The sergeant at the station in Middleton greeted Brisbois with a smile. “We’ve solved all your problems, Detective.”
“Good for you.”
“Come here.” The sergeant led him down the hall to the interrogation room and gestured toward a one-way window. “See that guy?”
Brisbois found himself looking at a thin, young man with scraggly, greasy hair, wearing glasses with heavy frames taped together with masking tape. Under a filthy green jacket he had on a T-shirt of questionable colour. A baseball cap rested on the table in front of him.
“Who is he?”
“That,” the sergeant replied jovially, “is Johnny Adams. He was caught coming out of a cottage two miles west of Middleton with a knapsack full of watches, the wallet of a guy who reported it stolen from a nearby campsite, a couple of washcloths — I guess he never got a chance to use them — and a silver sugar bowl with the logo of the Pleasant Inn. We’re waiting for a fingerprint match from the laundry van. I have no doubt it will be a good one. And he matches the general description of the eat-and-run from the bus station in Lowerton. We’ll get him in a lineup for that — unless he confesses, which he probably will.”
Brisbois felt a surge of pity. The boy looked alone and hopeless. “You’ve answered some of our problems, for sure.”
The sergeant shrugged. “But I doubt if he’s your kidnapper. If he’d touched that ransom letter with those paws, there’d be dirty prints all over it.”
“Does he have a record?”
“Possession, minor trafficking, shoplifting, the usual stuff. He just got out of Quinte Detention Centre ten days ago. Shoplifting this time. He was supposed to be on his way to Nova Scotia — he’s got family there. He says he lost the ticket his social worker gave him. Probably traded it for Dilaudin. He was hitchhiking. Got a ride as far as Lowerton. I guess he liked the area and decided to stay for a while.”
“How old is he?”
“Nineteen.”
“Christ.”
“I don’t think he’s your murderer either. He was in Quinte when the old man was killed in that jewellery store in New Brunswick. You’re operating on the theory one guy committed all the murders, eh?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s waiting for his lawyer. As soon as we mentioned the laundry van, he clammed up. I think he’s been able to get off lightly so far by throwing himself on the mercy of the court. He knows vehicular theft could land him in the big house.”
“They’d eat him alive there.”
“Yeah, well, the lawyer’ll probably be able to get auto theft knocked down to a joy ride.” He glanced at Brisbois. “Don’t look so sad, Detective. He’ll probably get away with another few months in a provincial facility.”
“I hate cases involving kids,” said Brisbois.
“Me too,” said Creighton, mistaking Brisbois’ compassion for disgust. “When I was a beat cop I spent ninety per cent of my time chasing sixteen-year-olds for one jackass thing or another, only to have them smirking at me when they beat the rap.” He jingled some change in his pocket. “Give me a good murder any day. At least we get to smirk at them.”
Brisbois turned to the sergeant. “Who’s the lawyer?”
“Adele Delaney.” He checked his watch. “She’ll be here in an hour. We should have the prints by then.”
“Okay,” said Brisbois, “we’ll wait.”
·
Late afternoon, with clouds threatening the sky and thunder rolling in the distance, Gil decided to pull the canoes from the water for the night.
“I thought your outfit guaranteed sunny skies the whole trip,” Turnbull grumbled when they’d assembled on shore.
Gil shrugged. “Storms come up, sometimes without warning. This one may pass completely. I’m following protocol and pulling out early. In the meantime, I’m going down to check in with headquarters.”
Turnbull watched Gil walk down to the shore with his satellite phone in hand. “I hope nobody here has a train to catch.”
“Now, Mr. Turnbull,” Margaret responded, “Gil is being appropriately cautious.”
“If anyone has a travel schedule that tight, Mr. Turnbull,” Miss Miller said, kneeling to prepare the fire, “they deserve to miss their train.” She glanced across the river where a black cloud menaced the trees. “If you want to make the situation as pleasant as possible, why don’t you help collect some extra firewood? In case it rains tonight, we might want to have some dry kindling.”
“Otherwise it might be dried bread and cold water for breakfast tomorrow,” Norman added, favouring Turnbull with a buck-toothed smile.
Turnbull responded to Norman with a twist of the lips and ambled off into the woods.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so young and sarcastic,” said Rudley.
“You weren’t like that when you were young, were you, Rudley?” Norman asked in a serious tone.
“Rudley was as sweet then as he is now,” Margaret replied.
Norman raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Peters, who had gone into the woods to gather twigs the moment the party landed on shore, appeared now with a substantial bundle. He set it down and went back for more.
“I’ll cover those with a tarp,” said Simpson.
“Mr. Peters has fit in well,” Geraldine observed. “He seemed awkward at first but he’s turned out to be an angel.”
“I believe he just needed to feel useful,” said Simpson.
“Yes,” Margaret agreed. “It’s amazing how everyone falls into a role. Mr. Simpson helps Gil with the canoes and setting up the tents, Geraldine and Miss Miller cook, and Mr. Peters gathers wood.”
When Turnbull returned carrying a bundle of twigs, Miss Miller gave him a smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Turnbull yawned. “What’s for supper?”
“Slugs,” Miss Miller replied as he flopped down by the fire. “Edward and Norman are going out any minute now to turn over some rocks.”
“Elizabeth meant that as a joke,” Simpson explained. “I believe we’re having pancakes and desiccated sausages.”
“With petit pois and carrots, also desiccated,” said Margaret.
“I’m going out right now to see what forest greens might be available,” said Geraldine. “And I might identify a mushroom patch we can harvest tomorrow.”
“I hope Geraldine wasn’t involved in that mushroom escapade at the Pleasant,” Miss Miller remarked once Geraldine had left.
“Oh, no,” said Margaret, “that was Mr. Bole’s mistake. He mistook a poisonous variety for an edible type he’d encountered in the Ardennes. Geraldine correctly identified the species.”
“I always thought it would have been more useful if she had identified them before Gregoire cooked them up and served them to Doreen,” said Rudley.
“Syrup of ipecac is a wonderful medicine,” said Margaret.
Rudley sighed. “I wonder what’s happening at the Pleasant.”
·
Tim returned to the kitchen and slid the trolley into the pantry.
“How are the sisters?” he asked Gregoire, who was grinding pepper into a white sauce.
“A little tense. Perhaps The Texas Chainsaw Murder was a bit much.”
“I don’t know why. They’ve watched every horror film ever created.”
“They left half their dinner.”
Gregoire frowned. “Did Blanche show enthusiasm for her dinner?”
“That cat ate every scrap. But, then, she wasn’t allowed to watch the movie. Emma thought it was too violent for her.”
Gregoire paused, peppermill in mid-twirl. “She could have a point,” he said. “Blanche is several million years old and has a heart condition.”
Tim pulled up a stool and watched as Gregoire whisked the sauce. After a moment, Tiffany stepped into the kitchen and pulled up a sto
ol next to Tim. She sat down with a noisy sigh.
“What’s wrong with Miss Tiffany tonight?” Gregoire asked.
“Detective Brisbois was around to see the sisters again. I think his repeated interrogations have upset them.”
“They left half their dinner,” Tim repeated.
“Detective Brisbois is frustrated.” Gregoire shrugged. “He is like a bloodhound with all of these excellent scents going in different directions. He has the murders and the kidnappings and the laundryman’s van and that filthy guy breaking into my pantry.” A look of disgust crossed his face. “I cringe, thinking of him going into my things, putting his dirty hands on my linens, perhaps handling my utensils. I have been over everything with Javex three times and still…” He frowned. “Nothing is normal around here. If the Rudleys were here, none of these awful things would be happening.”
Tim snatched a carrot curl from the counter. “At least we’re not suspects anymore.”
“That was just Officer Semple,” said Gregoire. “He has always had a complex about us.”
Tim rose from his stool and went to the refrigerator. “I think,” he began, removing a block of cheese, “if what’s been going on here lately was anything like those past episodes of mayhem we probably wouldn’t pay much attention to the investigators. Rudley would be in denial. Miss Miller would have a working theory. Norman would have a different theory.” He reached for a tray of crackers and began preparing himself a snack. “Mrs. Millotte doesn’t have any interest in the investigation.”
“Melba believes one should leave these things to the professionals,” Gregoire agreed.
“Speaking of which,” Tim asked, “where are they?”
“They have gone back into town.”
“I don’t know why the detectives aren’t taking a greater interest in Mr. Bostock,” said Tiffany. “Aunt Pearl and Nick saw him on the lake again today. This time by the Bridal Path. They were sure he was taking pictures. He was wearing a bushy moustache and a baseball cap.”
“Maybe he’s a developer,” said Tim. “He’s going to buy up all of the old inns and turn them into luxury condos with swimming pools.”
Gregoire rolled his eyes. “I cannot bear the thought of that.”
·
Brisbois left the interview room, walked straight out the back door of the station, and lit a cigarette. Creighton waited a minute, then followed.
“You’re going to kill yourself with those, Boss.”
“That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea right now,” Brisbois groused.
“That kid’s going to end up back in jail and there’s nothing you can do about that.”
“I know.”
“We did get a few questions answered, though.”
Brisbois took a long drag. “We’ve wasted hours running around after that Johnny Adams because we thought he might be involved in the kidnapping. If anything happens to those kids because of that…”
“Look at it another way,” said Creighton. “Now we have more time to follow the other leads.” He looked at his watch. “Why don’t we catch a couple of hours of sleep and start again in the morning?”
Chapter Seventeen
The aroma of coffee brought the campers to the fire one by one. Gil came up from the shore. He held out two fish, already filleted.
“Nice catch,” said Norman.
Gil grinned. “Bass. I caught them right off the rock down there.” He hunkered down, moved the coffee pot over on the grill and began to prepare his skillet.
“Are you any good at cooking?” Turnbull said.
“Sure.”
“Just asking. It’s just that you’ve never cooked anything for us. Miss Miller usually cooks.”
Gil gave Turnbull an exasperated look.“You’re right,” he said, “I’m not any good at it.” He handed Turnbull the spatula. “Maybe you’d like to do it.” He picked up the case that contained his satellite phone. “I’m going down to check in.”
“What?” Turnbull looked at him as he retreated, then at the frying pan.
“As soon as the butter sizzles, put the fish in,” Geraldine advised.
“Well, what about the batter?”
“You don’t need a batter,” said Geraldine, “unless you want one. Did you have a favourite recipe in mind?”
“No, but…”
Peters smiled as Geraldine took the spatula from Turnbull’s hand and said, “I’ll look after the fish.”
“Fine.” Turnbull stomped off toward his tent.
“Oh, dear,” said Margaret, “we’ve hurt his feelings.”
“Don’t worry, Margaret,” said Rudley, “he’ll be back as soon as the work is done.”
As predicted, Turnbull reappeared as breakfast was being served. Gil returned at the same time.
“Did you ask if they’d heard anything about that poor man who was murdered near the border?” Margaret asked him as he took a plate and sat down.
“I didn’t speak with anyone,” Gil replied. “I just left a message.”
“I wonder if they’ve identified him yet,” Simpson said.
“I’ll ask next time I call in.”
“I hope the murderer isn’t near the Pleasant,” Margaret fretted.
“I’m sure he’s miles away from there by now,” said Rudley.
“I know I’d be,” said Turnbull.
·
Brisbois woke, groggy, when his alarm went off at six, three hours after he had fallen asleep. With his wife still slumbering, he grabbed an Egg McMuffin on his way to work and managed to spill coffee on his shirt. By the time he arrived at the station he was in a bad mood. But a message left for him by the fingerprint analyst turned his frown to a wide smile. He tried to phone Creighton, but to his surprise his partner had already left home.
“I’ve been over all these fingerprints,” the analyst said when he arrived in Brisbois’ office. “The ones from the pantry window in the kitchen belong to Johnny Adams.”
“Yup.”
“And the ones from the laundry van too.”
“Okay.”
“But Adams’s fingerprints aren’t on the ransom envelope or on the note.”
“We kind of figured that,” Brisbois remarked, disappointed.
“There were fingerprints all over the ransom note and envelope but most of them aren’t good enough to match,” the analyst continued. “Except for one good thumb print and one good index finger print.”
“Yes?” Brisbois responded excitedly.
“I matched them with someone on the exclusion list. Melba Millotte.”
“I could kiss you!” Brisbois thumped the man on his shoulder.
“Guess whose fingerprints are on the ransom envelope?” Brisbois said to Creighton moments later in the parking lot. “Melba Millotte!”
“You think Mrs. Millotte kidnapped the kids?”
“No.” Brisbois flung open the door of his car. “But it proves that envelope came from the Pleasant.”
Mrs. Millotte was on the phone when Brisbois and Creighton arrived at the Pleasant’s front desk.
“Are you sure you included the prune juice with that order?” She fumed into the receiver. “Well, I’ve checked everywhere anyone could have inadvertently put it.” She tapped her nails against the wood, her face stony. “Believe me, Mr. Gingras,” she continued after a pause, “if someone had drunk a gallon of prune juice over the past twenty-four hours, I would know by now.” She sighed. “I’ll have to take your word for it. If you’ll add prune juice to today’s order, I’ll have Lloyd pick it up this afternoon.” She dropped the receiver into the cradle and scribbled a note on the invoice.
“Prune juice trouble?” Brisbois smiled sympathetically to mask his amusement.
“Summer.”
“Summer?”
“In the summer, th
e local establishments hire high school students. Enough said.” Mrs. Millotte put the pen aside. “Now, what can I do for you, Detective?”
“Would it surprise you to know,” he began, looking her straight in the eye, “that the ransom note that ended up at the local newspaper had your fingerprints on it?”
“Yes.”
“Then how could it happen?”
“It couldn’t. Unless the letter was mailed from here.”
“Could you have picked up a letter someone had to mail while you were making your rounds?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“No?”
“Tiffany sometimes picks up letters to be mailed when she’s doing the rooms, or Tim, if he’s delivering a meal. But I don’t.”
“So, if a letter ended up here at the desk, how would your fingerprints end up on the envelope?”
“Because I sort the mail.”
“Are there a lot of letters going out?”
“Several a day at least.”
“Do you take a peek to see where they’re going?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course. We read all of the guests’ mail and blank out any derogatory comments about Rudley. But seriously, Detective, all we do is take a quick look to see if they’re stamped.”
“So if someone addressed something to the local paper nobody would notice.”
“Anything to the paper we sort separately for hand delivery,” she said. “Lloyd takes them in. The old-timers here correspond regularly with the local rag. They follow everything that goes on. If they put in a new street sign in town, we’re talking letters to the editor. Rudley spoils them. If they had to pay postage, they probably wouldn’t be so opinionated.”
“So everything for the newspaper goes into that envelope marked ‘newspaper,’” Brisbois said, gesturing to a battered interdepartmental envelope he noticed on the side of the desk, “And gets hand delivered.”
“You’ve got it.”
“So you’d handle any mail that goes in there.”
“Unless someone put it in there themselves. Sometimes the old-timers do that.”
“Or the staff?”
“Or the staff.”
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