Pleasantly Dead (12 page)

Creighton leaned foreword and whispered behind his hand.

Brisbois nodded. “Oh, yes, Mr. Thomas. One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Are you familiar with a shoe repair shop in Chicago? Shoniker’s?”

Thomas drew a blank for a moment, then his lip curled. “Detective, do I look like the kind of man who has his shoes repaired?” He stood up. “I assume you’re through with me?”

Creighton sat down in the chair Thomas had vacated while Brisbois finished his notes.

“So Phipps-Walker sticks by his story?”

Creighton nodded. “He was fishing with Thomas all morning. Not more than thirty feet away. Saw him land a nice trout. He sounded kind of jealous about that.”

“Tim saw him out on the lake?”

“Yup.”

“And Rudley?”

“Yup.” He shrugged. “I guess our man in the khakis wasn’t Thomas.”

“If there was a man in khakis.”

“You think the boy was lying?”

“Either he’s lying or all those people who gave Thomas an alibi are lying.”

“Doesn’t seem likely. Why would they stick their necks out for Thomas?”

“I don’t know. The way things are going around here, Creighton, I don’t think I’d trust the damned Pope if he gave one of these nuts an alibi.” He shoved the index cards into his pocket. “I don’t think I’d trust anything I didn’t see with my own eyes.”

Creighton looked at him for a long moment.

“What?”

“Have you noticed, boss, you’ve been swearing a lot more since you came here?”

“Lloyd.” Rudley reared up from behind the counter. He knocked his head on the edge. “God damn it.” He drove his fist into the counter, which did nothing but compound his pain. He solved the problem by yelling louder. Margaret hustled across the lobby, carrying a basket of pompoms. “Lloyd is in the garden. I asked him to bring up some green onions.”

“Well, I’ve got a more urgent problem. Mrs. Sawchuck has called down twice. She’s got the tip of her cane caught in the floor register and can’t get it out.” He grabbed the telephone and shoved it across the desk. “God damn it, if Brisbois doesn’t get this investigation wrapped up before…” He stopped and stared into space, pressing his lips together as Margaret threw him a cautionary look. “Why would she be clumping around on our fine old hardwood with that damned metal-tipped cane anyway?” He slurred the word
damned
, hoping to slip it past Margaret.

She rolled her eyes. “She picked it up the last time she was in Bavaria. She’s hoping it will give her more mobility on the rough spots around the inn.”

“It looks like something you’d use to scale Everest.”

She patted his arm. “Be nice, Rudley. This is a big adventure for her. Her first foray into the woods in five years.”

“You’d think she could get her thrills on the sidewalks in the village. Why a place that thrives on tourists won’t patch the sidewalks is beyond me.”

“Council is still considering tearing them up to put in boardwalks, which I think is a splendid idea.” She put down the basket. “I’ll go up to see if I can deal with the problem.”

Tim sailed through the lobby, trailing garlands. They encircled his shoulders like feather boas.

“You look like a whore in a cheap strip joint,” said Rudley.

“These are for the ballroom.”

Rudley shook his head.

Gregoire passed the desk, pushing a cart of chafing dishes. “Have you perfected your act, Rudley?”

“I’m only doing it because the damned guests expect it.”

Rudley had been doing his soft-shoe routine at Music Hall for years. He said he did it because Margaret insisted it was his duty as the innkeeper to accompany her in her act. He did it because he loved to do it and because he was good. He thought about Mrs. Sawchuck and her lethal cane, about the people who sank boats, the kid who carved his initials into his prized cottonwood, the dead bodies scattered about, and how onerous an innkeeper’s life could be. If he had been a man of lesser ambition, he would have followed his heart and hoofed the boards from the Poconos to the Laurentians. He wouldn’t have won Margaret if he hadn’t been so accomplished at dance. He allowed himself a jaunty smile as he recalled her surprise and delight when they took their first turn on the dance floor so many summers ago: “
Why, you can dance, you devil. They said you could, but I never imagined you were so accomplished. I thought they meant it was safe for me to wear something more elegant than army boots
.”

He shuffled his feet. Dance was in his blood. If life had taken him in a different direction, he would have been right up there with Fred Astaire. But you had to be an innkeeper, Rudley. He whistled a few bars of
Easter Parade
and did a nifty sideways shuffle.

“I love that movie.” Tiffany paused in front of the desk, her hands wrapped around her broom.

“Oh, yes, great old standard. They don’t make movies like that any more.”

“I wish I could dance but I still get dizzy when I spin.”

Gregoire paused on his way back to the kitchen. “You’re lucky that brute didn’t kill you.”

Tiffany’s face fell. “I still can’t remember anything. I can’t even remember going down to the Birches.”

“Detective Brisbois will be here for Music Hall,” Gregoire said. “Nothing could possibly happen.”

“We had that big boots stationed at the front door,” Rudley shouted, “and Leslie managed to get killed and Tiffany got smashed on the head hard enough to make her lose her marbles.”

“Don’t shout, Rudley.” Margaret came down the stairs, waving her hands. She put an arm around Tiffany. “Tiffany didn’t lose her marbles. She simply can’t remember what happened that morning.”

“The doctor says I’ll never remember. She says short-term memories are easy to obliterate.” She shook her head. “It’s probably just as well. I don’t want to remember Mr. Leslie lifeless in that tub full of blood, that monster leaping at me from wherever, smashing me on the head with whatever. Creighton thought he might have used a blackjack.”

“That’s because he’s a city boy,” Rudley said. “I agree with Doc. It was probably a fish club. They’re all over the place.”

“I suppose it’s preferable to being hit with a table lamp or a piece of sculpture.”

“I should say so. We bought those lamps as a unit. I don’t know if we could find replacements.”

“Rudley.”

“The last thing I remember is having a cup of coffee in the kitchen with Gregoire.”

“I think that’s very touching. I am the last thing you remember.”

“That would certainly be the highlight of my day,” Rudley muttered.

“I solved Mrs. Sawchuck’s problem,” Margaret said. “The register wasn’t flush with the floor. She caught the tip of her cane and fell onto the bed. No harm done.”

“It was probably her fault in the first place,” Rudley said. “She probably got that cane caught in the register and wrenched it out. How else would it have come up?”

“I don’t know, Rudley. I’m just glad she wasn’t hurt.”

“I suppose we should glue them down,” Rudley said.

“It was just one of those things, Rudley. It would be a shame to mar the hardwood with glue. And the registers are elegant. I’ve never seen ceramic registers before.”

“I hope she didn’t chip it with that damned instrument.”

“Not that I noticed, dear.”

“I’ll be choosing a Merlot and a Pignot Noir for the entrée,” Rudley said. “A port for dessert. After that, they’ll be so potted, we can trot out the Mogan David.”

“The place goes mad when we have Music Hall,” Margaret told Trudy, who had come up to the desk for her next assignment. “Even the Sawchucks do a number. Last year, they did ‘Sidewalks of New York’.”

“Quite horribly,” said Gregoire.

“Make sure we have a spotter,” Rudley said. “I don’t want the old turds falling into the orchestra pit or getting wound up in the curtains.”

Brisbois and Creighton entered the lobby.

“Perhaps you would care to do a number for Music Hall, Detective,” Margaret said.

“I don’t plan to be part of the entertainment but I wouldn’t miss Music Hall for the world, Mrs. Rudley. Since we’re all here, why don’t we go over the ballroom? I want to make sure no one has a chance to slip a knife between someone’s ribs backstage.”

They trailed after him into the ballroom.

“If you ask me, you’re going to have a hard time keeping track of people,” Rudley said. “People come and go during intermissions. Outside for a smoke. To their rooms.”

“Especially Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson,” said Gregoire.

Tim tittered.

“It’s so romantic,” Margaret said. “They make a lovely couple.”

“He’s as innocent as a new-born lamb and she’s the shark from
Jaws
,” Rudley murmured.

“She’s a modern young woman.” Margaret smiled. “Perhaps not so modern. I recall, I had to take the lead with you in the beginning, Rudley.”

“My ears are wide open,” said Creighton.

“Shut them,” said Rudley.

“We have at least one romance every summer. We wait with bated breath to see how it’s going to turn out.”

“Usually, once they get away from the inn, they can’t understand what they saw in one another,” Gregoire said.

“Don’t forget Flora First and Ben Greer.”

Rudley sniffed. “They were in their eighties, Margaret. I don’t think he lasted six months after they announced their engagement.”

“At least he had the courtesy not to die here,” Tim said.

“Only because we were lucky enough to be booked up the week they called,” Gregoire said.

Brisbois scowled. “I know this is a real lark for you folks, and you’re accustomed to people dropping like flies, but I want to remind you this is serious business. The only reason I haven’t shut the place down and arrested all of you is that the powers that be won’t hear of it. Of course, the powers that be don’t have to deal with you lot.”

Margaret lay a hand on Brisbois’ wrist. “Detective, we fully appreciate the gravity of the situation. But I’m from stock that endured the bombing of London. Rudley’s ancestors were among the first settlers. We don’t rattle easily.”

“That may be true, Mrs. Rudley, but…”

“Besides” — she gave him her best smile — “Music Hall.”

“I guess the show must go on,” Creighton said.

“Under my watchful eye,” said Brisbois.

“You two will need eyes in the back of your heads,” said Gregoire. “You may be surprised to know but Music Hall is a wild and crazy affair.”

Margaret beamed. “It’s quite special.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Brisbois had Tim show him the stage and dressing rooms.

“So the dressing room off stage left can be entered from the side door to the inn.”

“Yes. The dressing room off stage right opens into the lobby from the door just past the front desk.”

Brisbois glanced at Creighton who made a note. “So the karaoke crowd comes up the steps from the floor? Or from the wings?”

“If the performers have costume changes — or if they want to make a grand entrance, which almost everybody who plans a number does — they come from the wings. The impromptu numbers come up from the floor.”

“When people complete their numbers, do they exit to the wings or just walk down the steps to the floor?”

Tim shrugged. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether they want to change from their costumes — or have to.”

“Have to?”

Tim grinned. “I don’t want to spoil any of the surprises.”

“When people leave the ballroom, where do they go?”

“The powder room, out onto the veranda, to their rooms to freshen up. Occasionally, we have to fish someone out of the lake after too many gin fizzes. Or is that gins fizz?”

“Gin cocktails will do.” Brisbois rubbed his chin. “So people are coming and going all the time.”

“Only during intermissions.”

“Do some of the guests pass up the entertainment altogether?”

Tim stared at him. “Please, Detective, it’s Music Hall.”

Brisbois rolled his eyes. “You can go now. We’ll poke around on our own.”

“Sounds like a zoo,” Creighton said after Tim left.

“Did everyone get dinner reservations?”

“Rick and Simard had to take a table on the veranda. The rest got seats in the main room.”

“Just as well. We need someone outside the ballroom. Besides you.”

“I thought I’d be more use in the main room.”

“I need someone out there who knows the players. You’re in the best position to know if anything strange is going on.”

“Darn, I’m going to miss the show.”

Brisbois ducked into the right-wing dressing room. “Look at this.” He sank down onto a red velvet chair in front of the makeup mirror. “You’d think it was Broadway.”

Creighton chuckled. “Detective, it’s Music Hall.”

Brisbois scratched his head. “We’re missing something, Creighton. Something right in front of our noses.”

“I know this is going to be the best Music Hall ever,” Margaret said. “Every one of the staff and guests is performing a number. I’m sure most of the dinner guests will want to as well, once they get in the spirit.”

“We know Judge Waverly will do ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ on the spoons,” Rudley said. “I’m glad Thomas volunteered to be emcee. I couldn’t stomach introducing the old fart another year.”

“He wanted to participate in some way. He regrets to say he doesn’t have any talent.”

“That doesn’t discourage the rest of them.”

“Jim and Eileen Farrell are doing ‘Oh, Promise Me’,” Margaret said, turning a page in her program.

“Now, they have talent.”

“Then Tim and Gregoire will do a tango.”

“I hope Tim is wearing the skirt.”

“No, Gregoire.”

“You can’t wear a skirt with a moustache, Margaret. Besides, he’s got enough hair on his legs to make several sweaters.”

She patted his arm. “He can do whatever he likes, Rudley. It’s Music Hall.” She smiled. “I’ll never forget my first music hall. Aunt Pearl and Uncle Winnie were starring. Ballroom dancing. They were so elegant. I liked Theodore the Magician best, of course. He pulled rabbits out of his pockets and sawed people in half. I was so disappointed when I found I couldn’t do those things at home.”

“Some things should not be tried at home.”

“Tiffany is next with a medley of Gershwin. Gives me the shivers when I hear ‘Rhapsody in Blue’.”

“If only her fingers were as fast with the mop.”

“She gets her work done, Rudley. And does it well.”

“She does,” Rudley conceded. “I’d feel better, however, if she’d stop appearing on the scene whenever a dead body shows up.”

“Some people are unlucky.” Margaret continued to scan the program. “There’s Lloyd doing ‘Me and My Shadow’.”

“Creepy.”

“Oh, he is. Marvellous. That smile would give you the willies. Trudy will do a solo with Melba accompanying her on the ukulele. An Arlo Guthrie selection.”

“I didn’t know Melba had taken up the ukulele.”

“She’s branching out into strings.” Margaret sighed. “And here’s our number, Rudley. Then Tim’s back to dance to ‘Singing in the Rain’. And Miss Miller will do a selection from Leonard Cohen.”

“At least we don’t have to worry about whether or not she can sing.”

“Mr. George will play ‘The Surprise Symphony’ on the tuba. Then, Mr. Bole will play a minuet on the piano. The Fletchers will perform the dance in period costume.”

“It was a good decision you made, Margaret, investing in those costumes.”

Margaret put her program aside. “I’ve been thinking, Rudley, we should put on some theatrical productions.”

“I don’t think the ballroom stage is big enough for a full theatrical production, Margaret.”