A Most Unpleasant Wedding (15 page)

“Anything's possible.”

“Yeah, but if someone wanted him dead, they wouldn't want him to collapse at the inn. Somebody'd call an ambulance. They'd truck him off to the hospital, and, chances are, he'd survive.”

“Maybe they didn't want him dead. Maybe somebody just wanted to play a joke on him.”

Brisbois shook his head. “That would require extreme stupidity. I don't think anybody here has that much.”

Creighton flopped down onto the settee. “OK, if someone did it on purpose, what's the motive?”

“We haven't found anybody who liked him so far.”

Creighton nodded. “What about the Hopper family? It must be a sore spot with them, knowing Arnold tried to hustle Evelyn just before she died.”

“Yeah, that would eat at me.” Brisbois picked up his hat. “We'll talk to them.”

“But you're not too convinced.”

“I wouldn't rule anything out.” He stood, put his hat on, sat down, took it off again. “Let's just recap what we've got on Arnold. The guy had allergies. He used Benadryl. Several people here saw him take the pills at least once. The package in the evidence bag had two pills missing. Doc says he had five times that amount in his system. But we didn't find any empty boxes or blister packs.”

Creighton ticked the possibilities off on his fingers. “They forgot to add it to the list. Somebody misplaced it. It got stuck on the bottom of Lloyd's big muddy work boot. If that's what happened, it could be anywhere within fifty square miles.”

Brisbois dismissed this. “Lloyd wouldn't go inside with muddy boots on. Tiffany's got him well-trained.”

Creighton took a paper from his pocket. “Arnold's overdrawn by two thousand in his chequing account. His savings account went south a long time ago. I don't know if the bank he had it in still exists. He's got fifteen thousand on his credit cards. He's got a third mortgage on his house.”

Brisbois craned his neck to look at the sheet in Creighton's hand. “What does it say about the business? He must have some assets there.”

Creighton shook his head. “Not much. Two half-ton trucks — both over five years old. He and his wife had a nasty breakup. She was the business manager. She put in the bids, ran everything. He knew the construction end.”

“Did she say why they broke up? Another woman?”

“There were lots of women. Mainly it was the booze.”

“Makes you feel kind of sorry for the guy.”

Creighton folded the paper, tucked it into his breast pocket. “If these financial records were mine, I might do myself in.” He paused. “Maybe he dropped the packaging for the Benadryl into the sink. The cardboard got wet. Maybe the blister pack wasn't intact. He was afraid the pills might get wet so he popped them out and put them into a glass. So last night, he took the ones from the glass and two from the package.”

Brisbois shifted. “Yeah, I agree it could happen like that. Still, it doesn't make sense. I mean, if he had some in the glass and he took them, why would he bother opening a new package and just take two? Why wouldn't he take a bunch? I mean, he wouldn't know what a lethal dose was, especially if he was as drunk as his alcohol levels say he was.”

Creighton shrugged. “But maybe he did. We can't assume every dead body we find around here is foul play.”

“They have been so far,” Brisbois grumbled. He snapped his fingers. “I know somebody who might be able to shed some light on this.”

Tiffany was behind the desk when Brisbois and Creighton entered the lobby.

“Detectives,” she greeted. “I'm afraid Mr. Rudley isn't here.”

Brisbois removed his hat. “Actually, you're the one we want to talk to.”

She gave him her full attention.

“You tidied up Mr. Arnold's cabin every day.”

“Yes.”

“Did you empty the garbage?”

“Of course. Every day.”

“Do you remember seeing an empty blister pack? You know those foil things they pack pills in?”

She thought for a moment. “I don't remember anything like that. But you must understand I take pains not to notice what's in the guests' garbage.”

“Incriminating stuff?”

“Liquor bottles. Personal items. Some of them very personal.”

“I see.”

She shook her head. “I should say I try not to dwell on what I find in the guests' garbage. I do pay attention. In case someone has discarded something they didn't intend to. For example, Mrs. Sawchuck dropped her watch into the basket by mistake. I noticed it before it was discarded.”

“I imagine she was glad of that.”

“She was.” Tiffany paused. “With Mr. Arnold, it was hard not to notice his garbage. Most of it didn't make it into the bin. There were usually bits of paper, tissues, packaging, things like that on the floor around it. But I don't remember seeing a blister pack.”

Brisbois thought for a moment. “OK. Do you remember seeing any pills lying around loose, in a glass or a saucer, something like that?”

She shook her head. “No, I don't remember seeing anything like that. I'm sorry.”

Brisbois gave her a smile. “You've been helpful. Thanks, Tiffany.”

He went out onto the veranda. Creighton followed.

“She didn't see anything.”

Creighton jingled his keys. “OK, what about this? He puts the pills into a glass. He puts the glass into the medicine cabinet.”

Brisbois didn't answer. He folded his arms over the railing, looked down to where Norman lay snoring in his rowboat. Mr. Bole was at the dock, manipulating a model boat with a remote control.

Creighton laughed. “Maybe Bole's doing
Mutiny on the Bounty
next.”

“Arnold went into town every night after supper,” Brisbois said. “Except his last night. That night he stayed around for part of the entertainment. He went out, wandered around the dock. Then what? Why didn't he go into town?”

“Because there was a mob of women waiting to lynch him?” Creighton shrugged. “Maybe he was depressed. He stayed around the inn, thinking being part of the crowd might buck him up. It didn't. He goes back to his cabin, takes an inventory of his life, including reviewing his bankbook — which was a big mistake. He decides it isn't worth it. He takes a handful of Benadryl, washes it down with a bottle of booze, and goes to sleep. He doesn't wake up.”

Brisbois hunched his shoulders. “He didn't leave a note. He didn't make any phone calls. People usually try to say goodbye to someone. He had two kids.”

Creighton shrugged. “Yeah, but that's if he'd been mulling it over for a while. Maybe it was an impulse thing. Maybe he wasn't even sure he wanted to die. He just wanted to get some relief, get away for a while.”

Brisbois gave him a sour look. “Have you been reading that damned Durkheim book again?”

“I read it for that course. Suicide is a risk-taking deal. You can't guarantee you're going to die. Look at the guy who put the gun to his head and didn't do anything but blow off his ear and singe his toupee.”

Brisbois' mouth turned down. He didn't relish murder; he simply hated the idea of suicide. Hated the idea someone could think there was so little use in living that they'd do something like that to themselves. There was always something to live for, wasn't there? Something to get you over the hump? “I don't think guys like Arnold commit suicide,” he said. “No introspection.”

“I don't think you have to be a deep thinker to commit suicide,” said Creighton. “You've just got to find yourself in a shitload of trouble with no way out.”

“They vacuumed for trace.”

Creighton nodded. “They did everything they were supposed to do. But I don't know how much good that will do. With everybody back and forth, brushing against everything. Tiffany probably transfers a ton of trace every time she dusts.”

Brisbois gave him a gloomy nod. “Talk to the wife again. Get a list of everybody he knew. We'll work the phones. Find out everything we can about this guy.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, then returned his gaze to the lake. “Can you think of anything that would make you want to commit suicide?”

“Maybe if I was two hundred years old and had lost both my legs and couldn't get a date. Even then, if there were a few good-looking nurses around…”

Brisbois frowned. “You wouldn't worry about your soul?”

Creighton gave him a surprised look. “Hey, I was brought up in the United Church.”

Brisbois turned, gave him a bleak look.

“Look, Boss, if you don't mind me saying, you are on a wild-goose chase here. You've turned the inn upside down, made Semple dirty his shoes. For what? The guy committed suicide. His health was lousy. He was in financial free fall. The last woman he made a move on threw an Old-Fashioned in his face. You've seen suicides before.”

“Yeah.” Brisbois left the railing, headed down the steps, said without turning, “And I've never liked them.”

Terri Hopper jumped up from her chair at the table in the interrogation room and ran to stand by the window. Creighton took a step toward her, then resumed his position against the wall. Brisbois tapped his notebook, waited until she returned to her seat.

“I don't know what you want,” she said through tears. “My mother's dead and now you're acting as if Rico or Dad or I killed Mr. Arnold. Rico and I weren't even at the Pleasant last night. We were with Dad all night. He hasn't left the house since he came home from the hospital. He's practically comatose from the pills they put him on.”

Brisbois abandoned his notebook, sat back in his chair. “Look at it from our point of view, Terri. You had good reason to want to get back at Arnold. He put the moves on your mother at the hotel. He could have been the last person to see her alive — apart from the murderer. Maybe you suspect he killed her.”

She gritted her teeth. “Maybe he did.”

Brisbois did not respond. He sat, watching her, absently stroking his cheek with his thumb.

“We didn't go near him,” she said. “Rico and I made dinner for Dad. Then we spent most of the evening grooming the horses, just spending time with them.” She bent her head. “It's hard for them with Mom gone.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Dad might as well be gone.”

Brisbois sat forward, opened his notebook, flipped back a few pages. “You know, Terri, I have to tell you, in a murder case, you can't hold anybody above suspicion.”

“Dad can't even find his way to the yard,” she murmured. “Rico and I are afraid to leave him alone.”

Brisbois flicked his pen. “Is there anybody who can verify you were home last night?”

She shrugged. “We talked to some people on the phone.”

He made a note. “Land line?”

She looked hopeful as he wrote this down. “Yes, we talked to Mr. Tiggan, the farrier.”

“When was that?”

“Around six.” She mopped up tears with the back of her hand. “We called Rico's mom after supper, around eight. Aunt Joan called somewhere after nine. We were watching television.”

“Baseball game?”

“No, that didn't start until ten. They were playing in Seattle. We were watching CNN. After we talked to Aunt Joan, we washed the dishes. Then we went down to check the horses. Then we came up to watch the baseball game.”

Brisbois wrote all of this down. He believed the phone calls would check out but he would follow up for the sake of being thorough. In truth, he didn't think Terri or her dad or Rico had anything to do with Jack Arnold's death. No one had seen any of them around the Pleasant. Still, something wasn't right. Terri and Rico had a hard time looking him in the eye. He finished his notes, made some doodles in the margins. “Terri,” he said without warning, “I think you're holding something back on us. In fact, I know you are.”

She flushed.

“First, you lied to us about your whereabouts the night your mother died.” He put up a hand to stop her protests. “I know you didn't want anybody to know you were staying with Rico. But you were being questioned in a murder investigation. That should have been the least of your worries.”

She gulped.

“Detective Creighton and I may not be Einstein, but we're pretty good at figuring out things.” He turned to Creighton. “Detective, could you go over what we found when we were looking around?”

Creighton pushed himself off the wall, took out his notebook, and came to sit at the table beside Brisbois. “A couple of things puzzled us. The pathologist believes the shovel we took from the stable was exactly like the instrument that injured your mother and opened that cut on Ned.”

“Except there was no blood on that shovel and nothing from the barn — straw and oats and so forth.” Brisbois gestured to Creighton to continue.

“But what the shovel we took from the stable did have on it was ordinary garden soil.”

Brisbois looked to Terri. “Now, that seems strange.”

“Our team took a good look around,” Creighton said. “And there wasn't another shovel like it on the place. There was a snow shovel — that was in the garden shed — but there wasn't any shovel anywhere that looked as if it had been used in the stables.”

“And that doesn't make sense,” said Brisbois.

“Whoever killed Mom took it,” she said.

Brisbois forehead wrinkled. “Now, that would make sense. But the shovel in the stable with nothing on it but garden soil, that doesn't make any sense at all.”

She studied the table.

Brisbois closed his notebook. “Here's what I think happened. You came home. Your mother wasn't there. Your father was vague about her whereabouts. His clothes were dirty. You knew your parents weren't getting along. You went down to see the horses. You saw the blood on the shovel and on the door frame. You got a bad feeling. You got rid of the shovel. But you thought it would look funny if there wasn't a shovel in the stable because there always was. And there were probably people who could say there was. Maybe your Aunt Joan. Maybe the farrier. So you took the shovel from the garden shed.” He looked at her pale face. “Now that was a bit of overthinking on your part. Because if you'd just disposed of the shovel, we would have assumed the killer took it with him.”

She moistened her lips. “I thought…”

“We know what you thought. You thought your father had done something to your mother, and you were trying to help him out.”

She took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Where's the shovel?”

She moistened her lips. “In the quarry. I wrapped it in a blanket and put it in the back of my car, on the floor. Nobody looked in my car. When I had a chance, I threw it in the quarry.”

“Where?”

“It's off the back road about two miles away. It's flooded.”

Brisbois nodded. “OK, tell us the story.”

She collected her thoughts. “I saw the blood on the shovel. I thought maybe one of the horses had stepped on a mouse. I washed it down. Then when I found out about what had happened to Mom I thought you would think Dad had killed her, so I threw it away.”

“Did you wash the handle down too?”

She nodded reluctantly.

He studied his notes, then looked up at her.

She met his noncommittal gaze. “Am I in trouble?”

Terri had left. Brisbois sat at the desk, staring at his notes, shaking his head.

“I think she's in trouble,” Creighton said finally.

Brisbois nodded. “The only question is how much. By the time they fish that shovel out of that quarry, it won't be worth much. Especially after all that cleaning.” He pitched his pen across the table. “There were probably fingerprints.”

“I guess that would be too easy.”

“Damn.” Brisbois gave his earlobe an irritated tug. “If Carl killed his wife, Terri would be an accomplice after the fact.”

“And that would be a shame,” Creighton said, “because she's kind of a nice kid and she reminds you of your youngest daughter.” He gave Brisbois a playful poke in the shoulder. “You're such an old softie.”

“Soft in the head's more like it,” Brisbois muttered. He closed the notebook, stuffed it into his pocket, hauled himself up to retrieve his pen. “OK, let's reconvene this party at the quarry.”

Brisbois and Creighton stood by as the divers entered the quarry.

“That water looks cold,” said Creighton.

“It's like deep well water,” said Brisbois. He leaned back against the car. “This thing keeps getting more complicated.” He frowned. “You know what's bugging me?”

“Nope.”

“Nobody has a good explanation about what Evelyn Hopper was doing in the bar that night.”

“Maybe somebody stood her up. Maybe she came home, saw Carl flaked out, drooling on the furniture, couldn't stand the sight of him, went into town for a drink. Nick saw her on the dock. Maybe she was supposed to meet Alva, but he thought his wife was onto him and chickened out.”

“I suppose.” Brisbois shrugged. “It would have been nice to have this thing wrapped up before the wedding.”

Creighton sipped his coffee. “Are you bringing Mary?”

Brisbois gave him a surprised look. “Of course. She's really looking forward to it. What about you? Who are you bringing?”

“I haven't decided.”

“You're leaving it kind of late.”

Creighton shrugged. “Maybe I'll ask Petrie.”

“Petrie doesn't like you.”

“So what? She looks good.”

Brisbois gave him a smug smile. “I hear she's asked Vance.”

Creighton hooted. “Vance. He's skinny, half-bald, and he's got that cheesy moustache. Give me a break.”

“He's a nice guy.”

Creighton smirked. “So that's it. She wants a nice guy.”

Brisbois smiled. “Just kidding. Petrie likes you.”

“She does?”

“Sure. She just doesn't want to go out with you.” Brisbois lit a cigarette before continuing. “Your problem, Creighton, is you're always looking for the wrong thing. You like the idea of some companionship — when you want it — but you're afraid of commitment. That could lead to marriage and that would cramp your style.”

“Maybe.”

“Where you're wrong is in thinking marriage is going to limit you. Marriage makes things better.”

Creighton waited patiently.

“Married men live longer. They eat better, get regular checkups. Their wives keep them up to date. You get somebody to share things with, somebody to pick you up. I'd have a tough time doing my job sometimes if it weren't for Mary.”

“I think I've heard this speech before.”

“I just don't want to see you hanging out in bars when you're seventy.”

Creighton gave him a long look. “I think you married guys don't like single guys like me because we scare you.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You worry you're missing something. Maybe you feel tempted.”

Brisbois gave him an annoyed look and sank his cigarette into the dregs of his coffee.