Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders

by Judith Alguire

  “It’s been a splendid party, Rudley.”

  Rudley glanced around. The party had dwindled to a few stray souls. “Thank you, Mr. Bole. I hope the guests had a good time.”

  “A good time, as always.” Bole tipped his hat. “Sorry about the accident.”

  Rudley put a hand tenderly on his right buttock. “All in a day’s work.

  Margaret waved to Mr. Bole as he left. “You were a good sport about that, Rudley.”

  “I’m just grateful she didn’t have more than a tack in her hand.” He looked around. “I take it Tiffany bribed the parents to take the last of the children.”

  “They’re all gone, Rudley. I think Tiffany went out back with Lloyd. They were going to light the jack-o’-lanterns and take some pictures for the scrapbook.”

  “Fine idea.”

  “I guess Christopher isn’t going to make it.”

  “Pity.”

  “And Jim didn’t show up. I thought he was keen.”

  “The man’s such an airhead, Margaret, he probably forgot the date.”

  Detectives Brisbois and Creighton emerged from the ballroom.

  “I wondered where you clowns had gone,” said Rudley.

  “Funny, Rudley.” Brisbois turned to Margaret. “Lovely party, Margaret.”

  “Any new ideas on Gerald’s murder?” she asked.

  “Nothing in particular. Just a few things jiggling around.”

  “With any luck they might run into each other by spring,” Rudley murmured.

  “Be nice, Rudley.”

  The detectives left. Mr. Frasor teetered out of the ballroom.

  “I guess I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He looked back over his shoulder, almost losing his balance. “Looks as if I’m the last one out.”

  “I take it you had a good time.”

  “I had a wonderful time, Mrs. Rudley. So good, I think I’ll come back next year.” He grinned. “Maybe sooner.”

  “Would you like an escort back to your cabin?”

  “No, I’ll be fine, Rudley. I could get there in my sleep.”

  “Good night, then.” Rudley turned to Margaret. “Did the mouse ever come back?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ll have to go down in the morning to apologize. I had no idea anyone would tamper with his head. I forgot to tell him it zippered on. I did it up for him but he wouldn’t stay.”

  Rudley stretched. “Well, apart from that, a good evening was had by all, I would say.”

  “Indeed.” She sighed. “I suppose we should go in and package up the leftovers.”

  He put an arm around her. “Take a break, Margaret. Tiffany and Lloyd will be back in soon. They’ll want a snack. Tim and Gregoire are still in the kitchen. They’ll want something, too. We might even get Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson back for a nightcap.”

  “They went upstairs rather early.”

  “Something about a big nose being seductive.” He smiled and turned to show her his profile. “I’ve always believed that myself.”

  She waved him off. “Oh, Rudley.”

  “Let me get you a glass of wine and we’ll…”

  Rudley’s words were lost in two sharp cracks, sounding out in rapid succession.

  Rudley stiffened.

  Margaret gasped. “Do you know what that sounded like?”

  “Yes, Margaret.” He grabbed her and pulled her down behind the desk.

  Tim reached for a walnut meringue. “I’m glad the guests didn’t scarf all of these.”

  Gregoire surveyed the sandwiches. “We have enough left over for some bedtime snacks. The children demolished everything I prepared for them.” He snapped to attention. “What was that?”

  Tim reached for a serviette and wiped his fingers. “One of our drunken patrons must have set off a firecracker.”

  “It sounded like a very big firecracker.”

  Tim reached for another meringue, then recoiled at the clank of metal on metal. “I think something just hit the flagpole.”

  Gregoire grabbed Tim’s arm. “That was not a firecracker.”

  “You’re probably right.” Tim dropped the meringue and dove under the table.

  Gregoire joined him.

  “It’s probably one of the boys from town,” Tim said. “Maybe that idiot who murdered the pumpkins last year.”

  “You mean tipping cows is now out of fashion?”

  “Guess so.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Call the police.”

  Gregoire glanced toward the phone. “Which one of us is going to put our head over the table?”

  “How about the short one with the tall hat.”

  Gregoire gave Tim a sour look.

  They were quiet for a moment, then Tim said, “I think Tiffany and Lloyd are out back.”

  They scrambled together for the phone.

  Margaret winced. “There’s another.”

  “I know.” Rudley pulled her closer.

  “What should we do?”

  “I’m not sure.” He paused, straining to listen. “I wonder where Brisbois and Creighton are.”

  “Probably halfway back to town.”

  “Of course.” He flinched as another report split the air, followed by a metallic ping. “I think he got the flagpole.”

  A door down the hall burst open. Light, rapid footsteps came up the stairs and advanced toward the desk.

  Rudley grabbed an ornamental door stopper. “Get ready, Margaret.”

  “Mr. Rudley, where are you?”

  “Tiffany, get in here.”

  She gasped. “Mr. Rudley, are you behind the desk?”

  “Don’t advertise the fact. Just get in here.”

  She toppled in beside him.

  “What in hell is going on?”

  “I was out in the back yard with Lloyd,” she whispered. “We were trying to decide how to arrange the pumpkins for the photographs. We thought we’d put them against the tall grass beside the bench.”

  Margaret’s voice rose an octave. “Is Lloyd all right?”

  The door banged open again. Footsteps pounded down the hall.

  “Yoo hoo.”

  “Lloyd.” Margaret waved a hand over the desk.

  Lloyd ducked in beside her.

  She touched his cheek, then recoiled. “Lloyd, what’s that on your face?”

  “Someone shot his jack-o’-lantern,” said Tiffany.

  “It was first-rate too,” said Lloyd. “Round like a marble and same colour all around.”

  “Was anyone else out there?” Rudley rasped.

  “Mr. Bole came by, then he was gone.”

  “Where?”

  “I guess to his cottage. He said, ‘Is that the jack-o’-lantern that won first prize?’ I said yes and he went on.”

  “Somebody’s got to do something.” Rudley popped his head over the desk. His eyes darted across the lobby to the unlocked door. He ducked as another shot rang out.

  “That one sounded close,” said Lloyd.

  “Albert hasn’t even opened his eyes.” Rudley lunged for the phone and dragged it in behind the desk. He stopped to catch his breath, then dialed 911. “Wood Lake Road. The Pleasant Inn.” He paused. “Why, I resent that, miss. It’s nothing to laugh at. Somebody’s shooting at us. What? All right.” He hung up. “Tim’s already called in from the kitchen.”

  “I hope he’s all right. Is Gregoire with him?”

  “We didn’t get that chatty, Margaret.”

  “Bring the phone around, Rudley. If he sees it stretched over the desk, he’ll know we’re here.”

  He scrambled to the task. He could hear wood splintering as he plastered himself to the side of the desk. “That better not have been the porch spindles.”

  “We can replace the spindles.” Margaret pulled on his arm. “See if you can wake Albert and coax him in here.”

  “I don’t think whoever it is will bother shooting him, Margaret. He looks dead already.”

  “Maybe we should lock the front door,�
� Tiffany said.

  Rudley hesitated. “Better not. In case someone needs to take cover.”

  “The police will be here soon,” said Margaret.

  They sat shoulder to shoulder, staring at the back of the desk. Rudley’s watch sounded loud against the silence.

  Rudley started. “What’s that?”

  “What?”

  “I heard steps on the gravel.”

  “Maybe a raccoon,” said Lloyd.

  “Damn big raccoon.” Rudley hitched back against the wall, strained to see through the window. His view was obstructed by a settee. “Where are the damned police?”

  “They were probably several miles away when the call went out, Rudley.”

  Another shot creased the air, followed by a flurry of steps down the staircase.

  “What’s going on around here?”

  “Pearl,” Rudley hissed, recognizing the voice, “get in here.”

  Pearl peeked in behind the desk, her mouth formed into a surprised O. “What’s everybody doing here?”

  “Those were gun shots, Pearl.”

  “I know they’re gun shots. I thought they were coming from the television.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “They aren’t shooting at us, are they?”

  He gave her a stricken look. “He, Pearl. I’d hate to think there’s more than one. And I don’t think he’s being particular. So far, he’s destroyed Lloyd’s pumpkin and probably hit a flagpole, a tree, perhaps a canoe, the veranda, or the porch spindles.” He flinched as a bullet flinted off something hard. “And perhaps a rock.”

  The shot was followed by a patter up the steps and onto the veranda. The door opened. Rudley peeked out to see a figure in a parrot mask poised uncertainly in the doorway.

  “Norman get in here and close the door.”

  Phipps-Walker approached and stopped in surprise when he saw the group huddled behind the desk.

  “Keep your head down,” said Rudley. “Didn’t you hear the gun shots?”

  “I did. I thought they were firecrackers at first.”

  “Did you see anybody out there?”

  “No.”

  “Where were the shots coming from?”

  “Up on the rise, I think. I didn’t pay much attention. I was down at the Elm Pavilion, showing the sisters my costume. They had the television cranked up.”

  “Did you see what he was shooting at?”

  “Couldn’t tell. One of the bullets hit something by the dock. Another one ricocheted off one of those big rocks and hit the cast-iron flower pot.”

  Margaret gulped. “Norman, how can you be so calm?”

  He thought for a moment. “I didn’t think he was shooting at me.”

  “I doubt if he was taking pains to miss you, Norman.”

  “I think I hear a car,” said Tiffany.

  A few minutes later, they heard steps on the veranda. After a long pause, the door burst open. Someone shouted, “Police!.”

  Rudley waved a hand over the desk. “It’s Rudley.”

  “Come up slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Rudley and the others stood in unison, hands reaching for the ceiling.

  The officer’s eyes widened. “You must have the whole inn in there, Rudley.”

  “Someone was shooting at us, you idiot.”

  The officer gave him a reproachful look. “How many shots?”

  “Eight at least. Perhaps nine. Are you all they sent?”

  The officer scanned the lobby. “We’ve got officers around the inn. Where did the shots come from?”

  “From the woods up on the rise,” said Phipps-Walker.

  “Okay.” The officer paused. “We’ve got someone out there who says you people know him.” He stepped to the doorway and motioned with one hand.

  Two officers entered with a bedraggled pirate between them.

  Tiffany’s eyes widened. “Christopher.”

  “So you do know him?”

  “It’s Christopher Watkins,” she said. “Christopher, what happened?”

  He gulped. “I was trying to surprise you, Tiffany. I was just coming into the dock when a bullet hit my boat.”

  “We found him hanging onto the dock by his fingertips,” the officer said with a smirk.

  “Hell of a time to be out on the lake,” Rudley said.

  “I had no idea it would take me so long to row down from Middleton.”

  “Well, don’t stand there dripping on the dog.” Rudley turned to the dining room door where Tim and Gregoire hovered, wide-eyed. “Gentlemen, could you get the man something to wear?”

  The officer waved everyone back toward the desk. “Stay away from the windows. Are the other doors locked?”

  “The side door is.” Rudley looked to Lloyd.

  “Back door too,” Lloyd said.

  “Good.” The officer looked around. “Anybody else in here?”

  “The guests are in their quarters,” Rudley replied, “except for Norman here. They’re either deaf or getting very jaded.”

  “Okay, you,” he said, pointing to Rudley, “dim down the lights.” He motioned to one of the other officers. “We’re going to check the rooms.”

  The officers returned a few minutes later. “Everybody upstairs is accounted for. They thought you had your television revved up but didn’t have the heart to complain. The young couple” — he grinned — “Miss Miller and Simpson were otherwise occupied.”

  “It had something to do with his nose,” said Margaret.

  The officer looked befuddled. “Stay put.” He started toward the door.

  “You aren’t leaving us,” said Tiffany.

  “He could come through the door any minute and mow us down, one by one,” Lloyd added.

  The officer put up a reassuring hand. “Relax. Officer Owens has volunteered to station himself outside your door.”

  “How very brave of him,” said Tiffany. She turned to Christopher. “Christopher, don’t drip on the desk.”

  *

  Brisbois and Creighton pulled up at the turnoff to the Pleasant and radioed the patrolmen. “Anything yet?”

  “We pulled a skinny pirate out of the lake. Otherwise, negative.”

  “Where are you positioned?”

  “We’ve got four guys up in the woods, one at the front door, one at the back door, and two checking out the cottages.”

  “Hear anything?”

  “No more shots since we got here.”

  “Okay. We’ve got a helicopter on the way. We’ll light up the woods.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Will do.” He paused. “These folks are crazy, you know.”

  “Acknowledged.” Brisbois took the keys from the ignition. “We’ll walk in from here.”

  Creighton reached into the back seat for their Kevlars.

  Brisbois waved the Kevlar off. “We’ll stay close to the lake, keep behind the big trees.”

  “You watch and I’ll listen.”

  They drew their guns.

  The staff and guests sat along the wall on benches and chairs pulled into the hallway, balancing cups of coffee and plates of leftovers.

  “I hope the ladies at the Elm Pavilion are all right,” said Margaret.

  “They’ve probably fallen asleep in front of a Hitchcock film,” Rudley said.

  “I’m sorry about your jack-o’-lantern, Lloyd,” Margaret said. “You didn’t even get a photograph.”

  “It was terrible,” Tiffany said. “Gouts of pumpkin flesh… I imagine the shrubs are plastered with it.”

  “I don’t understand why anyone would want to take pot shots at the Pleasant,” Christopher remarked.

  “The way things are going, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone dropped a bomb on us,” Rudley said.

  Margaret looked up in horror as the helicopter passed over.

  Brisbois and Creighton paused beside the Low Birches.

  Brisbois’ radio crackled. “Br
isbois,” he said. “Got something?”

  “Sprained ankle. Semple stepped in a hole.”

  “Well, damned to hell.” Brisbois switched the radio to his left hand, took out a package of cigarettes, fumbled one into his mouth, then handed a package of matches to Creighton.

  “I thought you were trying to cut down, boss.”

  “I didn’t ask for a health lecture. Just light the damn thing. No,” he said into the radio, “I don’t want paramedics going up there. He can walk on one leg, can’t he?”

  “Sure he can.”

  “I’ll have an ambulance meet us in front of the inn.”

  “Affirmative. Watch your step if you’re coming up here.”

  “Acknowledged.” Brisbois signed off, turned to Creighton. “I wish I could figure out what was going on.”

  Creighton gave him a slap on the back. “Aw, you always say that when we come up here.”

  “Just watch your step.”

  The ambulance screamed up to the Pleasant.

  “Now we have an ambulance,” said Rudley. In spite of Margaret’s protests, he got up and went to the door. He flung it open, catching Owens, who was on his way down the steps. “What’s that thing doing here?”

  “One of the officers stepped in a hole in the woods.”

  “I suppose that’s better than being shot.”

  Owens held up his hand. “Mr. Rudley, please go inside and lock the door.”

  “What about the guests in the cottages?”

  “We’re working our way around.”

  “One of the Benson sisters could have had a heart attack.”

  Owens sighed and got on his radio. “Richards, have you got to the old ladies in the Elm Pavilion?” He listened, then signed off. “Richards says they’re watching The Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.” He gave Rudley a beseeching look. “Please cooperate, Mr. Rudley.”

  “Oh, all right.” Rudley ducked back in and locked the door.

  “What’s wrong, Rudley?”

  “One of the officers stuck his big flat foot in a hole.”

  Pearl shook her head. “You don’t have any luck, do you, Rudley? I don’t think I’ve spent three days in a row here without seeing flashing lights and hearing sirens.”

  “Would you like a sandwich, Mr. Rudley?”

  “No, thank you, Tiffany.”

  “Salmon with dill pickle on whole wheat,” said Lloyd, “with a little dollop of Dijon mustard. And chocolate cake, three layers with jam filling in.”