Chapter Twelve
“I think an original watercolour is an extravagant prize for the pumpkin-carving contest, Margaret.”
“It’s a small piece, Rudley, hardly more than a study.”
“What have you got for the apple bob?”
“Five pounds of Lucille Johnston’s hand-dipped chocolates. And for best costumes, a lovely selection of Eva and Mira’s maple butters and jams.”
“I’d like that one.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to win anything, Rudley. It would look as if the fix were in.”
Aunt Pearl came out of the dining room with Roy Lawson. “Toodle-oo.”
“Going out?” Rudley asked.
“We’re going to do the town.”
“That should take about five minutes.”
Roy smiled, displaying a gold incisor.
“We’ll probably grab a latte at the hotel, take in the chanteuse at the piano bar, then take a stroll along the pier.” Pearl lowered her voice. “Then who knows?” She smirked and grabbed Roy by the arm. “Let’s go, Roy.”
“She seems to have the old geezer firmly in her clutches,” Rudley remarked.
“The old geezer doesn’t seem to have any objections.”
“It’s a veritable match made in heaven.”
“Don’t be cynical. New love. Remember, Rudley?”
“Ah, yes, Margaret.”
Margaret sorted through a sheaf of papers. “Everything is coming together for the Halloween bash. I’ve got costumes arranged for everyone who didn’t bring one. We’re going to have a full house.” She paused and shook her head. “The professor. He hasn’t left his chalet. Hasn’t come up for a meal. He must be agoraphobic or an invalid of some sort.”
“Perhaps he’s both, Margaret. An invalid and an agoraphobic. He never orders anything of substance. He didn’t strike me as particularly robust when I signed him in. I thought he might faint before Tiffany got him to the Oaks.”
“Yes, he looked rather wan while Lloyd and I were helping him move his things to the High Birches the other day. I think I’ll pay him a visit tomorrow. See if I can persuade him to attend the party. I’m sure I can find an appropriate costume. We can’t have a guest come to the Pleasant and spend his entire visit sequestered in his cabin eating soup and cheese sandwiches.”
“Yes, we can, Margaret, especially one who is so paranoid about being mobbed over a few stanzas.”
“He’s a professor of literature, Rudley, a sensitive soul.”
Rudley gazed off across the lobby. “‘Hail to thee, blithe spirit…’”
She clapped her hands. “Rudley, you devil.” She gave him a kiss and took off toward the dining room.”
Rudley gave himself a pat on the shoulder. “You’re a regular ringed-tailed snorter, Rudley.”
A paper rustled in the corner. Rudley looked up to see Paul Harvey emerging from the wing chair in front of the mantle.
“Mr. Harvey, I didn’t know you’d come in.”
Harvey folded his newspaper and tucked it under his arm. “I went up to the village for the early movie. Thought I’d drop in for a glass of wine. You have the best wine cellar in the province.”
“Are you all right to navigate back to your spot in the dark?”
“I’m fine, Rudley. It was just one glass.” He edged toward the door as he spoke.
“Watch out for the shoals.”
“I’ll be careful.” Harvey smiled. “Good night, Rudley.”
“All right. Good night, then.”
Harvey left. Margaret returned. She paused to check the flowers on the mantle. “I should take Albert for his walk.”
“With his energy level you could trundle him about on a dolly.”
“They did say at the shelter he was a calm dog.”
“He’s practically comatose.”
She gave Albert a fond look. “But he’s so good-natured.”
“He is that.”
She slipped behind the desk. “I love this time of day, Rudley. The evening meal winding down. The guests gathering in the drawing room.”
“Ah, yes, Margaret, the end of another day. And a good day it’s been.”
Her brow puckered. “Except that Gregoire’s still in jail. On a matter of principle he won’t divulge.”
“I wish he’d be a little looser in his principles.”
“I’m going to talk to Detective Brisbois as soon as he comes back up.”
“Back up? I didn’t know he was here.”
“He is. I just saw him go down the path with Detective Creighton.”
Creighton and Brisbois moved along the perimeter of the Pleasant. The night was perfect autumn, mellow and warm, with clouds that drifted and shredded on a light breeze. Leaves crunched under their feet.
“I’m surprised Rudley hasn’t sent Lloyd to rake these up,” said Creighton.
Brisbois looked at him in surprise. “Why? They look nice. If you come to a country inn in the fall, you expect to be knee-deep in leaves. They’re part of the atmosphere.”
“They make a lot of noise.”
Brisbois considered this. “Yeah, it would be hard to move around quietly. But I suppose with animals always out and about, no one pays much attention.”
Creighton chuckled. “That dog Rudley got isn’t much, is he?”
“If you want a big easygoing mutt who takes up half the lobby, I’d say he’s just about perfect.”
They worked their way toward the bunkhouse, skirted the path, and climbed the slope to the wood lot. The lights from the inn twinkled between bare branches. They stood in silence, staring down toward the lake.
“Creepy,” said Creighton.
Brisbois did not respond. In spite of the inn and nearby cottages, the place felt deserted. He thought the lake had a different sound in autumn, heavy and foreboding. He missed the swish of the wind through green leaves; the sound of the water lapping against the dock seemed to carry further in summer. It was as if the landscape were giving in to the inevitability of winter. “What was it like that night?”
“A lot like this. Heavy fog packed in early morning.”
“This date Gerald had,” Brisbois said. “Nobody mentioned seeing a car pick him up.”
“No. The Phipps-Walkers just said he took off down the path toward the inn.”
“And nobody saw him come home.”
“No.”
Brisbois frowned. “How do we know he even had a date?”
“He told Trudy he had a date. She said she had a date and he said he did too and gave her a wink.”
“Maybe he was just teasing her,” Brisbois said.
“The Phipps-Walkers said he was dressed as if he were going out. Red shirt. Leather pants. Lipstick.”
“I guess that’s going out,” said Brisbois. He followed the moon as it slipped out from behind a cloud. “Have you noticed how this time of year the moon starts to look cold?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“This time of year would be perfect if you didn’t know winter was coming.”
“I guess there’s a downside to everything.”
Brisbois sighed. Creighton didn’t have a romantic note in his soul. He turned his attention to the landscape. The inn looked cozy and welcoming. Shadows drifted back and forth across the windows. Margaret might be presiding over a euchre tournament or an evening of charades. She liked all of the old games. He guessed that was why he felt so comfortable at the Pleasant.
Creighton studied him for a moment. “You seem kind of tense, boss.”
“I’m fine.” Brisbois exhaled sharply. What did he have to be tense about? His wife seemed a little distant these days. Why, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the new job at the bank, going from part-time to full-time with a promotion. Or maybe it was because their youngest was now away at university. That changed the routine around the house. With the kids away, with him working odd hours as usual, his wife had developed her own social circle. What did he expect her to do? Sit h
ome and knit?
“I hear Miss Miller’s coming for the Halloween party,” Creighton said. “Maybe she can help us tie up the loose ends.”
Brisbois cocked his head to hear a screech owl over Creighton’s chatter. He wished Creighton would learn to appreciate silence.
Miss Miller had kept him abreast of her activities since he met her at the Pleasant the summer before last. A few months ago, she had taken leave from her job at the Metropolitan Library, snared an assignment with the Star, and set out to travel the world as a feature writer. Her companion, Edward Simpson, had completed his doctorate in Canadian literature and was able to join her. He had received post cards from Hanoi, Shanghai, and most recently, from Outer Mongolia.
Miss Miller had saved his life once. He didn’t feel uncomfortable about that. Miss Miller knew that people were apt to get into a fix from time to time and need rescuing. She felt it was her duty to come to their aid.
He thought it would be fun to have Miss Miller as a partner. They’d make a great team — he with his logical detection techniques, she with her wild, and occasionally spot-on, leaps of logic. He glanced at Creighton who was absently snapping off twigs, breaking them into bits, and dropping them at his feet. No one could accuse Creighton of having imagination.
Not that Creighton didn’t have some admirable qualities. He was a good sounding board. He didn’t have a nerve in his body. Brisbois couldn’t think of a cooler head to have around if he were in a jam. He was a bit sarcastic, though. Maybe that’s why he was a bachelor.
“Doesn’t look as if there’s much for us to find here,” Creighton said.
“The pathologist found bruise marks on Gerald’s legs,” Brisbois murmured, “clearly identifiable as handprints. No finger-prints. The assailant was wearing gloves which had a trace of motor oil on them.”
“Yeah,” said Creighton, “somebody with big hands grabbed Gerald by the legs while the other guy’s sitting on his chest suffocating him. Maybe he did that to keep him from flailing around.”
Brisbois rubbed his forehead. “Our case against Gregoire would look a lot better if it had been cooking oil.”
“And if Gregoire had big hands,” said Creighton. “And if the phone logs didn’t confirm he’d made that call to the bunkhouse.”
“So maybe Gregoire didn’t kill him,” said Brisbois. “But then whoever did had to know nobody was staying at the bunkhouse except Gerald and Gregoire. And that person had to know pretty much exactly what time Gregoire left to go to the kitchen.”
“But that person didn’t expect Gregoire to come back down to the bunkhouse. At least not so soon.”
“Yeah.” Brisbois’ ears keened to the lake. “So what does that add up to?”
Creighton shrugged. “Maybe the date was with a guest. Nobody saw anybody pick him up or bring him home because the date was on the property.”
Brisbois smiled. “Intriguing possibility.” He took out a cigarette and lit it. “Maybe Gregoire isn’t talking because he doesn’t want to cause trouble for a guest.”
“Which means he doesn’t think the guest is the guilty party.”
“Could be.” Brisbois gave Creighton a triumphant look. “See what you can learn by wandering around in the woods?”
“I’ll bet we could have come to the same conclusion back at the office.”
“Yeah, eventually. After we’d got past trying to find the Rosetta Stone in our notebooks.” He started toward the inn. “We’ll have to interview everybody again.”
“Tonight?”
“No. Tonight we’ll go back over our notebooks and see what they said the first time.”
Chapter Thirteen
Margaret trundled the tray up to the High Birches and knocked on the door. Adolph opened it a crack.
She gave him her best smile. “Professor, it’s Mrs. Rudley. I’ve brought your lunch.” She hustled past him and plunked the tray down on the desk. “One bowl of cream of carrot soup and a whole-grained bun. I’ve taken the liberty of adding a salad and a nice piece of rhubarb shortcake.”
“Oh, I don’t know if — ”
“Nonsense, you need to keep up your strength. All that reading. Tiffany told me she brought you the complete works of just about everyone in your field.”
Adolph glanced at the thick volumes on the bookcase. “She did.”
“She has a passion for literature, as you may have guessed. These are her own volumes.”
“Yes, it was kind of her to bring them.”
“She’s a lovely girl.” Margaret took Adolph by the arm, steered him toward his tray. “Now, Professor Wyler, I don’t want to keep you from your lunch. But I want to make sure you’ll be joining us for the Halloween festivities.”
“I hadn’t thought about it, Mrs. Rudley.”
“It’s a costume ball with a historical theme. But you really wouldn’t have to adhere to the theme. You wouldn’t have to dress up at all if you didn’t want to. There’ll be lots to do.”
“Costumes?”
“Yes.” Her eyes brightened at his faint show of interest. “We’ve collected costumes of all sorts for our summer theatre. We have a sailor’s outfit for South Pacific and a cowboy for Oklahoma. You could come as a cowboy or a horse.” She thought for a moment. “That wouldn’t do, of course, unless you could find a partner.” She brightened, leaned forward. “How would you like to come as a riverboat gambler?”
“I don’t think that’s my style.”
“Let me think.” Her eyes lit up. “I know. Absolutely perfect. I have a mouse’s costume from a children’s play we did this summer. You could come as a rat from the Great Plague.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“It has the most wonderful head. Ears, whiskers, the cutest little mouse nose.”
“Mrs. Rudley…”
“Of course you’ll come. We can’t have you spending your whole time here, sitting inside, reading the Romantic poets, even if you do enjoy them.”
He hesitated. “No one would know who I was?”
She looked puzzled, then smiled. “Oh, yes, you don’t want to be pestered. Because of your specialty.”
“That’s right.”
“I understand perfectly. I, for one, would be after you all night, begging for quotes from Shelley, demanding insights into the affairs of Lord Byron.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with us.”
“I’ll think about it, Mrs. Rudley.”
“I know you’ll say yes.”
“Thank you.” He let her out and returned to his lunch. He picked up the roll, then put it down. He glanced at the door and realized he had forgotten to lock it. He got up, secured the door, and began to pace.
Mrs. Rudley was a lovely woman. Normally, he would have found her concern touching. Instead, he felt trapped. The idea of spending an evening in a mouse suit made his skin crawl. He would suffocate; the only way to get relief would be to remove his head — which he couldn’t do.
He lifted the curtain and peeked out.
Deathly still, apart from the occasional shriek of a jay. The inn was barely visible through the trees. He went back to the desk. Mrs. Rudley had set the soup in an insulated nest. It was still hot. He took a teaspoonful. His hand shook. He grabbed the serviette and dabbed at his chin.
Halloween. He imagined it. Dark and windblown. Menacing steps, their sound distorted by rustling leaves. The tree limbs groaning, muffling his frantic, choking pleas for mercy. He shuddered. No one would be around. Even that strange pair he had seen lurking back of his cabin with their binoculars and cameras would be down at the inn. He imagined the inn packed to the gills with noisy costumed revelers. Nobody would think of him. He might even have trouble getting his supper delivered.
He forced himself to try a piece of the roll. It stuck in his throat, causing him to drop his serviette and beat on his chest to dislodge it. He took a drink of the milk and, gradually, the spasm subsided.
He felt lonely and terrified. He had barely
slept. Perhaps, if he slipped a bag of ice cubes inside the mouse suit, he could bear the heat. He checked the small tray in his bar refrigerator. It was half-full. He carried the tray to the sink, filled it, and returned it to the freezer, slopping water across the floor.
He went to the door and checked the lock. Somehow they had found them. They had killed Gerald and they would kill him too. It was just a matter of time.
He picked up the phone. “May I speak to Mrs. Rudley?”
“Speaking.”
“I’ve decided to take you up on your gracious offer of the mouse costume.” He paused while she expressed her enthusiastic approval. “Are you sure no one would know I was in that costume?”
She told him it would be their secret. He hung up, feeling relieved. He trusted her. He went back to the table and tackled the soup, spoonful after shaky spoonful.
Brisbois sat down on a bench near the dock and began to thumb through his notes. “Let’s sort this out. The Phipps-Walkers and the Sawchucks saw Gerald and Gregoire having an argument around 10:30 in the evening. Gregoire went back into the bunkhouse. Gerald took off toward the inn.”
“And no one admits seeing him again.”
“Okay.” Brisbois flipped a page. “We can rule out Gregory Frasor. He was in the hotel bar in Middleton until 12:15.”
“At which time he was thrown out for getting drunk and making an ass of himself. The bartender was gracious enough to call a cab, which delivered him to the Oaks at about 12:40.”
“Sparing the paramedics the job of scraping him off a spruce tree.” Brisbois waved a hand. “We have the Sawchucks and the Phipps-Walkers and the old dolls at the Elm Pavilion, all of whom I believe when they say they didn’t have a date with Gerald.”
Creighton laughed. “Hey, I think the Benson sisters would be a lot of fun.”
“James Bole was in town attending a performance at the public library. Jazz quartet. He stayed for refreshments and didn’t return until 11:30.”
“Gerald wasn’t his type anyway.”
Brisbois ignored him and focused on his notebook. He paused. “What about this guy? Salvadore Corsi. Says he last saw Gerald in the dining room.”
Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders Page 8
