Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders

by Judith Alguire

  Rudley glanced toward Ruskay. “You’re sure he was dead when you pulled him out of the water?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, damn.” Rudley waved to get Ruskay’s attention. “I want to talk to Gregoire.”

  Ruskay sauntered over to the tape. “I’m afraid not. We’re about to take him to the station.”

  “What in hell for?”

  “We need to question him further.”

  “How much further?”

  “I can’t say.” He took a roll of police tape from his pocket. “We’re going to cordon off the bunkhouse. No one’s allowed in.”

  “Now see here, Ruskay.”

  “We’re waiting on a search warrant.” Ruskay turned away.

  Norman tugged at Rudley’s sleeve. “Who’s going to fix breakfast, Rudley?”

  “Lloyd” — Margaret put a tray on the trolley — “take this to the Sawchucks, please. And if anyone’s waiting, find out what they want.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “That’s a dear.”

  Rudley stood over the counter, hacking up strawberries and melon. “After what’s happened, those philistines should be satisfied with toast and coffee.”

  Margaret patted her forehead with the tail of her apron. “We have to carry on, Rudley. Mind you don’t bruise the strawberries.”

  “I don’t know why they had to take Gregoire to the station. I don’t know why they won’t let us talk to him.”

  “I suppose they don’t want us interfering with the investigation.”

  “Since when have we interfered?” Rudley paused to mop up juice from the mangled strawberries. “Ruskay knows Gregoire wouldn’t kill anyone.”

  Margaret sighed. “Who knows what any of us would do in the heat of passion.”

  “I hope you’re not going to say that when they ask — as they inevitably will.” Rudley put the knife aside and pulled out a tray of fruit nappies.

  “I’ll be discreet.”

  “If that damned Phipps-Walker had only kept his mouth shut.”

  “The police would have heard about the argument one way or another.”

  Rudley grabbed a tray of croissants. “No, they wouldn’t have. Not one of them could find his head if it weren’t attached to his shoulders.”

  “Be nice, Rudley”

  Lloyd returned with the trolley. “Mr. Bole wants blueberry pancakes and sausage. He says he wants the pancakes with two pats of butter put on just as they come off the griddle, and maple syrup on the side. Warmed.”

  “Tell Mr. Bole to take a flying leap.”

  “And the sausage. Three of them, with a dollop of mango chutney on the side. A garnish of thin-sliced orange and strawberries cut in quarters with a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar. He says Gregoire would know how to do it just so, but you would have to be told.”

  “Mr. Bole is just being helpful,” said Margaret as Rudley’s face turned red.

  “And Mr. Sawchuck said to tell you the coffee was — ”

  “Tell Mr. Sawchuck — ”

  “ — the best he’s ever had.”

  “Well, we have at least one guest with a discriminating palate.”

  “Lloyd, dear, would you go into the pantry and bring out another tray of eggs?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “We’ll get by, Rudley.” Margaret gave his arm a squeeze, leaving a handprint of flour. “Gregoire will be back by lunch. Everything will be all right.” She paused. “Poor Gerald. It will be a while before everything is normal again.”

  He glared at the wall. “It seems to me, Margaret, everything is entirely normal.”

  A dusty grey sedan pulled up to the bunkhouse. Detectives Michel Brisbois and Chester Creighton got out. Brisbois, the older of the two, started to button his jacket, then gave up. Creighton tall and angular, stretched and yawned. Ruskay trotted down to meet them as they advanced toward the lakeshore.

  “I was planning a quiet day reading the Sunday Star, Stan,” Brisbois said in greeting. “I’d like to hear some compelling evidence that this is a murder scene.”

  “Well, sir,” Ruskay began, “it was the way they found him. His head and shoulders were in the water. The rest of him was sprawled on the bank.”

  Brisbois took out his notebook. “Had he been drinking?”

  “No evidence of that so far.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Nothing on him. Nothing in the bunkhouse except a bottle of Tylenol. There was half a bottle of wine and a six-pack in the refrigerator.”

  Brisbois’ eyes drifted over the body. “Who’s the victim?”

  “Gerald Murphy. He’s been working here as a waiter the last two weeks.”

  Brisbois made a note. “Who found him?”

  “Gregoire. Then Phipps-Walker came by in his boat. He states he found Gregoire kneeling over the victim.”

  “Phipps-Walker? That old coot’s here again?”

  “Yes. He says Gregoire’s eyes were like saucers. That he had to prompt him to get him to help get the guy out of the water.”

  “Okay.”

  “They got him out. Tried to do CPR. No luck. Phipps-Walker called 911 on his cellphone. The call was clocked at headquarters at ten to five.”

  “Around five. How come Gregoire wasn’t in the kitchen?”

  “Says he was. Went up at four, as always. Phoned down at a quarter to five to wake Gerald up. Didn’t get an answer. Came down to the bunkhouse. Found Gerald’s room empty. Went looking for him. Almost tripped over him. Then Phipps-Walker came out of the reeds in his boat.”

  “What in hell was Phipps-Walker doing in the reeds?”

  “He said he was fishing.”

  Brisbois massaged his forehead. “Go on.”

  “The deceased wasn’t wearing anything except a pair of red jockey shorts. The coroner thought they were silk.” He looked to Brisbois for validation of his opinion of this perversion. Brisbois merely shrugged so he went on. “There were clothes strewn around his room. Apparently, he was out last night. Had a date. Nobody seems to know what time he came in.”

  “Okay.”

  “There’s a bit of a mess in the room. The doily on the night table’s half off. There’s some stuff on the floor — one of those mini-flashlights, a watch, some change. Otherwise, nothing.”

  “What about his wallet?”

  “In his pants pocket. Looked intact. Identification. A few dollars.”

  “Door jimmied?”

  “No sign of that. According to Gregoire, both the doors — the victim’s and the main door — were ajar when he came up.”

  “Did he lock the main door when he went up to the kitchen?”

  “No. Apparently that’s usual.”

  Brisbois shook his head. “Given that they had a murder here last year, you’d think they’d lock up like Fort Knox.” He thought for a moment. “So the guy gets up. He’s been out late. Goes outside to clear his head. Maybe he dunks his head in the lake, except he goes too far forward, panics and drowns.”

  Ruskay’s shoulders sagged.

  Brisbois pushed back his hat. “I’m simply offering an innocent explanation. I agree it doesn’t smell right.”

  “There’s another thing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Witnesses overheard them — the victim and Gregoire — having an argument last night.”

  “Time?”

  “Around ten. The Phipps-Walkers were out looking for birds. And Walter and Doreen Sawchuck, they were taking a walk along the shore. Gregoire and the victim came out onto the porch. I guess it was pretty loud.”

  “Could they tell what the argument was about?”

  Ruskay consulted his notes and read back what Norman had told him.

  “‘Poo to you?’”

  “Yeah. When Gregoire saw the Phipps-Walkers he broke it off and went back inside.”

  “What does Gregoire say they were arguing about?”

  “He refused to say. That’s why we took him in.”

  “And locked him
up?”

  Ruskay flushed. “He’s a suspect. He refused to cooperate. He was at the scene. They’d had a fight.”

  “It’s okay, Ruskay. You did the right thing.” Brisbois turned to Creighton who was conferring with an officer on the bank. “What do you see, Creighton?”

  Creighton stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Not much. Rudley keeps things pretty tidy. A stray butt or gum wrapper would stand out like a sore thumb. There’s a mess of footprints in the soft soil near the edge. The team lifted a couple, but there were a lot of different people around — Phipps-Walker, Gregoire, the paramedics.”

  “Was our victim wearing shoes?”

  “No.”

  “Any barefoot prints?”

  “No.”

  Brisbois nodded. “Okay.” He motioned to Ruskay. “Back up a bit. What did Gregoire say exactly about his itinerary this morning?”

  Ruskay thumbed through his notebook. “He says he got up at a quarter to four. He showered, shaved, dressed. He was in the kitchen at five after four. At a quarter to five, he called the victim to wake him up. Apparently, Gerald wasn’t used to the early hours they keep around here. He didn’t get an answer so Gregoire went down to the bunkhouse.”

  “So he got down here around a quarter to five.”

  “Yeah.”

  Brisbois paused to follow the flight of a pair of ducks. “Any idea how long the guy’s been dead?”

  “The coroner thought not long, maybe a couple of hours on the outside.”

  “Strange.” Brisbois took a few steps away, turned back. “Did Gregoire see him before he went up to the kitchen?”

  “He says he didn’t.”

  “Did he see him come in last night?”

  “No.”

  “Do we know if he came in last night?”

  Ruskay scratched the back of his neck. “Gregoire said the victim left his door open when he went out last night. It was closed when he got up this morning.”

  “So somewhere between four and five, the victim ended up in the drink. Unless he wasn’t in his room. In which case, he could have been in the drink before Gregoire went up to the kitchen. Assuming Gregoire’s telling the truth.”

  Creighton chuckled. “You don’t seriously believe Gregoire killed that guy.”

  Brisbois gave him a sharp look. “I don’t know anything at this point. Phipps-Walker could have done him in for all I know.” He turned back to Ruskay. “Did Phipps-Walker volunteer this information about the argument out of the clear blue?”

  Ruskay thought for a moment. “No. I asked him if the two guys knew each other. He said he understood they both lived in the bunkhouse, then he added that bit about the argument.”

  Brisbois frowned. “What about the rest of the staff, the ones who live in the bunkhouse?”

  Ruskay consulted his notes. “The maid, Tiffany Armstrong, she normally lives there, but she’s in Toronto for the weekend. The waiter, Tim McAuley, he’s on vacation in Mexico. The maintenance man, Lloyd, he’s still camping out in that shed behind the inn. I guess he doesn’t move into the bunkhouse until the lake freezes over.”

  “Yeah, I remember that.” Brisbois smiled, recalling a previous murder he had investigated at the Pleasant. “Something about getting more fresh air.” He sobered. “So, it was just the two of them in the bunkhouse last night.”

  “As far as anybody knows.”

  “Any history of bad blood?”

  “Nothing I’ve heard so far. Rudley says Gregoire asked him to take Gerald on because he was between jobs and short on cash. They expected he’d be around for two or three weeks but they were planning to keep him on until he got something else.”

  “Didn’t rub anybody the wrong way?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anybody have any idea where he went last night?”

  Ruskay shook his head.

  “Okay.” Brisbois reached into his pocket and took out a package of Nicorette gum. He looked at it, put it back, and took out a pack of du Maurier instead. He lit one. “Let’s take a look through the bunkhouse,” he said to Creighton. “Then we’ll go back to Middleton. Look in on Gregoire.” He turned to Ruskay. “Get a list of all the guests who’ve been here since Gerald arrived.”

  Creighton grinned. “Don’t you want to go up to the inn and bug Rudley?”

  Brisbois shook his head. “I think we’ll put that off as long as possible.”

  Chapter Ten

  “I must say, Rudley,” — Mr. Bole looked over his half-glasses at Rudley, who loomed over him, crushing the hem of his apron with his right hand — “these pancakes are a bit dense.”

  “They’re hardy, Mr. Bole. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”

  “Then I suggest you give it back to her.” He paused. “Do you have any of those frozen ones kicking around? You just put them in the toaster. Can’t go wrong.”

  Rudley swept up the offending plate. “I’ll give it another try.” He scurried back to the kitchen. “Margaret, Mr. Bole insulted my pancakes.”

  “I’ll have Lloyd do up a plate for him. The Phipps-Walkers raved about the batch he did for them.”

  Rudley glared. “If they’d taken a good look at his fingernails, they would have ordered out.”

  “Be nice, Rudley.” Margaret lowered her voice. “Lloyd’s an orphan.”

  Lloyd grinned. He wasn’t an orphan, but since this bit of fiction brought extra pieces of pie and endless sympathy from Mrs. Rudley, he was happy to maintain it. “You got to get the grill hot so the little drops of water hiss and scoot,” he explained. “Then you got to wait until the whole upside of the pancake is covered with little bubbles. Then turn it over and wait just so.”

  “I think that’s the problem with yours, Rudley,” Margaret said. “You aren’t waiting.”

  “I don’t have time to wait. I have an inn to run. Have you heard back from Cooper?”

  “He’s just been taken on at the Water’s Edge.”

  “Farrell?”

  “He’s gone back to Ireland. He was offered a wonderful job in Dublin.”

  “Call Cooper and offer him double what Watt’s paying him,” Rudley said. His words pained him.

  “We can’t poach other people’s chefs, Rudley. You wouldn’t want anyone to do that to us.” Margaret patted her brow. “I’ve left a message for Mr. Cadeau. I know he’s available.” She met Rudley’s stare. “They let him go from the Water’s Edge.”

  “What was he trying to do? Palm off a bear as filet mignon?”

  “I think the Watts got tired of his temper. He did very well when he filled in for us last time.”

  “He’s a pain in the ass.”

  “We need him, Rudley. The guests have been patient. We’ll ask him for the week. I’m sure Gregoire will be back by then.”

  “What in hell are they keeping him for?”

  “I suppose it’s because of the bad luck they had last time, Rudley. They gave their suspects free reign.” She lowered her voice. “You know what happened last time.”

  “I know what happened last time, Margaret.”

  She eased the spatula from his hand. “Rudley, why don’t you go out to the desk? We can manage here.”

  Lloyd grinned. “Probably better.”

  Brisbois returned to the interview room with a cup of coffee and closed the door behind him. He spread out his notes and perused them, tapping his pencil against the table.

  “Gerald wasn’t drunk and we don’t have anything so far on the tox screen,” he said to Creighton. “He didn’t drown. He was smothered. In his own bed. Probably with that pillow we bagged. Pathologist notes bruising on his chest. Pre-mortem. Suggesting someone sat on his chest while they were smothering him.” He grimaced. “Nice. He was then dumped upside down in the lake to make double sure.” His brows arched. “Look at this. His toes were dirty. Dorsal surface. But the soles were clean.”

  Creighton looked up from his notes. “Dorsal. That’s the top?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He w
as dragged out face down.”

  “And what does that suggest?”

  Creighton shrugged. “Maybe two people.”

  Brisbois cocked an index finger at him. “Could be. One person would have dragged him out backwards. Face up. The dirt would have been on his heels. Two people? They probably dragged him out, one under each arm.”

  Creighton tore a piece from the edge of his Styrofoam cup and flipped it into the ashtray. “It’s hard to imagine Gregoire being involved in that.”

  “The Crown didn’t think so.” Brisbois shrugged. “It’s hard to see him getting a body out of the bunkhouse by himself. But he could have. As for smothering him, it wouldn’t have been that hard. The victim’s asleep. Completely off his guard. Even if he woke up, what does he see? Gregoire. He wouldn’t see any danger. After that? Well, I wouldn’t want to have Gregoire sitting on my chest. He’s built like a fireplug.”

  “Gerald was quite a lot bigger. He could have bucked him off.”

  “Maybe he woke in a state of panic, confusion. He didn’t think about what was on his chest. He was pawing at the pillow.”

  Creighton gave him a look. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t see Gregoire doing something like that, even if he could.”

  “Okay.” Brisbois reviewed his notes. “Gerald was going somewhere. Where did he go? Who did he go with?”

  “That we don’t know. Yet.”

  Brisbois bounced his pencil off the table, caught it. “What I don’t get is why Gregoire won’t talk to us. Tell us what they were fighting about.”

  “Either he’s guilty or he’s protecting someone.”

  Brisbois tugged at his collar. “What did you get on those phone calls of yours?”

  Creighton picked up his notes. “Gerald Murphy. Last worked as a waiter at Le Cirque Rouge in Montreal. He also did a floor show there. Female impersonator. Specialized in Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand.” He shook his head. “Don’t these guys have any imagination? They’re always Judy or Barbra.”

  Brisbois waved his pencil to urge him on.

  “Anyway, he lost his job at Le Cirque when the place closed. Rent got too high. The address they had on him was a non-starter. The landlord said Gerald moved out without leaving a forwarding address. His boss, Guy Lambert, said he was a good waiter and did a good show. He didn’t know much about his private life. Said he was very big on making a name for himself in show business.”