A Most Unpleasant Wedding (6 page)

Roslyn poured a cup of coffee, added double cream, and put it on the table in front of him. He clamped his hands around the cup as if he were afraid it might escape.

Roslyn was preparing the scrambled eggs, breaking the eggs into a bowl, adding milk, prattling away. “Mrs. Hopper must be excited about Terri coming home. It's been a while. I know I can't wait to see my kids when they've been away.”

Nobody would ever mistake you for the all-knowing household help, Roslyn, he thought. He doubted if she realized that Evelyn and Terri weren't that close or that he and Evelyn had become strangers.

Detective Michel Brisbois leaned against a tree, tapping his pen against his notebook. He'd put on a suit fresh from the cleaners that morning but still managed to look rumpled. Detective Chester Creighton stood, hands in pockets, watching the forensics team work inside the yellow tape. He had the fresh, antiseptic look of a man who had just stepped from a
Rex Morgan, MD
comic strip.

“Let's go over this again,” Brisbois said. “You were trundling a tray of pancakes and bacon up to the camp when you ran into Rudley.”

Tim smiled. “Actually, it was popovers and sausages in citrus chutney.”

Brisbois stared at him.

“Yes,” said Tim.

“And then what?”

“I ran into Rudley. He was staggering toward the tent, looking as if someone had punched him in the midsection.”

“And?”

“He said, ‘We've got to call the police.' I followed him to the tent where Mrs. Rudley was rolling up the sleeping bags. She said, ‘Rudley, what's wrong?' And he repeated, ‘We've got to call the police.'”

Brisbois nodded. “What was his demeanour?”

“Shocked. Although I don't know why.” Tim tittered, sobered as Brisbois frowned. “I asked what was wrong. He glared at me and said, ‘There's a damned dead body back there.'”

“Then what?”

“Margaret gasped and said, ‘Oh, no.' And Rudley said, ‘Oh, yes.' And Margaret said, ‘Are you sure he's dead?' And Rudley said, ‘Clearly dead and it's not a he.' And Margaret said, ‘Oh, no.'”

“And then?”

“Margaret and I went to the scene to confirm…” he paused, “well, you know.”

“That the person was deceased.”

“Yes,” said Tim and hastened to add, “We didn't touch anything except to confirm she had no pulse. Her head was bashed in.” He paused, blinked. “It was pretty awful. Rudley and I stayed with her while Margaret went down to call 911.”

Brisbois flipped back through his notes. “Tell me again, what time did you come up here?”

Tim thought for a moment. “I brought the breakfast up a few minutes after I came on duty. So I must have run into Rudley around seven.”

“And when did Rudley say he found the body?”

“Just before I ran into him.”

Brisbois thought for a moment. “OK, Tim, you can go. We'll want to talk to you later.” He wandered over to where Creighton was standing. “What's the word?”

“Doc thinks she's been dead six to ten hours,” said Creighton. “She's got three head injuries, the big one at the base of the skull, a crease on the right, and a bump on the left. No obvious gunshot or stab wounds, no signs of strangulation. A few minor scrapes and abrasions on her hands and face.” He consulted his notebook. “Off-white oxford-cloth shirt, designer jeans, black leather belt with a silver shamrock buckle. Ironic. Black leather half-Wellingtons. No ID.”

Brisbois looked off into the trees. “She doesn't look too young.”

“Doc thinks late forties.”

“Good clothes. Looks as if she might have had some money.”

Creighton nodded. “She's wearing a nice gold chain. Tan lines where she might have had a ring and watch.”

“Think maybe they were stolen?”

“Could be.”

Brisbois hitched up his pants. “You'd think a woman like that, if she went missing overnight, somebody might report it.”

“Maybe she lived alone,” said Creighton.

“You say she had no ID. Any keys?”

“Nope.”

“If she lived alone you'd think she'd have some keys on her.”

Creighton checked his notes. “There were a few coins in her right-hand pocket. Suggests she was right-handed. For all the good that does.” He flipped the book shut. “Maybe whoever took the watch and ring took her wallet, got her address, took her keys, went back, and rifled her place.”

Brisbois pushed back his hat. “We've got horseshoe prints all over the place.

“Maybe she fell off her horse and hit her head.”

“Maybe.”

Brisbois' gaze drifted over the scene. “So where's the horse?”

Creighton shrugged.

Brisbois pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Yes, I want to put out an APB on a horse.” He listened. “No, I don't know what it looks like. Probably has a saddle. Check with Animal Control, the usual places.” He paused. “I don't need that.” He slammed the phone shut. Shoved it into his pocket. He had a dead woman on his hands, and the dispatcher was making jokes about a horse's ass. He turned to Creighton. “Have you got a team going door to door?”

“Petrie and Vance are on their way.”

“OK.” Brisbois started off down the hill. Creighton followed.

Brisbois settled into the chair behind Rudley's desk. Creighton sprawled on the settee, one leg over the arm.

“I'm glad you gentlemen feel so much at home,” said Rudley.

Creighton swung his leg off the arm of the settee, sat forward, planting both feet on the floor.

“We appreciate your hospitality,” said Brisbois.

“Yet again.”

“Unfortunately.” Brisbois opened his notebook. “I need to check some details.”

Rudley folded his arms across his chest. “Yes?”

“You said you found the body when you got up to go to the bathroom. By bathroom, I presume you mean tree.”

Rudley gave him a sour look. Brisbois waited him out.

“Actually, it was a shrub — nannyberry, I believe.”

“And what time was that?”

“Around six-thirty.”

“You said you literally tripped over the body.”

“I tripped over a stump.”

“And that's when you noticed the body?”

“Yes.”

“Any sign of life?”

Rudley swallowed hard. “I'm afraid not.”

“Before that, did you hear anything?”

“A woodpecker. Then a grosbeak.”

“I meant during the night. Something happened to that woman a hundred and fifty yards from your campsite. You must have heard something.”

Rudley scratched his head. “Something crashed through the underbrush at one point. Probably a deer. Margaret thought it was a bear. I'm sure it wasn't.”

Brisbois made a note. “What time was that?”

“I'm not sure. Sometime after midnight. Perhaps later. I didn't look at my watch.”

“Could it have been a horse?”

Rudley threw up his hands. “It could have been a zebra for all I know. It was dark. I woke from a sound sleep. I assumed it was a deer because there are quite a few up in the woods.”

“OK,” Brisbois murmured. “Did you hear anything else?”

“There was one thing or another scuttling around all night.”

Brisbois waited, pen poised. “Do you know what time?”

“No. I was drifting in and out half the night.”

“Anything that sounded like voices? Somebody having an argument?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“OK, you tripped over the stump. You saw the woman's body. What did you do next?”

“I went to find Margaret.”

“Did you move her? Check her pulse?”

“No. I could tell she was as dead as a doornail.”

Brisbois raised his eyebrows. “Tim checked her pulse. I guess he wasn't as sure as you were.”

Rudley glared.

“I know, I know,” said Brisbois. “You've had more experience.”

Brisbois spread a set of index cards out on the desk, studied them for a few minutes. “So what do we have here?”

Creighton ran a hand through his hair. “The children were sleeping all snug in their beds. Ma and Pa were in a tent in the woods. Nobody saw or heard anything, except Geraldine Phipps-Walker, who heard a nighthawk. Which is not a true hawk, mind you, but a member of the nightjar family.”

“Spare me.”

“Just being thorough, Boss.”

Brisbois shook his head, picked up an index card. “Norman Phipps-Walker and Mr. Tee Lawrence took a night fishing charter from the dock in Middleton. Lloyd drove them in and picked them up near eleven. Norman went straight to his room — where I'm sure his wife entertained him with details of that nightjar thing. Lawrence went to his cabin. Neither of them noticed anything unusual. Mr. James Bole was up at the inn until nearly eleven. He took part in a games night and put on a puppet show.
Waiting for Godot
.” He frowned. “What in hell is that?”

“Beats me.”

“The Sawchucks took part in the Snakes and Ladders tournament. They went to bed around ten. Neither of them saw or heard anything.” Brisbois put the card aside, picked up another. “Mr. Carty. Who's that again?”

“Rico. The young guy at the Oaks.”

“Oh, yeah. He had dinner, spent the evening in his cabin, watching the Blue Jays game. Turned out the lights as soon as the game was over. Kind of early for a young kid.”

“He said he'd been working a lot of overtime.”

Brisbois rubbed his chin. “Still, seems kind of funny. Young guy, works at the racetrack in Ottawa, takes classes at Carleton. I wonder where he got the money to come here.”

“Maybe from all that overtime.”

Brisbois shrugged. “Still, seems like a funny place for a young guy to take a vacation. You'd think if he wanted to fish, he'd get a bunch of his buddies and go camping.”

“Is that what you did when you were his age?”

“I was married when I was his age. Mary and I went to Niagara Falls. We went down east the next couple of years. Then we had a baby on the way. Then we had four. Neither of us has had a real vacation since.” Brisbois wrote a note on the index card, put it aside. “Where'd you go on your last trip? Myrtle Beach, wasn't it?”

“Yup.”

“Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson,” said Brisbois, drawing out another card.

Creighton chuckled. “Miss Miller's been kind of quiet so far. Seems strange not having her in the middle of everything. Although, I'm sure she will be.”

“Although I'm sure she will be,” Brisbois murmured. “Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson were at the inn all evening. In Margaret and Rudley's absence, they were overseeing games night. Snakes and Ladders and canasta.”

“Aren't they those clicking things the flamenco dancers use?”

“I don't think so.” Brisbois checked another index card. “The Lawrences, Bonnie and Tee. What does the T stand for?”

“Nothing. That's his name. Tee James Lawrence. T-e-e. It's his mother's maiden name.”

“He was on the fishing charter with Norman,” Brisbois murmured. “Bonnie Lawrence had dinner in the dining room with Geraldine, then retired to her cabin, and spent the rest of the evening planning Miss Miller's wedding.”

“Does it take that long?”

Brisbois gave him a long look. “Believe me, it can take months.”

Creighton grinned. “Well, I can't wait to find out where they're going to have it. So far, I've heard it might be in the woods, or in a canoe on the lake. I heard one rumour they might tie the knot in goggles and flippers.”

“I think that's just a rumour. OK” — Brisbois took out another index card — “the Benson sisters. They were watching a James Cagney marathon. They didn't hear a thing.”

“Are they still alive?”

“So they say.” Brisbois closed his notebook, put it into his pocket, stacked the index cards, put them into the desk drawer and locked it. “Maybe Mr. Arnold's slept it off by now.”

“I'll bet he doesn't remember anything.”

“It's worth a try,” Brisbois said, “if only for the satisfaction of waking him up.”

“Where did you find him, Lloyd?” Margaret reached to stroke the handsome black horse.

“He came into the garden where I was hoeing. Nice as you please.”

“He seems very gentle.”

“Like a lamb. Name's Ned. Says on his bridle.”

Margaret's eyes fell on the horse's shoulder. “My goodness, he's got a nasty gash there.”

Lloyd nodded. “Must have got into the brambles. Had blood all down his shoulder and onto his leg. He was dirty, too, and full of burrs. I washed him down.”

“That was very kind of you.” Margaret smoothed the horse's mane. “He must belong to someone near here.”

“Don't know.”

“I'll call Animal Control,” Margaret said. “Someone must be looking for him.”

Creighton hammered at the door to the Pines. Brisbois stood by, hands in pockets.

Creighton massaged his knuckles. “This is like trying to wake the dead.” He tried the door. “It isn't locked.” He turned to Brisbois, grinned. “Did you hear somebody say ‘come in'?”

Brisbois nodded. “Yeah, I think I did.”

Creighton pushed open the door. “Mr. Arnold?”

Arnold lay sprawled across the bed on his abdomen.

“Mr. Arnold. Police.”

No response.

Brisbois glanced around. “The place looks as if a tornado hit it.”

Creighton pointed to a pair of pants, halfway across the room. “He's got mud up to his knees. He must have crawled home.”

Brisbois gestured toward the bed. “Let's make sure he's OK.”

Creighton snickered. “Blue boxer shorts with little white clouds.”

“Cloud 9,” said Brisbois.

“You've got to be kidding.”

“That's what it says.” Brisbois leaned over the bed. “Mr. Arnold.” He grabbed him by the shoulder, gave it a vigorous shake. “Sir, wake up.”

Arnold groaned, turned over, opened one eye.

Brisbois produced his badge. “Police.”

Arnold blinked.

“Sit up, please.” Brisbois turned to Creighton. “Could you get him a glass of water?”

“Over the head, I hope.” Creighton found a mug on the table. He took it to the sink, filled it with water. He returned, handed the mug to Arnold.

Arnold took a swig, spluttered. “This tastes like piss.”

“Sorry,” said Creighton. “I guess I didn't let the tap run long enough.”

Brisbois pulled up a chair, sat down. “Do you mind answering a few questions?”

Arnold shoved his hair out of his eyes. “This had better be good. I had a lousy night.”

“Oh, it's good,” said Brisbois.

Arnold gave him a wary look.

“Where were you last night?”

Arnold ran a hand across his chest, coughed. “I went into town.”

“What time?”

“I don't know exactly. Sometime after supper. Around dusk.”

“Notice anything unusual? Anybody on the road?”

Arnold looked at him as if he were crazy. “There was the odd car.”

Brisbois turned a page in his notebook. “OK, where'd you go in town?”

“The hotel.”

“What time did you get back?”

Arnold hesitated. “I don't know. Late, I guess.”

Brisbois stared at Arnold for a long moment. “How'd you get home?”

Arnold squinted. “I drove.”

Brisbois raised his brows. “I heard they found you sacked out on the veranda this morning, smelling like a distillery.”

Arnold snorted. “They sent two detectives out here over a DUI?”

Brisbois glanced at Creighton. “We're a small detachment. We — what is it you call it? — multitask.”

Arnold took a deep breath, looked around. “Look guys, I figured I wasn't in any shape to drive, so I pulled over.”

“Commendable,” Brisbois said. “So you walked home?”

“Yeah. So you guys came for nothing. No DUI.”

Brisbois ignored this. “How far did you walk?”

Arnold drew a hand through his hair. “From where I left my car.”

“And how far would that be?”

“I don't know exactly. How can you tell out here?”

Brisbois watched him for a moment. “Your pants” — he gestured toward the crumpled trousers — “how did they get so dirty?”

“I took a shortcut.”

“Through a mud puddle?”

“No, through that boggy area.” Arnold paused as Brisbois stared. “Hey, it was messy but it was short. Else, I'd have had to go all the way around on the road.”

Brisbois smiled. “And you didn't want to get caught beside your car, ten times over the limit.”

Arnold looked hurt. “Hey, I was a little wobbly. If I'd stayed on the road, I might have been hit by a car.”

Brisbois rolled his eyes. “You had to be a pretty good navigator to find your way back to the Pleasant through the swamp.”

Arnold smirked. “I went as true as the crow flies. I came out right into the driveway.”

“Amazing. In the dark. In an unfamiliar place.”

Arnold shrugged. “I'm a builder. I have good spatial sense.”

Too bad you don't have any other kind of sense, Brisbois thought. “So what time did you get back?” he said.

Arnold looked into the cup, swished the water around. “Look, can you get me something from the fridge? Maybe a Coke.”

Creighton spun off the wall, returned with a can of ginger ale. He opened it, shoved it into Arnold's hand.

Arnold took a long drink.

“What time?” Brisbois prompted.

“I don't know.” Arnold looked to Brisbois, found only a riveting stare. “Late.” He paused, studied their faces. “This isn't about a DUI.”

Brisbois shook his head.

Arnold dragged his hand across his mouth. “It's about that dame in the bar, isn't it? I'll bet she claimed I was harassing her.”

Brisbois didn't respond.

“Look, all I did was ask her to have a drink with me. Ask the bartender. I didn't touch her.”

“Did you catch this woman's name?”

Arnold snorted. “We didn't get that far.”

Brisbois scribbled some notes. “So you had a confrontation with a woman in the bar. Then what?”

Arnold shrugged. “Nothing. I hung around the bar, had a few more drinks, then I came home.”

“What happened to the woman?”

Arnold stared at him. “How in hell should I know? She threw a drink in my face and stormed out.”

“OK.” Brisbois flipped a page. “So you left the bar and started home. Did you see anything?”

Arnold shook his head. “Hell, I can't remember. There might have been a car or two, but I don't remember anything in particular.” He paused, took a drink. “What's this about, anyway?”

Brisbois sat back, let the silence build for a minute. “We found a body. Might have been near where you were.”

Arnold's jaw dropped. “You think I killed somebody? You're crazy.”

Brisbois glanced at Creighton. “We're just asking questions.” He gestured toward the trousers. “We'd like to take your pants, have a look at them, if you're agreeable.”

“Are you charging me with something?”

“No, just asking for your cooperation.”

Arnold stared at him for a moment. “Take whatever you want. I didn't kill anybody.” His lips parted in a sloppy grin. “I'm a lover, not a fighter.”

Brisbois stood. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Arnold waved this off. “No problem, buddy. I've got nothing to hide.”

“That's good.”

Arnold reached for a tumbler and a bottle of whisky on the bedside table. “Oh, by the way…”

“Yes?”

“Could you get those pants cleaned before you bring them back?”

Terri Hopper arrived home around eleven. Roslyn had just finished washing the kitchen floor. Terri stopped a few feet inside the door. “Sorry, Ros.”

“It's OK, honey, it's just about dry.”

Terri took off her shoes, tiptoed in, looked around. “Where's Dad?”

“He went upstairs to have a shower a while ago. Maybe he fell asleep. He took a couple of pills for his tooth before he went up.”

“How did the dentist go yesterday?”

Roslyn moved the mop pail to one side. “I think he had kind of a rough day. The pills they gave him made him all fluey. He said he fell. When I got here, I thought he'd been rolling in Drummie's dirt pile. He looked like that kid from the Charlie Brown comic.”

“Pig Pen?”

“Yeah, that's the one. He said he slept on the couch. I don't know if he had any supper. I made him some scrambled eggs. He hardly touched them.”

Terri frowned. “Where's Mom?”

“Your dad said she went riding.” Roslyn glanced at the clock. “Gosh, she's been gone a while. She was away when I got here.” She paused. “Do you want me to fix you some lunch?”

Terri gave her a hug. “Oh, no thanks, Ros. I stopped for something on the way. I'll just go up and look in on Dad.”

Roslyn went on with her cleaning. Terri went upstairs. The door to the master bedroom was ajar. She knocked, peeked in.

Carl lay on the bed in his bathrobe, fast asleep, his hair still damp from the shower.

“I'll be back in a few minutes, Dad,” she whispered.

She ran back downstairs, grabbed some carrots from the kitchen, called to Roslyn as she passed the living room, “Ros, I'm going down to see the horses.”

She hurried down the path to the stable. She was worried about her father, and it wasn't just because he'd had a lousy day at the dentist and ended up sleeping on the couch. He looked so thin. He would never tell her, but she knew his depression was getting worse. He was having trouble with the latest manuscript. He'd told her it was nothing — just a temporary block — but she knew the deadline was a pressure he didn't need.

Her mother wasn't much help. She couldn't even be bothered to look after him after the dental appointment. She knew her dad was a baby about things like that, but at least her mother could have made sure he was all right before she left.

She went into the stable, almost tripped over a shovel lying a few feet inside the door. She propped it against the wall and went to check the horses. Gert neighed. Maisie tossed her head. Bob grabbed at her sleeve. She gave them the carrots.

Ned's stall was empty.

She walked back up the line. None of the stalls had been mucked out. It wasn't like her mother to go riding without cleaning the stalls, or, at least, turning the horses out into the paddock. She went to get the shovel, uttered an exclamation of disgust as she noticed the gelatinous streaks down the blade. Maybe one of the horses had stomped a mouse, she thought. She took the shovel outside, hosed it down, and leaned it against the wall to dry. She released the horses into the paddock and went back inside. She took the pitchfork down from the wall, headed toward the stalls, stopped as a glint of silver caught her eye. She bent and picked up her father's glasses. What were they doing here? She hung the pitchfork back on the wall and ran up to the house.

Terri heard the whine of the vacuum cleaner from the dining room as she entered the house. Roslyn's not unpleasant voice broke occasionally over the whir. She went upstairs.

Carl Hopper hadn't moved. Terri picked up the clothes he had left on the floor at the foot of the bed and headed toward the laundry hamper in the en suite. She opened the lid, preparing to drop them in, frowned. Roslyn was right. The clothes did look as if he'd been rolling in a dirt pile. She stared at the straw ground into the knees of his jeans. More like rolling around in a stable, she thought. The shirt was dirty and stained with what could have been horse manure. She folded the clothes, placed them on the lid of the hamper, and went back into the bedroom.

“Dad?”

His eyelids fluttered.

“Dad, it's Terri.”

He smiled drunkenly without opening his eyes.

She shook him by the shoulder. “Dad, wake up.”

He opened his eyes.

“Were you in the barn this morning?”

He looked at her as if she had asked him to recite the BNA Act.

“What happened to your clothes?”

He closed his eyes.

“Dad, I found your glasses.” They felt sweaty in her hand.

He gave her a goofy smile.“Thanks.”

He started to turn over. She stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Dad, did you and Mom have a fight?”

He frowned.

“The stable's a mess,” she persisted. “She hasn't mucked out the stalls. She didn't even turn the horses out. I don't even know if she fed them.” She bent so she was looking directly into his eyes. “Did Mom go off in a huff?”

“I don't…” He closed his eyes, frowning as if struggling to find the answer. “'bout what?” he muttered and fell asleep.

She surmised the pills he'd taken were in no danger of wearing off imminently. “Damned if I know, Dad.”

Tim rolled a trolley out onto the veranda. “Lunch is served.” He placed a club sandwich in front of Miss Miller. Fish and chips for Simpson.

“Anything new to report?” asked Miss Miller.

“The police took something out of Mr. Arnold's cabin.”

Miss Miller leaned forward. “Do they think he's the culprit?”

Tim shrugged. “I suspect they're curious about what he was doing passed out on the veranda at six a.m., covered with mud.”

“Interesting.”

“Although, if they asked for my opinion, I'd say he was probably too drunk to do much.”

“Has the victim been identified?”

“Not as far as we know.”

Simpson frowned. “Terrible thing. I wonder why someone would be out in the woods at that time of night.”

“We don't know.”

“Are they sure she was murdered during the night?”

“That's the word, Miss Miller.”

Miss Miller thought for a moment. “Perhaps she didn't intend to be in the woods. Perhaps she was kidnapped. Or murdered elsewhere and left in the woods.”