Simpson spoke up. “I think Elizabeth’s plan is our best hope, Mr. Harvey.”
Harvey crossed himself.
Chapter Seventeen
Brisbois walked out onto the porch, hands stuffed into his pockets. “Something happened in there. Chair knocked over, broken vase, flowers, water on the floor. I can’t see someone going off and leaving a mess like that.”
“Didn’t notice a cat around,” said Creighton.
“Let’s check out the boathouse.”
“Would be nice if he had a phone,” Creighton added.
“Now we know why Harvey dropped by the Pleasant instead of phoning.”
They climbed up a short rise, passing under a stand of weeping willows.
“Beautiful place,” Brisbois remarked.
“Inboard’s gone,” Creighton said when they arrived at the boathouse.
“Try this: Miss Miller and Simpson go off on a canoe trip. They stop at Mr. Harvey’s. He invites them to go for a ride in his boat.” Brisbois tipped his hat forward and massaged the back of his neck. “Except the house was a mess.”
“Try this, then,” Creighton responded. “Somebody bumps into the table, knocks over the vase, and grabs the chair for support. It falls over. Harvey planned to take his guests for a boat ride. He decides to clean up the mess when he gets back. It’s getting late. He wants to take advantage of the daylight.”
Brisbois frowned. “How long would it take to pick up a vase, straighten a chair, and clean up a small puddle of water?”
Creighton looked across the lake. “Boss, I think we should go back to the Pleasant and phone in, get the patrol boat to take a look around.”
Brisbois nodded. “Let’s take a run up the other way, take a quick look around, then we’ll go back to the inn.”
Margaret’s hand hovered over the telephone. “Rudley, I’m calling the police.”
“Give them another few minutes, Margaret.”
Margaret glanced at the clock. “The hour’s up. We agreed we’d call.”
“Very well. But you realize we’ll look like complete fools when they arrive back safe and sound.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
Serge checked his watch. “We should be in the middle of the islands in ten minutes.”
“Should I go down now?”
Serge’s gaze swept the horizon. He stiffened. “Stay cool. There’s an outboard on our tail.”
Brisbois leaned forward. “That’s Harvey’s boat.”
“I see it.”
“Can you go any faster?”
“Opening her up.”
“Pull alongside.”
Serge jerked his head toward a pair of binoculars suspended from a hook under the control console. “See what’s up with that boat.”
Mitch took the binoculars and squinted into them. “A couple of guys in suits and ties. You’ve got to be kidding.”
Serge grabbed the binoculars and took a look. He slammed them into Mitch’s chest. “Cops.”
“Maybe we can outrun them.”
Serge licked his lips. “No. We’ll let them come alongside. We’re just two guys out for a boat trip. If we don’t like the way things are going” — he nodded toward the rifles — “blow them out of the water.”
“They’re slowing down,” Creighton said.
“I guess they want to talk to us.”
Miss Miller crept to the door. “They’re stopping.”
Edward touched her shoulder. “That might not be good news, Elizabeth.”
Adolph blanched.
Brisbois stood up and waved his arms. “Gentlemen.” His eyes swept the cabin cruiser.
Serge turned to Mitch and nodded. Creighton’s hand moved toward his holster. Too late. Bullets danced in the water, ripping through the bow of the outboard. Brisbois pitched into the water. Creighton ducked behind the boat as it capsized.
Brisbois surfaced beside him. A bullet splintered wood inches above their heads.
“Duck.” Creighton dove, dragging Brisbois with him.
Serge turned to Mitch. “Lousy shooting.”
“The boat was moving around.” Mitch stared at the water. “I think I got them.”
“There’s probably more coming.” Serge wavered, hand on the wheel. “Okay, set the damn thing on fire and get ready to ditch.” He grabbed a can of gasoline. “If you forgot to tie that outboard down, now’s the time to tell me.”
Simpson’s nose wrinkled. “I smell gasoline. I believe they’re about to scuttle the boat.” He gave Miss Miller an aggrieved look. “What now, Elizabeth?”
Brisbois and Creighton surfaced against the side of the inboard. Creighton grabbed Brisbois’ hand and plastered it to a bumper. “Hang onto this.”
They heard a splash.
“Either that’s a big fish or somebody’s going for a swim,” Creighton whispered.
They heard a second splash. An outboard motor spluttered, then caught.
“We’ve got to get onto that boat.” Brisbois grabbed the rope attached to the bumper and hauled himself up the side.
Creighton followed.
“We’re on fire,” Brisbois gasped. He struggled over the rail.
The deck was a wall of flames. Brisbois recoiled against the railing. He heard pounding from the hold. He ran to the door and kicked hard. The door broke open. Miss Miller, Simpson, Harvey, and Adolph tumbled out.
Creighton grabbed the fire extinguisher. “Everybody go starboard and bail,” he shouted.
Adolph hovered at the railing. “I can’t swim.”
Creighton snatched a cushion from a deck chair and threw it at him. “Take this and get the hell out of here.” He fought the fire until everyone had jumped, then flung the exhausted extinguisher at the flames, and dove over the railing.
They swam away from the boat, Miss Miller hauling Adolph in her wake. Harvey led the way with surprising grace and strength. Creighton thrust the cushion toward Brisbois. “I think you’d better have this.”
“It looks like a long way to shore.”
Creighton threw his head back to clear the hair from his eyes. “Just stick with me.”
Brisbois thought he’d rather stick with Miss Miller, but she had Adolph to contend with.
An explosion ripped the air as the fire hit the gas tank.
“That should bring someone,” Creighton said.
“Hope so,” Brisbois gasped. “This water’s damned cold.”
Creighton scanned the horizon. “I’ll be…”
Two outboards were making their way toward them.
“I think we’re saved,” said Creighton.
“Margaret phoned the police,” Rudley said. “But she didn’t think they were taking her seriously.”
“They didn’t express sufficient urgency to suit me,” Margaret said. “So we decided to take a look for ourselves.”
“Then we got partway out and heard a big bang and saw things flying through the air,” Lloyd added. “And Mr. Rudley said, ‘There they go.’”
Simpson flinched.
“Your timing was perfect,” said Miss Miller. “We would have had trouble, keeping everyone together in the dark.”
Rudley folded his arms. “All in a day’s work.”
Creighton came into the lobby, looking svelte in a pair of Tim’s jeans and a white shirt. He laughed when he saw Brisbois in one of Mr. Sawchuck’s golf shirts and shorts. “Cute.”
Brisbois gave him a stern look. “What’s the word?”
“Our guys found the getaway boat, partially submerged, a half-mile up from where the boat exploded. They’re checking it out.”
“Any sign of our pirates?”
“Nothing. They searched the shoreline where the boat was scuttled. No footprints. There’s a big sheet of rock up there, where they might have come ashore. Or maybe they did us a favour and drowned.”
“They were wearing lifejackets.” Brisbois sighed. “Well, we’ve got a pretty good description.”
Creighton flipped op
en his notebook. “The one guy, slightly above average height. Mesomorphic build.” He winked. “That was from Miss Miller.”
She tilted her head and smiled.
“The other one, maybe five-seven. Chunky. Black ball caps, mirrored sunglasses. Jeans. Windbreakers. One black, one navy. Maple Leaf logos on the caps and jackets. No visible scars or tattoos. One was wearing black leather gloves. The other one, driving gloves. Grey with black palms. Moustaches. No beards. ”
“With that description you could arrest Reg and his son from the marina.”
“Mind your manners, Rudley.” Margaret paused. “They wouldn’t have got away with this in the summer. The cottagers would have noticed right away when the boat blew up and would have been waiting at the shore.”
“I noticed it right away,” Simpson murmured.
“Did they say how Harvey’s doing?” Brisbois asked.
“They don’t think he had a heart attack or anything,” Creighton reported. “They think he may have pulled some rib muscles hauling his great bulk through the cold water. They’re keeping him in hospital overnight for observation.”
“It’s a shame you had to take Adolph in,” Margaret said. “He must be terrified.”
Brisbois nodded. “At least he’s alive.” So far, Adolph hadn’t been able to give them much information. He stuck to his alias until confronted with the picture the university had provided along with the news of the real Professor Wyler’s return. He didn’t know who the gunmen were. He knew only that Gerald had been making questionable films and had witnessed a drug deal going down. He understood the films were pornographic, possibly involving underage actors. He had no idea of the location of the studio or the name of the man Gerald referred to only as “the director.” They were frightened; they had run. Brisbois didn’t blame them.
He sat back and detached himself from the conversation, which had turned to anecdotes of Adolph’s stay at the Pleasant.
Gerald had got himself killed and had put his friend in jeopardy by consorting with the seamy side. And for what? It couldn’t have been the money. He probably didn’t get more than a couple of hundred per performance. Blinded by the dream of a legitimate film career? Maybe that was all there was to it.
He was disposed to believe Adolph was an innocent bystander. Professor Wyler had vouched for him, describing him as conscientious, good-hearted, and timid. Gerald had taken advantage of Adolph, the same as he had taken advantage of Gregoire. He was a user, pure and simple. Still, he didn’t deserve to be murdered.
“Phone for you.”
“Eh?”
Rudley hit him in the elbow with the receiver. “The phone. It’s for you.”
“Oh.” Brisbois took the phone. “Yes, it probably would have,” he said, frowning into the receiver. “It turned out all right in the end.” He rolled his eyes. “Inspector, did you call me for any reason other than to gloat about me losing my cellphone?” He nodded. “And having the boat blow up?” He listened, lifted his eyebrows and took out his notebook. “You don’t say? Yeah? Right away.”
He hung up, put a hand on Creighton’s shoulder, and steered him out onto the veranda. “The inspector just took a call from one of the patrol cars. He got the call because, as he pointed out, my phone wasn’t working. Apparently, the officer never thought to call me here. They found a few things in a garbage can behind a place up the lake.”
“Are you going to tell me what and where?”
“Baseball caps and windbreakers. On the property of one James Devlin.”
“I guess we’re headed that way. By car, I hope.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Brisbois stepped into the doorway. “Folks, we’re leaving. Dispatch will know where to reach us if you need us.”
“We won’t need you,” Rudley hollered.
“I don’t think he enjoys our company,” said Creighton.
They walked down to the car.
Creighton opened the driver’s door. “Have they talked to Devlin?”
“He isn’t home. There’s a search warrant coming.”
Brisbois was quiet as the car swung out of the driveway and along the shore road. The air smelled like fermenting apples and the dried leaves that swirled in the fickle breeze. A few leaves clung to the branches. Not enough to hide the full moon. What was it about this place that attracted murder?
“They must think the law’s pretty stupid out here,” he remarked.
Creighton was concentrating on the ditch where an occasional pair of bright animal eyes glinted in the tall grass. “Come again?”
“If Devlin were involved, why would he let his flunkies dump their stuff in his garbage can?”
“Because they think we’re stupid.” Creighton raised an index finger. “Or they’re stupid. Or they were in a big hurry. Or they just threw the stuff in the first convenient trash can. Or they’re trying to set Devlin up.”
Brisbois pushed his body back against the seat, seeking relief for his aching back. Jesus, he wasn’t used to getting blown into the water, fumbling around on a burning boat, and swimming for his life on the same afternoon. “I’m going to get my back checked out once this case is over.”
“We might want to get our heads checked out, too.”
“What do we know about Devlin?”
Creighton shrugged. “Handsome young guy from Toronto. Studied at Sheridan College. Ran a small upscale restaurant in Cabbagetown. Moved out here and opened a bed and breakfast when he got tired of the downtown scene. Parents still living in Maple. Brother in Saskatoon. Sister in Welland. Never married.”
“His place has been shut down for the last couple of weeks.”
“Yeah. Kitchen renovations. According to Rudley, he’s off on some artistic jaunt this weekend. Portland. He’s showing some of his stuff. Then he’s got a trip booked to Marrakesh.”
“Kind of coincidental.”
“Maybe not. If you’re going to shut down a B&B, this is a good time to do it. Rudley says business gets pretty heavy once the snow flies. Cross-country skiing, downhill skiing, ice-fishing.”
“That I could go for.” Brisbois squirmed and adjusted the seat. “According to Margaret, Devlin was supposed to be at the party. He phoned in the morning with his apologies. When we interviewed him, he said he started out for the inn but his motor conked out. He tried to get it going but couldn’t. Had to paddle back to his place. He said by the time he got home it was late and he was covered in grease. So he just went to bed. What’s to say he didn’t run his boat up into the cove near the point, shoot the place up, hop into his boat, and go home?”
Creighton shook his head. “I can’t see it.”
“What about the lights Watkins saw on the water?”
“He wasn’t sure what he saw. He thought it might have been moonlight.”
“Rudley doesn’t like Devlin much,” Brisbois said.
“Rudley doesn’t like him because he’s a good-looking guy and he’s taken a liking to Margaret.”
“She’s teaching him to paint.”
Creighton stole a look at Brisbois. “Almost everybody takes a liking to Margaret.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
Creighton smiled. “No reason they wouldn’t.” When Brisbois didn’t respond, he said. “That was good news about Harvey anyway. I think he thought he was a goner when they were loading him into the ambulance.”
“Poor devil,” Brisbois said. “I think he started to have the chest pains when he finally got it that the boat was gone for good. He started talking about how he and his wife had worked on it for years. It was a pile of junk when they got it. They were planning to retire to a cottage near their home in Michigan.”
“Then she died?”
“Then she was killed in a car accident. He was driving. He was exonerated, but her family blamed him. Harassed him so much he left.”
“Nice people.”
“Yeah.” Brisbois took a deep breath, exhaled sharply. “Yeah, he really thought he was going to die. Maybe he wanted the
people with him to know his story.”
The flashing lights of a cruiser told them they had arrived at Devlin’s. Creighton pulled in behind a black and white and got out. Brisbois struggled out after him.
“The Inspector says you found some stuff,” Brisbois said by way of greeting.
The officer took a look at Brisbois’ outfit, then ducked his head to hide a smirk. “This way.” He led him to the back of the house and pointed to the metal garbage can. “Somebody tried to burn the stuff up, but they were dense enough to put the lid on.”
Brisbois peeked into the can. “Stuff got singed, then the oxygen gave out.” He turned to the officer. “Anything else?”
“No. No sign of the fugitives.” He gestured into the woods. “We’ve got three units looking around up there. So far, nothing. They probably had somebody waiting for them up by the road. They could be anywhere by now.”
A cruiser pulled up. A patrolman got out and handed Brisbois a paper. “Here’s your search warrant.”
Chapter Eighteen
Brisbois and Creighton dragged themselves into the inn after nine. Margaret was at the desk.
“Detectives, you look worn out.”
“It’s been that kind of day, Margaret.”
“We saved you some roast beef and Gregoire has a wonderful raspberry bombe.”
“As long as it doesn’t explode.” Brisbois reached up to remove his hat, then realized he didn’t have one. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“Go ahead into the dining room. Tim will get you whatever you want.”
“Thanks.” Brisbois paused. “This workshop Jim Devlin was going to, was it something spontaneous?”
“Oh, no. He registered for the workshop months ago. Signed up for several sessions in watercolours.”
“Did he say he’d planned to leave this morning?”
“Yes, there was a watercolorist from New York giving an afternoon session. He was particularly interested in his technique.”
“I thought you were giving him lessons.”
“I’ve given him some pointers, but I think it’s wise of him to broaden his perspective. Otherwise his stuff would look much like mine.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”
Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders Page 14
