A Most Unpleasant Wedding (5 page)

Rudley crawled out of his sleeping bag, groped for the flashlight, fumbled to the tent flap on hands and knees. He thrust the flashlight through the slit, caught the tail end of a fleeing creature. He snapped the flashlight off.

“What was it, Rudley?”

“I think it was a deer.”

“It sounded too big to be a deer. Are you sure it wasn't a bear?”

“I don't think so, Margaret.” He backed into his sleeping bag. “Even if it was, it was running away from us.”

She sighed. “That's a sensible way to look at it.”

“I'm always sensible.”

She let that go. “Good night, Rudley.”

“Good night, Margaret.”

Gregoire woke at four, a few minutes before his alarm was set to go off, and headed for the shower. The early hours required by his job had never been a problem for him. His mother said he hadn't slept more than four or five hours a night since he was born. He enjoyed a half-hour nap in the afternoon and always woke refreshed.

Tim's door was ajar. He paused, listened, chuckled. The elegant Tim snored.

He climbed into the shower, turned the water to tepid.

He considered Tiffany's problem as he worked his hair into a lather. Officer Owens was a nice man, patient, respectful. But he shoots Bambi, he thought, and Booboo. He paused, clutching the bar of soap to his chest. The man was a philistine.

He reviewed the menu for the day: prime rib, rack of lamb… Frowned. “You are as much of a murderer as he is,” he muttered.

He turned off the shower and tumbled out, reaching for his towel. His dark curls sprang out like corkscrews. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, tried to smooth the disobedient curls with one hand. He pulled on his bathrobe, returned to his room, parted the curtains to check the weather.

Dawn threw a sheet of silver over the lake. Rocks and trees lurked in the gloom along the shallows.

He treasured this time of morning. Before the fishermen invaded his kitchen for their thermoses of coffee. Before Tim flitted through the dining room, bringing the full glare of the sun — Tim brought the sun even on cloudy days. Before the clatter of dishes broke the silence. Before the ovens diluted the subtlety of the natural fragrances. Before everyone started blundering around. He liked people, but this fragment of the day belonged to him. He put on his whites, captured his hair under his cap, and tiptoed into the hallway. He paused at Tim's door. “You snore,” he whispered.

Lloyd rolled out of his cot in the tool shed behind the inn. He had a room in the bunkhouse but he liked to sleep in the open, and the tool shed was almost as good as being outdoors. Mrs. Rudley didn't mind him living in the tool shed but insisted that he move into the bunkhouse once it got cold. Mrs. Rudley worried about him. She worried about everybody, but he knew she worried about him especially because she thought he was an orphan. He wasn't, but, since he had told her he was, he couldn't take it back. At first, he thought he couldn't tell her the truth because she might decide he didn't need all those extra pieces of pie if he had parents. But now he realized he couldn't tell her because knowing he had lied to her would hurt her feelings. He knew she would find out someday, probably when his parents died. Someone would put a notice in the paper and Mrs. Rudley read the local paper every morning. He decided that the only way to shield Mrs. Rudley from the truth would be to have her die before his parents did. But he didn't want that to happen either. He liked Mrs. Rudley. He comforted himself with the knowledge that the day of reckoning lay in the distant future: Mrs. Rudley's mother had lived a long time and his grandmother was still living. He calculated it might be fifty years before his parents passed on, and, by that time, Mrs. Rudley's memory might not be very good. Besides, he would be old by then too and Mrs. Rudley always said it was important to be kind to old people.

He watched a grey squirrel work its way down the pine tree, then picked up his towel and went outside to his camp shower. He would rather have washed in the lake as he had for years, but last year Mrs. Rudley told him he couldn't. She said the soap wasn't good for the fish. He guessed it wasn't, but, since he was the only one who bathed in the lake, he didn't think it would do any harm. He thought the real reason Mrs. Rudley had barred him from the lake was that a lady with a cottage on the point had complained that she saw a naked man in the lake while she was watching the deer with her binoculars. He could have showered in the bunkhouse but he liked to be outdoors.

He showered, dressed, and hung his towel on a tree limb to dry. He was hungry but he wanted pancakes and Gregoire wouldn't have the griddle ready until nearly seven. He got out the cultivator, planning to work on the flower beds at the front of the inn. Then he would go in for a coffee and a bun until Gregoire could fix his pancakes. He rounded the corner of the inn, stopped.

A man lay on his back on the wicker lounge on the veranda, his hat tipped over his eyes. Lloyd leaned the cultivator against the wall and climbed the steps to the veranda.

“Yoo hoo.”

The man mumbled, waved him away.

Lloyd shook the man by the shoulder. “Yoo hoo.”

Jack Arnold pushed his hat back. He was unshaven and stank of stale booze. “What in hell do you want?”

“People'll be coming in soon for breakfast.”

Arnold stared at him. “What time is it?”

“Late. Almost six-thirty.”

Arnold pulled his hat back down to shield his eyes against the sunlight. “Christ, what are you doing up at this hour?”

“Things to do. You stay here all night?”

Arnold sighed. “I guess so.”

Lloyd grinned. “I like sleeping outside too, but Mrs. Rudley doesn't like it. She says I'll get pneumonia.”

Arnold turned his head, groaned, massaged his neck. “I don't know about sleeping outdoors but I wouldn't recommend sleeping on this thing.” He gestured toward the door. “I don't suppose I could get a cup of coffee.”

Lloyd pointed to the trail of mud up the steps and across the veranda. “You got mud on your shoes.”

Arnold cocked his head to look down. “Guess I do.” He yawned. “Maybe I'll just wait until the dining room opens.”

“I can get you some coffee, but you can't go into the dining room with your boots all muddy.”

Arnold looked at the veranda. “I guess I did track it all over.”

“And on the cushions,” said Lloyd, pointing to the lounge.

Arnold managed to look sheepish. “Forget the coffee. I'll go down to my cabin and call for room service when the dining room opens.”

“If you go down, I'll bring you some coffee, but you'll have to leave your shoes outside until you can clean them.”

Arnold laughed. “You have a housekeeper, don't you?” He scrubbed a hand across his lips. “God, my mouth tastes like a garbage can. They must have snuck me something cheap.”

“I'll get you the coffee and clean your shoes. Tiffany's got a lot of cleaning.”

Arnold lay back. “Sounds good, buddy. I'll catch a nap until you get back.”

Lloyd went around to the back porch and into the kitchen where he told his story to Gregoire.

“The man is a pig,” Gregoire fumed. He poured coffee into an insulated mug. “This is good enough for him. I will not have him smashing the good china over the veranda.” He pinched his nostrils. “I can smell his foul body from here.”

Lloyd took the coffee to the veranda. Arnold had fallen asleep. He put the coffee down, tugged off Arnold's shoes. He took them around to the side of the house, hosed them down, and set them aside. He pulled the soiled cushion out from under Arnold's feet, took it to the back porch where he laid it on the railing to dry. He brought the hose around to the veranda and began to wash down the steps.

Tim wheeled around the corner from the bunkhouse. He stopped and stared at Arnold, who had flopped onto his side and was drooling on his shirt. “What's he doing here?”

“Don't know,” said Lloyd. “Was here when I got here.”

“He looks as if he spent the night in a pigsty. He's got mud all over his pant legs. Where'd he get that from?”

“Don't know,” Lloyd said, “but he got mud all over the veranda.”

“I hope he doesn't plan to go into the dining room. I'll boot him into the next lake if he does.”

“Told him he couldn't.”

Tim gave Arnold a disparaging look and went on into the kitchen. Gregoire was cracking eggs into a mixing bowl.

“Is it ready?”

Gregoire gave him an impatient wave. “I have the popovers coming out of the oven in precisely thirty seconds. I will be serving them with strawberries and fresh Devon cream. Then pigs in the blankets with citrus chutney. They will think they are in their honeymoon cottage in Cornwall.”

“Tea, then, instead of coffee?”

Gregoire made a face. “I am afraid the fantasy ends there. If Mr. Rudley misses his coffee, it will be a horror show in here.”

Tim helped himself to the strawberries. “I hope they had a good night.”

Gregoire opened the oven and pulled out the popovers. “They are probably aching in every joint and covered with insect bites and poison ivy.” He took out a carafe, filled it with coffee. “Now, if you will stop eating the strawberries, perhaps you could take this to them.”

Margaret opened her eyes, smiled. “Rudley, isn't that cute?”

“Yes, Margaret,” he murmured, “cute.”

“No, look.” She shook him by the shoulder, pointed to the silhouette of a chipmunk posed against the tent. “Look at him. He must know we have some crumbs.”

Rudley raised himself on one elbow. “I don't think you should feed him. There's plenty for him to eat. We don't want him to become dependent.”

“I don't think a few crumbs will destroy his initiative.” She opened the tent flap, scattered the crumbs from their midnight snack. “It's going to be a lovely day. What a wonderful idea to camp out.”

“It was.” He slithered out of his sleeping bag. “But now I have to go to the bathroom.” He put on his shoes and crawled out of the tent on hands and knees.

“Mind the tree roots.”

“Yes, Margaret.” He stretched, took a lungful of air, paused to indulge a frog that had stopped in his path. “Get along now,” he whispered. “There's some urgency in my situation.”

The frog blinked, gathered itself, and sailed off into the Mayapple.

Rudley completed his business, paused to look down toward the inn. The lake revealed itself in dancing patterns of blue through the leaves. Phipps-Walker would be out in his rowboat. Soon the dining room would come alive. And soon, Tim would be up with a breakfast tray. Breakfast in the tent, then he'd be glad to get back to the inn. Taking leave of his responsibilities for one night was quite all right but sufficient.

A woodpecker drummed on a tree ahead of him. He meandered along, looking up into the trees, caught sight of the bird crisscrossing halfway up the trunk. He grinned, whistled a few bars of “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'.” He'd forgotten how lovely the woods were. He'd been telling guests that for years, but it had been some time since he'd enjoyed a stroll up here. He ambled along, paused here and there to examine the texture of the bark, identify an insect, watch the voles scurry along under the leaf blanket.

A grosbeak warbled a greeting. He turned, scanning the trees for the bird, stumbled over a stump, and pitched headlong into the undergrowth.

“Damn.” He scrambled up, brushing off his clothes. Paused, jaw dropping. “What the hell?”

Carl Hopper woke to sunlight streaming through the window. He shut his eyes, grabbed his head in both hands. He rolled to his side and promptly fell to the floor. He opened his eyes, saw a blurry version of a Persian rug and the underside of a coffee table. He decided he was lying on the floor beside the living room couch.

He struggled to his feet using the coffee table and couch for support. He patted his breast pocket for his glasses, felt around under the couch cushions, finally gave up, and headed toward the kitchen, grabbing the back of the recliner as a wave of vertigo pitched him to his right. He waited until he felt steadier, then forged ahead. He reached the kitchen, pulled down a mug from the rack, juggled it as it tried to slip through his fingers.

He turned on the coffee pot. It rewarded him with a sterile hiss. He pulled out the basket, checked the reservoir. He was standing there, frowning at the basket of spent grounds when a brisk knock at the kitchen door brought Roslyn, the housekeeper.

“Morning, Mr. Hopper. I brought your paper.” She put the newspaper down on the kitchen table.

“No coffee,” he said by way of greeting.

“I guess Mrs. Hopper forgot to get it ready last night.” Roslyn put her bag down, took the basket from his hands, rinsed it, rinsed the pot, and took down the coffee canister.

Carl sank into a chair at the table while Roslyn prepared the coffee. She turned the pot on, then went to the refrigerator and poured him a glass of orange juice. She set it on the table in front of him.

“If you don't mind me saying so, Mr. Hopper, you don't look so good.”

He gave her an apologetic smile. “Bad day yesterday, Roslyn. I had a tooth yanked. I fell asleep on the couch.”

She took a long look at him. “You look as if you slept in Drummie's dirt pile.”

He squinted at his shirt. “I fell.” He took a drink of the orange juice, held it in his dry mouth for a few moments before swallowing. “Those pills the dentist gave me threw me for a loop.”

She had her head in the refrigerator. “Do you want your bacon and eggs?”

He felt his jaw. “I don't know. I think my mouth is too sore for anything.”

“How about some scrambled eggs?” She got out the fixings without waiting for an answer. “Will Mrs. Hopper be wanting something?”

He drew the newspaper toward him, patting his breast pocket for his glasses. “I don't know.”

“Is she upstairs?”

He hesitated. “I don't know.”

She gave him a look of affectionate exasperation. “I'll go take a look.”

He gave her his best little-boy smile. “Roslyn, could you take a look around for my glasses? They might be on the table by my recliner.”

She patted him on the shoulder and took off upstairs. She came down, circled through the living room, and returned to the kitchen.

“Mrs. Hopper's not upstairs,” she said, “and I didn't see your glasses.”

“She must have gone riding.” He stared at the paper, thought about asking Roslyn to get the spare pair from his desk, then decided that would be pushing his luck.