Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant (17 page)

Gil spread the map on the ground. It was early evening. “This is where we are now.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “Tomorrow we’ll run into a current in the middle of the river, there. It’s only moderate but we’ll steer clear. There are some interesting rock formations. Some good fishing for anybody who’s interested.” He smiled at Norman.

“So you’ve really been up here before,” Turnbull grinned.

“I’ve been up here twice,” Gil responded.

“Just asking.” Turnbull shrugged and looked toward Peters, who was breaking up sticks for kindling. “What do you think, Peters? Ready for a little current?”

Peters didn’t answer. His gaze drifted to the river.

“I imagine we should expect rougher water from here on in,” said Simpson. “We’ve had a rather easy go so far.”

Turnbull sniffed.

“I’m rather glad for that,” said Simpson. “I think the real pleasure of canoeing is being able to take in the scenery.”

Margaret and Rudley were sitting together on a log. “The water’s been so calm, it’s almost like being at the Pleasant,” Margaret said.

“Yes,” Rudley murmured out of earshot, “and we have proxies for Tim and Gregoire arguing and for Simpson stepping in to salve everyone’s feelings.”

“Mr. Turnbull should be ashamed of himself, picking on Mr. Peters and Gil the way he does.”

“I understand they train law students to be like sharks in a wading pool,” Rudley said. “It seems the training spills over.”

“He enjoys picking on Gil and on Mr. Peters in particular.”

“That’s because they’re the weakest swimmers.”

“Why, Rudley, that was rather poetic.”

“I can be poetic at times, Margaret.”

She smiled. “I knew the trip would do you good. To get away from your burdens, to relax, be free of responsibilities.”

“I could become comatose in time.”

“I imagine your blood pressure has dropped twenty points. By the time we arrive home, we won’t have to open the door. You’ll be so mellow, we’ll just pour you under.”

“Margaret,” Rudley said, rising from the log, “I have an overwhelming urge to go to the bathroom.”

·

Tiffany was making her way along the shoulder of the highway, trying to look as dignified as possible in an evening dress and high heels. She told herself, holding her chin a little higher, that she shouldn’t have agreed to go out with young Mr. Noble — and what an inappropriate name that turned out to be! She had been blinded by his virtuoso performance on the viola at the chamber music performance at the public library the week before and was excited when he invited her to dinner. But on the way home it turned out he expected more than enlightened conversation. When she declined his advances, he promptly pulled the car over and left her at the side of the road. Now, hurrying along the highway, trying to convince herself she wasn’t the slightest bit uneasy about being alone on the highway at night, she heard a car approaching. The hairs on her neck stood up as the car slowed. She held her breath, trying to think of how to use a small bag decorated with seed pearls as a weapon. She almost cried with relief when the car pulled alongside and she recognized the insignia of the
OPP
and a friendly face.

“Officer Stubbs, how good to see you!”

“Can I give you a lift, Tiffany?”

Stubbs was tactful enough not to ask questions. He drove her home and hopped out to open the passenger’s door. Tiffany stepped from the car, pulling a lace stole more tightly around her shoulders.

“Thank you, Officer Stubbs. It was kind of you to drive me home.”

“My pleasure. “

He followed her up the steps to the veranda and waited while she unlocked the door. “Is everyone at the main inn now?”

“Tim and Gregoire are still in the bunkhouse. Lloyd is in the basement. I’m staying in the Rudleys’ quarters while they’re away. Mrs. Millotte is using one of the rooms upstairs. Mr. Bole and Mr. Bostock have elected to stay in their cabins. The sisters are in the Elm Pavilion.”

He tipped his hat. “I’ll wait until you’re safely in and have locked the door.”

“Once again, thank you. It was gallant of you to rescue me.”

He blushed. “My pleasure.”

She smiled. “Good night, Officer Stubbs.” She stepped inside, locked the door, and gave him a wave through the window.

He returned to the cruiser, gave his location to dispatch, and checked his log.

Stubbs was new to the area, assigned to it after successfully completing his probation in Walkerton. He had heard through the grapevine that this corner of Ontario was one of the most lovely and lively detachments in the province with much of the excitement, he had been led to believe, hovering about the Pleasant.

So far he had not been disappointed. Meeting Tiffany Armstrong was an unexpected bonus. He knew she had dated Officers Semple and Owens among the constabulary, plus any number of townsmen. Neither Semple nor Owens nor anyone for that matter had a single bad thing to say about her. He had been introduced to her before and found her charming. The brief trip with her to the inn confirmed his first impression.

Stubbs was about to pull away, then hesitated. Perhaps, he thought, he should do a quick perimeter check. The folks were pretty isolated out here, after all, and there was a dangerous criminal on the loose. He contacted dispatch, declared his intentions, killed the headlights and exited the car.

·

Tiffany hung her dress over the clothes horse in the Rudleys’ quarters. She was about to change into her nightgown when she realized she was hungry. She had had a light dinner and remembered that Gregoire had made a red velvet cake. She pulled her robe on over her slip and tiptoed out into the hallway, leaving the door open, moving softly to avoid waking anyone. She particularly didn’t want to wake Mrs. Sawchuck.

She crept down the stairs and turned to scan the lobby, which seemed alien in the dark, the hardwood gleaming in the faint light of the nightlights. She could hear the lake as a vague murmur, the creak of limb on limb of the big maple closest the inn, and the venerable old place sighing in its sleep. She felt melancholy, wondering if this was what the inn would be like once the Rudleys had passed away. It seemed that when Rudley was here, even when he was asleep, his energy vibrated from the front desk.

She took the final two steps and turned toward the dining room.

She paused to contemplate the pale reflection of the moon on the lake through the curtains, then started as a shadow passed the window. But it was only maple branches bobbing on a light breeze.

She took a deep breath of relief and turned toward the kitchen.

·

Lloyd woke in the basement, his nose wrinkling. Skunk. He didn’t mind the smell much. A man had told him once it was good for clearing your sinuses. He could tell from the characteristically strong garlic odour that the skunk had scored a direct hit on someone or something. The last time a skunk had sprayed him, Mrs. Rudley had made him bathe in tomato juice. He turned on his pillow and fell back to sleep.

·

Tiffany stopped halfway across the dining room. She noticed a sudden strong odour of skunk but also something reminiscent of fetid earth and mildew. Then the scent of skunk again, this time overpowering. A shadow fell across the kitchen door. She screamed.

A filthy ghost hunched in the doorway.

“Who are you?” She barely managed the words.

White eyes stared at her from a grimy face. The ghost bolted past her, strewing cans and bottles. She stepped on a can of peppercorns and fell. Struggling up, dazed, she heard someone hammering on the door to the back porch. Gathering her robe around her, she ran to the door.

“Open up!” a voice called out. “Police!”

She pressed her ear against the door. “How do I know you’re the police?”

“It’s Officer Stubbs.”

She swallowed hard. “How do I know you’re Officer Stubbs?”

“Tiffany, it’s me. I drove you home tonight.”

She hesitated, then opened the door.

Officer Stubbs stood in the doorway, reeking of skunk. “Are you all right?” he asked with as much dignity as he could muster.

She put a hand over her nose. “I’m all right. There was an intruder in the kitchen.”

“Where did he go?”

“He went out the front door.”

He hesitated. “Stay right here. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”

“All right.” She locked and bolted the door, then flattened herself against the wall, feeling about for a weapon. She had located the doorstop and was hefting it in one hand when she heard steps on the veranda.

“It’s Stubbs.”

She lowered her weapon and opened the door.

“I did a perimeter check,” he said. “Your intruder came in through the pantry window. He cut the screen.”

“Are you sure he’s gone?” She put her hand to her nose once again.

“I didn’t see him,” Stubbs replied. “I’ve alerted dispatch. We’ll have reinforcements here to take a look around. In the meantime, we’ll make sure the inn is secured.”

She stayed fast by the door. Fifteen minutes later she heard sirens. A short time later, the lobby came alive as the remaining staff, Mr. Bole, and the Sawchucks poured into the lobby.

·

Brisbois pulled up to the Pleasant, stepped from the car, and stretched his back. Creighton smoothed the brim of his fedora and set it at a rakish angle.

Officer Vance, who was standing by his patrol car, looked up in surprise. “Sir, what brings you out here?”

“I was scanning the police blotter from last night and saw there’d been a break-in here.”

“It was pretty routine. It looks as if a homeless guy tried to raid the pantry.”

Brisbois glanced around. “How many homeless guys do you think there are out here?”

“Not that many.” Vance checked his notes. “Tiffany gave a description. She didn’t get a good look at him but she believes he was young, of slender build, and filthy. Sounds as if he’d been living rough for a while.”

“Any good prints?”

“He left dirty fingerprints all over the place. And half the forest floor, dirt, needles, leaves.”

“Okay,” said Brisbois, “let’s go see what we can see.” Before he could take another step, his cell phone rang.

“What’s up?” Creighton asked when his boss had completed the call.

“We’ve got a ransom note.”

·

“The letter was delivered to the local rag,” the duty sergeant told Brisbois and Creighton when they arrived at the local police station in Middleton.

Brisbois examined the letter and envelope in the plastic evidence bag. “No stamp.”

“None. A lot of the letters that arrive there are hand delivered. They have a slot in the wall for that.”

“And when was this one delivered?”

“Could have been anytime from yesterday afternoon to this morning.” The sergeant shrugged. “
The Reporter
’s a small paper. One-and-a-half-person operation. The big story yesterday was the dog show. They were out all day on that. Didn’t have time to review all the letters that came in.”

“A piece of plain brown paper, torn in half, but kind of a ritzy envelope,” Brisbois murmured. “Hand delivered. That means local.” His eyes brightened. “Surveillance cameras? There must be at least one surveillance camera in the area.”

The officer shook his head.

“Nothing? Not even one measly stationary camera?”

“The only one is at the
ATM
at the Bank of Montreal. It doesn’t show anything beyond the
ATM
s, the foyer, and the section of sidewalk directly in front of the bank. Nothing else.” He checked his notes. “We’ve got fingerprints from the mail slot so we’ll send the envelope and letter to see if there’s a match. But we wanted you to have a look first.”

“Good work.” Brisbois studied the envelope. “This looks kind of familiar.”

He reached into his pocket and took out the envelope containing the Polaroid the Benson sisters had given him. “Would you say these envelopes were the same?”

The sergeant studied them. “Looks like it to me.”

“Can you get these envelopes around here?”

“Sure. Cowperthwaite’s Stationery.”

“Cowperthwaite’s?”

“Yeah, it’s on the main drag between the coffee shop and the lawyer’s office.”

“Anyplace else?”

“Not around here. I know that because I buy envelopes like these for my wife’s aunt. She likes the mint-coloured ones but they all have the same pattern on the inside — little daisies.”

“I think they’re primroses,” Brisbois remarked. He returned the Bensons’ envelope to his pocket. “Ask forensics if they can match any prints on that envelope delivered to the newspaper with prints on file from the Pleasant.”

“You think the sisters kidnapped the kids?” Creighton asked.

“No. But I think one of their envelopes may have ended up in the hands of the guy who did the kidnapping.”

“A lot of people could have bought the same envelope at Cowperthwaite’s,” Creighton argued.

“Why don’t we ask?” Brisbois examined the note again. It was written in crooked print with a pencil. “‘Five thousand dollars or the kids die. More later,’” he murmured. “No mention of a date or a drop location. I guess that’ll be in the ‘more later’.”

“Five thousand dollars.” Creighton laughed. “The guy must know the kids. He figures nobody would give more than that.”

“Or he forgot to add more zeroes.”

Creighton shrugged. “We don’t know that much about the parents’ finances. The grandparents seem to be pretty flush.”

“Although they probably wouldn’t think it was their responsibility to pay the ransom.”

“They’d think it was Rudley’s.” Creighton laughed again. “Why don’t we just take up a collection at the station? Or maybe we could take it out of petty cash.”

Brisbois gave him a sharp look as he headed for the door. “Cool it with the jokes. We’re talking about kids here. I’d take the money out of my personal account if that would do the trick.”

Creighton jingled some change in his pocket. “Since you’ve got that much money, you can buy your partner lunch.”

·

Cowperthwaite’s was a rainbow of colour. Brisbois and Creighton browsed casually among the lap desks, boxed stationery sets, and multitude of single sheets and mix-or-match envelopes. After several minutes, a slight man in ecru slacks and a blue-and-white striped shirt with matching tie emerged from the rear.