A Most Unpleasant Wedding (13 page)

“Brian Allin?”

“Yes. I understand the Rudleys are picking up the tab.”

Brisbois smiled. “Margaret Rudley is a generous lady.”

“Has all of Mrs. Hopper's property been recovered?”

“Minus what Herb spent on breakfast.”

“Essentially recovered.” The Crown dropped his pen. “I'm not interested in prosecuting the old sod for five bucks.”

“He was at the scene. He had the victim's blood on him.”

The Crown gave Brisbois a long look. “Allin is already making noises about the evidence being circumstantial.” He flipped through the pages. “We know he was in the woods. He lives there. He crossed Mrs. Hopper's path because he was on his way into town to see what he could scrounge at the dock. He did that every morning. We know he took her stuff, but do we have any evidence he was at her place that night?”

Brisbois shook his head. “We can't tie him to the stable. His running shoes were clogged with mud and grass but no straw or oats. We don't have the complete trace yet.”

“Apparently, Margaret Rudley has offered to act as his surety. Does this lady go out of her way to cause herself trouble?”

“Kind-hearted lady. Good for handouts,” said Brisbois. “Hobos' language,” he added, catching the Crown's quizzical look.

“We'll keep him as a suspect,” said the Crown. He checked his list. “Moving on, we have Mr. Jack Arnold. He had an unfortunate encounter with the lady in the hotel bar that night. He ended up abandoning his car and, apparently, wading through a swamp. But it doesn't look as if you have anything to link him to the crime scene.”

“Nope, and the bartender confirms what Arnold told us. Mrs. Hopper was in the bar before Arnold arrived. The bartender got the impression she was waiting for someone, but not Arnold.”

The Crown shook his head. “It's Grand Central Station up there. You've got Mrs. Hopper's horse running around, Mr. Arnold mucking around in the swamp, the waiter and the cook trotting trays around, the local hobo. And you've got Mr. and Mrs. Rudley camped out in the middle of all that. Did you ever think they might have done it?”

“Are you serious?”

“Not really, but you'd think they would have heard something.”

“The Rudleys heard a lot of snap, crackle, and pop throughout the night. They thought it was just the usual animal suspects.”

“OK.” The Crown studied his notes. “What about this James Alva?”

Brisbois shrugged. “It would seem that he and Mrs. Hopper were having a little tryst. But the night of the murder, he was home with his wife.”

“Can anyone but his wife corroborate that?”

“Creighton and I interviewed the neighbours.” Brisbois checked his notes. “One of them, Miss Lily Casselman, saw him come home around seven p.m. She's sure he didn't leave the house after that.”

“She keeps that close an eye on him?”

“Apparently, her dog makes a fuss whenever he starts his car up,” Brisbois said. “Tony Verbeek, the neighbour whose property abuts Alva's at the back, says he saw Mr. Alva on his patio around ten-thirty.”

The Crown took off his glasses, polished them, and set them aside. “Is there anyone else you'd like to consider?”

“Mrs. Hopper might have been having an affair with any number of people,” Brisbois said. “We're working our way through her appointment book.”

“And of course there are the several thousand people in the vicinity,” Creighton murmured.

The Crown threw him a sharp look.

Brisbois shrugged. “Mrs. Hopper was not a well-liked woman.”

“Detective.” Miss Miller accosted Brisbois and Creighton as they came up the walk.

Brisbois tipped his hat. “Miss Miller.”

“I hear you strongly suspect that Carl Hopper killed his wife.”

He smiled. “I strongly suspect a lot of people.”

“I have given the matter some thought,” she continued, ignoring his remark. “And I think you're on a wild-goose chase.”

Brisbois stopped, sank down onto a bench, invited her to join him. “We'd hate to break our perfect record.”

She gave him a look that said she would let that bit of sarcasm pass. “I've been studying his novels.”

“I've heard he's pretty good.”

“He isn't F. Scott Fitzgerald, but he's not bad. However, that's not what's relevant.” She set her chin. “After perusing several of his books, I'm convinced he couldn't have murdered his wife.”

“I'm glad I haven't read any of his books.”

She gave him an exasperated look.

He offered an apologetic shrug.

“His writing shows considerable respect for women, particularly strong women. In confrontation with such women, even strong evil women, his male protagonists always engage them in a respectful manner. Those who choose not to confront their female adversaries either withdraw to discernment or self-destruction.”

Creighton shrugged. “Who's to say he identifies with these wimps?”

Brisbois winced. Miss Miller fixed Creighton with a steely stare.

“I believe writers create from their own sensibilities, Detective,” Miss Miller said, “and Carl Hopper does not advocate violence against women.”

“That's an unusual defence, Miss Miller,” Brisbois said. “Not guilty by reason of library.”

She punished him with a few moments of stony silence, then said, “From what I've been able to glean, Carl Hopper has no history of violence. He doesn't even lose his temper.”

Brisbois smiled. “As always, Miss Miller, we will take your theories under advisement.”

She gave him a disparaging look. “No, you won't.” She smiled, got up, and marched away.

Brisbois looked after Miss Miller. “What do you think about that, Creighton?”

Creighton shrugged. “I don't think you can tell what somebody's like by reading their books.”

Brisbois massaged his neck. “She's partly right. Carl Hopper is passive. He's never shown any signs of aggression.”

Creighton kicked at a pebble. “I don't know if that means anything. We've seen guys do slow burns for years, then finally erupt in a big way. And everybody is astonished. He was such a nice, quiet guy, they say. Just because the guys in his novels are five-star feminists doesn't mean he doesn't have a capacity for violence if the situation's right.”

Brisbois gave him a surprised look. “Hey, I like your theory better than Miss Miller's.”

“Thanks, Boss.” He jingled some change in his pocket. “I hear they're having a card tournament tonight. What happened to Music Hall?”

“I hear they're holding it the Friday after the wedding.”

“Too bad. I was looking forward to it.”

Brisbois gave him a poke in the arm. “You could still go. Get a date. Bring her for dinner and the show?”

Creighton considered this. “I don't think it would be the same coming here if there wasn't a murder going on.”

Brisbois shrugged. “Maybe you'll get lucky.”

Mr. Bole examined his hand. “I would say this is a lay down.”

Norman gave him an irritated look. “I think we should play it out.”

“As you wish, Norman. But I warn you, you're snookered.”

Tim paused at their table to check the refreshments. “Would you care for anything?”

“I'll have some pretzels with that lovely mustard dip,” said Geraldine.

“I think you should concentrate on your hand, Geraldine,” said Norman.

“Norman's very competitive,” Geraldine whispered to Tim. “The pretzels and dip would be nice.”

“I'll have a glass of white wine,” Bonnie said.

“Coming right up.” Tim walked away, chuckling. He went into the kitchen, filled a bowl with pretzels. “Mrs. P-W loves your mustard dip,” he told Gregoire.

“Of course she does,” said Gregoire. “It is my own invention.”

“Norman doesn't have any better luck at bridge than he does at fishing,” said Tim. He added a glass of white wine, a bowl of rice crisps, and a plate of cheese to his tray and returned to the ballroom. He deposited the pretzels and dip with Geraldine as Norman grimly played out his losing hand.

“If you're going to be a grouch, Norman, I'll play the next hand with Mr. Bole,” Geraldine said. “Although, in your current state, I'd hate to inflict you on Mrs. Lawrence.”

“Oh, I'm sure Mr. Phipps-Walker wouldn't be an imposition,” said Bonnie.

“And I won't have a conniption if you get mustard dip on the cards,” Mr. Bole told Geraldine.

Tim hurried back into the kitchen. “Better make up a rum and Coke for Norman,” he told Gregoire, “he's about to blow a gasket.”

“One rum and Coke coming up,” said Gregoire.

Tim took the drink and returned to the ballroom, where Geraldine had traded places with Bonnie Lawrence.

“Five clubs,” said Norman.

Mr. Bole studied his cards. “Pass.”

Bonnie stared at her cards, then said. “Pass.”

“Pass,” said Geraldine as Norman spluttered.

“I was responding to your 4NT bid,” Norman howled. “I didn't intend to be left in five clubs.”

“I'm sorry,” Bonnie whispered. “I don't know where my mind was.”

“I guess this is going to be a lay down too,” Mr. Bole chuckled.

Norman grabbed his drink and took a healthy slug.

“I'm sorry.” Bonnie stood up. “I think I'll go watch the euchre tournament. If you can find someone to sit in…”

“There's Miss Dutton,” said Mr. Bole. “She's always good for a hand.” He waved to Pearl, who was wandering toward them with a drink in her hand.

Bonnie gave Norman a nervous pat on the shoulder and left.

“I thought she was supposed to be a decent club player,” Norman fumed. “I thought even an occasional player would know the classic Blackwood's convention.”

“Perhaps she's accustomed to a different terminology,” said Mr. Bole, giving Geraldine a conspiratorial wink.

“All I know,” said Norman, “is she managed to put us into a contract we didn't have a hope of making.”

Mr. Bole chuckled. “You're right, Norman. You didn't.”

Norman turned to Aunt Pearl, who was awaiting the deal. “Do you know Blackwood's convention, Miss Dutton?”

She smirked. “I'll have you know, I was a county champion in my younger years.”

“I didn't know that,” said Mr. Bole.

“I don't like to brag.”

Norman gave Mr. Bole a Cheshire-Cat smile.

Jack Arnold left the inn at nine-thirty. He stopped to check his watch, then wandered out onto the dock and turned to look back at the inn. The lights winked as the leaves wobbled in a light breeze. He cursed, swatted at his neck as a mosquito sunk its proboscis into his sun-burnt flesh.

“You'd think the booze would keep them away,” his wife used to say.

She'd made a lot of remarks like that the last few years of their marriage. Said he reeked of booze, used it as an excuse to banish him from their bedroom and, finally, from her life.

He waved off another attack, lit a cigarette. He missed his wife when he remembered the early days, when he remembered her as his partner, the woman who kept the books, helped load the truck, answered the phones, did damn near everything back then when he had nothing but a truck and the know-how to build houses. Hell, back then, he was doing menial repair work half the time. She had two babies to look after, and still did everything she could for him.

Then he got successful. She stopped keeping the books. He acquired an office staff. She devoted most of her time to the kids. He couldn't say he missed the kids; he barely knew them. Building a business had been a rush; keeping it going proved stressful. He'd always been a pretty good drinker. He got better. Women followed. There was a certain type of woman who thought he was something because he owned a fleet of trucks with his name on them. Groupies. He didn't miss that. Then there were the women whose husbands were running around on them. They needed a shoulder to cry on, and he was happy to offer his. The fact that he was running around on
his
wife didn't seem to bother them. Maybe they thought his infidelity was more righteous.

He took a long drag on his cigarette, coughed. The woman who was so eager to help him build his business proved just as enthusiastic about taking it away from him. By the time she was finished, he was in debt up to his ears.

He knew he shouldn't have booked a fishing trip this year — he really couldn't afford it. But he needed it. He had chosen the Pleasant because he'd heard the fishing was good and because he'd worn out his welcome at every other place he could think of. Something about offending the women guests. He sniffed. Women were brainwashed these days, looking for excuses to take offence.

He flicked an ash from his cigarette, winced as the breeze blew an ember against his cheek. He was feeling a little logy. Maybe tomorrow he'd take out a boat, do a little fishing, laze around on the veranda in the afternoon, enjoy the cooking. When he got home, maybe he'd cut down on the booze, start going to the gym. Once he got cleaned up, got his business back on sound footing, he might meet a nice woman, maybe somebody as good as his wife. He paused. Almost as good.

He flicked his cigarette into the lake. Tonight, for the first time in a long time, he could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Only a few more days to go, Rudley,” said Norman as he stopped at the desk. “How are you holding up?”

Rudley allowed himself a smug smile. “Quite well, Norman. I'm happy to say everything is under control.”

“You must be enjoying the novelty of that.” Norman paused as Rudley glowered. “What I'm saying is, that as organized as you and Mrs. Rudley are, external forces seem to conspire against you.”

Rudley signed off an invoice with a flourish. “Not this time.”

“Then preparations are going well?”

“Perfectly. We have box upon box of paper rosettes made from thrice-recycled paper, destined after the nuptials to join Lloyd's worm farm, dozens of heart-shaped cookies to be placed under pillows.”

“In lieu of slivers of wedding cake?”

“Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson have requested a cake the guests can actually eat. Good idea. I've always found those three-tiered fruit cakes a waste.”

“Geraldine and I had a three-tiered cake made entirely of suet and birdseed — so our feathered friends could share our special day.”

“I think I'll pass on that, Norman. I don't want the gulls bombarding us with their thanks.”

Norman looked confused, then brightened. “Oh, there's Geraldine. Better hurry or we won't get our spot.”

There's a panoramic view from every seat in the dining room, Rudley thought, and he wants the one that gives him a view of his fishing hole. He's probably hoping he'll figure out why everyone except him manages to haul something out of it.

Margaret came into the lobby, trailing a streamer composed of tiny Union Jacks. “What do you think, Rudley?”

“Rule Britannia.”

“I thought I'd drape these over the veranda railing to make Edward's parents feel welcome.”

“We could dress Lloyd up as a Beefeater and stick him in a flowerpot.”

She gave him an aggrieved look. “I believe you're being sarcastic, Rudley.”

“I apologize, Margaret, but I thought the idea was to keep the ceremony simple. The happy couple indicated all they wanted was a simple ceremony, a nice meal with friends, and our good wishes.”

She gave him a swat on the arm. “I know they said that and I have no doubt they are sincere. The fuss is for the parents. And the guests. Everyone is so excited. Everyone wants to contribute. The Benson sisters are making up those little cones for sweetmeats, the Sawchucks will be taking candid shots for a special album, Mr. Bole has worked his fingers to the bone, putting together a wedding medley. Gregoire has created several original dishes. He's outdone himself again and again. Our young couple has nothing to do but show up.” She beamed. “And I'm so looking forward to seeing you in your tuxedo. It's been far too long.”

“Not nearly long enough,” he murmured.

“You'll look dashing for the photographs.”

They looked up as the lobby door opened. Tiffany came in, walked straight to the desk without a word, and stopped, her forehead puckered.

Margaret and Rudley exchanged glances.

“Is there anything the matter, Tiffany?” Margaret ventured.

“Mr. Arnold is asleep,” she said.

Margaret glanced at the clock. “He's not one of our earlier risers.”

“He didn't put out his DND sign,” Tiffany continued, enunciating each word precisely. “I assumed he wanted his room tidied. Therefore, I went in.”

“Yes?” Rudley prompted.

“He was lying on his bed. It seems he had been ill. The vomit had dribbled from the corner of his mouth, and crusted in the creases of his neck. The front of his shirt was caked with it.”

“I'll get an ambulance.” Margaret reached for the phone.

“He's probably just had one too many,” Rudley muttered. “I'll go down and take care of it.” He came out from behind the desk, turned and bellowed, “Lloyd.”

“Yes'm.” Lloyd's voice came faintly from the other side of the wall.

“He's repairing some quarter round in the ballroom,” Margaret said. “Do you think Mr. Arnold is going to be a problem?”

“I'm not afraid of Mr. Arnold, Margaret, but I may need Lloyd to help me haul him out of the mess.”

Tiffany continued to stare at the desk top.

“Come along, dear,” said Margaret. “We'll sit you down and get you a nice cup of tea.”

Lloyd appeared with hammer in hand. “You were wanting me?”

“I was.” Rudley headed for the door. “Come with me.” Rudley glanced toward the lake as they came out onto the veranda. Norman's rowboat bobbed at the dock. Norman would be out as soon as he finished breakfast. The Sawchucks were making their way to the dock, followed by Tim, who had, apparently, been commandeered to help them board their rowboat.

“If Doreen would stop packing on the pounds, she wouldn't need two men to stuff her into the boat,” Rudley said.

Lloyd giggled. “She has a big behind.”

“She blames Gregoire's cooking,” Rudley muttered. “You'd think he tied her down and force-fed her.”

Rudley galloped across the lawn with Lloyd at his heels. He stopped at the Pines, hammered at the door. “If we make enough noise, he may wake up and mop up before we're forced to go in,” Rudley said. He waited a minute, then banged on the door again. “Mr. Arnold.” He called Mr. Arnold's name several times without response, then turned to Lloyd. “I'm afraid there's no way around it.” He fished out his master key, opened the door. He stopped, stared.

Lloyd peered over Rudley's shoulder. “Don't smell so good in here.”

Rudley suppressed the bile rising in his throat. “Forget the commentary, Lloyd.” He edged toward the bed.

“Don't look like he's breathing,” said Lloyd.

“Of course he's breathing,” Rudley hissed. He took another step. “Mr. Arnold?”

“Don't look like he's going to answer,” said Lloyd.

Rudley thrust two fingers into the side of Arnold's neck, turning his face away.

“Dead as a doornail,” said Lloyd.

“Rudley” — Margaret looked up as Rudley barged into the lobby, followed by Lloyd — “is Mr. Arnold all right?”

Rudley paused. “No, he isn't, Margaret.”

“Dead as a doornail,” said Lloyd.

Margaret put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. You didn't leave him by himself?”

Rudley took a deep breath. “Yes, we did. We closed the door so the coyotes wouldn't get him, and left. He's dead. He would have been just as dead if we'd stayed.”

“All alone?”

“He won't be alone for long. I called the police from his cabin. We should hear sirens any minute now. Ambulances, police cruisers, evidence vans. Maybe even the volunteer fire department.”

“Are you absolutely sure he's dead?”

“Trust me, Margaret, the man's dead.”

“Why, this is terrible, Rudley.”

He leaned against the desk, folded his arms. “Well, I don't know. No one particularly liked him. He was always in the middle of one unsavoury mess or another.”

“Mrs. Millotte says he's a boob,” Lloyd volunteered.

Rudley nodded. “Melba and I don't see eye to eye on many of the issues of the day, but her intuition about Arnold was impeccable.”

The sound of sirens rose and fell as an ambulance and police car rushed past the front door.

“But, Rudley, what could have happened to him?”

“I imagine he had a heart attack. He was that sort of man — fleshy around the gills.” He paused. “Although, I'm sure Brisbois will try to turn it into foul play. I don't know why he's so eager to have every death around here a murder.”

“Probably because he's a homicide detective.”

“There was vomit all over,” said Lloyd.

“Oh, dear.” Margaret started to move out from behind the desk. “I'll go down. We can't have Tiffany dealing with that.”

Rudley stopped her. “Margaret, Brisbois will have the body fluids packaged up. He usually does. Lloyd and I will go in when he's through to see what needs to be done.”

She squeezed his arm. “That's very gallant of you and Lloyd.” She sighed. “You're taking this well.”

Lloyd grinned. “Wasn't a minute ago.”

Rudley glared at him, then sagged against the desk. “What a fine state of affairs for a wedding. Two dead bodies before the first ‘I do'. Some brides would find that off-putting.”

She nodded. “We should be grateful Miss Miller isn't one of them.”

“Now, let me get this straight.” Brisbois thumbed through his notes. “You went down there because Tiffany reported that Mr. Arnold was lying on his back, covered in vomit. Did she say he was dead?”

Rudley crossed his arms. “No. I think she's getting a little tired of making those announcements.”

Brisbois shook his head. “He didn't respond to your knock, so you used your master key to get in.”

“That's right.” Rudley glowered. “Why do you have to rehash this? Do you think I'm going to tell you something different the second time?”

Brisbois gave him a long look. “You'd be surprised how often people do.” He paused. “So you unlocked the door and saw him lying on the bed.”

“Yes.”

“Did you move him, roll him over?”

“No. I felt for a pulse. In his neck. That's all I did.”

Brisbois flicked his pen. “When did you last see Mr. Arnold alive?”

“He was up for dinner last night. He stayed around for a while.”

“How long?”

“I'm not sure. I believe he was in the ballroom for at least an hour.”

“Is that his usual pattern?”

“No, he doesn't usually stay for the entertainment. He usually goes into town.”

“Did he go into town last night?”

“I don't know.”

“Did he have anything to drink at dinner?”

“You'll have to ask Tim. He had a glass of something in the ballroom.”

“OK,” Brisbois murmured. “Did he complain about being sick?”

“No, but he always looked unhealthy, if you ask me. With that red face, the man was a prime candidate for a heart attack or stroke.”

“I guess he doesn't have to worry about that now,” said Brisbois. He looked at Rudley, pen poised. “Did he have any visitors? Anybody come to see him while he was here?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Did you put any calls through to his cabin?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“We'll check your telephone log.”

“Then why did you bother asking?” Rudley fumed. “Are you through with me?”

“For now.

Rudley stamped off.

Brisbois sank into the chair, pushing back his hat. “The guy smelled like a distillery.”

Creighton wrinkled his nose. “Booze mixed with a little eau de vomit.”

“He gets drunk, passes out, chokes on his vomit.”

Creighton shoved his hands into his pockets. “An experienced drinker like old Jack?”

Brisbois shrugged. “Maybe you have another theory?”