Pleasantly Dead (4 page)

Leslie raised his brows. “So that’s why the officer is posted at the door.”

“I was just saying we should take the murder on as a vacation project.”

Leslie shook his head, “Oh, I think that’s a matter best left to the police.”

“What else do you gentlemen have to do except sit on the porch, drinking bourbon, and perhaps go out in the morning to outwit a few helpless fish?”

“Fishing is a test of character,” Thomas said. “Intelligence, logic, skill, knowledge of one’s adversary.”

“Victims.”

Leslie sent her a questioning look.

“The fish are not adversaries. They are victims.”

“And delicious with a good tartar sauce,” Leslie said with a wicked smile.

“Fish much, Leslie?” Thomas asked.

“Jogging is my recreation. Keeps me trim.”

Thomas curled his lip.

Tim arrived with the martini.

“I’ll have the chicken salad,” Leslie said.

Tim gathered up the plates. “Will anyone be having dessert?”

“I’ll take coffee and dessert on the veranda.” Miss Miller jumped up and headed for the door. Simpson paused for a moment, then made his apologies and followed.

“I’m sorry,” she said when he caught up with her. “That man was playing footsies with me.”

“Mr. Thomas?”

“No, Mr. Leslie.”

“Are you sure you have the right key?”

Rudley gave Brisbois a sour look. “There’s nothing wrong with the key. It’s the damned gloves you have me in.”

Brisbois hitched up his pants. “If there’s been a crime committed here, I’d rather not have your paws all over everything.”

“There’s no cause to be abusive.” Rudley threw his shoulder into the door. The door sprung open.

A fat grey cat gave them a disdainful look, then pounced off the couch and circled Rudley’s legs, mewling.

“The cat must hate you,” Brisbois said. “Cats never come near anyone who likes them.” He hunkered down, held his hand out. “Kitty, kitty.”

The cat ignored him.

Brisbois straightened, glanced around. “Stay here. Creighton, come with me.”

A few minutes later, Brisbois called out, “Come here, Rudley.” When Rudley appeared in the doorway, he said. “Notice anything?”

“The bed’s not made. It’s not like Margaret to go away and leave the bed unmade.”

Brisbois took a pen from his pocket, reached under the bed and dragged out something half-hidden by the flounce. “Didn’t take her purse either. Is this her regular purse, Rudley?”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“Margaret doesn’t keep a lot of purses going. I assume that’s the current one.”

Brisbois opened the purse, sorted through. “Wallet’s here. Eighty dollars in twenties. Credit cards. No keys and her car’s gone. Doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “To go off somewhere, leaving your money and all of your identification behind.”

The cat had followed them into the bedroom. It followed them out, chirping as Brisbois wandered toward the kitchen.

“The cat’s food bowl is empty.”

“That’s not Margaret at all.”

“Come here.” Brisbois returned to the bedroom and opened the closet door. “Anything missing?”

“Just Margaret. She’s definitely missing.”

“Did she bring a suitcase down?”

Rudley stared into the closet. “There’s that red Samsonite,” he said hopefully.

Brisbois shook his head. “What was she wearing when you last saw her?”

Rudley stared at the closet. “Some sort of skirt and blouse.”

“Would that be them? Those ones in the closet?”

“I’m not sure.”

Brisbois sighed. “Do you remember anything important she might have said, any recent conversation…apart from that last conversation you can’t remember?”

“She gave me hell for insulting the florist and said she was going to the Birches.”

“Before that, while the two of you were friendlier, do you recall anything she said that might be relevant?”

Rudley shook his head.

“I don’t suppose you’d remember if she had any clothes down here that might be missing.”

Rudley shuffled over to the closet, stared at the contents as if trying to decipher the Rosetta stone. “Damned if I know.”

Brisbois took a turn around the room. “So Margaret left, saying she was annoyed with the way you’d treated the florist. And you can’t remember any recent conversation that might shed light on her whereabouts.”

Rudley put his hands on his hips, looked to the ceiling for inspiration. “We had dinner. We talked about Gregoire’s coquilles St. Jacques. First rate. We discussed putting it on the menu as a regular item and decided not to.”

“Too expensive?”

“Margaret thought we should save it for special occasions. I believe she was right.”

“Gregoire suggested we add asparagus crêpes as a regular item for the vegetarians.”

“And?”

Rudley looked at him blankly.

“And that’s all you talked about?”

“No. We talked about her Aunt Pearl. She’s coming down sometime this week. She usually spends the summer here.”

“Did you argue about that?”

“No. Pearl’s fine. As long as you lock up the silver.”

“Kleptomaniac?”

“At least. But she plays a good game of poker and the guests love her. The regulars even know where to look if their jewellery goes missing.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, you run a strange place.” Brisbois jingled his keys. “We’ll be going over this place with a fine-toothed comb. In the meantime, I need three things: a recent picture of Mrs. Rudley, a list of her friends and usual haunts — with phone numbers — and take the cat up to the inn. Since you’re so forgetful, you might ask one of your employees to feed her. If the cat dies of starvation, I’ll charge you.”

Rudley looked hurt. “That’s hitting below the belt.”

“And give me your car keys.”

“What in hell for?”

“So I can keep tabs on you.” He held up his hand as Rudley started to protest. “I’m going to ask the same of your guests and employees. The officer at the door will be responsible for them. You can get them from him when you need them. He, of course, will keep me apprised of your comings and goings.”

“Sounds illegal.”

“I suppose I could lock you all up.”

“I’m calling my lawyer.”

“You do that. In the meantime, what’s the name of that florist again?”

“Frances Blount. She runs a place in Middleton called The Flower Company.”

Brisbois entered the information in his notebook. “All right. The cottage is off limits. I’m posting an officer.”

“Why don’t you bring in the army? Surround the place with a SWAT team? The guests could amuse themselves with archery practice.”

“That could be construed as a threat.” Brisbois turned to Creighton. “Brief forensics. And call headquarters and ask for another uniform.”

Rudley returned to the inn, left the cat in Tiffany’s care, and ensconced himself at the front desk, hoping to reclaim the day.

A fine kettle of fish. A man dead in the wine cellar. Margaret’s cottage broken into. And why did Margaret choose today of all days to go gallivanting? She would be upset about the cottage. Although nothing had been stolen — at least, as far as he could tell — it was her
sanctum sanctorum
. And when Brisbois told her — as he was sure he would — of how little he remembered of their conversation, she would punish him by staying away for another week.

He didn’t believe he deserved to be punished in this way. Why didn’t she simply instigate a loud, nasty fight and have it done with? Why didn’t she take him by the shoulders, look into his eyes, and state clearly what she wanted him to hear? After twenty-seven years, she knew he was apt to be inattentive.

Margaret was a great girl, really, in spite of her quirks. If he hadn’t been so busy, he would have missed her immediately. She never complained about his devotion to the Pleasant. She was devoted to it herself. But she was subject to sporadic flightiness, a trait, he guessed she had inherited from her Aunt Pearl.

Pearl Dutton had emigrated from England not long after they bought the inn. She worked as a telephone operator for the Althouse Telephone Company until it closed down, then as a sales clerk at Eaton’s in Montreal. She had moonlighted as a singer whenever she could get a gig. She could remember every song she had performed in some of the best second-rate lounges in Montreal and London. More recently, her gigs revolved around the Legion where she did heartfelt renditions of Vera Lynn. Pearl called herself an
artiste
. Margaret shared her artistic bent. Doing watercolours in her spare time. Rather accomplished, she was. He had had many offers for the landscape that hung over the fireplace in the lounge. He wouldn’t think of parting with it. It was the view from the window of their honeymoon cottage in Cornwall.

He cocked an eyebrow. Their anniversary. Had he forgotten their anniversary? He took out his wallet and thumbed through it until he found his list of important dates. Heaved a sigh of relief. He hadn’t.

He would send Tiffany to tidy up and Lloyd to repair the window as soon as Brisbois finished messing about. He couldn’t have Margaret return to find her refuge in a shambles.

“If I find out who did that, I’ll tear him from limb to limb,” he said out loud.

But where was Margaret? He leaned over the desk, muffling his ears with his palms, trying to recapture the last time he had seen her. He grimaced. He hadn’t actually seen her. That disembodied voice could have belonged to someone pretending to be Margaret. Perhaps Tiffany.

Why in hell would Tiffany pretend to be Margaret? He drew his torso off the desk, propped himself up on his elbows.

To give him a hard time for yelling at her. Because Margaret put her up to it. She had had it with him and left for parts unknown, leaving Tiffany to her subterfuge to allow herself the time for a clean getaway.

He let his head sag between his hands and stared at the desk. Margaret was too straightforward to do something like that. If she had planned to leave him, she would have said so. Up front: “Rudley, I’ve had you up to the gills. I’m leaving you.”

He ground his palms into his ears. She could have been saying that the day he had his head stuck in the closet: “Rudley, the cat. Rudley, I’m leaving you, you rat.”

He released his ears, slammed his fist into the desk. Margaret would not leave him. Margaret loved the inn. And he was part of the inn, as much as the veranda, the lake, or the dining room where the guests were even now mowing down linguini, oblivious to his distress.

He cupped his fist in his palm, tenderly massaging the metacarpals. He turned toward the closet. He had to do something useful while he formulated his plan. What plan? He didn’t have a clue what to do next.

The veranda door popped open. Sharp little steps tapped across the lobby. The steps ended at the desk with a thump.

Oblivious, Rudley hauled a box down from the top shelf, balanced it against his chest, and dropped it as someone gave the bell a smack.

“You could at least help me with my bags.”

He turned. “What in hell are you doing here?”

“Rudley, sweet as always.” Aunt Pearl came around the desk, arms extended. She wrapped them around his chest. “Give me a hug.”

He flapped his arms against her back. She barely reached his armpits.

She released him, held him at arm’s length. “You look like hell.”

“I didn’t know you were arriving today.”

“I rolled into Provenchure at the ungodly hour of 6:00 am. Margaret was supposed to pick me up. I waited forever. Finally, I decided to go for breakfast, leaving a note with the stationmaster. When I returned, still no Margaret. So I did a little window-shopping. Had an aperitif or two…”

“At 6:00 am?”

“Then I got a cab.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I tried. Several times. Your line has been busy since eight.” She paused, looked at him closely. “What’s wrong with you, Rudley?”

His hound-dog eyes met her inquisitive blues. “Nothing.”

“Something’s wrong. Normally, you would have uttered three profanities by now.”

“Nothing, Pearl. It’s nothing.” He put an arm around her. “Why don’t you grab a bite? Gregoire is serving a nice Pinot Noir with a dash of linguini.”

“What’s for dessert?”

“Petits fours and rhubarb pie with a lattice crust.”

“Does he have any canned spaghetti?”

“Don’t tease Gregoire.” He steered her toward the dining room, aiming her toward a table near the window. She stopped to acknowledge smiles and hellos as they passed.

“Who’s the young couple on the veranda?”

“Elizabeth Miller and Edward Simpson. They aren’t a couple.”

“I’ll bet they could be.”

He seated her hastily. “So could George Bush and Margaret Thatcher. We don’t need to encourage them.”

“Pearl, welcome home.” Tim swept into the dining room. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“I came just to see you, my young Paul Newman. He’s just a young Paul Newman, isn’t he?”

“He’s a young something.”

“Any auditions?”

“Pearl, the man’s working. You can chat later. Coffee for me,” he said to Tim. “A magnum of swill and a can of spaghetti for Pearl.”

“I can’t wait to tell Gregoire.” Tim spun off into the kitchen.

“I see Mrs. P.W. is back. What a bore. No wonder Norman sacks out in his boat.”

“He’s quiet and so far he hasn’t sunk anything.”

“I suppose there’s something to be said for everybody.” Her gaze drifted toward the window. “Who are those dashing older gentlemen on the veranda?”

“The one with the moustache and the permanent scowl is Garrett Thomas. The other one is Peter Leslie.”

“Debonair.”

“If you’re willing to settle for the matinee idol sort.”

Gregoire rushed out of the kitchen, bunching his chef’s hat to his chest. “Aunt Pearl.”

“Gregoire.” She turned each cheek for a kiss.

He clicked his heels and grabbed the bottle of wine Tim held out. “Let me pour. I am going to make you a dishy little quiche that will make your taste buds swoon. I know that can of spaghetti is you pulling my leg.”

“If you don’t have the Libby’s, the quiche will do just fine.” She pulled at his sleeve. “Sit down, boys. Give me the news, Gregoire. Did anything come of that little number in St. Tropez?”