Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders (5 page)

“So somewhere between four and five, the victim ended up in the drink. Unless he wasn’t in his room. In which case, he could have been in the drink before Gregoire went up to the kitchen. Assuming Gregoire’s telling the truth.”

Creighton chuckled. “You don’t seriously believe Gregoire killed that guy.”

Brisbois gave him a sharp look. “I don’t know anything at this point. Phipps-Walker could have done him in for all I know.” He turned back to Ruskay. “Did Phipps-Walker volunteer this information about the argument out of the clear blue?”

Ruskay thought for a moment. “No. I asked him if the two guys knew each other. He said he understood they both lived in the bunkhouse, then he added that bit about the argument.”

Brisbois frowned. “What about the rest of the staff, the ones who live in the bunkhouse?”

Ruskay consulted his notes. “The maid, Tiffany Armstrong, she normally lives there, but she’s in Toronto for the weekend. The waiter, Tim McAuley, he’s on vacation in Mexico. The maintenance man, Lloyd, he’s still camping out in that shed behind the inn. I guess he doesn’t move into the bunkhouse until the lake freezes over.”

“Yeah, I remember that.” Brisbois smiled, recalling a previous murder he had investigated at the Pleasant. “Something about getting more fresh air.” He sobered. “So, it was just the two of them in the bunkhouse last night.”

“As far as anybody knows.”

“Any history of bad blood?”

“Nothing I’ve heard so far. Rudley says Gregoire asked him to take Gerald on because he was between jobs and short on cash. They expected he’d be around for two or three weeks but they were planning to keep him on until he got something else.”

“Didn’t rub anybody the wrong way?”

“Nope.”

“Anybody have any idea where he went last night?”

Ruskay shook his head.

“Okay.” Brisbois reached into his pocket and took out a package of Nicorette gum. He looked at it, put it back, and took out a pack of du Maurier instead. He lit one. “Let’s take a look through the bunkhouse,” he said to Creighton. “Then we’ll go back to Middleton. Look in on Gregoire.” He turned to Ruskay. “Get a list of all the guests who’ve been here since Gerald arrived.”

Creighton grinned. “Don’t you want to go up to the inn and bug Rudley?”

Brisbois shook his head. “I think we’ll put that off as long as possible.”

“I must say, Rudley,” — Mr. Bole looked over his half-glasses at Rudley, who loomed over him, crushing the hem of his apron with his right hand — “these pancakes are a bit dense.”

“They’re hardy, Mr. Bole. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”

“Then I suggest you give it back to her.” He paused. “Do you have any of those frozen ones kicking around? You just put them in the toaster. Can’t go wrong.”

Rudley swept up the offending plate. “I’ll give it another try.” He scurried back to the kitchen. “Margaret, Mr. Bole insulted my pancakes.”

“I’ll have Lloyd do up a plate for him. The Phipps-Walkers raved about the batch he did for them.”

Rudley glared. “If they’d taken a good look at his fingernails, they would have ordered out.”

“Be nice, Rudley.” Margaret lowered her voice. “Lloyd’s an orphan.”

Lloyd grinned. He wasn’t an orphan, but since this bit of fiction brought extra pieces of pie and endless sympathy from Mrs. Rudley, he was happy to maintain it. “You got to get the grill hot so the little drops of water hiss and scoot,” he explained. “Then you got to wait until the whole upside of the pancake is covered with little bubbles. Then turn it over and wait just so.”

“I think that’s the problem with yours, Rudley,” Margaret said. “You aren’t waiting.”

“I don’t have time to wait. I have an inn to run. Have you heard back from Cooper?”

“He’s just been taken on at the Water’s Edge.”

“Farrell?”

“He’s gone back to Ireland. He was offered a wonderful job in Dublin.”

“Call Cooper and offer him double what Watt’s paying him,” Rudley said. His words pained him.

“We can’t poach other people’s chefs, Rudley. You wouldn’t want anyone to do that to us.” Margaret patted her brow. “I’ve left a message for Mr. Cadeau. I know he’s available.” She met Rudley’s stare. “They let him go from the Water’s Edge.”

“What was he trying to do? Palm off a bear as filet mignon?”

“I think the Watts got tired of his temper. He did very well when he filled in for us last time.”

“He’s a pain in the ass.”

“We need him, Rudley. The guests have been patient. We’ll ask him for the week. I’m sure Gregoire will be back by then.”

“What in hell are they keeping him for?”

“I suppose it’s because of the bad luck they had last time, Rudley. They gave their suspects free reign.” She lowered her voice. “You know what happened last time.”

“I know what happened last time, Margaret.”

She eased the spatula from his hand. “Rudley, why don’t you go out to the desk? We can manage here.”

Lloyd grinned. “Probably better.”

Brisbois returned to the interview room with a cup of coffee and closed the door behind him. He spread out his notes and perused them, tapping his pencil against the table.

“Gerald wasn’t drunk and we don’t have anything so far on the tox screen,” he said to Creighton. “He didn’t drown. He was smothered. In his own bed. Probably with that pillow we bagged. Pathologist notes bruising on his chest. Pre-mortem. Suggesting someone sat on his chest while they were smothering him.” He grimaced. “Nice. He was then dumped upside down in the lake to make double sure.” His brows arched. “Look at this. His toes were dirty. Dorsal surface. But the soles were clean.”

Creighton looked up from his notes. “Dorsal. That’s the top?”

“Yeah.”

“He was dragged out face down.”

“And what does that suggest?”

Creighton shrugged. “Maybe two people.”

Brisbois cocked an index finger at him. “Could be. One person would have dragged him out backwards. Face up. The dirt would have been on his heels. Two people? They probably dragged him out, one under each arm.”

Creighton tore a piece from the edge of his Styrofoam cup and flipped it into the ashtray. “It’s hard to imagine Gregoire being involved in that.”

“The Crown didn’t think so.” Brisbois shrugged. “It’s hard to see him getting a body out of the bunkhouse by himself. But he could have. As for smothering him, it wouldn’t have been that hard. The victim’s asleep. Completely off his guard. Even if he woke up, what does he see? Gregoire. He wouldn’t see any danger. After that? Well, I wouldn’t want to have Gregoire sitting on my chest. He’s built like a fireplug.”

“Gerald was quite a lot bigger. He could have bucked him off.”

“Maybe he woke in a state of panic, confusion. He didn’t think about what was on his chest. He was pawing at the pillow.”

Creighton gave him a look. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t see Gregoire doing something like that, even if he could.”

“Okay.” Brisbois reviewed his notes. “Gerald was going somewhere. Where did he go? Who did he go with?”

“That we don’t know. Yet.”

Brisbois bounced his pencil off the table, caught it. “What I don’t get is why Gregoire won’t talk to us. Tell us what they were fighting about.”

“Either he’s guilty or he’s protecting someone.”

Brisbois tugged at his collar. “What did you get on those phone calls of yours?”

Creighton picked up his notes. “Gerald Murphy. Last worked as a waiter at Le Cirque Rouge in Montreal. He also did a floor show there. Female impersonator. Specialized in Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand.” He shook his head. “Don’t these guys have any imagination? They’re always Judy or Barbra.”

Brisbois waved his pencil to urge him on.

“Anyway, he lost his job at Le Cirque when the place closed. Rent got too high. The address they had on him was a non-starter. The landlord said Gerald moved out without leaving a forwarding address. His boss, Guy Lambert, said he was a good waiter and did a good show. He didn’t know much about his private life. Said he was very big on making a name for himself in show business.”

“We’ll have to follow that up.”

“Yeah. The police down there have never had any dealings with him. He didn’t have a car. Didn’t even have a telephone in his name. Apparently, he got cut off almost a year ago for non-payment.”

“How did he contact his family?”

“His family hasn’t heard from him in months. His brother said that wasn’t unusual. They expected to hear from him when they heard from him. He always checked in eventually.”

“Except this time.”

“Except this time.”

“No friends?”

“Like with the family. He didn’t exactly live in their pockets. I talked to one of the waiters. She said he was fun to work with, but superficial. Said he was kind of a user.”

“Same as with Gregoire,” Brisbois said. “Maybe Gregoire didn’t like that. Okay” — he pushed back his chair — “give me the rest.”

“Gerald Murphy led a pretty normal life,” Creighton editorialized, “until he graduated from kindergarten. Born in Newcastle, New Brunswick. Parents were George and Betty. Brothers Michael and Kenneth. Father was a machinist. Mother worked in a nursing home. Father died four years ago. Mother and brothers still live in Newcastle. The brothers are both teachers. Gerald received the standard Catholic-school education. Went to Mount Allison. Left without taking a degree.”

“Did they say why?”

“His brother Michael” — Creighton flipped a page — “said he got bored. Moved to Quebec City. Worked at a place called Le Canard Sauvage, a dinner-dance club. Gay male exclusively. The manager, Chris Brown, describes him as swish.”

“What did he do?”

“Waited tables. Did an act. Apparently, he was working up a Diana Ross routine. Guess it didn’t work out.”

“He didn’t include it in his Montreal act.”

“No.” Creighton flipped a page. “He was in Quebec City four years, then took his act on the road. Caribbean. Worked in the resorts. We’ve put in a request to the police in Bermuda and Barbados. Nothing yet.” He studied the page for a moment. “Then he went overseas, Germany, the Netherlands.”

“Waiting tables?”

“Yup. He also did some impersonations there.”

“You got that from Brown?”

“No, Deiter Bruhner. I got his name from Lambert in Montreal. Deiter worked with Gerald in a club in Amsterdam. He sort of confirms what everybody else says. Flamboyant. A user. He said Gerald also dabbled in the sex trade. Occasionally. If he saw something he wanted and didn’t have the cash.”

“Did he have something going on with Deiter?”

“Not much. They were mainly friends. Deiter came to Montreal to attend McGill. That’s how I found him. Through the alumni review. He looked Gerald up when he was here. They got together from time to time. Seems to be a pretty decent guy. He said Gerald was a lot of fun to be around, but a bit wearing after a while. Always revved up. Always short of cash. Superficial in his relationships.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of a life, does it?”

“How so?”

“Transient. No ties. Goes to university and ends up waiting tables.”

Creighton shrugged. “Hey, he’s a single guy. Hopping from one playground to another. Lots of boyfriends. Having a good time. Maybe, once in a while, he thought about finishing his degree, getting a nine-to-five. Drudgery. Responsibility. Then he looked out over those Caribbean waters and said, ‘What the heck. Life is good.’”

“So why would he come back?”

“Maybe he got homesick.”

“He’s in some exotic locale and he gets homesick for Newcastle, New Brunswick?”

Creighton flipped through a few pages. “What did Deiter say about that? Oh, yeah. Gerald met some guy, a porter on the Royal Dutch Lines. He thought that sounded pretty spiffy, so he signed on as a waiter. By the time they got to New York, the whirlwind romance had run its course. The waiter stayed on the boat. Gerald got off and hightailed it home to Newcastle where, according to his brother, he stayed long enough to get fed and have his laundry done. Then he’s off, this time to the Laurentians where he got a job at a resort — the Windmills — thanks to Gregoire who was working as a chef there. That’s just before Gregoire came to the Pleasant. Anyway, Gerald got bored with the Laurentians in pretty short order. Took off to Montreal. Worked there until Le Cirque closed down. Next thing we know, he shows up at the Pleasant. Gets a job. Once again, thanks to his friend, Gregoire.”

“Why wouldn’t he just look for another place in Montreal?”

“Sounds as if he was broke. Big cities are expensive. Maybe he couldn’t get things together fast enough.”

“He’s thirty-five years old, no responsibilities, and he’s broke?”

“He lived beyond his means.” Creighton threw up his hands. “I mean, how many pairs of silk jockeys do you have? This guy had twenty. His socks were a disaster, but he had twenty pair of silk shorts.”

“Socks don’t go with heels anyway.” Brisbois looked at his notes. “So he left Le Cirque four months ago. He hasn’t been at that address he gave Le Cirque for six months. Where in hell has he been?”

“We don’t know.”

“The guy had to leave a trail. At least a utility bill.”

“Unless he got a place with utilities included. Or maybe he moved in with somebody our informants don’t know about.”

Brisbois gave him a disparaging look. “Hey, even we can’t be that unlucky.”

Rudley leaned over the desk. “Why would a man who wanted to succeed as a female impersonator call himself Gerald?”

“I don’t suppose he had a choice, Rudley. His parents probably called him Gerald.”

“People change their names all the time. You’d think he could have come up with something more appropriate.”

Margaret gave him a bewildered look. “If you were a female impersonator, what would you call yourself?”

Rudley thought for a moment. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe one of those bisexual British names — Vivien or Evelyn. Something that wouldn’t alarm the police if I had to hand over my license while I was in drag.”

“Perhaps he liked Gerald.”

“Gerald’s a terrible name. I think I like Vivien.”

“I’ll remind you of that, Rudley, if you ever decide to perform in an evening gown.”

The Phipps-Walkers trundled into the lobby with binoculars and cameras.

“So it’s confirmed it’s another murder, Rudley,” Norman said.

Rudley’s jaw tensed. “I don’t believe that’s been established. The investigation is in its early stages.”

Norman smiled, showing a pair of buck teeth. “You sound like Detective Brisbois.” He lowered his voice. “The scuttlebutt is that Gregoire has already been charged.”

Rudley cast a furtive glance around the lobby. “Let’s try to keep that to ourselves, Norman, for as long as possible.”

“I’m sure they’ll realize their mistake soon and let him go,” said Margaret.

“I hope so,” said Geraldine. “I miss his trout amandine.”

“He’ll be back before we know it,” Margaret said. “In the meantime, try Mr. Cadeau’s trout amandine. It’s delicious.”

“His dishes tend to have a wild flavour.” Geraldine shivered. “I hope he’s not serving squirrel or rabbit.”

“He’s not,” said Rudley. “I did a head count of the fauna this morning.”

“I don’t know why Detective Brisbois is being so intransigent,” Margaret said.

“Gregoire was the last one to see him alive,” Norman said. “As far as we know. And they did quarrel.”

“It’s all very circumstantial,” said Margaret.

“Maybe someone framed him,” said Geraldine.

“Maybe the Russian mafia,” her husband added.

Rudley crossed his eyes. “What in hell would the Russian mafia be doing around here?”

“The same as the Sicilian mafia, Rudley,” Norman said. “Or the Westies or one of the various tongs. It’s a quaint backwater with a shifting population and plenty of privacy in which to conduct dirty business without the intense scrutiny of the authorities in the major centres where they are well known.”

Rudley looked at him blankly.

“It’s common knowledge, Rudley, that the Russians are firmly entrenched in all aspects of organized crime.”

Margaret gave Rudley a reassuring pat. “They’re really like most of their ilk. It’s just that they may be smuggling white slaves or nuclear weapons.”

Rudley slammed the register shut. “That is quite concerning, Margaret. However, I can assure you the Russian mafia has not entrenched itself at the Pleasant.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Norman.

Geraldine pointed Norman toward the stairs. “Ta ta, we’re off for our nap.”

“Wouldn’t need a nap,” Rudley grumbled, “if they weren’t out in the middle of the night harassing the owls and spying on the staff.”

The door bumped open.

“Tim!” Margaret held out her arms as Tim crossed the threshold.

He dropped his suitcase and embraced her.

“You should have called.”

“I got a ride with the mailman.” He took a sheaf of letters from his pocket and dropped them onto the desk.

“How was your vacation?”

“Wonderful. I can’t wait to show you my pictures. You’ll be green with envy.”

“I’ll pass on the hug if you don’t mind.” Rudley backed away.

“Did anything happen while I was gone?”

Rudley picked up the letter opener and slit open an envelope. “The waiter who replaced you was murdered. I think that’s about it. Is that about it, Margaret?”

“And Gregoire was arrested and put in jail. We’re having a devil of a time getting him out.”

Tim considered this. “Then everything is pretty normal. But why is Gregoire in jail?”

“Because they think he killed Gerald.”

“Gerald? That’s the waiter?”

“Yes,” said Rudley. “He was a friend of Gregoire’s. He was just filling in for a week or two.”

“So Melba could take her harp lessons,” Margaret added.

“Why did Gregoire kill Gerald?”

“He didn’t,” Margaret said. “The police think he did because some of the guests heard them arguing.”

Tim shook his head. “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. Gregoire argues with everybody. He wouldn’t kill anyone. If he did, I’d have been dead a long time ago.”

“Tell that to the police.”

They turned to see Aunt Pearl weaving down the stairs. She landed at the bottom and made her way to Tim, arms extended. He caught her and gave her a long hug.

“My young Paul Newman. Isn’t he the handsomest boy? I saw you getting out of the car from my window. I had to come down right away.”

“Not to mention that she heard ice tinkling in a glass a hundred metres away.”

“Be nice, Rudley.”

“You’ve probably heard your replacement is tits up and Gregoire’s in the slammer.”

“I have.”

“Well, I know Gregoire,” Pearl said. “He wouldn’t have done it. If he had, he would have weighed him down with cement and put him further out in the lake. He wouldn’t have just dumped him upside down in the swamp.”

Tim nodded. “I agree. If Gregoire wanted to kill someone, he would choose a neater method. Like poison. He doesn’t like to get his clothes dirty.”

Rudley interrupted. “He could have drop-kicked him from the third floor or run over him with the truck. The bottom line is he didn’t kill Gerald.”

Tim considered this. “Who’s doing the cooking?”

“Mr. Cadeau.”

“Oh, Mr. Stewed Squirrel and Fricasséed Frogs Legs.”

“The man’s a cannibal,” Rudley muttered. “There’s no excuse for victimizing the frogs.”

Pearl tugged at Tim’s arm. “Tim, I’ve met someone.”

“Tell me more.”

“He’s adorable. Loads of fun. Kind of jazzy. He’s an optometrist. So attentive.” She smiled blissfully. “He hangs on my every word.”

Tim gave her a peck on the cheek. “I can’t wait to meet him.” He turned to Margaret. “I’m going to stow my stuff in the bunkhouse, get into my black and whites, and help with lunch.”

“It’s still your time off, Tim.”

“Well, if he wants to, Margaret.”

“Rudley.”

“Tomorrow’s good.”

Mr. Harvey entered. He approached the desk, removing his hat. “I hear you’ve had some trouble. I wanted to offer my condolences.”

Margaret smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Harvey.”

“I hear they think the man was m-m-murdered,” said Harvey. “Terrible.”

“Terrible,” Rudley muttered.

“If I can do anything to help…”

“We appreciate your concern,” Margaret said. “Why don’t you join us for lunch — as our guest.”

“Good idea,” said Rudley. “We’ll be serving lunch in about twenty minutes.” Rudley took Pearl by the arm. “Pearl, why don’t you join Mr. Harvey? If you hop to it, you’ll get a nice window seat.”

Pearl narrowed her eyes at Rudley, but took Mr. Harvey’s arm and steered him toward the dining room.

“Now, Rudley, was that nice? You know she was planning to have lunch with Mr. Lawson.”

“Oh, just setting the cat among the pigeons, Margaret. I thought that warty little rat could use some competition.”

“I think you’re setting Mr. Harvey up for a disappointment.”

“He’s…” Tim stopped as Margaret and Rudley looked at him expectantly. “That Mr. Harvey gives me the creeps.”

Margaret gave Tim a surprised look.

“He’s always drifting around the edges,” said Tim. “Watching and listening. Doug at the library told me he comes to the book club. He always sits in the back row. Not saying much. Just smiling.”

“I think he’s just bashful, Tim.”

“Doug says he won’t give out his telephone number,” Tim persisted. “He contacts them by e-mail. If someone asks him a direct question, he changes the subject. They know he’s a teacher and that he comes from Michigan and that’s about it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like to say much because he stutters sometimes,” said Margaret.

“Or because he has something to hide.”

“Margaret, it’s very kind of you to bring me this food.” Gregoire’s eyes were moist. “I could not have tolerated the menu from Joe’s Diner another minute. And this” — he fingered the collar of his orange jumpsuit — “words cannot describe.”

“It is a bit loud. I suppose they want to make sure you don’t get shot in the forest.”

“Believe me, I would not even go into the forest wearing this thing.”

“I hope you like the ravioli. It’s not as good as yours, of course.”

“Compared to Joe’s beef stew, it will be ambrosia.”

“The guests miss your cooking — although Cadeau is…adequate. They’re asking when you’ll be back.”

“I will be back the minute that ridiculous detective releases me. He knows in his heart I did not kill Gerald.” He threw up his hands. “All I know, Margaret, is that I called Gerald to wake him up. He didn’t answer the phone so I went to find him and” — he paused and massaged his forehead — “there he was. It was terrible. I cannot describe. Then I was kidnapped and brought here. I can hardly get my brain fixed on that Gerald is gone.”

Margaret put a hand on his shoulder. “I know how distressing this is for you, dear.” She lowered her voice. “Now, I’ve come to get you out of here. Rudley and I have consulted with a lawyer. She’s going to see if she can work out a bail arrangement with the Crown.”

He shook his head emphatically. “I will leave here only if it’s free and clear.”

“Gregoire” — she fixed him with her warm brown eyes — “principle is all very well and good. But if all it’s doing is keeping you in this terrible place for no good purpose…”

“It’s for a good purpose.”

She eased the ravioli toward him. “Eat this before it gets cold.”

He tasted the ravioli, gave a grudging nod of approval. “He’s quite good, Margaret. He has a facility for the subtlety of seasonings, which is hard to grasp in a man of otherwise Neanderthal tastes.” He paused and lifted a piece of pasta with the fork. “He is not still trying to shoot the squirrels?”

“Rudley’s keeping a close eye on that situation. You have to sympathize with Mr. Cadeau in a way. His specialty is authentic North American cuisine.”

Gregoire sniffed. “I am sure he is greatly missed in the lumber camps where he learned his trade.”

“The guests are raving about his lake trout. They love his cornbread — perfect texture, and of course, quintessential pioneer fare. He did a salad with forest products that even Rudley had to applaud.”

He gave her a suspicious look. “I know what you are doing, Margaret. You are trying to appeal to my vanity as a chef.”

She sighed. “We just want you back and for this awful business to be over. Mr. Cadeau can fill in adequately and everyone is taken with the novelty. But we want you. We wouldn’t expect you to return to work right away, of course. You’ll need some time to recover. But we can’t leave you languishing in this dungeon, eating Joe’s beef stew and wearing that baggy orange coverall.”

“It would be more humane to leave us naked.” He took another bite. “It is delicious, Margaret, but my appetite is kaput.”

She leaned forward. “Gregoire, tell Brisbois what he wants to know. It can’t be that bad.”

He folded his arms. “It is not anything hideous. But it has nothing to do with Gerald’s murder. Once Brisbois realizes that I did not kill Gerald, he will let me go.”

She sighed. “You know it often takes a very long time before Detective Brisbois realizes anything.”