A Most Unpleasant Wedding

A Most Unpleasant Wedding

Judith Alguire

© 2012, Judith Alguire

Print Edition ISBN 978-1-897109-99-1

Epub Edition 2012 

ISBN 978-1927426-07-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

Cover design by Doowah Design.

Photo of Judith Alguire by Taylor Studios, Kingston.

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Alguire, Judith

A most unpleasant wedding / Judith Alguire.

(A Rudley mystery ; 3)

Issued also in electronic formats.

I. Title. II. Series: Alguire, Judith. Rudley mystery ; 3.

PS8551.L477M68 2012     C813'.54     C2012-906320-7

Signature Editions

P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon, Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7

www.signature-editions.com

To my great-niece Audrey

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Author

Waves carrying the subdued sheen of late afternoon licked the dock at the Pleasant Inn, rocking the red canoe tied up alongside. June. Perfect day. Seventy-two degrees with a light breeze that rustled the leaves of the oaks and mixed and diffused the fragrances of pine resin, wild rose, and cedar. The motorboat dashing about in the distance was too remote to destroy the ambiance, its wake too removed to disturb the only other boat on the water. Norman Phipps-Walker lay stretched out in his rowboat, thirty yards off the dock, dozing against his pillow. His fishing line drifted on the swell.

Lloyd Brawly, maintenance man for the Pleasant, worked in the flower bed at the bottom of the lawn, periodically glancing toward the rowboat. He had promised Geraldine Phipps-Walker he would keep an eye on Norman while she searched the back lawn for the cedar waxwing whose sharp
twee-twee
had roused her from the veranda.

The grounds were quiet, but life was beginning to stir in the rooms at the main inn and in the scattered cottages. From the High Birches to the Pines, from the Sycamore to the Oaks, guests woke from their afternoon naps and began to prepare for dinner.

Walter Sawchuck made an unproductive visit to the bathroom, then helped his wife, Doreen, over the edge of the bed. Walter had prostate trouble but had managed to dodge surgery for several years. Doreen had arthritis, and although she took a while to get going, managed to function with an assortment of canes and staffs, one of them an evil, metal-tipped walking stick from a Bavarian jaunt. The Sawchucks were proud natives of Rochester, New York. They wore identical Lands' End leisure wear. They had been coming to the Pleasant since Trigger was a colt and thought no other place could compare. Here they were accorded the respect they thought due a retired Kodak executive and his wife. Trevor and Margaret Rudley and staff catered to their every need. In spite of the Pleasant's history of unfortunate events, the Sawchucks, for whatever misguided reason, felt entirely safe at the inn.

James Bole at the Sycamore, a secluded cottage surrounded by pines, put the finishing touches on his finger puppets before dressing for dinner. Mr. Bole had received a liberal arts education at the University of Toronto and had undertaken considerable independent study in the sciences and languages. He was independently wealthy and had never worked a day in his life, but had travelled the world in search of enlightenment. He spoke several languages but was especially fond of the classics. Unfortunately, the only people at the Pleasant who could speak a word of Latin were the Benson sisters, the elderly trio who occupied the Elm Pavilion, a large circular structure with a wraparound veranda to the left of the Pleasant. Since much of their vocabulary came from Caesar's
Commentaries on the Gallic Wars
, the content of their conversations was limited. Mr. Bole took a moment to examine the puppets for his latest finger-puppet show:
Waiting for Godot
.

Jack Arnold picked up his hat, paused, put his hat down, and poured two fingers of Glenlivet. The once-successful contractor had chosen the Pleasant by throwing a fistful of brochures into the air. The one that landed closest to him was the winner. He knew he should have been pleased with his selection — the place was as pretty as any place he had visited, the food was superb — the little Frenchman, Gregoire, knew how to cook. He took a long drink. Not much action though. Most of the places he visited had at least a couple of presentable, available women. The only unattached women here were the three old dolls in the Elm Pavilion, a waitress who looked like jailbait, and a housekeeper named Tiffany who, he suspected, would skewer him with her broom if he made a false move. So tonight he would do what he had done the last couple of nights — have dinner at the inn, then go to the hotel in town and take his chances. He would run his Visa card to the maximum for this vacation, but he needed the break. When he got back home, he'd turn things around. All he needed was one good contract. He paused, stared at his whisky. It'd been a while since he'd had a good contract. He drained his glass and poured another drink.

Rico Carty pulled on his shoes and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. At twenty-two, he was short and wiry with bronzed skin that spoke of his Guatemalan heritage. He was a bit in awe of the Pleasant. He hadn't expected it to be so nice. He was embarrassed he had nothing in his wardrobe but T-shirts and jeans. A lot of the guests dressed casually, but he could tell their clothes were expensive. Most of the people were older too. So far, everyone had treated him with respect. He appreciated that. But he didn't know how things were going to work out and felt apprehensive. He planned to slip up to the inn for dinner and do what he had done at lunch — order a lot of food and ask for a doggy bag. Tim, the elegant waiter who looked like a young Paul Newman, hadn't batted an eye at his request and had even offered extra rolls and dessert. He took a deep breath and told himself everything would be fine.

Tee and Bonnie Lawrence dressed for dinner. He chose a lightweight tan suit with a silk shirt and tie. She wore a dress suitable for evening, pumps, and a scarf that matched his tie. The insignia on his tie clasp matched the insignia on her earrings. His watch matched hers. Bonnie had commissioned the watches for their tenth anniversary and had had them inscribed —
Tee and Bonnie forever
. The Lawrences were a Natalie Wood/Robert Wagner sort of couple, too cute to project the mystique of a Bogart and Bacall. Indeed, people often referred to them as
that cute little couple
.

The Lawrences had ambitions. Tee came from a family of political kingmakers. Those in the know assumed Tee would run for a seat in Parliament. He had paid his dues — president of the Young Conservatives, president of his local riding — and expected to be nominated unchallenged. Bonnie, his backers believed, would be the perfect political wife: gifted with social graces without coming across as particularly intelligent — which she was not — pretty without being glamorous. She had that precious combination of devotion and vulnerability that played well with their base, men and women alike. Tee's team licked their chops as they imagined the picture on the brochures. Tee and Bonnie were irresistible.

Miss Pearl Dutton leaned into the mirror to refresh her lipstick — Sweet Temptress — and got back a blurry image. She could see cataract surgery in her future. But not right now. She could see well enough to get around and found her inferior vision an asset in assessing suitable men of her age. She thought, so far, Rudley, her nephew-in-law and co-proprietor of the Pleasant, had done a poor job of booking appropriate men this season. His oversight didn't bother her as much as it might have. She had been seeing Nick Anderson from town quite regularly since his hip surgery, and if Nick's attentions faltered, there was always the gentleman across the bay. She paused, squinted. Smiled. There were definitely times when myopia could be a plus.

Miss Elizabeth Miller, the young librarian from Toronto, and her fiancé, Mr. Edward Simpson, also of Toronto, via London, England, had been coming to the Pleasant three years running and had decided, much to the pleasure and excitement of the staff and regular guests, to hold their wedding ceremony here. Edward was a handsome young man; Elizabeth was a spirited young woman. The older guests commented on how much she reminded them of Eleanor Roosevelt, or at least a combination of Eleanor and Anne of Green Gables. No one considered her beautiful except Edward. Everyone agreed she was spunky. As bright as a new penny, the Benson sisters liked to say. Most believed Miss Miller had missed her true calling by choosing to be a librarian and freelance writer: she would have made a great detective and an incomparable spy. Miss Miller was perspicacious; she was audacious. And right now, she was aiming the motorboat toward the Pleasant at full throttle while Simpson held onto his hat and made the occasional cautionary remark about the probability of running the boat into the dock, or Norman, or Lloyd, depending on the angle of approach. Miss Miller ignored his warnings because Miss Miller was fearless and had complete faith in her abilities. Simpson was not fearless, but his good breeding prevented him from making a fuss. Miss Miller roared toward the dock, then at the last moment, turned sharply, cut the engines, and drifted neatly to a mooring ring.

Simpson allowed the blood to return to his head, then cleared his throat and said, “Well done, Elizabeth.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Edward.”

Dinner would be served imminently. A number of the guests had gathered on the veranda, waiting for the doors to open. Tim kept them at bay with trays of canapés and aperitifs. Among those gathered were Bonnie and Tee Lawrence, Mr. Bole, Aunt Pearl Dutton, Geraldine and Norman Phipps-Walker, and Doreen and Walter Sawchuck. Jack Arnold drifted up from his cabin, not because of any shortage of libation in his own cabinet, but because he was hoping a new guest might have arrived, someone female, young, and, if not young, at least presentable.

Tim deposited a tray of canapés on each table, then began to take orders for drinks.

Rico Carty came up the steps, hesitated.

“Please join us,” said Tim. “We have some scrumptious snacks, and I'm taking drink orders.”

“Sit here,” said Geraldine, patting the chair beside her.

Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson joined the group.

“How was your trip?” Tim asked. “Did you like the new boat?”

Miss Miller beamed. “Wonderful. Quick. Nimble. Responsive.”

“I trust you put it through its paces,” said Mr. Bole. “I saw your landing on my way up.”

Simpson winced. “It was rather spectacular.” He turned to Rico. “I'm sorry. I don't believe we've met. Edward Simpson from Toronto, and” — he turned to Miss Miller — “Elizabeth Miller, also from Toronto.” He offered his hand.

“Rico Carty from Ottawa.”

Arnold interrupted the pleasantries. “Waiter, Glenlivet, straight.”

“Of course.” Tim turned to Rico. “What would you like?”

“Do you have lemonade?”

“Pink or regular?”

“Pink, if you have it.”

Jack Arnold hooted. Rico blushed.

“I'll have a Mill Street Lager, please,” said Miss Miller, giving Arnold a steely look.

“Bass for me, Tim, thank you,” said Simpson.

Tim took the rest of the orders. Simpson turned to Carty. “Are you planning to do some fishing, Mr. Carty?”

“A little. Maybe some canoeing. Mostly I'm just here to relax.”

“You've come to the right place,” said Mr. Bole. “I can't think of a more idyllic place than the Pleasant.”

Tim returned with the drinks just as Arnold broke into a paroxysm of sneezing. Bonnie Lawrence looked at him in horror as he grabbed a serviette and blew his nose, ending with a decisive honk.

“Some damned weed around here,” said Arnold. He took a package of Benadryl from his pocket, cracked the cellophane wrapper, and popped two capsules from the blister pack. He washed the pills down with the whisky.

“I don't think you should do that,” Carty blurted out.

“Do what?”

“Mix Benadryl with alcohol.”

Arnold stared at him. “Are you a doctor or something?”

“I've taken pharmacy courses. Besides, it says that on the box.”

Arnold gave him a disdainful look. “Maybe the box is referring to guys who drink pink lemonade.”

Carty blushed.

“I think Mr. Carty was trying to be helpful,” said Miss Miller. “Perhaps he thought it would be unfortunate if you keeled over on the veranda so close to dinner.”

Arnold sneered at her.

Bonnie Lawrence broke in. “Miss Miller, Mr. Simpson, let me take the opportunity to congratulate you on your upcoming wedding.”

Tee nodded, lifted his glass.

“Thank you.”

“I hear the weather should be perfect.”

“We're prepared for anything,” Miss Miller said. “If it rains we'll just pull on our slickers.”

“Quite,” said Simpson. “Should be jolly good fun.”

“It's nice to see a couple so relaxed about their wedding,” said Tee.

“We're just hoping everyone enjoys the day,” said Simpson. “I think people remember a wedding more fondly if it's not overly formal.”

Arnold guffawed. “Believe me, Simpson, by the time it's over, they'll have turned it into a three-ring circus. My ex-wife and her mother spent months worrying about the cocktail napkins clashing with the flower girl's dress, or the groom's mother's shoes, or whatever. You'd be smarter to use the money to put a down payment on a house.”

Bonnie broke in. “There's nothing contradictory about a wedding being a pleasant experience while adhering to a well-thought-out theme.” She looked to Miss Miller for support.

Miss Miller sampled her beer before responding. “We don't have a theme. We thought we'd just go with the flow.”

After a long pause, Bonnie returned to what she assumed would be safe territory. “Will the wedding be on the lawn?”

“We haven't decided yet,” said Miss Miller.

“Perhaps on the rise,” said Simpson.

“Or in the swamp by the dock,” said Miss Miller.

“She means on the dock by the swamp,” said Simpson.

Bonnie clutched at this straw. “The idea of the dock has potential. I've seen some lovely weddings using the water as a backdrop. After, the bride tosses the bouquet onto the waves. A beautiful ending to the ceremony, I think, with its connotations of eternal love.”

Tee sighed. “You should do commercials for destination weddings, Bonnie.” He gave Miss Miller an apologetic smile. “Weddings are one of Bonnie's obsessions.”

Bonnie shrank in her chair. “I just thought I could offer some ideas, dear.”

“That's very kind of you,” Simpson said before Miss Miller could open her mouth.

Miss Miller forced a smile. “Of course, I'd be grateful for your help, Mrs. Lawrence.”