A Most Unpleasant Wedding

by Judith Alguire

  “Yes, Margaret,” he murmured, “cute.”

  “No, look.” She shook him by the shoulder, pointed to the silhouette of a chipmunk posed against the tent. “Look at him. He must know we have some crumbs.”

  Rudley raised himself on one elbow. “I don’t think you should feed him. There’s plenty for him to eat. We don’t want him to become dependent.”

  “I don’t think a few crumbs will destroy his initiative.” She opened the tent flap, scattered the crumbs from their midnight snack. “It’s going to be a lovely day. What a wonderful idea to camp out.”

  “It was.” He slithered out of his sleeping bag. “But now I have to go to the bathroom.” He put on his shoes and crawled out of the tent on hands and knees.

  “Mind the tree roots.”

  “Yes, Margaret.” He stretched, took a lungful of air, paused to indulge a frog that had stopped in his path. “Get along now,” he whispered. “There’s some urgency in my situation.”

  The frog blinked, gathered itself, and sailed off into the Mayapple.

  Rudley completed his business, paused to look down toward the inn. The lake revealed itself in dancing patterns of blue through the leaves. Phipps-Walker would be out in his rowboat. Soon the dining room would come alive. And soon, Tim would be up with a breakfast tray. Breakfast in the tent, then he’d be glad to get back to the inn. Taking leave of his responsibilities for one night was quite all right but sufficient.

  A woodpecker drummed on a tree ahead of him. He meandered along, looking up into the trees, caught sight of the bird crisscrossing halfway up the trunk. He grinned, whistled a few bars of “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’.” He’d forgotten how lovely the woods were. He’d been telling guests that for years, but it had been some time since he’d enjoyed a stroll up here. He ambled along, paused here and there to examine the texture of the bark, identify an insect, watch the voles scurry along under the leaf blanket.

  A grosbeak warbled a greeting. He turned, scanning the trees for the bird, stumbled over a stump, and pitched headlong into the undergrowth.

  “Damn.” He scrambled up, brushing off his clothes. Paused, jaw dropping. “What the hell?”

  Carl Hopper woke to sunlight streaming through the window. He shut his eyes, grabbed his head in both hands. He rolled to his side and promptly fell to the floor. He opened his eyes, saw a blurry version of a Persian rug and the underside of a coffee table. He decided he was lying on the floor beside the living room couch.

  He struggled to his feet using the coffee table and couch for support. He patted his breast pocket for his glasses, felt around under the couch cushions, finally gave up, and headed toward the kitchen, grabbing the back of the recliner as a wave of vertigo pitched him to his right. He waited until he felt steadier, then forged ahead. He reached the kitchen, pulled down a mug from the rack, juggled it as it tried to slip through his fingers.

  He turned on the coffee pot. It rewarded him with a sterile hiss. He pulled out the basket, checked the reservoir. He was standing there, frowning at the basket of spent grounds when a brisk knock at the kitchen door brought Roslyn, the housekeeper.

  “Morning, Mr. Hopper. I brought your paper.” She put the newspaper down on the kitchen table.

  “No coffee,” he said by way of greeting.

  “I guess Mrs. Hopper forgot to get it ready last night.” Roslyn put her bag down, took the basket from his hands, rinsed it, rinsed the pot, and took down the coffee canister.

  Carl sank into a chair at the table while Roslyn prepared the coffee. She turned the pot on, then went to the refrigerator and poured him a glass of orange juice. She set it on the table in front of him.

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Hopper, you don’t look so good.”

  He gave her an apologetic smile. “Bad day yesterday, Roslyn. I had a tooth yanked. I fell asleep on the couch.”

  She took a long look at him. “You look as if you slept in Drummie’s dirt pile.”

  He squinted at his shirt. “I fell.” He took a drink of the orange juice, held it in his dry mouth for a few moments before swallowing. “Those pills the dentist gave me threw me for a loop.”

  She had her head in the refrigerator. “Do you want your bacon and eggs?”

  He felt his jaw. “I don’t know. I think my mouth is too sore for anything.”

  “How about some scrambled eggs?” She got out the fixings without waiting for an answer. “Will Mrs. Hopper be wanting something?”

  He drew the newspaper toward him, patting his breast pocket for his glasses. “I don’t know.”

  “Is she upstairs?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  She gave him a look of affectionate exasperation. “I’ll go take a look.”

  He gave her his best little-boy smile. “Roslyn, could you take a look around for my glasses? They might be on the table by my recliner.”

  She patted him on the shoulder and took off upstairs. She came down, circled through the living room, and returned to the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Hopper’s not upstairs,” she said, “and I didn’t see your glasses.”

  “She must have gone riding.” He stared at the paper, thought about asking Roslyn to get the spare pair from his desk, then decided that would be pushing his luck.

  Roslyn poured a cup of coffee, added double cream, and put it on the table in front of him. He clamped his hands around the cup as if he were afraid it might escape.

  Roslyn was preparing the scrambled eggs, breaking the eggs into a bowl, adding milk, prattling away. “Mrs. Hopper must be excited about Terri coming home. It’s been a while. I know I can’t wait to see my kids when they’ve been away.”

  Nobody would ever mistake you for the all-knowing household help, Roslyn, he thought. He doubted if she realized that Evelyn and Terri weren’t that close or that he and Evelyn had become strangers.

  Detective Michel Brisbois leaned against a tree, tapping his pen against his notebook. He’d put on a suit fresh from the cleaners that morning but still managed to look rumpled. Detective Chester Creighton stood, hands in pockets, watching the forensics team work inside the yellow tape. He had the fresh, antiseptic look of a man who had just stepped from a Rex Morgan, MD comic strip.

  “Let’s go over this again,” Brisbois said. “You were trundling a tray of pancakes and bacon up to the camp when you ran into Rudley.”

  Tim smiled. “Actually, it was popovers and sausages in citrus chutney.”

  Brisbois stared at him.

  “Yes,” said Tim.

  “And then what?”

  “I ran into Rudley. He was staggering toward the tent, looking as if someone had punched him in the midsection.”

  “And?”

  “He said, ‘We’ve got to call the police.’ I followed him to the tent where Mrs. Rudley was rolling up the sleeping bags. She said, ‘Rudley, what’s wrong?’ And he repeated, ‘We’ve got to call the police.’”

  Brisbois nodded. “What was his demeanour?”

  “Shocked. Although I don’t know why.” Tim tittered, sobered as Brisbois frowned. “I asked what was wrong. He glared at me and said, ‘There’s a damned dead body back there.’”

  “Then what?”

  “Margaret gasped and said, ‘Oh, no.’ And Rudley said, ‘Oh, yes.’ And Margaret said, ‘Are you sure he’s dead?’ And Rudley said, ‘Clearly dead and it’s not a he.’ And Margaret said, ‘Oh, no.’”

  “And then?”

  “Margaret and I went to the scene to confirm…” he paused, “well, you know.”

  “That the person was deceased.”

  “Yes,” said Tim and hastened to add, “We didn’t touch anything except to confirm she had no pulse. Her head was bashed in.” He paused, blinked. “It was pretty awful. Rudley and I stayed with her while Margaret went down to call 911.”

  Brisbois flipped back through his notes. “Tell me again, what time did you come up here?”

  Tim thought for a moment. “I brought th
e breakfast up a few minutes after I came on duty. So I must have run into Rudley around seven.”

  “And when did Rudley say he found the body?”

  “Just before I ran into him.”

  Brisbois thought for a moment. “OK, Tim, you can go. We’ll want to talk to you later.” He wandered over to where Creighton was standing. “What’s the word?”

  “Doc thinks she’s been dead six to ten hours,” said Creighton. “She’s got three head injuries, the big one at the base of the skull, a crease on the right, and a bump on the left. No obvious gunshot or stab wounds, no signs of strangulation. A few minor scrapes and abrasions on her hands and face.” He consulted his notebook. “Off-white oxford-cloth shirt, designer jeans, black leather belt with a silver shamrock buckle. Ironic. Black leather half-Wellingtons. No ID.”

  Brisbois looked off into the trees. “She doesn’t look too young.”

  “Doc thinks late forties.”

  “Good clothes. Looks as if she might have had some money.”

  Creighton nodded. “She’s wearing a nice gold chain. Tan lines where she might have had a ring and watch.”

  “Think maybe they were stolen?”

  “Could be.”

  Brisbois hitched up his pants. “You’d think a woman like that, if she went missing overnight, somebody might report it.”

  “Maybe she lived alone,” said Creighton.

  “You say she had no ID. Any keys?”

  “Nope.”

  “If she lived alone you’d think she’d have some keys on her.”

  Creighton checked his notes. “There were a few coins in her right-hand pocket. Suggests she was right-handed. For all the good that does.” He flipped the book shut. “Maybe whoever took the watch and ring took her wallet, got her address, took her keys, went back, and rifled her place.”

  Brisbois pushed back his hat. “We’ve got horseshoe prints all over the place.

  “Maybe she fell off her horse and hit her head.”

  “Maybe.”

  Brisbois’ gaze drifted over the scene. “So where’s the horse?”

  Creighton shrugged.

  Brisbois pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Yes, I want to put out an APB on a horse.” He listened. “No, I don’t know what it looks like. Probably has a saddle. Check with Animal Control, the usual places.” He paused. “I don’t need that.” He slammed the phone shut. Shoved it into his pocket. He had a dead woman on his hands, and the dispatcher was making jokes about a horse’s ass. He turned to Creighton. “Have you got a team going door to door?”

  “Petrie and Vance are on their way.”

  “OK.” Brisbois started off down the hill. Creighton followed.

  Brisbois settled into the chair behind Rudley’s desk. Creighton sprawled on the settee, one leg over the arm.

  “I’m glad you gentlemen feel so much at home,” said Rudley.

  Creighton swung his leg off the arm of the settee, sat forward, planting both feet on the floor.

  “We appreciate your hospitality,” said Brisbois.

  “Yet again.”

  “Unfortunately.” Brisbois opened his notebook. “I need to check some details.”

  Rudley folded his arms across his chest. “Yes?”

  “You said you found the body when you got up to go to the bathroom. By bathroom, I presume you mean tree.”

  Rudley gave him a sour look. Brisbois waited him out.

  “Actually, it was a shrub — nannyberry, I believe.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “Around six-thirty.”

  “You said you literally tripped over the body.”

  “I tripped over a stump.”

  “And that’s when you noticed the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any sign of life?”

  Rudley swallowed hard. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Before that, did you hear anything?”

  “A woodpecker. Then a grosbeak.”

  “I meant during the night. Something happened to that woman a hundred and fifty yards from your campsite. You must have heard something.”

  Rudley scratched his head. “Something crashed through the underbrush at one point. Probably a deer. Margaret thought it was a bear. I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  Brisbois made a note. “What time was that?”

  “I’m not sure. Sometime after midnight. Perhaps later. I didn’t look at my watch.”

  “Could it have been a horse?”

  Rudley threw up his hands. “It could have been a zebra for all I know. It was dark. I woke from a sound sleep. I assumed it was a deer because there are quite a few up in the woods.”

  “OK,” Brisbois murmured. “Did you hear anything else?”

  “There was one thing or another scuttling around all night.”

  Brisbois waited, pen poised. “Do you know what time?”

  “No. I was drifting in and out half the night.”

  “Anything that sounded like voices? Somebody having an argument?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “OK, you tripped over the stump. You saw the woman’s body. What did you do next?”

  “I went to find Margaret.”

  “Did you move her? Check her pulse?”

  “No. I could tell she was as dead as a doornail.”

  Brisbois raised his eyebrows. “Tim checked her pulse. I guess he wasn’t as sure as you were.”

  Rudley glared.

  “I know, I know,” said Brisbois. “You’ve had more experience.”

  Brisbois spread a set of index cards out on the desk, studied them for a few minutes. “So what do we have here?”

  Creighton ran a hand through his hair. “The children were sleeping all snug in their beds. Ma and Pa were in a tent in the woods. Nobody saw or heard anything, except Geraldine Phipps-Walker, who heard a nighthawk. Which is not a true hawk, mind you, but a member of the nightjar family.”

  “Spare me.”

  “Just being thorough, Boss.”

  Brisbois shook his head, picked up an index card. “Norman Phipps-Walker and Mr. Tee Lawrence took a night fishing charter from the dock in Middleton. Lloyd drove them in and picked them up near eleven. Norman went straight to his room — where I’m sure his wife entertained him with details of that nightjar thing. Lawrence went to his cabin. Neither of them noticed anything unusual. Mr. James Bole was up at the inn until nearly eleven. He took part in a games night and put on a puppet show. Waiting for Godot.” He frowned. “What in hell is that?”

  “Beats me.”

  “The Sawchucks took part in the Snakes and Ladders tournament. They went to bed around ten. Neither of them saw or heard anything.” Brisbois put the card aside, picked up another. “Mr. Carty. Who’s that again?”

  “Rico. The young guy at the Oaks.”

  “Oh, yeah. He had dinner, spent the evening in his cabin, watching the Blue Jays game. Turned out the lights as soon as the game was over. Kind of early for a young kid.”

  “He said he’d been working a lot of overtime.”

  Brisbois rubbed his chin. “Still, seems kind of funny. Young guy, works at the racetrack in Ottawa, takes classes at Carleton. I wonder where he got the money to come here.”

  “Maybe from all that overtime.”

  Brisbois shrugged. “Still, seems like a funny place for a young guy to take a vacation. You’d think if he wanted to fish, he’d get a bunch of his buddies and go camping.”

  “Is that what you did when you were his age?”

  “I was married when I was his age. Mary and I went to Niagara Falls. We went down east the next couple of years. Then we had a baby on the way. Then we had four. Neither of us has had a real vacation since.” Brisbois wrote a note on the index card, put it aside. “Where’d you go on your last trip? Myrtle Beach, wasn’t it?”

  “Yup.”

  “Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson,” said Brisbois, drawing out another card.

  Creighton chuckled. “Miss Miller�
�s been kind of quiet so far. Seems strange not having her in the middle of everything. Although, I’m sure she will be.”

  “Although I’m sure she will be,” Brisbois murmured. “Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson were at the inn all evening. In Margaret and Rudley’s absence, they were overseeing games night. Snakes and Ladders and canasta.”

  “Aren’t they those clicking things the flamenco dancers use?”

  “I don’t think so.” Brisbois checked another index card. “The Lawrences, Bonnie and Tee. What does the T stand for?”

  “Nothing. That’s his name. Tee James Lawrence. T-e-e. It’s his mother’s maiden name.”

  “He was on the fishing charter with Norman,” Brisbois murmured. “Bonnie Lawrence had dinner in the dining room with Geraldine, then retired to her cabin, and spent the rest of the evening planning Miss Miller’s wedding.”

  “Does it take that long?”

  Brisbois gave him a long look. “Believe me, it can take months.”

  Creighton grinned. “Well, I can’t wait to find out where they’re going to have it. So far, I’ve heard it might be in the woods, or in a canoe on the lake. I heard one rumour they might tie the knot in goggles and flippers.”

  “I think that’s just a rumour. OK” — Brisbois took out another index card — “the Benson sisters. They were watching a James Cagney marathon. They didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Are they still alive?”

  “So they say.” Brisbois closed his notebook, put it into his pocket, stacked the index cards, put them into the desk drawer and locked it. “Maybe Mr. Arnold’s slept it off by now.”

  “I’ll bet he doesn’t remember anything.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Brisbois said, “if only for the satisfaction of waking him up.”

  Chapter 5

  “Where did you find him, Lloyd?” Margaret reached to stroke the handsome black horse.

  “He came into the garden where I was hoeing. Nice as you please.”

  “He seems very gentle.”

  “Like a lamb. Name’s Ned. Says on his bridle.”

  Margaret’s eyes fell on the horse’s shoulder. “My goodness, he’s got a nasty gash there.”

  Lloyd nodded. “Must have got into the brambles. Had blood all down his shoulder and onto his leg. He was dirty, too, and full of burrs. I washed him down.”