“Thanks, Mrs. Millotte. We’ll talk to you later.”
“I’m sure you will.”
·
“So anybody who knew the Pleasant’s routine could have put that ransom note into the newspaper envelope,” Creighton mused as he and Brisbois passed onto the veranda.
“Lloyd’s fingerprints weren’t on the envelope.”
Creighton shrugged. “They wouldn’t have to be. Unless the letter in question was on the very top or very bottom. He probably just takes the whole bundle and stuffs them into the mail slot at the paper.”
“True.”
“Where to now?”
“The Elm Pavilion,” Brisbois said. “Somebody must have got hold of one of the Benson sisters’ envelopes.”
“You’re thinking the sisters gave one to the kids with the pictures inside and forgot they did. And the kidnapper got it that way.”
“Or the sisters gave it to the kidnapper and don’t realize they did.”
Moments later, Brisbois was knocking at the door of the Elm Pavilion, but to no response.
“The old dolls probably can’t hear a thing over that television.” Creighton stepped forward and hammered on the door.
“Just a moment,” a voice sang out. After a few more moments had passed, a prim voice invited them to come in.
“Oh, it’s Detective Brisbois and that handsome Detective Creighton,” Kate greeted them at the door. She turned to Louise. “We must get the gentlemen some coffee.”
“Oh, no thank you, Miss Benson.” Brisbois removed his hat. “Sorry to disturb you so early.”
“I gather this isn’t a social call,” Kate said.
“Not exactly.”
The sisters exchanged glances.
“We have a couple of more questions for you about that envelope. It seems the ransom note it contained was mailed from the Pleasant.”
“From The Pleasant?”
Brisbois nodded.
“Oh,” said Louise, as Kate looked away and murmured, “How interesting.”
“And,” Brisbois continued, “the only fingerprints on that envelope belong to Melba Millotte.”
“You don’t say,” said Kate.
“We know the letter originated from the Pleasant and we know Mrs. Millotte’s fingerprints were on it,” Brisbois continued. “So we wondered if you could think again about anyone you might have given an envelope to or anybody who possibly could have taken one from you.”
“I don’t remember anything about that,” said Louise.
Kate caught Brisbois’ eye and tapped a finger against her temple. “Memory,” she mouthed.
“I saw that,” Louise snapped.
Emma advanced to the sideboard and, to Brisbois’ astonishment, given the time of morning, poured herself a sherry. “I think this has gone far enough.” She finished the drink in one swallow and addressed her sisters. “We need to tell the detectives what’s going on. We can’t have Melba implicated in this.”
Louise suppressed a gasp.
“Emma — ” Kate began, but Emma cut her off.
“We have to trust the detectives. I’m sure they wouldn’t assist in anything illegal.”
“Emma.” Kate spoke through gritted teeth. “We’ve discussed this.”
“Kate, if I may…” Brisbois began, shooting Creighton a stony glance to stop him snickering. “First, Emma’s right. You can trust us not to do anything illegal.”
“And I’m sure you wouldn’t do anything that would bring harm to those children,” Emma continued.
“I promise you, we’ll proceed cautiously with any information,” Brisbois said with growing impatience. “Now, if you have anything to tell us.”
Kate interrupted him. “Could we have a minute, Detective?”
“Of course.” Brisbois sighed, motioning to Creighton and steering him aside while the sisters huddled. For a few minutes all the detectives could hear was the hum of urgent, whispered conversation.
Finally, Emma nodded and stepped forward, Louise and Kate flanking her, the latter wearing an aggrieved expression. She invited Brisbois and Creighton to take a seat, while she and Louise took their places opposite, on the sofa. She invited Kate to join them, but Kate dithered. Finally, bristling a little, Kate opted for an occasional chair.
“Miss Benson?” Brisbois addressed Emma.
“Detective.” Emma appeared to gather her thoughts. “Before I say a word, we have to be assured the information will be used with the utmost sagacity and discretion.”
“I guess,” Creighton muttered, “if I knew what sagacity meant.”
“I assure you it will,” Brisbois responded, elbowing Creighton.
“We are deeply concerned that no one come to harm as a result of what we are about to divulge.”
Brisbois sighed. “Miss Benson, I can only promise to give what you have to say a fair hearing. But I do have to remind you that to withhold information could expose you to criminal charges.”
“We don’t want anyone to get spanked,” Louise piped up. “We don’t believe in corporal punishment.”
Brisbois frowned, perplexed. Emma rolled her eyes. “We agreed, Louise, that I was to carry the ball on this one. Now,” she continued briskly, as her chastened sister lowered her eyes, “It has come to our attention that the Sawchucks’ grandchildren are the subject of a kidnapping plot.”
Brisbois glanced at Creighton.
“The story is that the children’s parents are on vacation in Switzerland.” Emma paused to appraise her sisters, then proceeded. “That is not true.”
Brisbois started. “It isn’t?”
“No.” Emma regarded him sternly. “The children’s parents are having marriage problems. The father has lured the mother to Switzerland, promising to work out their differences.” She frowned. “In fact, the children’s father has a paramour waiting for him.”
Creighton’s hand went to his mouth to suppress a chuckle. Brisbois kicked him.
“Waiting in Switzerland?” he asked.
“In an undisclosed location,” Emma replied, “Possibly Monaco.”
“The father — ”
“Jim Danby.” Brisbois glanced at his notes.
“ — has paid an agent to abduct the children and spirit them out of the country.”
“How?” Creighton asked from behind his hand.
“In a private airplane.” Emma frowned at Creighton. “The children would be taken to an undisclosed location.”
“Monaco?” Brisbois asked.
Emma gave him a look that suggested she found him obtuse. “Dubai. Possibly Brazil.”
“Once the children are secreted away,” she continued, “the father will go out for the proverbial pack of cigarettes and never come back. While his wife searches for him in vain, he’ll be in Rio with this Jezebel and those unfortunate children.” She crossed her arms to punctuate her final words, fixing Brisbois with a triumphant stare.
“Miss Benson,” Brisbois responded, as his notebook slid down his knee, “that is a fascinating theory.”
“It is not a theory, Detective, it is fact.”
“May I ask the source of your information?” he asked, reaching to retrieve his notebook from the floor.
“The children!” Louise blurted, then covered her mouth as Kate opened hers to remonstrate.
Emma raised a hand. “It’s all right, Kate. The cat is out of the bag.” She lowered her hands on her knees and leaned forward. “Yes, Detective, the children told us. They’re frantic at the prospect of being separated from their mother, from their home, from all that is familiar. They scarcely know the other woman. She’s a personal assistant of some sort. A well-paid strumpet is more like it.”
“Miss Benson, where are the children?”
“They’re safe, Detective.”
; “That’s the best news I’ve had in days, but where are they?”
“I will tell you under one condition.”
“Yes?”
“The children must be given sanctuary. You must be prepared to notify Interpol to get their mother back while their father is detained.”
“Miss Benson, I can promise you one thing. The children will be protected until we get this thing sorted out. But first we have to know where they are.”
Kate spoke. “Why, they’re with Hiram.”
“Hiram?”
“Our driver.”
“And where is Hiram?”
“He’s in Ottawa. He and the children are in a safe house.”
“A safe house?”
“It belongs to friends of ours. From Daddy’s days in the diplomatic corps,” said Kate.
“He was a spy,” Louise added.
“So,” Brisbois began, seeking to make sense of what he’d learned, “Hiram drove the kids to the safe house in Ottawa…”
“No,” Kate responded. “Hiram took them in his boat. After the children told us their story, we called him. He waited until the inn was dark, then picked them up at the dock.”
“In his boat?”
“Yes,” said Kate, “Hiram owns an island on the lake.”
“Ladies, if Hiram owns an island on the lake why is he still employed as your chauffeur?”
The sisters looked surprised, as if they’d never considered the question before.
“He always has been, Detective,” Emma replied. “I can’t imagine he can do anything else.”
“Who do you think sent the ransom note?” said Louise.
“Probably the children,” said Emma. “Perhaps to add veracity to their plight.” She gave Brisbois an apologetic look. “We gave the children their pictures in a Chantilly Lace envelope. We told a fib about that because we didn’t want to betray the children.”
“Ladies, if you wanted to make sure the kids were protected, why didn’t you call social services?”
Emma gave him a disdainful look. “Nobody pays any attention to what children say.”
“Or old people,” said Louise.
Brisbois took out his pen, jabbed at his notebook. “We’re going to need that address, ladies.”
·
Brisbois faced Ned and Nora across the table. He and Creighton had driven to Ottawa through heavy traffic and managed to get lost in the neighbourhood, looking for the safe house. Brisbois was in a foul mood when they arrived to find the kids glued to a television set.
“And you did this why?”
“Because we were bored,” Nora said without a trace of remorse.
“Because we were bored,” Brisbois repeated tonelessly. “You were in a great place on the lake with boating, fishing, hiking and you were bored.”
They shrugged. “They didn’t have the Internet.”
“They didn’t have the Internet,” Brisbois echoed, suppressing his fury with difficulty. “Do you have any idea how much this prank of yours cost?”
“It’s your job, isn’t it?” Ned regarded Brisbois boldly, folding his arms over his chest. “What else do you have to do out there in the sticks?”
“Plenty,” Brisbois said. “We had officers working overtime, coming in on their days off, harassing innocent civilians — all because they were worried about two missing kids. We had Interpol scouring the Alps for your parents. If that isn’t bad enough, you worried your grandparents.”
“Those old farts aren’t worried about anything but their bowels.” Ned sneered. “They wouldn’t have noticed us gone if someone hadn’t told them.”
“Do your grandparents have any other grandchildren?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” Brisbois jotted in his notebook. “On top of everything else, you took advantage of the kindness of three old ladies. They believed you,” he growled in response to their flippant shrugs. “And they broke the law to help you.”
“They’re just crazy,” Nora yawned.
“No, they have great imaginations. Maybe they were a little bored, too, but they’re not crazy.”
“Are you going to lock them up?” Nora asked.
“None of your business.”
“We didn’t mean to make it such a big deal,” Ned backtracked. “It was just for fun.”
“Yeah,” Brisbois murmured as he scribbled in his notebook, “just for fun.”
“Can we go now?” Nora asked.
He glanced up. “Are you kidding? We’re waiting for social services. They’ll be in charge of you until we can locate your parents.”
“But grandma and grandpa are responsible for us,” Nora whined.
“Didn’t one of you say your grandparents aren’t concerned about anything but their bowels? I’m afraid you’re out of their hands at present.”
Nora slumped in her chair. “The story was just supposed to be for fun. We didn’t think those old bats were going to call somebody to take us to a safe house.”
“We just thought we’d get to stay with them and watch movies and play games for a couple of days,” Ned groused. He paused, then asked hopefully, “when Mom and Dad get back, I guess we’ll be going home with them, right?”
“That,” he told the twins with a smile, “is up to the judge.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Rudley, what time is it?”
“Early,” Rudley murmured.
Margaret unzipped her sleeping bag and fumbled about for her watch. She held it up, her eyes widening. “Rudley, it’s going on six o’clock.”
“I can live with that.”
“Well, I’ve slept in. I should be helping with the breakfast.” She wriggled into her clothes and took off down the rise to find Miss Miller at the campfire, emptying coffee grounds from the pot.
“I slept in,” Margaret greeted her. “I wanted to be getting breakfast on.”
“Edward and I got up just a few minutes ago,” Miss Miller said. “The coffee was already on, boiling furiously. The handle was so hot I had to get a towel to take the pot off the grill. The coffee had almost boiled away.”
“I’ll rinse out the pot and make some fresh.”
“It’s all right. I can do it. It just seems odd for Gil to put the coffee on, then wander off and leave us all asleep with the fire burning.”
“He’s usually such a stickler for safety,” Margaret agreed.
“Edward thought he might have gone fishing at the shore.” Miss Miller pointed toward Simpson who was looking up and down the lake with a pair of binoculars. “But his canoe’s gone.”
Geraldine and Norman joined them. “I’m afraid we slept in,” Norman said. “We’ve gotten used to Gil giving us a call.”
“We all slept in,” said Margaret. “Perhaps he thought we needed the rest.”
Geraldine scanned the shoreline. “Is Gil off getting us some fish?”
“He’s taken the canoe out,” said Miss Miller.
Norman’s face sagged in disappointment. “He told me whenever he took the canoe out fishing, he’d take me with him.”
“He must have forgotten, dear.”
Simpson came back up the rise, said good morning, and put his binoculars aside. “I didn’t see a sign of him, Elizabeth.”
“Nothing?”
“Perhaps he’s tucked in behind that ledge.”
The coffee was on and beginning to perk. Miss Miller opened one of the food containers. “Is everyone up for pan johnnycake?”
“We could have it with dried fruit and desiccated bacon,” said Geraldine, as Rudley joined them.
“Gil’s not back from wherever,” Margaret told him. “We’re going to be late getting underway.”
“Perhaps we could break down the tents and pack up our gear,” Simpson suggested. “That way we won
’t be too much off schedule.”
Norman, Rudley, and Simpson went off to see about the tents. Norman stopped at Turnbull’s tent and tried a loon call to rouse him. After several avian variations, Turnbull stuck his head out the flap.
“You can cut it out anytime” he said.
Norman grinned. “I always think it’s nice to wake up to the birds.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Breakfast should be ready soon,” Norman continued. “We’re running a little late this morning. We’re getting our gear ready to travel.”
“What time is it?”
Norman looked at his watch. “Almost six-thirty. We’ve got to get the tents down, get our gear packed and ready for the canoes, and clean up the campsite.” He paused at Turnbull’s annoyed expression. “So if you could get your things together, Mr. Turnbull, we can have breakfast and be underway as soon as possible.”
“I think I’ll get dressed first, thanks.” Turnbull retreated into his tent.
“By all means,” Norman murmured. He went on to Peters’s tent. “Mr. Peters?” He tried his jay and cardinal calls to no avail. “If Mr. Peters doesn’t want to get up, he won’t get any breakfast,” he remarked to Rudley who came by lugging a tent and a duffel bag.
“I can’t see that happening,” said Rudley.
“I agree.” Norman quickened his pace to match Rudley’s longer strides. “Mrs. Rudley wouldn’t let anyone get away without breakfast.” He inhaled deeply. “I can smell the cornbread. That should have Peters up momentarily.”
They stashed the gear at the riverbank. Simpson had arrived ahead of them and was once again scanning the river.
“Any sign of Gil?” Norman asked.
Simpson shook his head.
“Let’s see how breakfast is progressing,” said Rudley.
Miss Miller was apportioning the cornbread when they returned to the campfire.
“No sign of Gil yet,” Simpson told her.
“Mr. Peters is still asleep,” said Norman. “I couldn’t rouse him.”
“We’ll see about that,” she said, heading to Peters’s tent.
She returned in a minute. “He’s not there!”
·
The campers stood at the shore, gear packed and ready, scanning the terrain.
Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant Page 20
