Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders

by Judith Alguire

  Adolph’s features smoothed, then froze. “That message your friend left on the answering machine.”

  “I erased it.” Gerald sat back, nibbling on a chip. “I’ll get off at Lowerton, meet the hick in the pickup. You’ll get off at Middleton and take a cab in.”

  “A cab?”

  “It’s only three miles.”

  “Why can’t I ride in with you?”

  “We can’t look as if we’re together.” Gerald waved the chip bag at Adolph. Adolph shook his head. “And, once we get to the inn, we can’t let on we know each other. Just in case somebody starts putting two and two together.” He finished the chips. “One thing I know, I’ll never be able to show my face in Montreal again. I’ll have to go overseas, or worse, to Calgary or some other conservative hole. You can go back to Montreal and get on with your life.”

  “What if they keep looking for me?”

  “You may have to get a new apartment and an unlisted phone number. Be discreet.”

  “Discreet?”

  “Change your appearance a bit. Lose the moustache.” He crushed the chip bag and dropped it to the floor. “As I’ve said, Adolph, these are not nice people.”

  Adolph resumed his miserable watch out the window.

  Rudley pulled out the reservation book and examined the guest list. The usual crowd for Halloween: Norman and Geraldine Phipps-Walker and Walter and Doreen Sawchuck, to start with. The Sawchucks had arrived from Rochester flushed with excitement over their custom-made costumes — James and Dolly Madison. Then there was James Bole, an amateur anthropologist of independent means, who, like the others, had been coming to the inn for decades. “I suspect he’s studying us,” Rudley muttered. “He’ll probably write a book about us.”

  Next were the Benson sisters, who had stayed on at the Elm pavilion instead of making their usual October exit for Guadalajara. “One of these days, we’ll winter over,” Kate had told him.

  Better make it soon, he thought. Louise, the youngest, was eighty-four.

  Finally, there was Elizabeth Miller and Edward Simpson, who were arriving next week. He was disappointed they had gone abroad for the summer. “What does Asia have that we don’t?” he asked as Tiffany passed the desk.

  “Mount Fuji, the Great Wall, the Taj Mahal.”

  Rudley dismissed this with a sniff. “When is Christopher putting on his next recital?”

  “Tonight, as a matter of fact. A singular event. He’s doing Mozart’s 21st Piano Concerto for the Seniors Association. Solo.”

  “I’ve never heard Mozart’s 21st done solo on the bass viol.”

  “That’s what makes it a singular event.”

  “Indeed.” Rudley waited until Tiffany trotted up the stairs. “Big geek,” he said under his breath. “Looks like an ostrich.”

  Christopher Watkins was the latest of the young men Tiffany had been keeping company with, all of them artistic types — musicians, painters, poets. He hadn’t approved of the painter — arrogant brute. The poet had been equally unsuitable — narcissistic twit. In his opinion, none of them would ever make a living from their pursuits — including Christopher, who, Rudley considered, was lucky to also be a certified public accountant.

  He leaned across the desk and smiled. The past year had been the best ever. The fall had been uneventful — well, apart from that ninny-hammer who shot up the pumpkin patch last Halloween. Winter had been Christmas-card perfect; spring, with the Easter Parade, light-hearted — he whistled a few bars of the song and did a lateral shuffle — and summer had passed without incident. Well, no serious incidents. There was the occasion when Norman Phipps-Walker decided to take up waterskiing. But there had been no serious injuries and he had been happy to pay for that chap’s canoe. Margaret’s first season of summer theatre had been a resounding success. They’d managed Twelfth Night and Carousel. He’d persuaded Margaret to put off Ibsen for another time. “Preferably forever,” he’d added. Margaret had had a successful showing of her watercolours.

  He sighed. They’d been operating the Pleasant for twenty-six years and the past year had been without parallel. All they needed now was the return of Tim, the young Paul Newman, waiter par excellence, star of summer theatre, sparkling dancer. Almost as good as myself, he thought.

  He returned to the reservation list. Mr. and Mrs. John Smith. A couple flouting their wedding vows, he surmised, something he didn’t approve of. “At least they shouldn’t be so obvious,” he murmured.

  “About what?”

  “Oh.” He looked up as Margaret paused beside him. “This couple that signed in as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith.”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s how people sign into cheap motels, Margaret.”

  “There must be some legitimate Mr. and Mrs. John Smiths in the world.”

  “I certainly hope so. I wouldn’t care to have the reputation of the Pleasant sullied.”

  “Virtue is a state of mind, Rudley.”

  “Virtue is a state of mind,” he muttered as Margaret moved on to straighten the picture over the mantle. What in hell did that mean? He slumped over the desk. Next thing he knew, Margaret would be petitioning him to let Christopher and his bass viol move into the bunkhouse. Skinny wimp. He wasn’t sure if he approved of couples living together, without benefit of clergy. He and Margaret hadn’t shared a bed until their wedding night. Although, he thought, rubbing his chin and smiling a jaunty smile, I could have been persuaded. He slammed the ledger shut. He wasn’t sure if Christopher was the right sort for Tiffany. She needed someone to keep her grounded. “As Margaret did,” he said out loud, nodding confidently.

  “As Margaret did what?” she demanded.

  “As Margaret did wonderful watercolours.”

  She shot him a suspicious look.

  Rudley returned to his work, humming. Wonderful woman, Margaret. Kind to a fault. Optimistic — even though her optimism was usually quite unwarranted.

  He was still humming when the door opened and a chubby middle-aged man entered.

  “Mr. Harvey.”

  “R-R-Rudley.” Paul Harvey paused, casting an eye toward the dining room. “I thought I’d stop by and see what you were serving for lunch.”

  Rudley recited the menu. “Getting tired of your own cooking?”

  “If you call fried Spam cooking.”

  “I understand.”

  “And the chance for a little intelligent conversation is always welcome. I get a little tired of talking to myself.”

  “Go ahead into the dining room, Mr. Harvey. In the unlikely event that anyone capable of intelligent conversation shows up, I’ll send them your way.”

  “You’ve got a great sense of humour, Rudley.” Harvey gave him a wave and went on into the dining room.

  “I wasn’t trying to be humorous,” Rudley mumbled. He supposed a man could get hungry for a decent meal and some company, living alone as Paul Harvey did. From what he’d heard, Harvey didn’t have much of a social life. He belonged to a couple of clubs but most of the clubs in the village met only every two weeks and not at all during the summer months. He imagined the man got lonely. He knew he would have. He paused, brow furrowing. He’d never lived alone a day in his life. He had gone from a comfortable home in Galt to a university dormitory, then to the hotel rooms he occupied during his hospitality apprenticeship. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever eaten Spam. He smiled. He was a blessed man. God knows, man is a social animal, he mused, although he would have gladly eaten Spam from time to time if it meant escaping these ninnies for a few hours.

  He opened the accounts ledger and jotted a note. A crash made his hand skitter across the page. He looked up to see Aunt Pearl clutching the newel post. “Pearl, what the hell?”

  She dragged herself up. “No harm done, Rudley. I missed the bottom step. Damned trifocals.”

  “It wouldn’t be the Jack Daniels.”

  She gave him a reproachful smile. “Rudley, you know I don’t have a palate for southern spirits.” She grabbed his ar
m for support. “Anything interesting happening this morning?”

  “Actually, it’s been rather soporific, what with late nights taken up by chamber music and harp recitals.”

  “I’ll be glad when Tim gets back. This place is a grave without him.” She gazed dreamily across the lobby. “He’s in Acapulco as we speak. That lithe young body sprawled on a white beach under azure skies. The sun, hot, hot, hot. He’ll come back bronzed like a god, hair like corn silk. Those blue eyes.”

  Rudley cleared his throat. “Contain yourself, Pearl. The man’s fifty years younger than you.”

  “I could get around that.”

  “I don’t think you’re his type.”

  She paused. “You’re right. I probably can’t get around that. What’s a girl to do? You haven’t booked a single available man in my age group, Rudley.”

  “I must admit that’s a flaw in my booking schedule. I have never inquired in advance about a guest’s suitability for my wife’s aunt.” Who drinks like a fish and steals anything that isn’t tied down.

  Pearl peered into the dining room. “Is that that nice Mr. Harvey?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I’ve been meaning to get to know him better.”

  Rudley nodded. “But then you were distracted by Mr. Crowe, then Mr. D’Amato, then Mr. Peabody.”

  She smirked. “What can I say, Rudley? They swept me off my feet. That Mr. D’Amato. What an operator.”

  “Mr. Harvey is rather bashful.”

  “Margaret says he’s a gentleman.”

  “He is that.”

  “A retired gentleman.”

  “So I understand,” Rudley said absently.

  “What did he do?”

  “I believe he was a school teacher.”

  “Do you think he’d be interested in a little company?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Pearl. The man’s a virtual recluse.”

  “Imagine, a dreamboat like that.”

  “The man is bald and on the heavy side. I know your vision isn’t what it used to be, but you’re pushing the boundaries of imagination.” He took her elbow. “But if you’d like to have brunch with him, I think that could be arranged.” He steered her into the dining room. “Mr. Harvey, I believe you’ve met our Aunt Pearl.”

  Mr. Harvey stumbled up, making a grab for the chair as it tipped. “Miss Dutton.” He hesitated. “Would you care to join me?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Well, good.” Rudley pushed Pearl’s chair in. “I’ll run around to the kitchen and get you a nice omelet.”

  “And a half-glass of orange juice.”

  “And a half-glass of orange juice.” Rudley scurried off to the kitchen, reminding himself that he did at least promise Mr. Harvey an interesting tablemate. He barged into the kitchen where Gregoire was putting the finishing touches on a plate of bacon and home fries. He snagged a piece of bacon. “I’ve dragged Pearl in. Could you make her an omelet?”

  “Of course.”

  “And a half-glass of orange juice.”

  “To save her the trouble of drinking half a glass before she can empty her vodka into it?”

  “Right.” Rudley grabbed a cup of coffee and a croissant and returned to the desk. He considered himself a lucky man, with a lovely wife, a beautiful inn, and congenial staff. He reconsidered: Make that a lovely wife and a beautiful inn. He’d even devised a way to keep Aunt Pearl under reasonable control. Amazing what a dash of water in the whisky will do. A duplicitous act, he realized, but what the hell — it saved wear and tear on Pearl’s liver. She’ll probably outlive us all, he thought, turning to the cupboard door and flinging it open. The handle came off in his hand. “Well,” he muttered, “Lloyd will be back soon.”

  Lloyd could fix anything, and he was good in the garden, too. Rudley often thought the man was capable of being an ax-murderer. He had no evidence to support this belief, but the idea played on his mind from time to time. This morning, though, he waved the thought away and moved his mind toward something more pleasant.

  Halloween. He grinned a lopsided grin. That was it! Halloween at the Pleasant was the high point of the fall season. Tim and Margaret would go overboard with the decorations. They’d do the usual spectacles with dry ice and cobwebs fashioned from string and shredded cotton. Margaret could spin webs with the best of them. They’d do the cold hands from the shadows, accompanied by shrieks and maniacal laughter. Doors that opened on squeaking hinges. Tombstones scattered about the lawn. Caskets, some of them yawning open to reveal skeletal remains clawing at the edges. And of course there’d be the apple bob. Pin the tail on the donkey. The pumpkin-carving contest. Mulled cider. All of it capped off with the costume ball. He smiled, did a little shuffle, then fox-trotted across the lobby, neatly sidestepping Albert. “Best hoofer west of the Thames,” he said. He turned and ran smack dab into a wisp of a man, holding a valise.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. He caught the stranger’s nervous look as Albert raised his head. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t attack except on cue.”

  “Professor Wyler.”

  Rudley stared at the man, baffled. Then it came to him. “Oh, of course.” He trotted back to the desk and pulled out the register. “Yes, the Oaks.” He turned the register toward the guest. “Sign here, please.”

  The guest hesitated, then took the pen. He scrawled his name, then, looking over his glasses, said, “I don’t have any identification.”

  Rudley gave him a blank look.

  “I bought a new wallet. I forgot to transfer my identification.”

  “Do you plan to do a lot of driving?”

  “No. I have cash and traveller’s cheques.”

  “Then you should be all right. As long as you know who you are.”

  Adolph leaned in and whispered. “Will anyone know I’m here?”

  “Do you want anyone to know you’re here?”

  “No. I’m on sabbatical. You know how hard it is to get time away. When people know who you are and keep wanting things.”

  “I can relate to that.” Rudley went into the cupboard for the key.

  “Everyone wants to ask questions.”

  “What’s your field?”

  “Uh…English literature. The Romantic poets.”

  “Well, people would certainly be snapping at your heels if they knew that.” Rudley stopped Tiffany who was crossing the lobby. “Tiffany would you show Professor Wyler to the Oaks?”

  “Of course, Mr. Rudley.”

  “The usual orientation.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rudley.”

  Tiffany took Adolph’s valise and led him off toward the Oaks. Rudley checked the register. Terrible penmanship. He put the register down. “‘Oh, to be in England, now that April’s here.’”

  Margaret paused at the desk. “Rudley, how romantic.”

  “Our Professor Wyler just checked in. He specializes in the Romantic poets.”

  “I must see if he’ll do some Wordsworth for Halloween.”

  “Better not, Margaret. He indicated he wants his privacy. Heaven knows the rush that would occur if he started quoting Shelley.”

  “I do so love Wordsworth.”

  He folded his hands, looked skyward. “‘I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills.’”

  She beamed. “Rudley, you’re smashing.” She hurried away, humming.

  Rudley did a quick patter. “Not bad for a boy from Galt.”

  Chapter Five

  The stairs creaked as Serge and Mitch made their way to the third floor.

  Serge paused on the landing. “You could stand to lose a few pounds.”

  “If you hadn’t lost him outside of Tim’s, we wouldn’t need to be doing this.”

  “Just shut up and get ready to do the lock.” Serge eased down the hallway and stopped in front of Adolph’s apartment. “Pretty quiet. The tenants here must actually work for a living.”

  Mitch bent over the lock. “I got it,” he said fi
nally.

  “Okay.” Serge eased the gun from his belt.

  They entered the apartment. Serge jerked his head toward the living room. “Check that out.”

  Mitch inched his way toward the living room, circled through the kitchen, and reappeared at the door. “Nothing.”

  “Okay.”

  They moved down the hall. Serge opened the door to the linen closet and stared at the neat stacks of sheets and towels. “Check the bathroom,” he mouthed. He waited in the hallway, gun poised.

  “Nothing in here.”

  Serge stepped around him and flicked the shower curtain aside. They went back up the hallway.

  “Nobody home,” Mitch said.

  Serge went into Gerald’s room and kicked aside a pair of thongs. “Looks like somebody left in a hurry.” He turned to Mitch. “Go back and put the chain on the door.” He poked through the closet, then went into the bedside table and took out some envelopes. There was a credit-card application for Gerald Murphy, half-filled out, and a couple of pieces of junk mail. He grinned. “Look at this,” he said to Mitch, who had returned to the bedroom. “Birthday card. Hugs and kisses, Hector.” Serge moved to the bureau, opened one of the drawers, and rummaged through. He pulled out a pair of black pantyhose. He threw the pantyhose aside, jiggled open the bottom drawer. “Look,” he said, “falsies. They say he does porn. Maybe he’s a female impersonator too.”

  “Maybe he turns tricks on the side.”

  “Whatever.” Serge stood up. “Let’s see what’s in the other room.”

  They went into Adolph’s.

  “Looks like they both left in a hurry, ” said Serge. He went to the closet and pointed at a shirt with a button-down collar. “This one looks more conventional.” His gaze swept the room. He picked up a picture from the bureau. “Mom and Dad. And their three sons. Heartwarming. Which one do you think he is?”

  “Maybe none of them. Maybe he took the picture.”

  “Maybe he didn’t. Take a guess.”

  Mitch shrugged. “How in hell should I know?”

  Serge gave him a disdainful look. “I’d say, by the size of the shirts, he’s the shrimp on the end. The one who’s about the same height as the old lady.”