Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders (14 page)

“What about the composites?”

“Nothing yet. Any luck on your end?”

“I’ve narrowed it down to a couple of thousand.”

“It’s a slog. We’ll find them eventually.”

“You’re up for darts, Detective,” Margaret sang out.

There was a long pause, then Brisbois said, “Watch your butt.”

“Congratulations, Simpson,” Rudley said as Miss Miller and Simpson came down the stairs the next morning. “I hear you’re champion of the dart board.”

“I had a good eye last night, Mr. Rudley.”

“Sorry I didn’t catch your performance. I always try to say clear when darts are being thrown around. I hear Mrs. Sawchuck got one in the window frame.”

Albert lifted his head as Simpson approached and wagged his tail. Simpson knelt to scratch him behind the ears.

“Albert seems more animated this morning,” said Miss Miller.

Rudley nodded. “We’ve noticed he’s taken quite a liking to Mr. Simpson.”

Simpson gave Albert an affectionate pat. “I am rather good with dogs.”

“Edward can have the nastiest dog eating out of his hand within minutes.”

“Quite the skill.”

“I believe it’s a matter of not frightening them, Mr. Rudley,” Simpson said.

“I think he means Albert would be more responsive if you didn’t yell at him,” said Margaret.

Rudley looked hurt. “I only yell because I’m always tripping over him.”

“He does take up quite a lot of the lobby,” said Simpson.

Margaret turned to Miss Miller. “Are you off for some exploring today?”

“We’re taking a day trip to Brockton.”

“Splendid. I was up there last year for an art show. Beautiful park around the river. Stone foot bridge. And if you’ll be there for lunch, there’s a shop near the movie theatre that specializes in exotic sandwiches and desserts. Fried pears with avocado on romaine. That sort of thing.”

Albert got up, went to Simpson, and rubbed against him.

“I hope you have a lovely day,” said Margaret. “But don’t miss dinner. Gregoire’s doing his wonderful Salmon Wellington and Baked Alaska. And it’s ballroom dancing. I know how you love the samba.”

Albert followed Simpson to the door, head drooping as Simpson said, “No, Albert, you must stay.”

“We could take Albert with us,” Miss Miller said. “He enjoys the car, doesn’t he?”

“He enjoys anything he can lie down in,” said Rudley.

“Albert would love a day out,” said Margaret.

“We should be home late afternoon,” said Miss Miller.

They took Albert down to the car. Simpson removed the leash and folded it into his pocket.

Miss Miller took the driver’s seat. “Now, Edward, Mr. Lawson’s funeral parlour is on McNaughton Street. I propose we get ourselves a takeout lunch and wait for the truck.”

“Perhaps the truck won’t be in today.”

“If not, we’ll go to a nearby establishment and ask when the Tranquillity truck usually comes in.”

“They’ll think that’s an odd question.”

“We’ll say we’re trying to find a long-lost cousin we’ve heard drives for Tranquillity.”

“No one will tell us anything. They’ll think we’re chasing the chap down for money.”

She tossed her head. “Then we’ll just say we’re obsessed with Tranquillity trucks. That we’ve noticed they serve several funeral homes and we’re doing a survey.”

He shrugged. “They’ll think we’re insane, Elizabeth, but at least not nefarious.”

“Good.”

He turned to pat Albert who was leaning over his shoulder with a wide dog smile. “Then, that’s it, Elizabeth, we’ll just confirm the Tranquillity truck and leave.”

“Of course.”

He gave her a dubious look but decided to let the matter rest.

Rudley leaned over the desk, staring gloomily across the lobby. Margaret whisked in, skirting the rug to set a fresh bowl of flowers on the mantle. She laughed.

“I’d forgotten. Albert’s away for the day.”

“Shows how much of an impression he makes.”

Norman and Geraldine Phipps-Walker trundled up the steps into the lobby.

“You look down in the mouth, Rudley,” said Norman.

“You should get outside more,” said Geraldine. “Might buck you up.”

“Perhaps you’re right, Mrs. P.W.”

“I think he misses Albert,” Margaret said.

Norman looked back at the rug. “Oh, the dog’s gone.”

“He’s not…?”

“No, Mrs. P.W. Albert went for an outing with Simpson and Miss Miller. But I’m not missing Albert.”

“I’m going to stow our gear,” Geraldine said. “I’ll take the camera, Norman.”

“Amazing camera,” said Norman. “Six hundred photographs we can display in all kinds of ways, sort through at our leisure. Every birder should have one.”

“Rudley could stand to have a hobby.”

“I have a hobby, Margaret. It’s called trying to stay sane in this asylum.”

“You shouldn’t take these most recent murders so hard, Rudley.” Norman paused. “I hear Tiffany is no longer seeing Christopher Watkins.”

“One bright spot in a dull day,” said Rudley.

“I didn’t think he was the right type for her.”

“I didn’t know you were an advisor to the lovelorn, Norman.”

“Watkins didn’t seem properly attentive,” Norman went on. “I would think Tiffany would prefer a young man who was attentive.”

“As Rudley was,” Margaret beamed.

“Never pictured you as a romantic type, Rudley.”

Rudley crossed his eyes. “I must say the feeling is mutual.”

“When I was courting Geraldine, I brought her a plaster plaque depicting a different bird every day. Cast and painted them myself.”

“I hope her quarters were substantial.”

“Ours was a whirlwind courtship. I proposed when I presented her with the tenth plaque. The yellow-rumped warbler.”

“That sounds very romantic,” Margaret said.

“I hear she’s attracted to Creighton,” Norman continued. “Poor choice. Libertine.”

“That does it,” said Rudley. “I will not have the Pleasant turned into the Love Boat.”

“One can’t control these affairs of the heart, Rudley.” Norman looked up as Geraldine came down the stairs. “Excuse us. Lunch time.”

Rudley glowered. “What’s wrong with everybody around here, Margaret? All of this interest in Tiffany’s romantic life is unseemly.”

“Rudley, don’t be a grump.” Margaret gave him a peck on the cheek. “Everyone is fond of Tiffany. They’re interested in her well-being.”

“Tiffany. Christopher. Creighton. Then there’s the mess with Pearl.”

“What mess, Rudley?”

“Billing and cooing with that old ass, Lawson.”

“Oh, Rudley, they’re having a wonderful time together.”

“What if he marries her?”

“I think they’re well suited.”

“What if he wants to move in here?”

“I don’t think he’d want to do that, Rudley. He has his own home.”

“He’s half-deaf and has warts.”

“She’s half-deaf too, Rudley.”

He flopped down on the desk. “Maybe that’s the attraction. Neither of them can hear what the other one’s saying.”

“You’ll feel better after Music Hall. Mr. Bole is planning a tapestry of turn-of-the-century music. I’m eager to see how that turns out. And I’m working with Lloyd on his ‘My Grandfather’s Clock’ number. His voice is coming along beautifully. Who would have guessed he had such a fine bass?”

“Not I for one.”

“Our dance number will be spectacular as always.”

He brightened a watt. “Yes, it will.”

She tapped him on the arm. “Now cheer up, Rudley.”

“All this romance going on. It makes me rather queasy.”

She followed his gaze to the rug. “You do miss Albert.”

“I am used to seeing him there.”

“He’ll be back soon. It was nice of Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson to take him for an outing. I’m sure he’s having a wonderful time.”

“Edward, I’m going to get lunch. Keep watch.”

“Keeping watch.”

He observed her walk away, then turned to Albert, who was snoring in the back seat. “I’m glad you’re comfortable, Albert. I hope you realize we’ll be here until that truck shows up, even if it takes until midnight.”

Albert stirred and rubbed his mush against the seat cushions, leaving a sheen of drool before resuming snoring.

Simpson stretched his shoulders and settled back against the seat. Most men, he told himself, would resent spending the better part of their vacation on a stake-out. It was quite clear, however, that it was impossible to come to the Pleasant without having a murder or two take place. He sympathized with the Rudleys, who did nothing to invite such misfortune.

“You’d think it would discourage business,” he said to Albert.

It didn’t. The new guests seemed unaware of the extent of the mayhem. The regulars treated it as a regularly scheduled event, like Music Hall. Some of them, he suspected, enjoyed the intrigue. Elizabeth among them. She’s terrifically curious, he thought, and most persistent until her curiosity is satisfied. Her determination was one of the things he found attractive about her. One of many things. She had a fine intuitive sense.

Although he didn’t consider himself particularly talented in the art of detection, he was quite certain none of the staff or regulars at the Pleasant was capable of murder.

“What do you think, Albert?”

Albert answered with a muffled yorp.

He doubted if the Sawchucks had the imagination to plan a crime. The Phipps-Walkers were mainly interested in observing the passing show. He could imagine the Benson sisters poisoning someone with raspberry cordial, but he couldn’t see Emma Benson up in the woods, blasting away at Lloyd’s pumpkin, or Katie dumping Gerald into the lake. Louise was the most fit of the three, but even she wasn’t up to much. Still, people weren’t always what they seemed. Lloyd, for example. He had to admit he found Lloyd a bit sinister. Lurking about in the bushes, appearing unexpectedly at your elbow, sending your heart into a thready arrhythmia. However, he didn’t think Lloyd capable of violence.

He lost his train of thought as a hearse drove into the parking lot at Lawson’s.

“That’s the way a hearse should look,” he said to Albert. “Sleek and black. I’ve never cared for those bronzed things.”

The hearse pulled up to the receiving doors, which were positioned behind a box hedge, effectively shielding passersby from the reality of a dead body. He mused that it would be ever so much more convenient if people simply turned to ether or a puddle of water like the Wicked Witch of the East.

The hearse didn’t depress him. He didn’t dwell on death. Accepted it — if it were natural and occurred in his dotage. He certainly didn’t want to go with a bullet to the heart or his brains bashed out by a cudgel.

Albert was dreaming, growling low in his throat while his legs did a brisk dog-paddle.

“Chasing rabbits, old boy?” Edward smiled and returned his attention to the funeral home. It was a modest, not unpleasant place, rather homey with its pink brick and sea-green awnings, its wrought-iron fence across the front, and its bay windows with Tiffany lamps.

He sighed, shifted. “I think Elizabeth has reached the end of the trail on this one,” he murmured. “I don’t expect much of interest to happen here.” For that he was glad. The incident with the boat had been terrifying. He thought even Elizabeth had been sobered by that escapade — although she would never admit it. She seemed to assume she could get out of any mess somehow. He thought he should have tried harder to talk her out of that one, although he had to admit it was virtually impossible to talk Elizabeth out of anything once her mind was made up.

A car pulled up in front of the funeral home. A middle-aged woman and a young man got out. The woman carried a suit in a dry-cleaning bag. The man clutched a paper bag. Probably his father they just delivered in the hearse, Edward guessed.

“Who do you think did it, Albert? You probably see more and know more than anyone would imagine. Do you think either Mr. Harvey or Mr. Devlin is the culprit?”

Albert snorted.

“I agree. Neither of them has an alibi, but neither looks capable of murder.” Although you can’t really tell much by appearance, he knew. Most murderers don’t go about foaming at the mouth. Even the two who held us at gunpoint were decidedly average. He hoped Elizabeth would eventually lose her taste for murder investigations, though he thought this unlikely. He could imagine her in her eighties turning to him and saying, “Edward, I have a plan.”

A man in black came out the front door of the funeral home, lit a cigarette, then stood smoking and staring into space.

Simpson glanced around. A deadly still street. The tall brick houses were set close to the street, with large window boxes, heavy, drawn curtains, and larch and honeysuckle sprouting out of inlaid stone. He suspected professional couples gone all day occupied these houses, or elderly ladies who drank tea in dim parlours and took long afternoon naps.

The woman and young man came out. The man on the steps said a word to them, holding his cigarette close to his side. The grieving pair got into their car and sat for a few minutes before driving away. The man stubbed his cigarette out in a slender receptacle designed to blend in with the ironwork, then disappeared into the funeral home.

Edward jumped when Elizabeth cracked open the driver’s door. Albert’s nose twitched as she climbed into the seat and opened the bag.

“Chicken with sweet-and-sour pineapple in a pita pocket, fried portobello mushroom with spiced beef on rye, date squares, and coffee for us,” she said. “And for Albert a dish of ground lean hamburger, rice, and” — she held up a bottle — “spring water.”

Albert leaned over her shoulder, dripping saliva across the headrest.

“One minute, Albert,” she said, “while I spread some serviettes.” She placed the food on the serviettes in the back seat. Albert tucked in, his tail thumping. She handed Edward his share and placed the coffee in the caddy between them. “Anything to report, Edward?”

He recited his observations. “Sorry, Elizabeth, nothing from Tranquillity.”

She glanced at her watch. “It’s early.” She took out an apple and cracked the skin with enthusiasm. “Isn’t this exciting?”

He gave her a long look. “Quite.”