Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant (8 page)

Tim nodded. “They’re brats. And there’s no point in complaining to the Sawchucks. They apologize for the kids and ask that the damages be added to their bill. I have the feeling they have a special fund set aside to pay off people the kids have offended.”

“There’s a lot to be said for not having children. Winnie and I had Margaret. We agreed that a niece was plenty and she has been just like a daughter. She was a spirited kid, but never like those two.”

“They’re sadistic,” Tim said, watching Pearl take a pack of cards from her purse. “Who are the unlucky marks this afternoon?”

“Whoever wanders by. My regulars all have other business to attend to at the moment.”

“Meaning they’re all tired of getting fleeced.”

Pearl smiled. “Fortunately, there’s always a few innocents.”

Tim gave her a long look. “Are you cheating again?”

“Not so you’d notice.” Pearl began to arrange the cards on the table. “I’ll just play a few hands of solitaire until someone shows up.”

“What about all this whisky?”

She gave him a smile. “Don’t worry, dear, I think I can handle that.”

“When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

Pearl patted her lips with a tissue, leaving a smear of Sweet Conquest. “Rudley is such a killjoy.”

“Has he figured out that when he dilutes the whisky you switch bottles on him?”

She patted his arm. “Not yet, dear.”

A sudden shriek turned their attention to the lawn where Ned was chasing Nora, waving a bullfrog. Tim jumped up and ran down the steps. He cut in front of Ned, sending him sprawling. The bullfrog flew off in the direction of the marsh.

Ned glared at Tim. “You knocked me down.”

“I didn’t lay a hand on you. You tripped.” Tim gestured toward Aunt Pearl on the veranda. “I have a witness.”

Ned screwed up his face. “That old bat couldn’t see an elephant if it sat on her.”

Tim hunkered down so he was eye to eye with Ned. “I don’t want to hear you refer to Miss Dutton that way again.”

“I’ll tell Grandpa you were rude to me.”

Tim lowered his voice. “You can tell Grandpa anything you want. One other thing, if I catch you pestering the frogs or any other living creature around here, you don’t want to know what could happen to you.”

Ned gave him an uncertain look.

“Any problem here?” Mr. Bole came down the path.

“No, Mr. Bole, everything is quite copacetic,” Tim replied, standing and straightening his vest. He marched back to the inn.

“He threatened me,” Ned said.

“Good for him.” Mr. Bole smiled and headed toward the dock.

Turnbull took the coffee Miss Miller passed around. “May I have the keys?” he said to her.

“Planning to leave?”

“No, I just want to catch the sports news. I have a running bet with one of my law school buddies: How many errors did the Blue Jays make last night.”

She handed him the keys. With his other hand, Mr. Turnbull took the scone Margaret offered and climbed into the van.

They were standing around the van, enjoying the coffee and scones when Peters pulled his car in and started fussing with a road map. Margaret waved him over.

Turnbull climbed out of the van as Peters approached. “What kept you?” he asked.

“Nothing. I was travelling the speed limit.”

Turnbull turned to the others. “Were we speeding?”

Margaret interrupted. “Did you get your sports, Mr. Turnbull?”

“Yeah.” Turnbull helped himself to another scone. “Oh, there was something about a body in a ditch near your place.”

Rudley started. “How near?”

“Not far from the Quebec border.”

Rudley relaxed. “That’s not too near.”

“Usually they’re right on the property.” Norman grinned.

Peters looked at his watch. “Shouldn’t we be going?”

“We have fifteen minutes to kill,” Norman said. “Are you calculating the legal speed limit in catching the train, Miss Miller?”

“Yes, Norman.”

Simpson nodded. “I think that would be wise. I noticed two patrol cars on the highway a few minutes after we pulled off.”

“There’s no need to rush,” said Norman. “The train won’t leave without us if we’re a few minutes late.”

“We won’t be late, Norman.”

Margaret clapped her hands. “Isn’t this exciting, Rudley? Boarding a train and riding off into the unknown.”

He smiled. “I’m tickled pink, Margaret.”

·

Gregoire lifted the lid of a pot, standing well to one side.

“What’s the matter?” Tim said. “Are you afraid you might find a rat?”

Gregoire stared at the pot. “That would not be a surprise.” He stepped forward cautiously, looked into the pot, and sighed. “It is those children. What they did to my pinwheels is the last straw. I told you this morning a snake jumped out of my flour bin just after I arrived. They must have snuck down during the night to put it there.” He brought the pot over to the stove, reached for a canister, recoiled. “My whole kitchen is probably booby trapped.”

Tim chose a pear from the fruit bowl and examined it. “You have to admit, they liven up the place,” he said, biting into the fruit.

“The place is lively enough for me as it is.”

“And they were so well behaved when they first arrived.”

Gregoire picked up a spatula and opened the cupboard doors. “That is because the parents were trying to give the impression they would be no trouble. They probably bribed them to behave until they had made their escape.”

“I’m surprised Rudley agreed to have them in the first place.”

“He agreed because he thought they were older and because he knew he would not be here.”

Deciding the cupboards were safe, Gregoire took down a set of mixing bowls and placed them on the counter. “And to imagine I have been working my fingers to the bone, preparing the kinds of things kids like. My special macaroni and cheese, rice pudding the way kids like it, fruit bowls carved out of grapefruit and cantaloupe with trail-mix sprinkles and my special secret strawberry dressing, hot dogs with all the trimmings, chocolate pudding with whipped cream and three maraschino cherries.”

Tim shrugged. “I agree you’ve knocked yourself out for the little wretches. Maybe they’d behave better if you fed them gruel and turnip soup.”

Gregoire glowered. “That is disgusting. I would not stoop to insulting my kitchen. And they are guests.”

“More like an invasion of locusts.”

Gregoire eased open a drawer. “Where are they now?”

“Gone. I told Lloyd to take them up to the woods to show them the wild zebras.”

“What zebras?”

Tim smiled. “There aren’t any zebras. But it will take them an hour to find out.”

“At least I can prepare lunch in peace.”

“We have four reservations,” Tim said. “Mr. and Mrs. Mishtook are in town with their boat. They phoned ahead to say they are bringing their own catfish.”

“Which they will want rolled in Shake ’n Bake.” Gregoire sighed. “I could do so much more for their catfish if they would let me.”

“And the Clows,” Tim continued. “He’s dyspeptic. No onions, garlic, or hot spices.”

“Their palates must be dying of boredom.”

“And the Stevenses. They’re new people on the lake. Vegan.”

“I will prepare them a black bean soup and tofu loaf that will have their taste buds giving standing ovations.”

“And the Noonans.”

“Are they still dressing identically?”

“We’ll have to wait to see. I would guess yes. And they will order the same thing.”

“They are a very strange couple.”

“And we’ll probably have a few walk-ins. I’ve heard a rumour that the guests at the West Wind aren’t crazy about their chef.”

“I have heard he is trying to break his contract.”

“When his cooking reaches the level of Mr. Cadeau’s, he’ll probably get his wish,” Tim remarked.

“Mr. Cadeau should not insist on making a specialty of wild game in an area where people come to see Bambi skipping through the forest.”

“Just to say, we’ll probably be inundated for the next week or so.”

Gregoire shrugged. “No need to worry. I have everything under control.” He reached into the cupboard and took down the asparagus cooker.

Tim exploded with laughter as Gregoire removed the lid and a polka dot snake spiraled across the kitchen.

·

Detective Michel Brisbois got out of the car and started up the path toward the Pleasant.

“Here we are again.” Detective Chester Creighton paused to adjust his fedora.

“Yes, here we are again.”

“At least there are no dead bodies around here this time. As far as we know.”

Brisbois pointed out a shrub to Creighton. “That’s a new one Lloyd’s put in. Mock orange. Nice fragrance when it’s in bloom. The flowers look and smell like real orange blossoms.”

“Looks good,” said Creighton, who wouldn’t have known a Douglas fir from a rock.

Brisbois tramped up the steps to the veranda, pausing to turn and look back at the lake. “Seems odd not to see Norman or the Sawchucks out on the lake.” He opened the door and stepped into the lobby. “Where in hell is everybody?” He peeked into the drawing room, then the ballroom. “Anybody home?” he called.

“Maybe this will work.” Creighton gave the bell on the front desk a smack.

A tall, thin woman in a blue blouse and grey slacks appeared. “Detective Brisbois, Detective Creighton.” She didn’t seem surprised to see them.

Brisbois removed his porkpie. “Mrs. Millotte.” He surveyed the room. “Where is everybody?”

“Communing with nature.”

“Come again?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Rudley and a select group of guests are off on a week’s jaunt in northern Ontario. A canoe trip into the wilderness.”

“Which guests?”

“Miss Miller, Mr. Simpson, the Phipps-Walkers, and a pair of young fellows, a Mr. Peters and Mr. Turnbull, who are new to us.”

“Canoe trip.” Brisbois smiled. “I have a hard time seeing Rudley doing that kind of thing.”

“He can do that sort of thing. He just doesn’t like to.”

“So you’re holding the fort.”

“Along with the rest of the staff.”

“Any of the usual guests?”

“The Benson sisters.”

“How are they getting along?”

“They don’t look a day over eighty-five.” Mrs. Millotte paused. “Mr. Bole is here and the Sawchucks. Plus their adorable grandchildren.”

“I didn’t know Rudley took children.”

“If they didn’t belong to one of our charter guests, I don’t think he would.”

Brisbois nodded. “I’m sure you’re wondering why we’re here.”

Mrs. Millotte didn’t skip a beat. “I suppose you were driving by and noticed a dead body on the premises.”

Brisbois shook his head. “Not this time. We found a John Doe in the ditch just over the border from Quebec. We’re making general inquiries in our jurisdiction. Just in case anyone’s seen anything unusual.”

Mrs. Millotte gave him an are-you-kidding look. “I can’t remember when I last saw anything usual around here,” she said.

“We’re asking people to let us know if they notice anyone who doesn’t seem to belong, anyone who’s acting suspiciously.”

“We’ll do that.”

“And we’re asking people to be a little extra careful. Keep your windows and doors locked at night or if you’re out during the day. Ask your guests to be aware. Just in case.”

“I don’t think anyone would want to tangle with me. Besides — ” Mrs. Millotte pointed to the large dog stretched out on the rug in the middle of the lobby “ — we have protection.”

Albert stirred and rolled onto his back, leaving a puddle of drool. Brisbois gave him a long look. “Lock your windows and doors.”

The two detectives headed back to the car. Brisbois stopped to light a cigarette.

“What do you think?” Creighton asked.

A pair of bluejays erupted from the pine grove. Brisbois watched them settle into a spruce near the dock. “I’d feel better if more of the regulars were around. They’d be more apt to notice something out of place.”

Creighton watched a sailboat skimming toward the opposite shore. “Don’t tell me you miss Rudley.”

Brisbois flicked away an ash and sank down onto a bench near the parking lot. “I can do without him this trip,” he responded, fixing his gaze on the lawn running down to the lake.

Everything in perfect condition as always, he thought. But without the regular crowd it had a lonely feel. He stared out into the lake, hoping Norman Phipps-Walker might materialize, dozing in his boat, waking just in time to retrieve his pole before it slid into the water. Or Miss Miller appear at his shoulder to give him her version of what was happening on the case. Or Rudley butt in to give him hell. Or Margaret…

He caught sight of Tiffany trundling her linen cart down the path toward the cottages. Funny that a young woman with a master’s degree would stay on as housekeeper at the inn year after year. She’d had some success with her short stories, and the last time he’d seen her, she told him she was working on a novel. He wondered if he might turn up as a character in the book and how she might portray him. He liked to think he was a decent, hard-working guy, ethical, a good father, a faithful husband. He sighed. He hadn’t always been there for his family when he wanted to be. He’d missed his youngest son’s clarinet recital because one drunk had clobbered another. He’d missed his oldest daughter’s first hockey game to stand at a riverbank while the divers brought up a weighted body. The kids’ lives were a blur as he got busier and busier. They’d all turned out well — thanks to Mary. And now that the kids were out of the house, Mary was progressing in her career at the bank. He’d aimed to retire at sixty, buy that cottage, spend whole days with his wife, every day. Now he wasn’t sure if she’d be available to spend all of her time with him.

Maybe Tiffany would make him a hero, the conscientious, slightly overweight, somewhat melancholy investigator who did his job without drama — an everyman hero.

Creighton interrupted his thoughts. “Chances are the killer’s already left the jurisdiction.”

“He starts out in Fredericton,” Brisbois mused. “He kills an eighty-five-year-old man. Belts him on the head. Strangles him. A few days later, he ends up in Ottawa where he kills three people for next to nothing. He incapacitates them, then smothers them.”