Rudley charged back up the steps into the lobby.
Margaret was on the phone, brow furrowed as she listened. “Oh, dear. I see,” she said finally. “Well, thank you.” She hung up.
“What’s the matter, Margaret?”
“The Reverend Burley in Brockton is not available to perform the ceremony. Apparently, he made an error in his booking schedule. He’s on vacation in Ireland and won’t return until after the date.”
“They must have someone to fill in.”
“June’s a popular month for weddings, Rudley. His replacement already has three weddings on that day. The secretary suggested Miss Miller might try to get someone from her home parish.”
“No need for that, Margaret. We can get that old guy from Middleton to fill in.”
“Reverend Pendergast? I believe he’s retired.”
“Men of the cloth don’t retire.”
“I’ve heard he’s a little forgetful.”
“I can’t see how that would be a problem. There are enough of us here who’ve been through the ceremony. If he stumbles, someone will cue him.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“I could perform a wedding in my sleep,” Rudley went on. “I can’t see why innkeepers can’t marry people when all sorts of ninnies are allowed to.”
“I believe all those ninnies have to have been invested with the authority, Rudley.”
“Yes,” he fumed, “some blockhead clerk can marry a couple, while a man of sensibilities cannot.” Rudley paused, gave Margaret a jaunty smile. “What the hell. A wedding is a wonderful thing.”
“It is.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m so glad to see you in good spirits.”
“When am I not?”
“I have to check on something in the kitchen,” she said.
He whistled a few bars of “Get Me to the Church on Time” and did a little shuffle. Why shouldn’t he be in good spirits? He regretted the fate of the woman in the forest as he regretted the passing of any person. But the murder hadn’t taken place at the Pleasant proper and didn’t involve anyone on the premises. Still, terrible thing to kill a woman. “Although, I have been sorely tempted at times,” he murmured as Mrs. Sawchuck hobbled into the lobby. The woman’s death was a tragedy, but they had to do their best not to let the murder put a damper on the wedding. At least they had the worst out of the way. He was sure everything would go smoothly from there on in. The Reverend Pendergast would be quite satisfactory, probably much better than that fellow from Brockton with his baby face and pale-grey getup. Give me a mature man in black any day, he thought. One who knows the meaning of the vows. These young pups presiding over weddings these days know half of them will end in divorce and they conduct the ceremony accordingly. He deplored the climbing divorce rate. People marrying willy-nilly, based on whim, then dropping the whole thing when they no longer felt entertained. Time was, you married for life and you stuck it out, however unpleasant the situation. Marriage was a test of character, a test of fortitude — like a slog to the South Pole.
Margaret returned from the kitchen with a tray. “Rudley, you haven’t had your lunch. Gregoire’s coleslaw is divine today.”
“Thank you, Margaret.”
The phone rang. Margaret answered. “You don’t say. Thank you.” She glanced out the window, brightened. “Excuse me.” She took off down the steps.
He smiled. “Now, there’s a woman who’s worth a slog to the South Pole.”
Brisbois and Creighton were headed across the lawn. Margaret called to them. “Detectives.”
They turned.
She hurried toward them. “I just got a call from Animal Control. They said you were looking for a horse.”
They looked at her, bewildered.
“Well, we found him.” She took Brisbois by the arm, hurried him toward the coach house. “Or, rather, he found us. You see, Lloyd was working in the garden, and he just walked in. We called Animal Control. We assumed he belonged to someone near here. We assumed someone would be looking for him, then a gentleman just called to say the police wanted him.” She stopped at the coach house where Lloyd was putting down a bucket for water for the horse.
“Nice-looking animal.” Brisbois gave the horse a long look. He turned to Lloyd. “What time did he come into the garden?”
“Early.” Lloyd gave the horse a pat. “Says his name’s Ned.”
Creighton chuckled. “I wouldn’t believe anything a horse told me.”
Margaret gave Creighton a reproachful look.
“Ned,” Lloyd repeated. “Says so on his bridle.”
Brisbois took out his phone. “Yeah, Brisbois here. I need someone to come down to the Pleasant. I’ve got the horse.”
The forensics officer grinned. “This guy’s the cleanest crime scene I’ve been at.”
Brisbois glowered. “Lloyd cleaned him up. Can you get anything?”
“I think so.” He pointed to the mane. “Look at this. A couple of strands of matted hair. Our man missed them when he gave him his shower.”
“Blood?”
“Probably. We’ll know shortly.” The officer tapped Ned on the leg. Ned obliged by lifting his foot. “His forelegs are as clean as a whistle, but there’s lots of good stuff in his shoes.” He looked at Brisbois. “You think the horse is the killer? He doesn’t seem the type.”
“You’re a real card, Sheffield.”
Sheffield stood, pointed to the horse’s shoulder. “This is interesting. The area around the wound’s been cleaned up but, right in the centre, there’s guess what?”
“Pearls of wisdom, I hope, since all I’ve been getting all morning are bad horse jokes.”
Sheffield grinned. “Almost as good. Some little bits of chaff, one recognizable husk, and a strand of thick white hair which clearly isn’t his.”
“Human?”
“No, it’s pretty coarse. Probably another horse. Maybe a cow.”
“Hm.” Brisbois rocked back on his heels. “So he hangs out on a farm. He gets cut, rolls in the straw, picks up this stuff.”
“Maybe. Although you’d think he’d have some stuck in his mane.” Sheffield shrugged. “Of course, your man Lloyd could have brushed it out.”
“And what did he get cut with?” Brisbois murmured. His phone rang. He groped in his pocket for it. “Brisbois.” He listened, taking notes. “Thanks.” He turned to Creighton. “That was the morgue. They think they know who our Jane Doe is.”
Chapter 6
Terri Hopper was coming out of the stable when the unfamiliar car pulled into the driveway. She watched as two men got out, one tall and angular with a felt hat tipped over his eyes. He reminded her of Eliot Ness. The other reminded her of her history professor, the frumpy Mr. Taylor. The men exchanged a few words, then went up to the house. She waited a few minutes, then followed.
Fragments of conversation drifted to her from the kitchen as she eased the front door open. Eliot Ness leaned against the kitchen door jamb, his back to her. She guessed the unfamiliar voice belonged to Professor Taylor.
The floorboards creaked as she crept forward to listen. Eliot Ness straightened, glanced over his shoulder at her but said nothing. He stepped aside as she approached the door.
Her father sat at the table, still in his robe, his face slack. Roslyn stood, her back pressed against the counter, fingers clutching the edge.
The chunky man looked up, then turned to Carl and said in a low voice, “Is this your daughter?”
Her father looked at her as if he’d never seen her before.
She stepped forward. “Yes, I’m Terri.”
He stood. “Terri, I’m Detective Brisbois.”
“Detective Creighton,” the tall man said.
“There’s been an accident,” Brisbois said.
Roslyn started to sob. “It’s your mother, Terri. They found her up in the woods.”
“I’m afraid…”Brisbois began.
Terri’s breath caught in her throat. “She’s dead,
isn’t she?”
He nodded. “I’m sorry. A technician at the hospital made a tentative identification. We’ll need someone to confirm it’s her.”
She hesitated.
He looked to Carl. “Is there someone?”
The tip of Carl’s tongue lolled to one corner of his mouth. A drop of saliva fell on the table in front of him.
“Aunt Joan,” Terri said. “Joan Metcalfe.”
Brisbois offered her his cell phone. “If you’d like to call her, we can pick her up on our way to the hospital.” He put a hand on her shoulder as she hesitated. “Would you like me to do it?”
“How?” she said.
“We’re not sure yet. She may have fallen off her horse.”
“Ned? Have you found him?”
“Yes. He wandered onto a neighbour’s property.”
“Is he all right?”
He studied her face. “He’s OK. They took good care of him.”
Carl uttered a guttural sound.
Brisbois lowered his voice. “Does your father have health problems?”
She hesitated. “He’s had some problems.”
“Heart?”
She shook her head.
“It looks as if he’s a little hung over.”
“He took some pills. Codeine. The dentist gave it to him. He’s not good with things like that.”
“OK.” Brisbois turned back to Carl Hopper. “Sir, are you able to come with us in the car?”
Carl stared at him.
Roslyn mopped her face with the end of her apron. “I’ll get him some clothes.”
“Thanks.” Brisbois turned to Creighton, said in a low voice, “Let’s give the ladies a hand getting him dressed. Doesn’t look as if he’s up to much.”
Brisbois drove to the hospital. Creighton sat in the passenger seat, glancing periodically into the rear-view mirror.
“We might have to drop him off at emergency,” Creighton said.
Brisbois took a quick look. Carl Hopper sagged against the window, eyes glazed. Mrs. Joan Metcalfe, an angular older woman with a wind-burned face and good dye job, sat in the middle, clutching Terri’s hand. Terri stared out the window, nibbling on a thumbnail.
Brisbois grimaced. Carl Hopper struck him as self-indulgent. He knew if anything happened to Mary, he’d be devastated. Still, he believed he’d be able to summon the strength to comfort their children. This man had barely looked at his daughter. He could read the distress in Mrs. Metcalfe’s eyes, but she was clearly determined to remain calm for the girl’s sake.
They reached the hospital. Brisbois pulled up to the emergency entrance. Creighton hopped out to open the door for the women. Brisbois opened the door to help Carl out. Carl sat still, staring at the back of the seat.
Brisbois leaned into the car. “Mr. Hopper?” Receiving no response, he took the man by the arm and guided him out of the car.
The elevator took them to the morgue. Brisbois spoke to the attendant, then returned and said in a low voice, “They’ll just open the curtain.” He guided them to the viewing area.
After a few minutes, the curtain opened.
Mrs. Metcalfe nodded, grabbed a swath of Kleenex from her purse, dabbed at her eyes, then stuffed the Kleenex into her pocket as if they had shamed her.
Terri took a long look. “It’s Mom,” she whispered.
Carl Hopper fainted.
“I know this is tough.” Brisbois sat on a straight-back chair in the quiet room, leaning toward Terri, who sat on the couch opposite.
Creighton stood by the window, the curtain pushed aside with one finger, staring at the hospital parking lot.
“I should check on Dad.”
Brisbois held up a hand. “Your dad’s going to be OK. He passed out.”
She bit her lip. “He can’t handle things like this. He’s been depressed.”
“For a long time?”
“Mostly this last year. He’s been under a lot of pressure.”
“Pressure?”
“He has a contract. He’s been having trouble with a manuscript.”
“Your dad’s a writer?”
She nodded. “He writes science fiction under the name T.R. Reilly.”
Brisbois made a note, balancing the notebook against his thigh. “What about your mother? Were she and your dad having problems?”
She took a deep breath. “A little, I guess.”
“Did they fight a lot?”
“No.” She paused. “Mostly Mom just got nasty. Dad took it. He never fought back.”
He didn’t take his eyes off her. “What did they fight about?”
She shook her head. “The pills. The doctor ordered antidepressants. Mom didn’t think he should be taking them.”
He made a note. “So they fought about the pills. Anything else?”
“No.”
He waited her out.
She inhaled sharply. “I know what you’re thinking. You think Dad did something to Mom. That’s impossible.” She looked away. “You don’t even know what happened.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “This is routine, Terri.”
She said nothing.
He gave her a few minutes, then said. “Can you think of anybody who’d want to hurt your mother?”
“No.”
“What did she do?”
“She was an interior decorator. She had her own business.”
“What about co-workers?”
“She didn’t have any. She worked on her own.”
“Were most of her clients local?”
“No, she had clients everywhere.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know very much about her work.”
“Do you live at home?”
“No, I’m working in Ottawa for the summer. I’m still in school.”
“Ottawa U.?”
“Carleton. I just came home today. I’m taking a week off.”
“Do you know any of her friends, clients?”
“Aunt Joan. She’s not really an aunt. She’s a friend of Mom’s.” She paused. “You might as well know. Mom and I weren’t that close. We didn’t talk that much.”
“Didn’t get along?”
“Not really.”
“What did you not get along about?”
“Nothing in particular. We just didn’t have much in common.”
He thought about that for a minute. “What about your dad? Did you talk to him?”
“Sure.”
He waited.
“We talked about what we were doing. About my courses. Dad was really interested in what I was doing at school.”
“Did your mom travel in her work?”
“Yes.”
“Did your dad go with her?”
“No.”
“Did she have mostly private clients? Commercial?”
“Both. Not big commercial. Offices. Dad said she sometimes designed reception areas.”
He made some notes. “So you and your mother weren’t close.”
“No.”
He held her gaze. “The coroner thinks your mother died around midnight. What would she have been doing, riding at that time of night?”
She shrugged. “Mom loved the horses. If she was trying to relax, or think something through, she’d take Ned up the laneway, maybe a little ways down the road, or she might just walk him around the paddock.”
“Up into the woods?”
Terri shook her head. “No, Mom would never go up into the woods at night.”
“But that’s where she ended up.”
“She’d never take Ned up into the woods. Especially not at night. She’d worry about him stepping into a hole.”
“OK.” He scribbled a note. “Can you think of anybody she might have had a quarrel with recently? Over property lines and so forth?”
“No, I don’t think there was anything like that. Dad would have told me.”
“So, you go to university in Ottawa.”
“Yes.”
“When di
d you get home?”
“This morning.”
“Bus? Train?”
“I drove.”
“OK,” he said half to himself. “So you weren’t expecting her to pick you up. When did you last talk to her?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“She call you or did you call her?”
“I called home. Mom answered the phone.”
He looked up, surprised, then returned to his notes. When he looked up again, Terri was wiping away tears.
“Can I go now? I really should check to see if Dad needs anything. And I left the horses in the paddock. I forgot to check the latch. We left in such a hurry.”
He thought for a moment. “OK, that’s enough for now. We’ll probably want to talk to you later.”
She scrambled up, like a kid released from the principal’s office. “Would you tell Aunt Joan I’ll give her a call?”
He smiled. “Sure.” He waited until she left the room, then turned to Creighton. “What do you think?”
Creighton turned away from the window. “I think she likes her father better than her mother.”
“Yeah, she pretty much said that.”
Creighton sat down on the couch. “The antidepressants seemed to be a big deal at home. I wonder how Evelyn liked old Carl taking codeine.”
Brisbois studied his notes, looked up with a smile. “I’d guess not very much.”
Joan Metcalfe took the seat Terri had vacated a few minutes earlier. Brisbois drew a line under his interview with Terri, wrote down the date, time, and the particulars of the lady who sat opposite him.
“I’m sorry to bother you with this at this time, Mrs. Metcalfe, but the sooner we get some information, the better.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
“OK.” Brisbois gave her an encouraging smile. “How long have you known Evelyn Hopper?”
“For about ten years. She was living in Brockton when I first met her. She boarded Gert and Maisie, her horses, with me. She came out two or three times a week to ride, sometimes just to visit the horses.”
A Most Unpleasant Wedding Page 7
