Pleasantly Dead (16 page)

“The Pleasant has predictable rhythms,” said Simpson. “No matter what else is happening, everyone pulls in from their treks at the usual time. They tidy up, have a nap and a pre-dinner cocktail. No matter how much people claim they crave excitement, I believe they thrive on routine.”

Miss Miller had missed Simpson’s soliloquy. She was engrossed in her letter. “Look at this, Edward.”

“What have you got there?”

“It’s a reply from my friend in Toronto. Look what she’s sent.” She handed him a blurry black and white paper copy.

“
Chicago Tribune
,” Simpson murmured. “Leslie was right. He did remember seeing something about Thomas in the paper.”

Chicago Man Killed in Fiery Crash

Lawrence “Ned” Thomas, 24 years old, was killed when his car jumped a guardrail near Joliet. The car rolled down the incline and burst into flames. Mr. Thomas, who studied drama at Northeastern, had appeared in local theatre and several off-Broadway plays. He is survived by his mother, Adele Thomas, and his brother, Garrett Thomas. His father, Robert J. Thomas, a prominent local businessman, predeceased him.

“Must have been traumatic having a brother die so violently,” Simpson said. “Perhaps that explains his cynicism.”

“Terrible picture,” said Miss Miller. “Barely more than a silhouette.” She tossed the paper aside.

“You seem disappointed.”

“I was expecting something more dramatic. Something that might tie the murders together. Thomas was from Chicago. Leslie studied in Chicago.”

“Chicago is a big city.”

“Still…”

“That would be like assuming I’m the great-grandson of Jack the Ripper because I’m from London.”

“You could be, Edward. No one knows who Jack the Ripper was.”

“My great-grandfather was a career military man.”

“Nothing is ruled out. We have to put our heads together, Edward, and figure out what this means.”

He smiled. “I’m game for that.”

She gave him a nudge. “Later.”

Brisbois stopped at the Middleton train station.

“Did the train leave on time?” he asked the stationmaster.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see a man get on? Middle-aged. Fancy dresser.”

“A well-dressed man bought a ticket earlier.”

“Where to?”

“Montreal.”

“Did you see him get on the train?”

“I can’t say I was looking.”

“If he missed it, could he get a later train?”

“Not until tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you.” Brisbois returned to his car. He supposed he should hustle down to the pier, just in case Thomas was still around. Try to deliver the fish. Or maybe he’d take them home and eat them himself. Maybe he’d just leave them at the curb. Let them rot. He shook his head. Why did he feel so much enmity toward Thomas? He supposed it had to do with his unsavoury connections, his arrogance. Because he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d missed something. But, as the inspector sergeant said, the case against Thomas was purely circumstantial. There wasn’t a shred of physical evidence. Then there were the alibis. As good as gold. He grimaced. He just didn’t like the guy.

He drove down to the dock, parked the car in the lot beside the snack bar, and started walking down the boardwalk. A small inboard,
The Icicle
, was just getting underway. An older couple. Probably in the village for dinner, eager to get back to their cottage across the bay before dark. A couple of outboards with serial numbers he guessed belonged to guys in town for beer.
The Excelsior
, a yacht as big as a house. He’d heard it belonged to a guy who had come to the area to judge a horse show.
The Patrick Henry
, a trim little inboard in battleship grey, decked out in American flags. Old navy guy, he guessed. The next few slips were empty. He stopped at the last boat, a modest inboard that could sleep two.
The Gemini
. He shook his head. Clearly, Lloyd couldn’t read.

“Thomas.” He hunkered down on the dock. “It’s Brisbois.”

No answer. He chuckled. No surprise.

“I’m not here on business,” he said. “I brought your fish.” He glanced up and down the dock, hoping to spot someone he could entrust the fish to and go. If Thomas had left, maybe the friend who owned the boat would enjoy them. He set the cooler of fish on the deck and eased into the boat, clinging to the side. He’d never been much good in boats. His leather soles didn’t help. He dropped to the deck, retrieved the cooler, and looked around.

The cabin door was open a crack. He eased it open with his foot. Almost dropped the fish.

“Jesus.”

Creighton entered the lobby. “Does anyone know where Brisbois went?”

“He went into town to take Mr. Thomas his fish,” Margaret said. “I’ve since discovered Aunt Pearl appropriated his lovely tie clasp.”

“He’s delivering fish now?”

“Mr. Thomas forgot them. Detective Brisbois said he was going into town and he would take them.”

“Did he say when he was coming back?”

“No. I suppose I’ll have to mail it to Mr. Thomas.” She paused, her brow wrinkling. “I could have sworn he had it on when he checked out.”

“Damn.”

“It was quite distinctive.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m sure Detective Brisbois will be back soon. In the meantime, why don’t you join us for dinner?”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I’m afraid that isn’t allowed.”

“It’s not as if we can influence your investigation with a plate of liver and onions.”

“Well, if you have liver and onions. I’ll expect a bill, of course.”

Margaret slipped her arm through his. “Nonsense.” She led Creighton into the dining room, deposited him at a table. “Tim, the detective is our guest tonight.”

Tim drew himself up, practically clicking his heels. “We have a nice prime rib. Baked lake trout. And, if you’re partial to French cuisine, coq au vin.”

“Liver and onions, please.”

“The prime rib is to die for.”

“Liver and onions with mashed potatoes, if you have them.”

“Liver and onions it is.” Tim whirled away to the kitchen, closed the door, and gave Gregoire a smug smile. “Detective Creighton is dining with us tonight. He wants liver and onions with mashed potatoes.”

“Well, he can’t have it. The only liver I have thawed is a piece I have set out for Lloyd.”

“Lloyd will have to eat prime rib.”

“Very well, but you will have to tell him.” Gregoire got down a cutting board and a bag of seasoned flour. “If you will hand me a skillet. No, not that one. That small one is for Mr. Sawchuck’s fish, which, with any luck — and God knows that is a scarce commodity around here — will be thawed nicely in a half-hour. I hope he’s not sitting by the door, salivating.”

“I told him we’d call him just as the fish strikes the butter with an orgasmic sizzle.”

“Very well.” Gregoire swiped Lloyd’s liver through the flour. “Go out, please, and find if Detective Creighton would like asparagus or something more fitting with his low-class English palate. Frozen peas, for example.”

Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson arrived in the dining room just as Detective Creighton tucked into his liver and onions. Margaret Rudley and Aunt Pearl had joined him.

“Why don’t you kids join us?” Aunt Pearl said. She grabbed Simpson’s sleeve and held him.

“We’d love to.”

“Alone tonight, Detective?” Miss Miller asked.

“Yes. It seems Brisbois is delivering fish.”

“Mr. Thomas forgot his fish,” Margaret explained.

“You know,” Miss Miller said, “I’ve always thought there was something suspicious about Mr. Thomas.”

“I see.”

“We — Edward and I — were sitting with Mr. Thomas when Mr. Leslie first arrived. We asked him to join us. When Mr. Leslie found out Mr. Thomas was from Chicago he said he had been a student at the University of Chicago and remembered seeing something about Thomas in the newspaper. Thomas said his was a common name, that he was probably thinking of Garfield Thomas, a former councilman.”

“Thomas
is
a common name.”

Miss Miller leaned across the table. “Leslie was right.” She reached into her purse, took out the newspaper clipping, and handed it to Creighton.

Creighton shrugged. “We know his brother died young. So he burned to death. Thomas probably doesn’t like to talk about it.”

Miss Miller made a face. “I would think you would be more interested.”

“I’ll bet you like Agatha Christie.”

“Not particularly.”

“Oh, I thought you might like the idea of the amateur sleuth solving the case while the incompetent officials muck it up.”

Miss Miller sat upright, folded her hands. “No, I am not interested in being another Miss Marple. It seems to me, however, that the police have overlooked a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Thomas’ connection to the first victim. He was from Chicago too, wasn’t he? Unless he went there specifically to have his shoes repaired.”

Creighton shrugged. “Actually, the case against you is better.”

Aunt Pearl patted her arm. “Don’t feel bad, dear. As much as I liked Thomas, I thought he was a sinister number.” She took the clipping, pulled it toward her. “A shame. Such a gentleman. And look at those nice tight ears.”

“I think…”

Creighton’s words were lost as someone in the kitchen screamed.

Brisbois’ mouth sagged. Thomas lay across a narrow bunk, legs dangling. Blood seeped through his shirt and spotted the patchwork quilt. Brisbois eased the cooler to the floor, stepped forward, and leaned to check Thomas’ carotid.

The man was clearly dead.

The door closed behind him.

“Keep your hands where I can see them, Detective,” a familiar voice said. “I have a gun and, as you can see, I have nothing to lose.”

Brisbois flinched as the cool metal nuzzled his neck.

“Now, I want you to take those handcuffs from your pocket — slowly. That’s good.” A hand reached around him for the cuffs. “Step forward. All right. Now, put your right hand behind your back.” Brisbois felt the metal, heard the click. “Now the other hand. Good.” The deck creaked as the man stepped back. “You may turn around now.”

Brisbois’ eyes widened.

The man smiled. “Surprised? I’m dead, aren’t I, lying on the bed where you found me.” He tilted his head. “Do you know who I am?”

“I’ll bet you’re Ned Thomas.”

“Or maybe I’m Garrett Thomas.”

Brisbois shrugged. “I’d say you were Ned. You’ve got a different sort of smirk. Otherwise, I guess the two of you are identical.”

“So it would seem.”

“If you’re Ned, you’re supposed to be dead.”

“If you say so.”

“I guess there’s something to be said for mob connections.”

“You do a lot of guessing.”

“Sometimes I’m right.”

Thomas shrugged. “Unfortunately, we don’t have time for speculation.”

Brisbois gestured toward the ruined suitcases. “You didn’t get the diamonds, did you?”

Thomas’ jaw tightened.

“All that planning. Three murders. A kidnapping. Assault on a police officer and you’ve ended up with nothing. The stash was just a legend after all.”

“Sit down.”

Brisbois eased down against the wall.

Thomas took a length of nautical rope, made a loop. Brisbois kicked at him.

Thomas waggled the gun. “Cooperate, or I’ll shoot you now.”

“You’ll shoot me eventually. You might as well do it now.” Brisbois smiled. “But you’d like a hostage, a little insurance in case you run into a problem.”

Thomas dropped the rope. He put the gun aside, walked over to the body, grabbed it by the feet and dropped it across Brisbois’ legs. “That should keep you in place.” He picked up the gun and left, locking the door.

Gregoire’s eyes were round as he told Creighton what had happened. “I opened it to do the filleting. The fish is full of diamonds.”

Creighton grabbed his arm. “Stop waving that knife around.” He removed the knife from Gregoire’s hand, placed it on the counter. “Where did you get that thing?”

“From the freezer. From Mr. Thomas’ cooler. I borrowed it because Mr. Sawchuck’s fish was no good.”

“Where are the rest of the fish?” He paused, swore under his breath. “Brisbois took them.” He turned to Margaret. “Where?”

“To Mr. Thomas.”

“I know. But, where?”

“Lloyd took him to the train. But later, he saw him getting into a boat at the marina. He said it was an inboard.
The Gimme
.”

Miss Miller snapped her fingers. “That’s it.”

Everyone turned toward her.

“It’s not
The Gimme
. It’s
The Gemini
. Remember that boat we saw at the marina, Edward? It explains everything… And those tight ears!”

“Maybe you could explain everything to me,” said Creighton.

“That day in Middleton, Aunt Pearl thought she had seen Garrett Thomas. But he was at the inn when we got back.” Miss Miller clapped her hands in triumph. “That’s how he was able to get away with everything. Being in two places at the same time. Fishing while Conway and Leslie were being murdered. On the stage all the time at Music Hall while Brisbois was being attacked. Gemini means twins. There were two of them. Isn’t that clever?”

Creighton didn’t wait to hear the end of her sentence. He was on his way to the phone.

Brisbois wriggled his fingers, trying to reach the keys to his handcuffs. If he could stand on his head, if he didn’t have Thomas’ one hundred and seventy pounds flattening his knees. If the smooth soles of his shoes could find a grip on the polished wood. He knew if he worked long enough he could free his feet, then if he tipped to one side, the keys would slide from his pocket. If he had time. He smiled, then his body tightened in a spasm of laughter. He wasn’t the bravest guy in the world; his audacity was more a matter of style. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, his boss would say. So he wasn’t brave; he also didn’t panic easily. He wondered if he could stall Thomas — whichever one he was. The guy didn’t seem to be the sort who needed to boast. This Thomas seemed to be the kind who would, when the time came, walk through the door, and shoot him between the eyes without a word.