Pleasantly Dead (8 page)

Lloyd returned in seconds.

“Now,” Rudley whispered, “I’m going to flip the latch. You stand by with the crowbar in case there’s something more dangerous than Margaret inside.”

“Depends on her mood.”

Rudley lifted the latch, flung open the door. “Margaret!” He freed her arms and gingerly removed the tape. “Are you all right?”

She squinted into the sunlight. “Not particularly.”

Brisbois sat in the armchair in Rudley’s office. Margaret sat on the couch with a gin and tonic.

“Are you sure you’re ready to talk, Mrs. Rudley?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“All right.” Brisbois turned a page in his notebook. “Let’s start from the top.”

Margaret tested her drink. “I was in bed at the High Birches. Asleep.”

“And why were you staying at the High Birches?”

“I was irritated with Rudley. He had offended Mrs. Blount.”

“The florist.”

“Yes. He was in one of his moods.”

“How often does he get into these moods?”

“Several times a year.”

“So you moved into the cottage on…” Brisbois checked his notes.

“Tuesday. We’d spent the previous two weeks getting ready for the summer season. It’s a lot of work. We shut down and really go at it. Rudley always gets a bit edgy. Mostly people understand.”

“Except Mrs. Blount.”

“And a few others, I’m sure.”

“So you last spoke to Rudley on the Tuesday.”

“No, I spoke to him on the Thursday. I told him I was going into town the next morning to pick up Aunt Pearl.”

“Go on.”

“Rudley was messing about in the closet. He grunted. I knew he wasn’t paying attention. I said ‘to hell with it’ and returned to the Birches.”

Brisbois forced himself to keep a straight face. “He thought you were talking about the cat”

She sighed. “That’s Rudley.”

“And then? After you spoke to Mr. Rudley?”

“Nothing much. I picked up some dinner in the kitchen. Gregoire had made an exquisite celery soup. I took some of that and part of a bread stick. Also some chocolate mousse. No one makes it like Gregoire.”

“Sounds good.”

“Indeed. I stopped at the garden for some lettuce. I love leaf lettuce with sugar and vinegar. Don’t tell Gregoire that. He’d have a fit. I went on to the Birches, had my dinner, read for the remainder of the evening, had a cup of tea, then went to bed. The next thing I knew, there was a kerfuffle in my room. Someone knocked me on the side of the head, slapped tape over my mouth, blindfolded me, and bound me hand and foot.” She took a long drink. “Then they waltzed off and left me, half-stunned.”

“They?”

“I’m sure there were two. I could hear them talking back and forth.”

“Did you hear any of the conversation? Recognize the voices?”

“No. I couldn’t hear anything clearly. My head was ringing a bit.”

“Okay. Then what happened?”

“They left. At least, I think they both did. I couldn’t hear anyone around.”

“How long were they away?”

“I couldn’t see my clock. Perhaps an hour. It’s hard to say. It could have been less. Time tends to drag when you’re in that situation.”

He gave her a sympathetic nod.

“One of them came back. At least I think it was just the one. There was just one in the car with me.” She paused. “I don’t think it was the man who tied me up, though.”

“How could you tell?”

“Their scent. The man who tied me up smelled like Brute or something. The man who took me in the car smelled as if he had used a nice soap or cologne. Perhaps Appsley’s Spice. He hauled me off the bed and pressed something against my head. I wasn’t focusing on identifying the cologne. Still, I think it was Appsley’s.”

“He held a gun to your head?”

“I can’t say for sure. I’ve never had a gun against my head. Not even in the theatre. It was something metal. Not particularly pleasant. I thought it best to assume it was a gun and not make too much of a fuss.”

“Then what?”

“He stopped the car after a short while.” Her nose wrinkled. “I knew exactly where we were. The medley of odours at the Pines is unmistakable.”

“Did he talk to you?”

“Not much. He said: ‘There’s a bucket in the corner if you need it and a jug on the table with a straw.’ He made a hole in the tape for the straw to fit into. Considerate of him.”

“And you still couldn’t recognize his voice?”

“No. He spoke quite low. Almost mumbled.”

“Was he alone during this time?”

“I’m sure he was. The floorboards are creaky there. I would have picked up on it if someone else had been in the room.”

“Any idea of size?”

“Average. From the way he gripped my arm. An inch or so shorter than Rudley, I would think.”

“Age?”

“Not very young. Probably over thirty. I’m sorry I can’t be more precise.”

“Okay.” Brisbois scribbled a few notes, turned a page. “What next?”

“He left. He muttered something about it being half-past four. Then he left and never came back.”

“Did you hear a car drive away?”

“No.”

“We assume your abductor had your car keys.”

“Must have.”

“Were there any keys to the inn on that ring?”

“All of them.”

“Including the wine cellar?”

“Keys to every lock at the inn, Detective, including every drawer and closet.”

Brisbois turned to Creighton. “We didn’t find anything on that guy in the wine cellar.”

“Nothing but his clothes.”

“Did Bergeron get out there to secure the car?”

“He’s standing over it as we speak.”

Margaret looked from Creighton to Brisbois. “Detective, the only car left at the Pines was Tiffany’s Austin. Rudley drove mine home.”

“He drove your car home?”

“Yes.”

“Does Rudley have a key to your car?”

“No. I assume mine were left in the ignition.”

“Well, damn it to hell.” Brisbois paused, shook his head. “Pardon my language, Mrs. Rudley, but if they gave out awards for destroying evidence, your husband would win, hands down.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Can’t do anything about it now,” he muttered. He reviewed his notes. “One other thing. You received a letter recently from an Alberta Beckwith.”

“Birdie? Yes, I did.”

“Rather provocative.”

She looked puzzled. “Provocative?”

He looked her straight in the eye. “Don’t give him another cent.”

She thought for a moment, then smiled. “Oh, that. I’d mentioned to Birdie that Eric Lewis — he’s the chap in town who shows my watercolours — was hinting that he’d like a bigger commission.”

Brisbois closed his notebook and slapped it down on the desk. “That,” he said, turning to Creighton, “he remembered.”

“I have an inn to run, Brisbois.”

“And I have an investigation to run.”

The men faced off over the desk in Rudley’s office. Rudley sat in the chair behind the desk. Brisbois stood, hands on the desk, leaning toward him.

“Didn’t it occur to you” — Brisbois straightened, massaging his temple — “didn’t it occur to you that your wife’s car might contain evidence, evidence that might help us find out who abducted her? Might even have assisted in solving a murder?”

“And has it occurred to you that it’s damned hard to run an inn with police hanging all over the place like a bunch of overgrown bats?”

“What’s hard about it, Rudley? Your guests seem to find us very entertaining. Makes me wonder if you didn’t knock off the guy to scare up business.”

“I’ll have you know we’re fully booked for the season — even without your damned murder.”

Brisbois stared at the wall. “Rudley,” he said finally, “we will be going over your wife’s car with a fine-toothed comb, although anything we find will be compromised because of you.”

Rudley set his jaw defiantly. “I may not do everything according to your specifications, Brisbois, but at least I found my wife.”

Brisbois muttered a curt “good day” and left before he said anything he would later regret. He steamed out onto the veranda and down onto the lawn. He stopped part way down, sank down onto a bench, and lit a cigarette.

“Detective.”

Damn, he thought, as Miss Miller skipped across the lawn followed by Simpson, this is all I need.

“Yes?”

He listened to their story, at first impatiently, then with eyes narrowing. “So you and Simpson trekked around to every canoe-rental establishment on the lake until you found one that had serial numbers matching the canoe in the boathouse.”

“Yes.”

“And then you went down to the boathouse at some ungodly hour this morning, dove into the water, and fished around until you found this stuff?”

“Including a brown oxford with a new heel and a stamp on the inside of the tongue saying Shoniker’s Shoe Repair.”

He took the bag she held out. “While Simpson stood by.”

She smiled.

He hefted the bag. “Thank you. I’ll give your theory and your potential evidence careful consideration.”

“As you can see, there’s no other logical explanation.”

Brisbois shrugged. “Try this. The victim removed his shoes because he thought they’d be noisy. He stashed his shoes in the bushes. He got his feet wet in the grass. The guy who murdered him tossed the shoes because he thought we could trace them.”

“You see. They knew each other.”

“Murderers and their victims usually do. Your theory is neat, Miss Miller. But why would you think he came by canoe in the first place?”

Simpson drew himself up. “Miss Miller was a Girl Scout, Detective.”

Miss Miller patted his arm. “Thank you, Edward. No one is talking about a car being found, Detective. The scuttlebutt is they took Mrs. Rudley’s car. They had to get here some way. Why walk when you can come undetected by boat? And if you know anything about canoeing, you can imagine how uncomfortable dress shoes would be. And if you toss them up…”

“Yes, yes. They could fall into the water.” He spread his arms. “As I said, it’s a neat theory. If you’d come to me with this story right away, I would have done the legwork, arranged for a proper search of the boathouse, and we would be further ahead.”

“I didn’t think you’d act on conjecture.”

Brisbois gave her an aha look. “And there you would be wrong, Miss Miller. The police are always grateful for the public’s input in any and all investigations.”

“Then I owe you an apology.”

He consulted his notebook. “So you dove for the evidence and Simpson stood by.”

She gave Simpson an adoring look. “He stood by gallantly, Detective.”

Brisbois flipped a page and studied his notes for a long moment. “Simpson, one question?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there anything this woman can’t talk you into?” He tucked the notebook into his pocket and strode away.

Miss Miller turned to Simpson. “I’d like to hear the answer to that one, Edward.”

Thomas sat by himself on the veranda, staring out over the lake, sipping a glass of whisky and soda. He stood as Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson came up the steps.

“Would you care to join me?”

“Thank you, Mr. Thomas.” Miss Miller sat on his left. Simpson sat across from her. “Having a leisurely afternoon?”

Thomas sniffed. “Everyone else is playing golf. Seems silly to me. You can play golf in the city or take a golf vacation, if that’s what you want. Do you play, Simpson?”

“I’ve won the occasional most-honest-golfer award.”

“Golfing’s clearly not your game.”

“No.”

“Cricket? Rugby?”

“I find rugby a bit brutal, I’m afraid. Hard on the ears. I’m rather good at bowls. A bit of a master at croquet.”

Thomas grimaced. “That’s an old ladies’ game, isn’t it?”

“Some of those old ladies can whack the ball rather well. Oh, I did sculls at Oxford.”

“That’s a feather in your cap.”

“Quite.”

Thomas tested his drink. “Track was my sport in college.”

“Yes?”

“All-American in my junior year.”

“You don’t say.”

“I played ping-pong once,” Miss Miller said.

Thomas gave her a questioning look. “I beg your pardon?”

“I could feel the testosterone oozing.” Miss Miller paused. “Have you heard the latest, Mr. Thomas? Mrs. Rudley has been rescued.”

“I’ve heard a rumour to that effect.”

“Have you heard how it happened?”

“I’m waiting with bated breath. Tim should be the best source of information, I imagine.”

“Her abductor, the murderer, could be among us.”

“I imagine the culprit has moved on.”

“Do you think so?” Miss Miller sounded disappointed.

“Yes.”

Peter Leslie came up the path at that moment, golf clubs slung over his shoulder.

“If you will pardon me,” Thomas said. “I think I’ll catch a nap before dinner.” He got up and disappeared into the lobby.

Rudley stood, one hand curled around his chin, his fingers worrying an imaginary moustache. “Something’s bothering me, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

Gregoire sniffed. “Having a dead body around will do that.”

Rudley shot him a look that would have knocked crows off hydro poles. “Maddening.”

Margaret patted him on the arm. “If you’d relax, Rudley, it might come back to you.”

Rudley shuddered. “Relax? Margaret, this is our most important season. We have a dead body in the wine cellar. You were abducted. The police are crawling all over the place, restricting our movements, and you expect me to relax.”

“I didn’t say it was appropriate to the occasion, just that it might help you remember.”

Tim bounded up the steps and into the lobby. “I’ve brought your car out front, Mrs. Rudley.”

“Thanks, Tim.” Margaret put her purse on the counter and proceeded to dig through it with both hands. “I’m going into town, Rudley. I promised Frances I’d take her for a nice breakfast at the Shoreline and discuss the floral arrangements for Music Hall.”

“Marigolds,” he said.

“Don’t be classist, Rudley.”

“They would match the class of Music Hall.”

“You love Music Hall. Rudley loved England,” she told the boys. “At one time, I thought he might want to emigrate.”

“Probably too small for him and everyone else,” Gregoire said.

“Lucky for you cooks are hard to replace mid-season.”

“Chefs.”

Tim tittered.

“Waiters aren’t,” Rudley said.

“We can’t do without Tim. He’s in Music Hall,” said Margaret. “Tim,” she said in a low voice, “after Aunt Pearl comes down for breakfast, could you and Tiffany discreetly search her room? I think she has Mrs. Sawchuck’s watch.”

“And my garlic press,” said Gregoire.

“Don’t tell me she’s branching out into kitchen gadgets.” Margaret closed her purse and gave Rudley a peck on the cheek. “I’m off.”

“Take Lloyd with you.”

“Lloyd isn’t much help picking out flowers.”

“I don’t want you out alone after what happened.”

“I’m all right, Rudley. It was an ordeal, but I got through it. I feel rather invulnerable.”

“That’s what I’m worried about. You’ll let down your guard.”

“I’ll be fine.” She blew him a kiss and sailed on out the door.

“No one should be going around without an escort,” Rudley fretted. “Whoever murdered that man and kidnapped Margaret could still be lurking about.”

“You let Tiffany go out with the linen on her own,” Tim said.

Rudley’s eyes widened. “That’s it. That’s what’s been bothering me. Lloyd!” he bellowed. “Lloyd!”

“Do you think she’s dead?” Lloyd stood back as Rudley pressed his fingers against Tiffany’s throat.

“She’s not dead,” Rudley rasped. “Where in hell is that ambulance?”

Lloyd shrugged. “I didn’t think she was dead, seeing as how her chest is rising and falling.”

“Where are the damned police when you want them?”

“Don’t know.”

Rudley tapped Tiffany on the shoulder. “Tiffany, wake up.”

“Maybe she was poisoned.”

“How in hell would she be poisoned?”

“I’m just saying she looks like Snow White in the movie, and she was poisoned.”

“Then if we come across the wicked queen, we’ll have our answer.” Rudley sat back on his haunches. “She must have fainted. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with her. Are you sure you called the ambulance?”

“Did.”

“Her pulse is strong,” Rudley said. He continued to palpate her pulse with his right hand while his left made a rat’s nest of his hair.

“There’s the ambulance, boss.”

The siren rose, then swooned as the ambulance screeched to a halt in front of the inn. A few minutes later, the paramedics barged into the Low Birches followed by Ruskay.

“What’s going on here?” Ruskay demanded.

“We found her,” Rudley said. “Lying here like this.”

“She’s breathing,” Lloyd said.

“Do you know what happened?”

“No,” Rudley said, exasperated. “As I said, we found her like this.”

The paramedics hooked Tiffany up to the monitors, checked her vital signs, and did a blood glucose reading.

“Vitals okay,” one said. “Blood glucose 5.3.”

“Right on,” the other said. He checked for fractures, paused as he palpated the skull. “This could be your answer. She’s got a big lump on the back of her head.” He turned to his partner. “Let’s get an IV going and transport.”

Rudley blanched. “Is it serious?”

“Can’t tell until we get some X-rays.” The paramedic looked at Ruskay. “Could you check the bathroom? Maybe she mixed the wrong cleaners, got woozy, staggered out here, and fainted.”

One shoe fell off as the paramedics lifted Tiffany to the stretcher. Rudley picked it up, stared at it for a moment, then slid it onto her foot.

“She’s going to be all right,” the paramedic said.

“I’m going with her,” Rudley said.

Ruskay’s voice boomed from the bathroom. “What in hell is going on around here?”

“It’s Peter Leslie,” said Rudley.

“And this was his cottage?”

“Well, what in hell would he be doing in the bathtub in someone else’s cottage?”

Brisbois stared at him. “Anything seems possible around this damned place.” He looked around the bathroom, grimaced.

Leslie lay, head tilted back, in a tub of bloody water.

“When did you see him last?”

“Around seven. He was out for his run.”

“Does he do that every morning?”

“Every morning he’s been here.”

Brisbois eyed the clothing discarded by the bathroom door — a soggy singlet, running shorts, and socks. An athletic supporter perched on top of a pair of red and white Saucony trainers.

“Looks like he just dropped his clothes and climbed into the tub,” Creighton said.

“Partially shaven,” Brisbois noted. He turned to Rudley. “Does that door have a lock?”

“All the doors at the Pleasant have locks.”

“Keys?”

“Margaret and I. Tiffany has keys to the cottages and guest rooms.”

“Does she normally walk in on people in the bathroom?”

“If she does, no one’s ever complained about it.”

“What would she be doing here?”

“Dropping off fresh linen, making up the bed, tidying the bathroom.”

“Looks as if he already had fresh towels.”

“Guess he didn’t get to use the ones she left yesterday,” Lloyd said.

Brisbois pointed to the door. “Would you mind waiting outside until I’m ready for you?”

Lloyd grinned. “Just trying to be helpful.”

“You might as well go too, Rudley.”

Rudley stormed off.

Brisbois shrugged and turned his attention back to the scene. “Looks as if he was in the middle of shaving.” He looked around, frowned. “No razor. No electric shaver.”

“There’s whiskers on the facecloth,” the forensics officer said.

Brisbois’ gaze fell on an elegant slender case on the vanity. “Crikey.” He turned to Creighton and whispered, “He should have switched to an electric.”

The officer drained the tub. Bloody water swirled down the drain, leaving a gelatinous ring. “Look at this, Brisbois.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“My grandpa always said using a straight razor could be tricky.” The officer dangled the evil-looking instrument between a gloved thumb and index finger.

Brisbois eyed the ivory handle inset with mother-of-pearl. “Looks as if it might have been his grandpa’s.” He turned away.

“Weird,” said Creighton. “He goes for a run, comes back, gets in the tub, starts to shave, then for some strange reason, decides to slash his wrists.”

“You’re thinking suicide?”

“Why not?”

“He’s got a lump the size of an egg on the side of his head.”

Creighton shrugged. “Maybe he got it thrashing around. Death throes.”

Brisbois pointed to the floor. “That water beside the tub? Clear. Not a spot of blood on the bathmat. I bet that lump on his head happened before he got cut.”

“So someone came in. He tried to put up a struggle and slopped water.”

“Yeah. But it’s hard to struggle if you’re lying in a tub. He couldn’t get any purchase. So the guy belts him on the head. Then, to make sure he’s dead, he holds his arms under the water and slashes his wrists. Neat. No blood splatter.”

“Could be.”

“Had to be. He couldn’t have done it himself.”

Creighton thought for a moment. “You’re right. The cuts are pretty deep.” He looked around. “With what’s been going on around here, wouldn’t you think he would have locked his door?”

Brisbois considered this. “Maybe he did. Rudley said the maid had a key. She knocks. Doesn’t get an answer. So she unlocks the door and enters. Maybe the killer followed her in.” He nodded. “That makes sense. He hid in the bushes until the maid came down. She unlocks the door and goes in. He follows her, whacks her on the head, and goes on into the bathroom.”

Creighton nodded. “Yeah, he sure wouldn’t have any trouble finding cover outside. This place is like a rain forest. Probably was skulking behind that spruce at the corner. The skirt goes right to the ground.”

“Why in hell do they call this place the Birches? Most of the birch trees are around the Oaks.”

“Guess they didn’t know their trees.” Creighton guffawed, then fell silent as Brisbois frowned.

“That works.” Brisbois repeated. “The maid doesn’t see a
DND
sign. She uses her key to unlock the door. Knocks anyway, just in case. Leslie says, ‘I’m in the tub.’ ‘I have your towels,’ she says. ‘Leave them on the bed,’ he says. The murderer pushes in behind her, knocks her on the back of the head, heads toward the bathroom. Leslie might be surprised to hear footsteps coming toward the bathroom. But not alarmed. Maybe he thought she was going to leave the stuff on that wicker table by the bathroom door. Imagine his surprise. Motive,” he muttered. “Wallet’s on the bedside table, jammed with credit cards, a couple of hundred dollars in cash.”

“The watch looks worth a couple of thousand.”

Brisbois pushed his hat back. “We’ll see what the pathologist turns up. In the meantime, we’re treating this as a murder.”

Creighton nodded.

“Let’s find out where everybody was during this debacle. And underline this: Nobody leaves this place. I don’t care if they have a command performance with the Queen. Confiscate their passports, their driver’s licences, and their credit cards.”

Simpson looked at the clock. “I suppose they’ll stop serving breakfast soon.”

“I’m sure I can talk Gregoire into something.”

“I’m sure you could talk anybody into anything.” He tilted his head to take in her coral nipples. Red hair had its advantages. “I must say I was surprised to find you at my door so early. Pleasantly surprised.”

She wriggled on top of him, propping herself up on the heels of her hands. “I got up this morning with the female equivalent of a hard-on. I checked the dining room. You weren’t there. Where is he? I wondered. In bed, I replied. I couldn’t wait a minute longer. If I had met you coming down the stairs, I would have herded you right back up again.”

He cupped her breasts. “I’m delighted, of course. I was afraid I might have to take the initiative. I’m not very good at that.”

“British reserve?”

He laughed. “Oh, we Brits are really quite randy. This particular one, however, is rather reticent.”

“He shouldn’t be. He’s really quite talented.” She lowered herself over him.

“If you keep finding dead bodies, I may have to include them on my menu.” Gregoire leaned over the stove, a solicitous eye on his crêpes. “They seem to be the most common ingredient at the moment.”

“I don’t appreciate your humour, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Detective. Please give me a moment. Crêpes demand total concentration.”

Brisbois waited as Gregoire wrapped the crêpes around a sprinkling of cinnamon and handed the plate to Tim. “Where were you this morning?”

“Where I am every morning.” Gregoire picked up three eggs and cracked them one by one against the bowl. “Slaving over a hot stove for a troop of clods who have fouled their taste buds with copious quantities of Jim Beam and other noxious spirits the night before.”

“Is there a lot of drinking around here?”

“Yes, especially last night. Last night was ‘on the house.’ Rudley springs for the first drink.”

“Generous.”

“Good business, I would say. Once this crowd starts drinking, there is no stopping them.”

“So what time did you start work?”

Gregoire put a plate aside, patted his forehead with a linen towel. “I start at four o’clock every morning. I prepare the breakfast and the lunch. I take a few hours off, then return to prepare the evening meal. During some of that time, I am at the market or in the garden, looking over the produce.”

“Sounds rough. Do you do this every day?”

“Yes. If I want to take time off, Rudley gets a semi-retired chef from the village to replace me.” He shrugged. “My duties are not onerous, Detective. Cooking is my profession, my hobby, and my passion.”

“Can anyone verify you were here?”

“No one saw me arrive. At about four-thirty, Mr. Thomas and Mr. Phipps-Walker came to get coffee for the lake. Going out to harass the fish. Tim arrived at six to set up the dining room.”

“How did he seem when he arrived?”

“His usual self. Cracking wise and begging me to ask him about the night before and the dish of a waiter he picked up at the West Wind. I did not take him up on his offer so he told me anyway between bouts of laying the silver.”

“Appearance?”

“Elegant as always. Shirt, snowy white, pants and vest without a speck of lint. Hair, perfectly coiffed. He would never put his nose out of his room otherwise.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“Rudley poked his head in around six-thirty to get some coffee. Margaret came in at the same time to help Tim. To set the tables, place the flowers, which she does every morning, except on those occasions where she has been kidnapped or is particularly incensed with Rudley, which, if I were in her place, would be most of the time.”

“What about Tiffany?”