Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders

by Judith Alguire

  “So what? We’re after the homo.”

  Serge turned to Mitch and spoke with exaggerated deliberation. “Because the homo probably spilled his guts to the shrimp. Maybe he’s his boyfriend. So we got to look for both of them. Maybe we’ll get a bonus.”

  “You think so?”

  “No. But if we leave any loose ends, we might get a couple of broken arms.” He paused. “Bring that picture.” He knelt and shuffled through the bedside table. “This one’s a lot neater. Oh, look here, income tax return. Adolph Green. Works at Concordia University. Who in hell would call their kid Adolph?”

  “Mrs. Hitler.” Mitch sat down on the bed. “So what do we do now?”

  “Come with me.” Serge led Mitch to the bathroom, looked around, then opened the medicine chest. “See what I see?”

  “What?”

  “No shaving gear. No deodorant. No combs. I’d say they packed up and left.”

  “So we’ve got to put the squeeze on another super.”

  Serge shook his head. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place isn’t a roach motel like the others.” He wandered out into the hall and checked out the living room before moving into the kitchen. He stopped and stared at the telephone.

  Mitch hitched up his pants. “I already checked that. There weren’t no messages.”

  “Look at this, turnip.” Serge punched in *69. He listened, then hit a button.

  “Good morning. Pleasant Inn.”

  “Oh, sorry. Wrong number.”

  “Quite all right.”

  Serge dropped the receiver into the cradle. “The last person to call here was somebody from the Pleasant Inn.”

  “So?”

  “The guys are missing. The last call they got was from an inn. What do you suppose that means?”

  “Nothing. I get stupid calls like that all the time.”

  “I think it means they hightailed it out of Dodge and maybe got a room at that place.” Serge took out his cellphone, punched in a number, and spoke quickly. “Yeah, just to let you know, we got a lead. We had to twist a couple of arms. Nothing serious. They know not to talk. Anyway, we think they’re headed for a place called the Pleasant Inn and…”

  The voice on the other end cut him off.

  “No kidding,” Serge said when the voice had finished. “Okay, we’ll come by.”

  He snapped the phone shut and turned to Mitch. “The boss says he knows the place. He’s got friends in the area.”

  Chapter Six

  Margaret was putting out flowers in the lobby when Jim Devlin swept in.

  “Margaret.” He put an arm around her and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Do you have time for coffee?” He glanced up and noticed Rudley glowering at him over the front desk. “Rudley, how are you?”

  “Perfect, thank you.”

  Jim returned his attention to Margaret. “I wanted to talk to you about my watercolours. I’m trying to decide which pieces to take to Portland.”

  Margaret squeezed his arm. “Here you are, showing your pieces, and all the time telling me you were just dabbling.”

  His eyes twinkled. “I lied.”

  I lied, Rudley mouthed.

  Margaret took Jim by the arm. “Let’s have a spot of lunch. Gregoire’s made some wonderful chicken Kiev.”

  Aunt Pearl wandered in from the drawing room. “Was that Jim?”

  “It was.”

  “Now there’s a real Adonis.”

  “I find him rather ordinary myself.”

  She smirked. “If that’s ordinary, you shouldn’t get out of bed in the morning, Rudley.”

  “I think it’s damned silly, a mature woman simpering over a callow youth.”

  “He’s a thirty-year-old hunk.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t distinguish that with a remark.”

  Pearl glanced back into the drawing room where a group of men were gathering around a card table. “I’d better get back to the game. I have a feeling I’m going to have a big afternoon.”

  “Don’t cheat.”

  “Rudley, what do you take me for?”

  “A geriatric alcoholic kleptomaniac. And a nymphomaniac to boot,” he said when she was out of earshot. “Adonis,” he muttered. “Thirty-year-old hunk.”

  He reached into a drawer, took out a pack of Benson & Hedges, and lit one. He took a hurried puff. So what if he looks as if he’d stepped off the cover of a Harlequin Romance, he thought. Doesn’t have a thing Rock Hudson didn’t. Rudley exhaled smoke through his nose. Yes, Jim Devlin was charming. And he supposed he could act. He’d done a passable Billy in Margaret’s production of Carousel. His singing voice was only a rich baritone, though. Give me a good tenor anytime, Rudley thought. Baritones are pretentious. He supposed, though, he should admire the young man for turning that abysmal brick up the bay into a bed and breakfast. He imagined the renovations had cost a pretty penny. He expected his parents had bankrolled him. “He lacks sincerity,” he said out loud.

  “Who, Mr. Rudley?”

  He looked up to see Tiffany. “Our elected representatives.”

  Tiffany craned her neck to see into the dining room. “I thought I saw Mr. Devlin come up the walk.”

  “You did.”

  “Isn’t he charming?”

  “If you say so.”

  He shooed Tiffany away. Of course an impressionable young woman like Tiffany would find this Lothario charming. Look what she had to compare him to — Christopher, that washed out string bean. Of course, Christopher played the bass viol. Rudley scowled. He supposed Devlin was a virtuoso on several instruments. “I can play the accordion,” he told Albert.

  He suddenly sensed someone behind him. “How in hell did you get in here?” he barked at Lloyd, who grinned.

  “I came out of the ballroom and took a left-hand turn in behind you because you said your drawers were sticking.”

  “They probably just need some Slide and Glide.”

  “They’re all warped and splintered seeing how they get mashed around so much.”

  “Hmm.” Rudley glanced toward the dining room. “What do you think of Devlin?”

  “He’s kind of friendly and he smells like Gregoire’s apple pie. And Aunt Pearl and Tiffany say he looks like a movie star. Tim looks like Paul Newman and Mr. Devlin looks like Pierce Brosnan. And Mrs. Rudley said you look like a movie star too.”

  “Did she say which one?”

  “Don’t know. Before I could hear they sent me to get the mail.”

  Rudley pretended to busy himself with the register. “And what do you think of Christopher Watkins?”

  Lloyd grinned. “He’s kind of jumpy.”

  Rudley paused. “Do you think Tiffany likes him?”

  Lloyd removed the drawers and stacked them on the desk to show Rudley the damage he’d done. “She likes that he plays the fiddle.”

  “Do you think she likes him well enough to go away with him?”

  “Guess so. She said she’s going up to the city with him for the plays.”

  Rudley started to say that’s not what he meant, then changed his mind. “Why don’t you take those things down to the workshop and see what you can do with them .” He waited until Lloyd left, then pulled a bottle of whisky from under the desk and poured two fingers into his water tumbler.

  He hated the thought of losing any member of his staff. Not that he would tell them that. Take Tiffany. Just a girl, really. Had a master’s degree in English Literature — that and a dollar could buy you a newspaper. Tiffany had been at the inn since coming to look for a summer job four years earlier. She seemed content with her situation, he thought. She’d decorated her quarters in the bunkhouse quite tastefully, had taken up writing, and regularly submitted stories to literary magazines. She’d even had some of them published. They were quite good, he considered, although a little arty. She’d always had a reasonable social life, but Christopher had lasted longer than her previous escorts.

  He frowned. What if Christopher go
t a job with a real symphony and left town, taking Tiffany with him? He dismissed the thought. Why would a young girl give up all this for a twit like Christopher? Room to herself. On duty twelve hours a day, six days a week. Excellent working conditions. He took a drink and smiled. Splendid boss.

  Lloyd returned. “Just came to measure the gliders.”

  “At least I don’t have to worry about losing you.”

  “I’ve got a compass.”

  Rudley hurried Lloyd through his measurements, then downed the remainder of his drink. The door opened and a small, older man with hazy eyes behind rimless glasses walked in. He carried a suitcase and a garment bag. Rudley stole a glance at the reservation list.

  “Roy Lawson,” the man said. He nodded toward Albert. “Nice dog.”

  “He’s a treasure.” Rudley turned the register toward Lawson. “Room 203. I take it you’ve come for the Halloween party.”

  Lawson wrote his name in a fine script. “I didn’t know about the party. I’m here on business.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I’m thinking of relocating my optometry practice. I thought I’d look into a few spots in the area.” He lowered his voice. “I was thinking about checking into the hotel in Middleton, then I heard how good the food was here.”

  Rudley drew himself up to his full height. “I can assure you, you won’t be disappointed.” He took down the key to room 203 and handed it to Lawson. Looking around and seeing neither Lloyd nor Tiffany, he added. “I’ll help you with your bags.”

  “Oh, no need, young man. I think I can manage.”

  “All right. Lunch is being served now. There’s a brochure in your room with the dinner hours. There’s a singalong in the ballroom and a euchre tournament in the drawing room tonight.”

  Roy smiled. “I thought I saw a card game going on in your side room when I came in.”

  “That would be poker.”

  “Playing for matchsticks or something more interesting?”

  “I would say something more interesting.”

  “I’ll stash my bags and see if I can sit in.” He saluted Rudley and trotted up the stairs.

  Rudley shook his head. Mr. Lawson was on a fool’s errand. He doubted if there was sufficient population in cottage country to support an optometrist. Why was a man of Lawson’s age looking for business opportunities anyway? He guessed he didn’t have enough sense to retire. A man would have to have an arid mind, he thought, not to have the imagination to enjoy his retirement.

  He paused and tugged at his ear. He’d never thought of retiring, really. How could one retire from the Pleasant? He considered this, then brightened. Being an innkeeper isn’t a job, Rudley, he said to himself, it’s a vocation. One couldn’t retire from a vocation. He had responsibilities to his guests, to his staff. The Pleasant was an institution. He was the keeper of a hallowed tradition.

  He remembered someone coming around with a survey once. Some damn MBA student. Wanted to know how he ran his inn. How did he spend his days? He hadn’t agreed to the project, but Margaret, for some fool reason, had given the young man permission. She had agreed to let him follow her husband around with a clipboard all day, watching him over his glasses and jotting notes. He had later sent along a copy of his results: Time spent at desk, starring into space — forty per cent. Rudley glowered in remembrance. Didn’t the young boob know that a great deal of an innkeeper’s life involved contemplation, planning? Time spent interacting with staff and guests — thirty per cent. At least, Margaret had commented, he didn’t break the interactions down to civilized versus uncivilized. Time spent searching for pieces of paper — twenty per cent. And God knows what he did with the remaining ten per cent, the student concluded. Cheeky, Rudley recalled. I should have complained to his supervisor. Since the young man disappeared the minute the clock struck four, he couldn’t have seen what went on all evening. Entertaining the guests, for instance. Discerning. Counselling. Walking the dog.

  Albert yawned, dribbling saliva over the rug.

  An innkeeper’s life is an onerous one, Rudley reflected.

  The phone rang. Professor Wyler calling from the Oaks to put in his lunch order.

  “May I recommend the spicy gazpacho. The crab cakes are nice today with potato puffs and a crisp chef’s salad. There’s also a vegetarian pizza with sun-dried tomatoes and feta cheese. Chicken Kiev. Crêpe or omelet of your choice. A sandwich? Of course.” He grabbed his pen and scribbled a note. “I’ll send it over right away.”

  He got off the phone and ran into the kitchen “Gregoire, the professor wants a cheese sandwich.”

  Gregoire rolled his eyes. “I suppose he would like it on gummy white bread.”

  “Actually, he’d like it on rye. And add a small bowl of clam chowder and a slice of lemon pie. I’m sure he’ll eat it if it’s on the tray.”

  “Very well.” Gregoire sighed. “One cheese sandwich. Swiss cheese on rye with lettuce.” He added a dollop of Dijon mustard and a swirl of alfalfa sprouts and placed a sliced dill at the side. He stood back. “There, there’s only so much you can do with a cheese sandwich.”

  “And you’ve done quite enough.” Rudley grabbed a tray and reached for the sandwich.

  Gregoire ladled out the soup, added a sprig of parsley and a sprinkle of fresh-ground pepper.

  “Pie.” Rudley held the tray out. “And a glass of milk.”

  Gregoire added a generous slice and a glass of milk.

  At that moment, Gerald came into the kitchen, fishing a package of Player’s Light from his pocket.

  “Going on break?” Rudley asked, regarding his newest staff member, who had arrived the day before.

  “Yes.”

  “Drop this off at the Oaks and take an extra five.”

  “You’ve got it.” Gerald took the tray and whisked out the back door.

  “Energetic,” Rudley remarked.

  Gregoire checked his gazpacho. “He’s as high as a kite almost all the time. Which is a good thing in a wait person.”

  “Hell to live with.”

  Gregoire slid a tray of potato puffs into the oven. “Believe me, in the short times I have lived with him, he is murder.”

  Gerald trotted over to the Oaks, shifted the tray to his left hand, and tapped on the door. The door opened a crack.

  “It’s me.”

  Adolph sighed and opened the door.

  “Your lunch.” Gerald’s eyes darted over the cabin. “Why have you got all the curtains drawn?”

  “It seems the prudent thing to do.”

  Gerald set the tray down. “Cheese sandwich? You could eat high on the hog here.” He parked himself on the bed and lit a cigarette.

  “Are you supposed to be doing that?”

  “I’m on break.”

  “What’s going on out there?”

  “The usual. People who’ve been coming here since the Ice Age. They eat a lot, play games, walk around, looking at the flora and fauna. They’re having a singalong tonight. I hear the staff takes part.”

  “Are you going to do your Barbra Streisand?”

  “I think I’ll just go with the flow.”

  “They seem like nice people.”

  Gerald took a long drag and relaxed. “They’re dears to work for. The old man yells a lot but nobody pays any attention to him.”

  “Maybe you could stay here forever.”

  Gerald rolled his eyes. “I’d be bored out of my skull.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being bored out of my skull, Gerald.”

  Gerald inhaled briskly. “I must admit there are a few goodies around here. A couple of hunks in for dinner last night. And this older guy, the silver-fox type, I’m sure he’s been sending me signals.”

  “How can you think of that at a time like this?”

  Gerald spread his arms. “At a time like what? There is no time here, Adolph. We’re timeless. We’re in a little bubble, perfectly insulated from the big, bad world. Nothing could possibly happen to us.”

  A
dolph picked up his sandwich, then put it down. “You can stay as long as you want to. I can’t.”

  Gerald jumped up and grabbed an ashtray from the desk. “I couldn’t stay here forever, even if I could. I’d go insane. I need bright lights, a little grit and glitz.” He paused. “I’ve been thinking. We can wait this out. Maybe once the big shipment is distributed, once the goods hit the streets without repercussions, they’ll figure we didn’t squeal and forget about us.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  Gerald sank down onto the bed again. “Nice digs you’ve got here.” He crushed the cigarette and lit another. “No, I don’t really think so. They’ll harass us to our graves. I imagine I’ll have to relocate to Antarctica. But as long as we stay here, we’re safe.” He gestured toward the tray. “Eat your sandwich. Next time, ask for the crab cakes. They’re to die for.”

  “You’re not making me feel any better.”

  “Look, you’re in a nice place. Try to enjoy yourself. Go down to the dining room. Join in some of the activities.”

  “I’d rather just stay here.”

  Gerald jumped up from the bed. “Okay, have it your way. I have to get back.” He paused at the door. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  Adolph followed him to the door. “I wouldn’t mind some decent books. The housekeeper keeps bringing me the collected works of dead white men.”

  “She means well. What do you want?”

  “Patricia Cornwell. Perhaps some Peter Straub. I’d like Koko if you could find it. I’d feel better knowing someone else is in a bigger horror show than I am.”

  Gerald patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay. Trust me.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Hold still, Rudley.”

  Rudley stood in the middle of his office while Margaret took in the ornate waistcoat.

  “This is what I get for maintaining my figure, Margaret.”

  “You haven’t gained an ounce since I met you.” Margaret stood back to examine the fit. “There it is. Perfect. Try the wig, Rudley.”