heaven’s sakes,” a voice came from down the hallway.
Brisbois peered in the direction of the voice to see Mrs. Millotte’s derriere sticking out of the hall closet. Presently Mrs. Millotte’s front half appeared. She frowned at Brisbois and said, “What in hell are you doing here?”
Brisbois smiled. “Planning to open your own inn, Mrs. Millotte?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re starting to sound a lot like Rudley.”
Mrs. Millotte shuddered. “I’m sorry, Detective,” she said, recovering her normal tone. “How may I help you?”
“I need to ask you about an order from Cowperthwaite’s Stationery.” He glanced at his notes. “May twenty-fourth, to be exact.”
“Remember it as if it were yesterday,” she said. She went to the cupboard behind the desk, brought out a ragged file box, and plunked it down on the desk. She removed a folder, opened it, and eyed the contents. “Nothing unusual, Detective.” She handed him a file. “Business forms, number ten envelopes.”
“And three boxes of stationery,” he noted, reading the list. “Chantilly Lace.”
“That was for the Benson sisters.”
“Rudley buys stationery for the guests?”
“He provides the usual hotel stationery for most of the units. He gets the fancy stuff for the sisters and bills them for the difference. See?” She pointed to a note. “BD — bill difference. EP — Elm Pavilion.”
He frowned. “Why don’t the sisters just buy it themselves?”
She looked at him over her glasses. “Because he gets a commercial rate. Rich people don’t get rich by wasting money on stationery.”
·
Brisbois and Creighton stood outside the door of the Elm Pavilion, waiting for a response from the sisters. Eventually, Emma answered.
“Detectives.” She swung the door open and beckoned them in. “I apologize but we were at a particularly critical part of Psycho.”
“I’m sorry,” Brisbois said.
“Would you like some cordial?” Kate asked.
“Lime or raspberry,” added Louise.
“This reminds me too much of Arsenic and Old Lace,” said Creighton.
Louise tittered. “Oh, Detective, we wouldn’t poison you with cordial.”
“It would be wrong,” said Kate.
“Detectives,” said Emma, picking up a carafe. “Perhaps I could interest you instead in coffee and petits fours.”
“That would be nice,” said Brisbois, watching her pour two cups of coffee.
“Why don’t you sit down?” said Kate.
Brisbois and Creighton took the chairs across from the sisters, who grouped together on the sofa. “Ladies,” Brisbois began, “if we may ask you a few questions.”
“Tsk,” Louise said reproachfully. “They’re here on business.”
“Business and pleasure,” said Brisbois, smiling and taking a petit four from his saucer. “It’s always a treat to visit the Elm Pavilion.” He quickly consumed the pastry and took out an envelope. “Ladies, have you seen an envelope like this?”
Emma glanced at it. “Of course, Detective.”
“Chantilly Lace,” added Kate.
“We’ve used it for years,” said Louise.
“Our mother always used it,” Kate continued. “Mother wrote hundreds of letters. She had wonderful penmanship.”
Brisbois took out his notebook. “And where do you purchase your stationery?”
“Mr. Rudley orders it from Cowperthwaite’s,” said Emma.
“Always Cowperthwaite’s,” said Kate.
“We wouldn’t think of purchasing it anywhere else,” said Louise.
Brisbois flicked his pen. “Did anyone borrow any stationery from you or are you missing any?”
“No,” Emma replied. “We keep it locked in our secretary.” She got up and went over to the antique cherry writing desk at the far wall. She took a key from her pocket, opened the secretary, and took out a box of stationary. “Still here,” she said.
“You lock up your writing supplies?” Creighton blurted over his coffee cup.
Emma gave him an impatient look. “We don’t lock up the stationery per se. We keep it in the secretary where we keep our valuables.”
“Father’s stamp collection,” said Kate.
“And great-grandma’s cameos,” said Louise.
“We trust the staff implicitly,” said Emma, “but you never know who might be wandering around.”
“But you don’t worry about keeping your doors and windows locked,” Brisbois said in an exasperated tone.
“If someone broke in, we’d hear them,” Emma responded crossly.
Brisbois sighed and looked to Creighton, who rolled his eyes.
“Do you remember ever lending or giving some of your stationery to anyone on the premises?” Brisbois pressed.
The sisters regarded each other, then shook their heads.
“I don’t think anyone but us would want it,” said Kate.
“That’s why Chantilly Lace is so hard to find,” Louise said.
“People these days don’t have a taste for it,” Kate added.
Brisbois smiled. “You gave me an envelope.”
“Because you’re special.” Kate sipped her coffee. “Were you thinking of purchasing a supply of Chantilly Lace, Detective? You seem so interested in it.”
Brisbois hesitated. “We don’t want to upset you ladies. We know you’re fond of the children.”
“Lovely children,” said Louise.
“We received a kidnap note,” Brisbois explained. “It was delivered through the mail slot at the local newspaper office. The envelope was identical to the one you gave me. Chantilly Lace.”
The sisters gasped.
“What in hell?” Emma muttered.
“We’re shocked,” Kate dropped her cup in its saucer.
“We were hoping they’d just run away,” Emma moved to the window and stared out.
“We thought whoever took the kids might have got hold of one of your envelopes.” Br
isbois’ eyes narrowed. He had a sudden thought. “The kids had some Polaroids in their room.”
“Oh, yes,” said Louise. “We took dozens of pictures of the children. Do you want to see them?”
“Not right now,” Brisbois responded impatiently. “Did you happen to give the kids their pictures in one of your Chantilly Lace envelopes?”
“No,” said Emma, turning from the window.
Louise reflected. “Oh, I think we did, Emma.”
“Now, Louise, we’d never give the children one of our fine envelopes,” Emma countered.
“Children have sticky fingers,” Kate reminded her.
“I’m sure we gave them their photographs in a number ten business envelope,” said Emma.
“I thought it was a plastic bag,” said Kate.
Brisbois sighed. “I was hoping the kidnapper might have come by the envelope through the kids. It might narrow things down.”
“I can assure you that would be impossible,” said Emma.
“For the sake of curiosity,” Kate ventured. “How much did the kidnapper request?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
Louise frowned. “Seems low.”
·
“That envelope could have come from anywhere,” said Creighton.
He and Brisbois were sitting on the bench near the flowerbed, while Brisbois reviewed his notes.
“It could have been bought by anyone and not necessarily from Fred Lewis at Cowperthwaite’s,” Creighton continued.
“But the Pleasant connection is the only one that makes sense,” Brisbois argued. “I think the envelope was purchased locally and whoever mailed the letter came across the envelope in an indirect way.”
“Maybe somebody years ago gave his mother or old auntie a box of Chantilly Lace for Christmas,” Creighton countered, stretching his legs and tipping his hat forward.
“Not just old people write letters,” said Brisbois.
“Mostly just old people write letters.”
Brisbois sighed. “Possibly the kidnapper got that envelope indirectly and possibly it doesn’t have anything to do with the Pleasant, but — ”
Brisbois was about to finish the thought when his cell phone rang.
·
Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant Page 18
