Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant

by Judith Alguire

  “What did I say?” Peters snapped.

  Geraldine flushed and quickly retreated. “If he’s out there lost, he’ll get dehydrated.”

  Peters raised the gun and pointed it at Geraldine.

  Before Miss Miller could stop him, Norman was up like a shot and into the clearing. “How dare you point that thing at Geraldine?” he squeaked.

  Peters’s confusion lasted but a second. He turned and fired just as Miss Miller scrambled from the bushes on hands and knees, knocking Norman to the ground. The first bullet went over their heads. The second bullet hit Norman in the buttock and he screamed. The third bullet went astray as Simpson leapt toward Peters. Peters sidestepped neatly only to have Rudley grab his gun arm. With this free hand, Peters punched Rudley in the stomach, causing him to double over, gasping. Margaret and Geraldine, seizing the opportunity, struggled to get the gun. A loud crack rent the air and Rudley fell to the ground. Simpson lunged toward Peters and grabbed his leg, sending him crashing face first to the ground and the gun skittering along the grass. Margaret scooped it up and bent down to a grimacing Rudley.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Just winded,” he gasped. “And shot in the boot.”

  “Oh, Rudley.”

  “Don’t point the gun at me, Margaret.” He pried it from her fingers, removed the magazine, and put it into his pocket. “I imagine the authorities will want this.”

  “This isn’t very elegant,” Simpson said. He was sitting on the ground, holding Peters’s leg while the stunned man kicked out with the other foot.

  Geraldine looked to the edge of the clearing, where Norman was being attended by Margaret, then jumped on top of Peters, grabbing for his arms. “Get the cord from my backpack,” she yelled at Rudley as she proceeded to box Peters’s ears.

  “How dare you shoot my husband?” she demanded. She snatched the cord Rudley held out, grabbed Peters’s right arm, and twisted it behind his back. “Get the other arm,” she instructed Rudley. She bound Peters’s hands behind his back, left Simpson and Rudley to guard him, and dashed to her husband’s side.

  “Are you in pain, Norman?” She leaned into him.

  “Yes,” he groaned. “I never imagined he would shoot me.”

  “I don’t think it’s too deep but it is bleeding a bit.” Margaret rose. “I can bind that up from our first-aid kit.”

  Simpson left Rudley to deal with Peters and hurried to Miss Miller’s side. He knelt beside her. “Are you all right, Elizabeth?”

  She managed a smile. “I’ve banged up my arm and I must look awful, but, yes, I’m all right.”

  He examined her swollen eye and winced in sympathy. “What about Turnbull and Gil?”

  She shook her head. “We didn’t find Gil. Turnbull’s on a ledge about a kilometre downstream. Badly injured. Unconscious.”

  Margaret had returned with the first-aid kit. She knelt beside Norman and proceeded to dress his wound while Geraldine held his hand and comforted him.

  Simpson told Margaret what Miss Miller had told him. “Perhaps we can come up with a way to rescue him,” he finished.

  Miss Miller shook her head. “We can’t move him without causing further damage. We can’t risk someone else getting hurt, climbing down. We need to go for help.”

  Margaret stared off into the trees. “If we follow the river…” She paused. “Miss Miller, Gil said the landscape flattens and the river calms below the rapids. The shallows. If we could get everyone that far, we might have a better chance for rescue.”

  Simpson nodded. “We could spot a float plane.”

  “Or that helicopter might come along again,” Geraldine added.

  “What are we going to do about Mr. Peters?” Margaret glanced to where Rudley sat beside Peters.

  “Let’s leave him,” said Simpson. “We can tie him to a tree.”

  “That seems cruel, Edward,” Miss Miller said.

  “When we reach civilization we can send the authorities back for him,” he said.

  “There are bears out here,” Margaret reminded him, “and cougars.”

  “That man killed Gil. Turnbull may die. He tried to kill Elizabeth. He shot Norman. He would have killed us all if he’d had the opportunity.” Simpson ran his tongue over his lips. “He doesn’t deserve our consideration.”

  “Perhaps not,” Miss Miller responded. She gave Simpson a quizzical look. “But that’s not like you, Edward, to leave a man to be eaten by a bear.”

  He flushed. “No, it isn’t.”

  The group looked at him, silent.

  “All right,” he said quickly, “we’ll take him with us.”

  ·

  “Can we rest for a minute?” Norman winced.

  Geraldine and Rudley eased Norman to the ground and positioned him on his left side.

  “He’s oozing quite a bit,” Rudley said after checking Norman’s dressing. “We need to reinforce the dressing.” He rummaged through the first aid kit and came up with an abdominal pad and an ACE bandage.

  “Imagine putting an elastic bandage on your butt, Norman.” Geraldine seemed pleased with this bit of ingenuity. “You might say your butt was in a sling.”

  “I’m not laughing, Geraldine,” said Norman.

  Rudley’s ears picked up at the sound of a helicopter. He hobbled toward the thinnest part of the canopy, waving.

  “Did they see us?” Miss Miller asked.

  His shoulders sagged. “I don’t think so.”

  “He might have,” Simpson said. “Perhaps he’s reporting back to headquarters. I don’t imagine he can put down near here.” He jerked on Peters’s restraint as the man bucked against him. “Be still,” he said in a low voice, “or I’ll put a leash around your neck.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Margaret said. “How’s your foot, Rudley?”

  “Bruised, Margaret.”

  “Stiff upper lip, Rudley.”

  ·

  “You’re looking pale, Norman,” Geraldine said a little later when they had stopped for another rest.

  “My derrière hurts,” he moaned.

  Simpson, who had gone ahead for a reconnaissance, returned with some news. “The banks are shallow just a hundred yards from here. If we can make it there, I think there’s a good chance we’ll be seen.”

  “Can you make it another hundred yards, Norman?”

  Uncertainty flickered on his face.

  “I’ll get that new ice auger,” Rudley tried coaxing him. “You can have it all to yourself and cut all the holes you want for your ice fishing.”

  “Perhaps I can keep going,” said Norman.

  ·

  Brisbois and Creighton were speeding toward the staging area in an OPP cruiser driven by a young officer named Tulchinsky.

  The radio crackled.

  “What’re they saying?” Brisbois leaned forward.

  “Search and rescue has recovered and is in the process of transporting one casualty,” Creighton reported from the front seat.

  The radio continued to crackle.

  “What about the others?” Brisbois demanded.

  Creighton exchanged a few words with Tulchinsky.

  “They found three canoes and assorted paraphernalia. Search in progress.”

  “And?” Brisbois persisted.

  “Some blood-soaked gauze,” Creighton added reluctantly.

  Brisbois sank back against the seat, wiping a hand across his mouth.

  ·

  The campers made their way through a wall of trees and stepped out into a clearing. A flat rock sloped gently to the water.

  Margaret and Geraldine lowered Norman to the ground and sank down beside him. Rudley hobbled over and joined them, laying the branch he had been using as a staff beside him. Simpson bound Peters to a tree and joined them.

  “I
think we need to rest for a while and rehydrate,” Geraldine said.

  Margaret scanned the sky. “Perhaps the helicopter will spot us here.”

  Simpson rose and wandered down along the bank. “I think I hear a boat,” he called back to them. He climbed up onto a hummock and scanned the river. Geraldine joined him with her binoculars.

  “I see it!” she exclaimed.

  “He’s a rather rough-looking character,” Geraldine muttered as the boat drew nearer.

  They could hear the man piloting the boat singing over the sound of the motor. Simpson glanced at Geraldine.

  “I guess we have to trust him,” she said,

  Simpson stepped out from behind the bushes. “Here!” he called.

  The man started and reached for something in the bottom of the boat.

  “He’s got a gun!” Geraldine cried.

  The man turned the boat toward the bank. He wore chinos, a hunting jacket, and a bright orange cap. He looked them over, the gun held across his body. All at once his wary face, cracked with a grin. “Are you the folks they’re looking for?”

  ·

  Tulchinsky pulled off the gravel road onto a rutted logging road and drove for what seemed miles to an anxious Brisbois. He breathed a sigh of relief when a group of parked vehicles with flashing lights announced the staging area.

  Brisbois got out of the car and lit a cigarette, while Creighton remained in the passenger’s seat. The radio continued crackling in the background.

  Brisbois had finished his cigarette and was reaching for another when Creighton stepped out of the car.

  “What?” Brisbois stopped in midmotion.

  “Got some news. Some old guy picked up two people off the river. He dropped them at a nursing station.” He paused. “It was Miss Miller and Norman.”

  “How bad?” Brisbois demanded.

  “They’re waiting to confirm. They’ll follow up and let us know ASAP. The guy they pulled off the ledge — that was Turnbull. They’re airlifting him to Sudbury. He’s regained consciousness. Multiple fractures.”

  Brisbois’ response was aborted by the sight of four officers marching down the road with a handcuffed man so short he barely reached their shoulders.

  “That’s him?” Brisbois gaped.

  “He’s the only one in handcuffs, Boss.”

  Brisbois stared into Donnie Albright’s vacant eyes. “I hope you didn’t hurt anybody I like.”

  Creighton tapped Brisbois on the shoulder and pointed toward a second group emerging from the trees. “I think you’ve got your answer, Boss,” he said, smiling.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Two weeks later, Detective Brisbois found himself at a table on the veranda at the Pleasant with Miss Miller, Mr. Simpson, and Margaret.

  “Your Mr. Turnbull’s going to be in a body cast for two months,” he told them. “I hear he’s not being a very good patient.”

  “How surprising,” Miss Miller remarked.

  “I’m relieved to hear he’ll make a full recovery,” said Margaret.

  “What about Donnie Albright?” Miss Miller asked. “Have you been able to get any more information from him?”

  Brisbois nodded. “”He’s starting to open up. He was practically catatonic when we took him in.” He took a sip of his coffee and put the mug down on the table. “With Donnie, it was all about not getting caught. After he killed Pritchard, the old guy in Fredericton, he took the mindset that anyone who might be able to identify him or who interfered with his escape had to go. He was hoping, once he’d killed Gil, that everybody would think the two of them had perished in a canoe accident.”

  “But then he got his foot caught as he made his escape,” Miss Miller offered.

  “Right.”

  Simpson considered this. “But why did he kill Gil? He could have just wandered off.”

  “He said he was worried about the satellite phone,” Brisbois said. “He thought Gil might be getting updates on the murders down here. He was afraid once the real Vern Peters was identified, the jig would be up. He had to get rid of the phone and I guess that meant getting rid of Gil.”

  “Gil always had the phone close by,” Miss Miller said.

  “Unfortunately,” said Brisbois. “Anyway,” he went on, “Donnie caught Gil alone at the shore early that morning. He whacked him across the back of the head with a paddle, pushed his face into the water to drown him, then loaded him into the canoe and dumped him in the rough water downstream. Then he maneuvered the canoe to the base of the cliff, shoved it out, and started to climb the rock face. Unfortunately, for him, he got his foot caught in a crevice in the rocks.”

  “How could he be sure he could get back to civilization on foot?”

  Brisbois shrugged. “Donnie didn’t have much of a master plan, Miss Miller. He played it by ear, took whatever opportunity came along.”

  Margaret sighed. “Is that what happened to poor Mr. Peters? The real Mr. Peters. Simply bad luck?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Brisbois said. “Like most of Donnie’s victims, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Donnie was just trying to get to the next town. Mr. Peters said he could drop him in Middleton, then he was going on a canoe trip from the Pleasant.”

  “The poor man was murdered for his kindness,” Simpson concluded.

  Brisbois nodded. “As they say, no good deed goes unpunished.”

  After a long silence, Margaret said, “I feel so terrible about Gil. He was such a nice young man.”

  The others nodded.

  “And Mr. Peters…Donnie Albright, I’m sorry for him too. He seemed haunted at times. And he must have felt desperate at the end.”

  “He killed eight people, Margaret,” Brisbois said gently. “That nice young guide, three elderly people, one of your guests, a young couple on their way to see their family, and a poor guy just trying to make a living.”

  “I don’t think he was a bad boy at heart,” Margaret said.

  Brisbois smiled but said nothing. He was a bad boy, Margaret. A very bad boy.

  December — The Pleasant Inn

  Rudley trotted up to the front desk. “Margaret, where’s Lloyd? I need him to help me with that door hinge.”

  “He should be back in a minute, Rudley.” Margaret looked up from the note she was writing. “He’s gone to pick up a package at the train.”

  “What did he order this time?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I hope it’s not another UFO finder.”

  “Products advertised in comic books are often disappointing.”

  “At least the pigeons liked it.”

  “Yes,” said Margaret. “It might have been useless in attracting UFOs but it had lots of little loops and bars for them to perch on.”

  Rudley glanced at the paperwork next to Margaret’s elbow. “How are the Christmas preparations coming along?”

  “Splendidly.”

  “So Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson have confirmed.”

  “They have. They had thought of spending Christmas with her parents, but it turns out the Millers are spending the holidays with the Simpsons.”

  “Ah, to be in England at Christmas.”

  “They’re going to be in the Bahamas, Rudley.”

  “A colony, at least.”

  “Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson could have gone, but they had their hearts set on snow at Christmas.”

  Lloyd came in the front door at that moment, carrying a large box.

  “What did you get this time?” Rudley asked.

  Lloyd set the box at the end of the desk. “It ain’t for me. It’s just marked for the Pleasant.”

  Margaret examined the label. “Why, it’s from Mr. Bostock.”

  “Must be a bomb,” said Rudley.

  “Nonsense, Rudley, packages with bombs tick.”
<
br />   “Very well, Margaret.” Rudley took out an Exacto knife, slit open the box, and lifted the contents onto the desk.

  “It’s a birdhouse,” said Lloyd.

  “It’s the Pleasant,” said Margaret, delighted, “with the staff and some of the guests. There’s Gregoire with a frying pan and Tiffany with a broom.”

  “And Aunt Pearl boozing it up on the veranda,” said Rudley.

  “Be nice, Rudley.”

  “I must say, it’s a perfect replica, Margaret.”

  She paused. “Do you think there’ll be tiny corpses?”

  “Only if you let the cat roam.”

  “Rudley, Blanche is hardly a killer.” She peeled off the card taped to the birdhouse and handed it to Rudley with the instruction to read it.

  “‘Dear Mr. and Mrs. Rudley and staff,’” he began, then stopped and frowned.

  “Keep going.”

  “‘Dear Mr. and Mrs. Rudley and staff,’” Rudley began again. “‘I hope you enjoy this birdhouse. I usually sell them but I figured you cuckoos could use one. Sincerely, Bill Bostock.’”

  After a silence, Margaret said, “Do you think he’ll be back, Rudley?”

  He returned the note to the envelope and leaned it against the side of the birdhouse. “I think not, Margaret.”

  About the Author

  Judith Alguire’s previous novels include Pleasantly Dead, The Pumpkin Murders and A Most Unpleasant Wedding, the first three books of the Rudley Mysteries, as well as All Out and Iced, both of which explored the complex relationships of sportswomen on and off the playing field. Her short stories, articles and essays have also appeared in such publications as The Malahat Review and Harrowsmith, and she is a past member of the editorial board of the Kingston Whig-Standard. A graduate of Queen’s University, she has recently retired from nursing.

  “Alguire is clearly of the sly and cosy old-school British detective fiction à la Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple. And that’s a venerable genre of mystery writing.”

  — Winnipeg Free Press

  “If a British-style ‘cosy’ mystery usually resembles a stroll through the dark side of a park, The Pumpkin Murders is a 100-yard dash — with attitude. Autumn in Ontario cottage country: scarlet colours, crisp evenings and morning frost — with a female impersonator on the run and some very annoyed drug dealers. More than just pumpkins get smashed at Pleasant Inn this Halloween. The same group of characters from Alguire’s first mystery is back, including the owners of Pleasant Inn, cops whose whistles are short of a full blast, vintage card-sharp aunties and murder victims. Snappish dialogue fuels the pace with good one-liners spicing up the tone and revealing a variety of gaudy characters and quaint settings. The Pumpkin Murders is a cheery resurgence of the British standby — in Canadian style.”