Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders (13 page)

“We’ll get them. They showed their faces around pretty good. They probably figured it didn’t matter since they were planning to off everybody.”

“Yeah.” Brisbois adjusted his seatbelt. “I’m going to Montreal.”

“What about me?”

“You’re going to follow up on the background checks, interview everybody again. And” — he smiled — “take a trip to the office to comb the mug shots.”

“Thanks a lot, boss.”

Creighton sat behind the desk in Rudley’s office. He had been conducting interviews all day and had come close to nodding off from boredom. But when he compared a recent background check to Roy Lawson’s answer to a question in an earlier interview and noted a discrepancy, he sat up and took notice. He scanned a page in his notebook, then looked across at Roy Lawson who sat opposite him.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were in the funeral business, Mr. Lawson? The first time we interviewed you, you said you were an optometrist.”

Roy Lawson gave Detective Creighton a sheepish look. “I didn’t mean to deceive you, Detective. But people often feel uncomfortable around funeral directors.” He lowered his voice. “I didn’t want Pearl to know just yet.”

“It would probably be better to come clean.”

Lawson sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But it’s not as if I’d lied to her — or to you. I used to be an optometrist. Was most of my life. I got into the funeral business a few years ago. Took all the courses. Frankly, I got tired of looking into people’s eyes.” He lowered his voice. “Those dilated pupils sort of gave me the creeps.”

Creighton gave him an incredulous look. “So you didn’t come out here looking to expand your optometry business.”

“No. I have a funeral home in Brockton. I’m planning to sell it and relocate to a small town. Something quiet. Where I can get to know my clients better. That’s what I’m doing here. Looking into possible opportunities. Who might be thinking of retiring? Who might be willing to sell? But then I met Pearl and I got a little sidetracked. I’m sorry for my lack of candour.”

“Being a funeral director is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed of being a funeral director, but when I mention my profession it does tend to throw a wet blanket on the conversation.” Lawson smiled. “Not to mention what it does to my romantic prospects.”

Creighton raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“I come from good stock, Detective.”

Creighton rubbed his chin. “So do you need any…assistance?”

Lawson smiled. “You mean Viagra, implants, extenders?” He shook his head. “No. Fit as a fiddle in every way.”

Rudley held court from the front desk. Margaret, Tiffany, Lloyd, and Tim gathered around. “So now Lawson tells Pearl he’s a mortician,” he said. “That explains a lot of things.”

Margaret plucked a carnation from the bouquet, nipped the stem, then replaced it. “Such as?”

“His attraction to Pearl. He’s scaring up business.”

“Rudley.” Margaret set the vase aside. “I think he genuinely likes her.”

Rudley was not to be deterred. “I tell you, Margaret, those people are vultures. They’ll never get their hands on me.”

Margaret gave him a bewildered look. “But, Rudley, when the time comes, what are we supposed to do with you?”

“When the time comes, Margaret, you will have Lloyd dig a deep pit in the garden. He will then cover it with a heavy stone elevated planter for his tomatoes. Is that all right, Lloyd?”

Lloyd grinned. “Yes’m.”

Margaret gave Lloyd a stern look. “Lloyd, it’s illegal to bury a body on private property.”

“No one needs to know there’s a body buried anywhere, Margaret. If people wonder what’s happened to me, you can tell them I died and was buried in Galt.”

“What will I tell your brothers?”

“Tell them you buried me in the garden. They’ll know enough to keep their mouths shut.”

Margaret looked hurt. “I always assumed I’d be buried next to you.”

“Not a problem, Margaret. You can dig the hole big enough for two, can’t you, Lloyd?”

“Big as you want.”

Rudley signed an invoice with a flourish. “The idea is appealing in every way. We won’t need caskets. Lloyd could sprinkle a little quicklime around.”

Margaret sighed. “I always assumed that I’d have a headstone. Something with a nice epitaph.”

“Well, Margaret, you remember Ozymandias. Everything goes down to dust in the end.”

“I suppose. I just never imagined I’d be remembered by a bed of beef heart tomatoes.”

Rudley turned to Lloyd. “You could plant a few flowers at the corners.”

“Maybe some marigolds. They keep the bugs off.”

“Well, there you go.”

Margaret shook her head. “I don’t understand this sudden urge.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. In view of everything that’s happened. Do you have any idea of what goes on in funeral homes?”

“They drain your blood off with a tube this big,” said Lloyd, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger. “Then they take a mallet and turn your insides to mush so they can suck them out. Then — ”

“Not to mention what goes on before,” Rudley interrupted.

“What do you mean, Rudley?”

“Necrophilia.”

“Surely they don’t let necrophiliacs work in funeral homes.”

“I doubt if they put their preferences on their resumes, Margaret.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I’m not saying every funeral home has an employee of that persuasion, but I’m not prepared to take a chance.”

“Could be a lovely young lady, Rudley,” said Tim.

“Could also be a fleshy-faced old drunk with warts like Roy,” said Rudley. “So the garden it will be.”

Tiffany looked distressed. “I don’t suppose there’ll be room for one more.”

“There’ll be plenty of room,” Rudley said. “The only problem may be explaining where everyone went.”

Margaret frowned. “Rudley, you’re painting a depressing picture. All of us pushing up tomatoes.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much. I imagine we’ll all be around for quite some time.”

Creighton came up the steps. “Why all the gloomy faces?”

Margaret patted him on the arm. “We were discussing death, Detective. In view of everything that’s happened.”

Creighton touched his holster. “Gives you kind of a rush, doesn’t it?”

“We weren’t talking about dying in a hail of bullets. We were talking about passing away quietly in our golden years.”

“And I get to look after the tomatoes,” Lloyd said.

Creighton looked confused, then shrugged. “There’s no point in obsessing about it. When it happens, it happens.”

“Where’s Detective Brisbois?”

“He’s away. Checking out a few things.” Creighton looked around. “I wanted you to know we’ll be keeping two uniforms on-site until we get a handle on this thing. And we’re going to hook you up to a panic button.”

Rudley crossed his eyes. “I think it’s a bit late for that.”

Creighton ignored the jibe. “Brisbois wants it. He felt uneasy about going off and leaving you folks unprotected.”

“Fine time to worry about that,” Rudley said. “Not to mention the fact that the worst of it seems to happen while he’s here.”

“Don’t worry,” said Creighton. “Nothing’s going to happen.” He tipped his hat and left.

Rudley watched him go. “Sometimes it seems safer when it’s just him.”

Tiffany squeezed the handle of her broom. “He’s gallant, isn’t he? Chivalrous in that 1940s way. I do feel safer having him around.”

“He’s a regular Sam Spade,” Rudley muttered.

“Oh, he’s too elegant to be Sam Spade.” Tiffany blushed.

“More like Remington Steele,” Tim said.

Rudley waved them off. “Next thing we know, he’ll be Sherlock Holmes.”

Tim chuckled. “We do have the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“Albert couldn’t terrorize a chipmunk if you painted him tail to nose in phosphorescent paint,” Rudley murmured. He looked to where Albert lay snoring in a puddle of drool.

Early November remained warm; the inn woke to a gentle rain. The lights, set low in the dining room, created an intimate atmosphere. Tim circulated from kitchen to dining room, bringing trays of eggs Benedict and popovers, crêpes and waffles.

“Mrs. Rudley is holding painting classes in the drawing room this morning,” Tim told the Sawchucks as he unveiled the prune nappies. He whipped back into the kitchen to get the next tray and ducked his head to look out the window onto the back porch.

Norman and Geraldine Phipps-Walker were tramping off into the woods, swathed in rain gear. “I guess the P.W.s aren’t interested in watercolours in autumn,” he told Gregoire, who was preparing a plate of crêpes and staring moodily at the wall.

“Mrs. P.W. says there is nothing more invigorating than a walk in the autumn woods during a rainstorm,” said Gregoire. “I think they are insane.”

“I think they’re poking around looking for evidence.”

“Now everyone is an amateur detective.” Gregoire sniffed. “I, for one, don’t care where those terrible people are as long as they are not here.” He arranged the crêpes on a plate, filled them with strawberries, and dusted them with sugar. He added tomatoes and feta cheese to the omelet in a pan, folded it, waited for a few minutes, then lifted it onto a plate. “For Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson. Don’t forget the toast.”

“Miss Miller still thinks Harvey orchestrated the whole thing,” said Tim.

Gregoire shrugged, reached for the coffee pot, and poured himself a cup. “Miss Miller does not like to be wrong.”

Tim placed the plates on a tray, hoisted it to one hand, and slipped out to the dining room.

“Thank you, Tim,” said Simpson as the tray was slid onto the table.

Miss Miller smiled wanly. “Yes, thank you.”

“Mrs. Rudley is leading a watercolour seminar in the drawing room,” Tim said. “But, for you, Miss Miller, perhaps you’d be more interested in joining Lloyd for target practice in the coach house.”

“Hand pistols?”

“Bows and arrows. Targets are bales of hay.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Or you could help Mr. Bole. He’s doing a finger-puppet show for the Benson sisters.
War and Peace
.”

“The French on the left hand and the Russians on the right?”

“I haven’t seen his show.”

“Well, Elizabeth,” Simpson said as Tim left, “are you up for archery?”

“I don’t think my heart is in sport today.”

“I know you’re disappointed in the results of your investigation, but we really can’t keep Mr. Harvey under surveillance in the rain.”

She frowned. “We could, Edward, but I doubt if we would discover anything now that he knows we’re watching him.”

Simpson moistened his lips. “If I may say so, Elizabeth, there doesn’t seem to be much evidence supporting your theory.”

She sighed. “I hate to admit it, Edward, but I may be wrong about Mr. Harvey.”

He looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “It’s courageous of you to admit that.”

She gave him a stern look. “I said may have been wrong, Edward. I’m not convinced he isn’t involved in some way.”

He tested his omelet and nodded with satisfaction. “Elizabeth, Mr. Devlin seems just as suspicious, although not terribly.”

She tilted her head. “Do you really think so?”

He thought for a moment. “Mr. Devlin didn’t turn up at the party as expected. He told the detectives his boat went on the fritz halfway out, providing himself with an alibi and an opportunity.” He paused. “But I’m probably way out to sea on this.”

She shook her head. “Go ahead, Edward.”

He cleared his throat. “He would have been in position to help the murderer escape. He was absent for Adolph’s kidnapping, giving himself the perfect alibi for that debacle. That is not to say he couldn’t have aided and abetted the culprits in other ways. He was in just as good a position to gather information about the affairs around the inn as Mr. Harvey.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Edward, do you seriously suspect Mr. Devlin?”

“I’m not an expert, Elizabeth, but I think the evidence against Mr. Devlin — flimsy as it is — is as good as the evidence against Mr. Harvey.” He shrugged. “Except that Mr. Devlin is a dashing young man and Mr. Harvey is a bit of a toad.”

She plucked a piece of toast from Edward’s plate and spread jam on it. “Gregoire’s homemade preserves are exquisite.”

“Quite.”

“You’re becoming good at criminal detection, Edward.”

“It is rather fun. A puzzle. However, the business of being trussed up and locked in the bowels of a boat that’s being set on fire, then pitched into cold water isn’t terribly appealing.”

“It was a bit dicey for a while.” She dabbed her lips with the serviette, then leaned forward. “Edward, let’s go into Middleton today and do some touristy things. I’ve always wanted to visit Mrs. Merlee’s tea and craft shop. We can return around dinner.”

He smiled, pleased at the benign turn of events. “Sounds smashing.”

“We’ll be back in time for dinner, and after dinner, we’ve got the games tournament. I’ve signed us up for all the events.”

“I hope they’ll be having ring toss.”

“They will.” She gazed dreamily out the window. “That’s the ticket, Edward. We’ll take a day off to collect our thoughts, then tomorrow we can start afresh.”

His brow furrowed. “Start what afresh, Elizabeth?”

“Our investigation.”

The rain cleared, leaving a heavy mist gradually dissipated by gusts of autumn wind. Edward Simpson negotiated the damp pavement, slowing to check the street signs. “Are you sure Mrs. Rudley said the tearoom was this far over, Elizabeth?”

Miss Miller consulted her notes. “At the corner, a block up from Nesbitt’s Funeral Home.”

“Ghastly location for a tearoom.” He slowed as an eighteen-wheeler crept out of the funeral home parking lot, blocking the street.

Miss Miller looked up and stared at the truck. She frowned. “Look at that truck, Edward.”

He checked the rearview mirror. “Yes?”

“Tranquillity. It’s a company that manufactures coffins.” “Yes?”

“Tranquillity is based in Montreal.”

He gave her a blank look. “Yes, that’s what it says on the side of the truck — Montreal.”

“There’s a connection, Edward.” She turned to him, excited. “Who do we know who deals in coffins?”

“I don’t know anyone who deals in coffins.”

“Roy Lawson. He’s a mortician.”

“I’m confused, Elizabeth.”

She grabbed him by the shoulder. “Edward, Gerald came from Montreal. Adolph came from Montreal. Roy Lawson deals in a product that originates in Montreal. Gerald was involved in pornography, which, as everybody knows, is heavily associated with the mob. Roy is in a business which is rumoured to have links to organized crime.”

The truck straightened and pulled away, chuffing wisps of grey smoke. Simpson put the car in gear.

“Well, Edward, what do you think?”

They had reached the tearoom. He pulled over and turned off the ignition. “Elizabeth, there must be thousands of people who have business connections with Montreal.”

“But Mr. Lawson is staying at the Pleasant. Think about it, Edward. He could be the inside man.”

“I can’t see Mr. Lawson as a criminal. Besides, we don’t know if Mr. Lawson receives his supplies from Tranquillity. He may use a local dealer.”

“It’s a connection, Edward. We need to follow up all leads, no matter how tenuous.”

“We?”

She smiled.

“You recall what happened last time, Elizabeth. Not to mention the time before.” Seeing her unmoved, he added, “Besides, there’s Mr. Harvey. We could paddle past his residence again.”

She gave him a stern look. “It’s not like you to be sarcastic, Edward.”

“I apologize.”

She got out of the car and steamed off toward the tearoom. He locked the car and followed.

“Charming place. Just as Mrs. Rudley described.” He followed her to a table by the window, brushing rain droplets from his hair. He picked up the menu. “Mrs. Rudley suggested we try the strawberry scones with Devon cream. I believe she said no one could make them quite like Mrs. Merlee.”

She looked at him over the menu. “Edward, you’re trying to distract me.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, I am, Elizabeth, and I think that’s a good thing.” He paused as she gave him a steely eye. “And, I should add, virtually impossible.”

The waitress approached. Miss Miller ordered scones and Earl Grey tea for two. When the waitress left, she leaned forward and said, “Edward, the Montreal connection must be explored.”

“I’m sure Detective Brisbois is exploring all avenues.”

She waved him off. “Oh, Edward, you know how Detective Brisbois explores things. If it were left up to him, we’d still be looking for the Northwest Passage.”

“Detective Brisbois is methodical. I believe that’s a good quality in an investigator.”

“He takes forever to put two and two together.”

“He does. But no one is in immediate danger in this case.”

“What about poor Adolph? I know they’ve moved him to a hotel. But he’s still a prisoner, unable to resume his life because someone thinks he knows something he doesn’t.”

“Or something he does but doesn’t care to divulge.” Simpson sat back as the waitress reappeared. “Thank you.” He surveyed the scones. “Looks delicious.” He tested his tea, then said, “I thought it was splendid of the police to plant that item in the newspaper, indicating that a witness had been taken into protective custody. Certainly increases the odds those gentlemen won’t be back to plague the Pleasant. The Rudleys have had enough excitement for the season.”

“They could probably tolerate a little more, Edward. They’re quite hardy.”

He paused. “What I’m suggesting, Elizabeth, is that we shouldn’t do anything to upset the apple cart. Like investigating.”

She patted him on the wrist. “Don’t be a wet blanket.”

“It would be prudent to let sleeping dogs lie.”

She sighed, stared out the window, then brightened. “Edward, I have a plan.”

He frowned.

“Just a small plan.”

Gregoire and Tim were in the kitchen when Margaret came in. “What’s this I hear about Tiffany breaking up with Christopher?”

Gregoire shrugged. “It’s only a rumour, Margaret.”

“I heard her tell Christopher she didn’t think they should see each other as often,” Tim said. “They happened to be coming up the back steps. I couldn’t help but hear them.”

“He happened to be leaning out the pantry window,” Gregoire said with a sanctimonious look. “I do not regard information gained that way to be more than a rumour.”

Margaret turned to Tim. “Are you sure that’s what she said?”

“Yes. She also said each of them should explore other interests. She was saying the sort of things people say when what they really want to say is: ‘If I see you once again in the next century, it will have been too often.’”

Margaret frowned. “I thought she seemed distracted lately.”

Gregoire hefted a colander of potatoes into the sink. “I thought that might be because of all the murders taking place around here.”

“It’s Creighton,” Tim said. “She’s been casting amorous looks in his direction.”

Margaret put a hand to her mouth. “Detective Creighton?”

Tim continued with relish. “It began after the boat exploded. After she saw him in my jeans.”

Margaret smiled. “Well, he did look rather dashing.”

“I think she’s always been a bit taken with him.”

“He is handsome. Tall, rather romantic with that felt hat and trench coat.”

“I believe that went out of style in the forties.” Gregoire sniffed. “Besides, it’s unfortunate to place such weight on appearances.”

Margaret looked chastened. Tim did not.

“You’re quite right, Gregoire,” Margaret said.

“Besides,” Gregoire went on, “I think Officer Owens is still interested in Tiffany. From the way he looks at her.”

Margaret nodded. “I know.”

“Well, that’s a fine kettle of fish,” said Tim.

Gregoire placed a pepper on the cutting board and halved it with one blow. “I do not believe Detective Creighton is suitable for Tiffany. He comes across to me as a womanizer.”

“I suppose he is a bit of a flirt.” Margaret said.

“He strikes me as a perpetual bachelor who is only interested in his conquests.”

“Well,” said Margaret. “I suppose we should nip that in the bud.”

Creighton took out his cellphone.

“Brisbois.”

Creighton shifted the phone to the opposite ear. “You’ll have to speak up, boss. It’s a little noisy here.”

“Where are you? In a bar?”

“I’m at the Pleasant. They’re playing games in the drawing room. Snakes and ladders. Crokinole. Darts. That sort of thing.”

“Anything else happened around there?”

“Not much. I’m following up on the background checks. Talking to everybody and their dog to the point of nausea. The only new thing I got is that Roy Lawson is a mortician. He didn’t want to advertise the fact because he thought it might cramp his style with the ladies.”

“He needs all the help he can get.”

“Sure does. Miss Miller jumped on that right away. Lawson’s now her prime suspect.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, she came back from Middleton all revved up. She noticed one of those big rigs, a Tranquillity, the ones that deliver caskets to the funeral homes.”

“Yeah, I see them all the time.”

“Tranquillity’s based in Montreal. So she’s put it all together. Lawson’s a mortician. Tranquillity’s out of Montreal. Gerald’s from Montreal. Adolph’s from Montreal.”

“I get the picture. Has she got him staked out?”

“Not right now. She’s too busy winning the ping-pong tournament.”

“Wish her luck.”

“Will do. Anything there?”

“Not much, so far. There’s dozens of these little porno film shops. Some of them just making cheapies for the stag market. They close one down every now and then. Connections to drugs, prostitution, and the like. They got a kiddy porn operator last year. We’re working our way around. So far, the name Gerald Murphy doesn’t ring a bell with anyone.”