Pleasantly Dead (15 page)

The morning after Music Hall, Garrett Thomas walked into town. He had gone first to the train station where he purchased a ticket for Montreal. He then made his way to the waterfront. He looked around to make sure he had not been observed, then slipped onto a modest inboard. He ducked below deck, tapped on the door, swung it open.

Ned lay propped up in bed, reading a book. He put the book aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Garrett picked up the book and examined it briefly. “I didn’t know you were a fan of Japanese literature.”

“Japanese, Chinese, Russian. I’ve had plenty of time to develop my tastes.” He stood up, removed his reading glasses, and set them on the bedside table. “Did you bring them?”

“No.”

“Where are they?”

“Back at the inn. I haven’t checked out yet.”

Ned stared at him.

“I’ve decided it would be safer if I took them on the train.”

“You’ve decided.”

“Yes. These days…with drug smuggling, everyone’s insecure, it seems better. It’s not inconceivable your boat would be searched.”

Ned didn’t blink. “I doubt if I’d be a target. A middle-aged man alone. This isn’t a cigarette boat.”

“I think it would be prudent to do it my way. I’ll take the train to Montreal, make connections there to Boston. I’ll check into the downtown Marriott and wait for you. I have contacts in Boston. We’ll set the deal. Do the split. You might want to set something up in the Caymans. Then you can get into your boat and head for a new adventure.” He raised his brows as Ned continued to stare. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Ned reached for his book and ruffled the pages. “I took a lot of risks, Garrett. Killing two men. And now you’re being cute about the diamonds. What are you going to do? Dole them out to me a carat at a time?”

Garrett stiffened. “You didn’t have to kill Leslie. That was your part of the plan.”

“He might have remembered something. You said he was giving you some odd looks.”

Thomas raised his arms in frustration, then let them drop to his sides, smiled. “Well, what’s done is done. I’ve thought this matter out carefully, Ned. I’ve spared you the risk of being apprehended. I’ve spared you the tedious mess with the middlemen. You don’t have to touch a thing. Your share goes directly into an account, which, with my contacts, I’ll arrange.”

Ned stared off over Garrett’s shoulder. “You always did like making the arrangements.”

Garrett gave him a self-effacing shrug. “It’s something I’m good at.”

Ned closed the book, then opened the drawer of the bedside table. “I have a different plan.”

The door opened. Thomas stood in the doorway in an olive linen jacket, grey slacks, grey and green striped shirt, and a grey silk tie held in place with a handsome gold clip. His suitcases lay on the bed behind him.

“Mr. Thomas, I hear you’re ready to get under way.”

“All good things must end.”

Brisbois nodded. “You’re right about that.” He pointed to the suitcases. “Finished packing?”

“Yes.”

Brisbois indicated the suitcases. “Do you mind?”

Thomas’ eyes darkened. “Yes, I do.”

“I just want to make sure you’re not absconding with the towels.” He reached into his pocket. “I have a warrant, signed by a judge this morning. I got it when I heard you were leaving.”

“Stealing hotel linens is something I gave up in university.”

“Harvard, I presume.”

“Northeastern. Boston. Magna cum laude.”

“Good for you.” Brisbois opened the larger suitcase and sorted through. “Nice shirts.”

“Thank you.”

“No towels.” Brisbois opened the smaller suitcase, stared for a long moment, then snapped it close. “Not even a washcloth.”

Thomas’ brow furrowed. “Are you through?”

“Could you turn your pockets out?”

“Why not?” Thomas did as requested.

“Nothing.”

“You’ve wrinkled my suit for nothing, Detective.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you finished?”

“Guess so.”

Thomas picked up his suitcases. “Good day, Detective. I must say, I hope we never meet again.”

“Likewise,” Brisbois murmured.

He watched Thomas leave, feeling deflated. If he’d had to put money on any of them being guilty, Thomas would have been his first choice. He had to admit that one reason he liked him as a suspect was that he didn’t like the man. He resembled Miss Miller: too many things seemed to happen around him. The difference was that he liked Miss Miller.

Brisbois, he said to himself, you’ve been barking up the wrong tree.

Rudley leaned across the desk, staring into space. Margaret brought a vase of flowers for the lobby, pausing to adjust a daisy.

“A penny for your thoughts, Rudley.”

“I wish I knew what in hell was going on around here.”

“I wouldn’t let that sort of thing bother you, dear.”

“We’ve had Music Hall, Aunt Pearl fell into the costume box, Brisbois got knocked on the head and stuffed into a cubbyhole I’ve never heard about. Someone removed the register from room 206. Simpson fell into the hole and broke his leg.” Rudley shook his head. “First, Mrs. Sawchuck, then Simpson. Who on earth would tamper with floor registers?”

“He’ll be all right. He doesn’t have to leave for another week, and Miss Miller is looking after him.”

“I’m not sure if that’s good for his leg,” Rudley muttered. “I can’t believe we had a crawl space under the steps that I didn’t know about.”

“It wasn’t noted on the floor plan, Rudley.”

“With a trap door in the ceiling, opening to a register in the pantry.”

“I suppose that could lead to a rat problem.”

“We’ll put that cat of yours to work.”

“Rudley, she’s hardly a professional.”

“I’m surprised we have any guests left.”

“Apart from Thomas, everyone seems content to stay.”

“When all is said and done, two people have been murdered on our premises, and we don’t know anything more than we did in the first place.”

“These things happen, Rudley.”

“I don’t like it, Margaret.”

“These things happen.” Margaret slid behind the counter and squeezed Rudley’s arm. “You’re feeling down because Music Hall’s over.” She kissed him on the cheek. “It will happen again in two weeks and it will be every bit as good.”

“It’s more than that, Margaret. No one seems to care that two people are dead. It’s as if the whole business were a murder-mystery weekend.”

“We should put on one of those.” She stared off into space. “Not right away, of course. That would be insensitive. Perhaps during the winter when everyone’s feeling bored.”

“At the moment, Margaret, I can’t think of anything more repulsive.”

She turned as Thomas came down the stairs. He stopped at the desk and pulled out his wallet.

“I’m sorry you’re leaving early, Mr. Thomas. I regret your stay wasn’t more pleasant.”

Thomas handed Rudley a credit card. “I could have done without Brisbois. Otherwise, my stay was dandy.”

Rudley swiped the card and handed it back. “Lloyd will take you to the train.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“I hope you’ll come back,” Margaret said. When he hesitated, she added, “We’re thinking of putting on a murder-mystery weekend this winter.”

He smiled. “I don’t know, Mrs. Rudley. Once you’ve experienced the real thing, anything else, no matter how skilfully presented, would pale by comparison.”

Brisbois entered the lobby to find the Rudleys, Tim, and Creighton gathered around the desk, their attention focused on a box wrapped in brown paper.

“Mr. George left it for the next pick up,” Tim said. “I guess he didn’t want to stand in line at the post office.”

“And?”

“You said we should let you know if somebody tried to send something out.”

“I did.” Brisbois checked the box. “Leo George. Addressed to Netta George. Mailing something to his home address. Interesting.” He turned to Tim. “Where did Mr. George go?”

“He said he was going for a walk in the woods.”

“Okay.” Brisbois took a pair of gloves from his pocket. “Let’s have a look.” He turned to Creighton. “Get this down, Creighton. Box, about ten inches cubed, wrapped in brown paper, addressed to Netta George, 14 Willow Street, Toronto, from Leo George at the Pleasant Inn, Wood Lake Road, et cetera.” He took a jackknife from his pocket and slit the tape. “What we have inside is a cardboard box.” He opened it. “And inside this cardboard box, we have a light wooden box about eight inches cubed with a lid secured with a silver-coloured hasp.”

“Maybe it’s a bomb,” said Tim.

“I don’t think so.” Brisbois opened the lid.

Creighton jerked. Margaret yipped. Brisbois stared in disbelief.

“Jesus Christ,” said Rudley.

Brisbois shook his head. “The box contains a clown, a jack-in-the-box.”

“He’s lovely,” Margaret said. “He’s one of Faith Burgess’. She’s a toymaker in Middleton.”

Brisbois frisked the toy, then turned to Creighton. “Wrap it up and send it on its way.” He turned on his heel and stalked out to the veranda.

Brisbois leaned against the veranda railing and stared down at the dock.

“I wouldn’t feel too bad, boss,” said Creighton. “How were we to know that a man who looks like the Frankenstein monster likes to play with dolls?”

Brisbois gave him a sour look. “It was a gift for his mother.”

Creighton suppressed a grin. “What’s next, boss?”

“I don’t have a clue,” Brisbois said. “Yet.”

“What’s wrong?”

Tim and the Rudleys grouped around Gregoire as he presented his dilemma.

“Mr. Sawchuck wants me to cook the fish he caught for supper.”

Rudley folded his arms. “So?”

Gregoire looked at Rudley in disbelief. “You see what it is?”

“It’s some sort of catfish. About eight inches long, I’d say.”

“It’s also mushy and full of worms.”

Rudley considered this. “Does Mr. Sawchuck know it’s mushy and full of worms?”

“I could not bring myself to tell him. He was so proud. It’s the first fish he has ever caught. I think it jumped into his boat.”

“Tell him he should keep it on ice and take it back to Rochester,” Margaret suggested. “Tell him it will extend his enjoyment of the time he spent here.”

“He wants to eat it here,” Gregoire persisted. “For dinner. Tonight. He said he has always wanted to eat a fish he caught himself, one cooked over a bed of coals by the lake.”

“I take it he expects you to prepare a bed of coals by the lake,” said Rudley.

“I told him we did that just on the fish fry on Monday night. I will not be going down to the lake to fire up the big grill to cook one wormy catfish.”

Rudley nodded. “I understand.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t think you have a choice,” he said finally. “It’s his fish and he wants it cooked for supper tonight. Use the hibachi. And try to get the worms out.”

“Repulsive.” Gregoire threw up his arms and stormed back to the kitchen.

“It’s not nice to ask him to prepare a meal with substandard ingredients, Rudley.”

“Everyone has a dream, Margaret. If Mr. Sawchuck wants to eat a fish he caught, far be it for me to interfere. Gregoire will just have to be especially brilliant.”

“You should have told him that.”

“His ego is as big as a barn as it is,” Tim said.

“I don’t like the part about the worms.”

“Nonsense, Margaret. Every piece of cod you pick up in the supermarket is full of worms. They cook up quite nicely.” He turned back to his work. “Besides, that was all for show. Gregoire will look through the fish the other guests have put away until he finds something of like size.”

“You mean he’ll steal someone else’s fish?”

“Exactly.”

Margaret smiled. “How splendidly devious of him.”

Gregoire selected a cooler and peeked inside. “Mr. Phipps-Walker has one nice trout.”

“No can do.” Tim spun the tray on one finger, flipped it, and tucked it under his arm. “He’s saving his catch for his grandchildren. He promised them a cookout with Grandpa’s fish when he returns.”

“At the rate he’s going, I hope he doesn’t have many grandchildren.”

“How about Mr. Nuttal?”

“Minnows.”

“Mr. Coteau?”

Gregoire flipped open the container.

“For Christ’s sake, it’s a snake.”

“You’ve been around Rudley too long. It’s an eel.” Gregoire closed the lid. “I’m not in the mood to cook an eel. Besides, even a novice like Mr. Sawchuck would recognize a catfish from an eel.”

“Take Thomas’.”

“He would notice and make a big fuss.”

“He’s gone. I just saw him leaving. Either he forgot his fish or he doesn’t want to be reminded of his stay here.”

“Perhaps. I thought some of them would have liked to have taken home movies.” Gregoire checked the container. “He has put masking tape around it.”

“No problem.” Tim took out a kitchen knife, slit the tape.

Gregoire sorted through the treasures. “This trout is the smallest.”

“It’s still twice as big as Sawchuck’s catfish.”

“I’ll trim it down. I’ll say they swell when they are cooked.”

Margaret came into the kitchen. “Gregoire, whose fish did you steal?”

“Mr. Thomas’.”

“Mr. Thomas would want his fish.”

“He must not have. He left them here.”

“I’m sure he would want them. He forgot them because Detective Brisbois upset him.” She seized the container. “I’ll send Lloyd after him.”

Margaret hurried out into the lobby, plunked the fish down on the front desk where Brisbois was leaning, talking to Rudley. “Mr. Thomas forgot his fish.”

“That’s what happens when you pester the guests,” Rudley told Brisbois.

Brisbois looked down, defeated.

“You wouldn’t be going into town, Detective?”

“Pardon?”

“I thought if you were going into town you might be able to catch Mr. Thomas before he leaves.”

Lloyd came up the veranda steps.

“Oh,” Margaret said, “Lloyd can do it.” She beckoned to him. “Lloyd, Mr. Thomas forgot his fish. Could you take them to him? What time does the train leave?”

“Train left at three.”

She glanced at the clock. “Oh, dear, it’s too late.”

Lloyd grinned. “It’s gone. Maybe he ain’t.”

“Did he miss it?”

“Guess so. I took him to the train. But I stopped at McCoy’s for ice cream and I saw him walking on the dock.”

“If he missed the train…you should go back and look for him, Lloyd.”

“Don’t know. He went into a boat.”

“What kind of boat?” Brisbois asked.

“One of them you can sleep in under.”

“What was the name on it?”

“Said it was
The Gimme
.”

“Lousy name for a boat,” Rudley said.

“What would you call a boat, dear?”

“I’d call it
The Margaret.
”

“Rudley, how very sweet.”

“Give me the fish, Mrs. Rudley.” Brisbois reached for the cooler. “I’m on my way into town. I may as well look around for him.”

“Will we be seeing you again, Detective?”

“You’re damned right you’ll be seeing me again, Rudley. I’ve got two murders to solve.” He took the fish and left.

“If he’d stop reminding us, we just might be able to forget about it,” Rudley said.

“We could almost pretend it happened some other year.”

“We could.”

“I don’t know why Detective Brisbois wants to pester Mr. Thomas. I’m certain he drove him to leave early.”

“I think he’s jealous of his suits. His look as if he’d made them out of feed bags.”

“Don’t be classist, Rudley.”

“I don’t really think it’s the suits, Margaret. It’s his body. He envies his body.”

“Mr. Thomas
is
trim.”

“And Brisbois is a forty-five-year-old man with a paunch.”

“Be nice, Rudley.”

“Aren’t I always?”

Lloyd grinned.

Miss Miller steamed into the lobby with Simpson in tow. They had taken a day trip by canoe and had come fresh from the dock.

Margaret was at the desk. “Did you have a nice trip?”

“Lovely, Mrs. Rudley.” Simpson’s face was sunburnt. “We stopped for our shore picnic at the park. We must compliment Gregoire.”

“He’s a gem. And how did you manage with your leg? I hope you didn’t have too much pain.”

“I sat with it propped up all the way. Elizabeth took care of the paddling.”

“You’ll need a good rest then and a stiff drink.” Margaret reached under the desk. “Mail for you, Miss Miller. Priority post.”

Miss Miller checked the address on the packet. Her eyes lit up.

“Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable on the veranda? I’ll send Tim with double scotches.”

The Sawchucks were coming up the path from their pre-dinner ramble as Miss Miller and Simpson settled themselves on the veranda, Mrs. Sawchuck stabbing the ground with her walking stick. A rowboat eased toward the dock, bearing the Phipps-Walkers.