Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders (2 page)

The phone rang. Margaret glanced at the clock. Five minutes to ten. She shrugged and picked up the phone. “Pleasant Inn. Yes? When would you be wanting it? Tomorrow? Oh, I understand. I often do things on impulse myself.” She turned the register to face her. “Let’s see. Chalet or main inn? Chalet? We have the Oaks. Yes, it’s available for a week. Oh.”

Margaret ran a finger down the page. “Sorry, the Oaks is only available this week. Someone who especially wanted an unrestricted lake view reserved for next week. But we could start you at the Oaks and move you to the High Birches. It will be free by then and you could have it as long as you want.” She smiled. “It’s decided then. Oh, I mustn’t forget to take your name. Yes, thank you. We look forward to your arrival.” She hung up and wrote, Professor David Wyler: Oaks.

Aunt Pearl was supposed to move back to the High Birches as soon as the newlyweds left but she wouldn’t mind staying in her room in the main inn a little longer. She was a good sport. Refusing a guest wouldn’t have been appropriate. It wasn’t the money. It just seemed wrong to turn someone away. She and Rudley had been known to camp out in the office to accommodate a guest during high season. The bunkhouse had a spare room. It was cheerful and homey. But she didn’t like to impose a guest on the staff. They were family, but they deserved their privacy.

The family. She would be glad when Tim got back. It wasn’t that she minded waiting tables in his stead — she did that when the inn was hectic anyway — but she missed him. The Pleasant wasn’t the same without him.

Rudley hammered down the steps and threw himself over the desk, exasperated.

“Any luck, Rudley?”

He glared past her at the wall. “It was not a mouse, Margaret. Mrs. Sawchuck needs to have her glasses checked. It was one of her hair curlers.”

“Couldn’t her husband see it wasn’t a mouse?”

“Walter could and he did, Margaret. Doreen thought he was just trying to reassure her. When I showed her the curler, she insisted the mouse must have scurried under the bed.”

“Did you look under the bed?”

“Under the bed, under the bureau, in the closet. If that cat of yours was worth her salt, it would give the guests confidence.”

“It’s not her calling, Rudley.” Margaret gestured toward Albert, who lay sprawled across the rug, tongue lolling, legs bicycling. “No more than keeping watch is for Albert.”

He gave the dog a mournful look. “It seemed a good idea at the time. I thought he might develop into the role.”

“He’s a sweet dog, Rudley. Would you rather have him snapping at the guests?”

“Depends on which of the guests you’re referring to.”

“I’m sure if someone broke in during the night, he’d sound the alarm.”

“Not unless the intruder tripped over him.” Rudley looked up as the door opened. “Officer Owens, what in hell are you doing here?”

The young patrolman paused and glanced around. “I have a couple of tickets to the police banquet.”

“That’s a strange thing to be doing at this time of night. Selling tickets.”

“I’m not selling them. I was just going by…” Owens looked to Margaret.

Margaret came to his rescue. “Were you looking for someone to accompany you?”

He blushed. “Yes.”

“When is the event?”

“Next month. The twelfth.” He paused. “There’ll be a band.”

She smiled. “Leave it with me, officer.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Rudley.” He backed away, narrowly missing Albert, who had chosen that moment to roll over.

Rudley shook his head. “I’m surprised you didn’t volunteer me, Margaret.”

She gave him an annoyed look. “Don’t be absurd, Rudley. Officer Owens was hoping Tiffany would be around.”

“Don’t tell me he’s still carrying a torch for Tiffany.”

“Very quietly. I’m afraid Tiffany is quite oblivious.”

“A man has to learn to speak up for himself.” He squared his jaw. “As I did.”

Margaret beamed. “You were a veritable tiger, Rudley.” She gave him a peck on the cheek.

Gregoire came out of the kitchen, sweeping his chef’s cap from his head.

Rudley turned to him. “And what problem are you bringing me?”

Gregoire drew himself up to his full five feet, three inches. “I do not have a problem. I have brought you a solution.”

“Refreshing.”

Gregoire turned his attention to Margaret. “That call you put through to the kitchen just before was from a friend I have known almost all my life. He wants to know if he can stay a week or longer at the bunkhouse.”

“You know the rules,” Rudley said. “He can stay as long as he wants as long as he isn’t an arsonist or an exhibitionist.”

“He isn’t an arsonist,” Gregoire said and hastened to add, “I think he is a little short on money. He likes to live more than his means. Anyway, as you know, Melba cannot fill in for supper the next few nights because of her harp recital.”

Rudley levered himself off the desk. “I just can’t picture Melba on the harp. Must be the cigarette.”

“Bluegrass is her,” said Gregoire. “In any event, the solution is that my friend is an incomparable waiter. He can wait. Melba can do her harp and Margaret can do her painting without abusing herself, carting around huge platters of my exquisite creations.”

Rudley considered this for a moment. “I trust he’s reasonably congenial.”

“He is like Tim on speed, but he has always been popular with his clientele.”

“Tell him, if he’d like to wait, we’ll pay him the going rate.”

“Thank you.”

Rudley paused. “Is that all? Nothing to grouse about?”

“No, everything is perfect.”

Rudley looked disappointed. “All right.”

“I will say goodnight then.”

Margaret smiled. “Goodnight, Gregoire.”

Rudley shook his head. “He’s Laurel without his Hardy, Abbott without his Costello.”

“What were you saying, dear?”

“Tim and Gregoire. Gregoire seems flat without him. They play off each other.”

Margaret nodded. “He’ll be glad to have Tim back — even if they do argue all the time.”

“They’re an act fit for vaudeville, Margaret.”

“I’m glad we can help Gregoire’s friend. Perhaps we can keep him until he finds something else. Perhaps Jim will have a position for him.”

Rudley scowled. “The pretty boy from up the bay?”

Margaret smiled. “He is rather handsome.”

“He seems like a bit of a dunderhead to me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s made quite a success of his bed and breakfast, and now that he’s expanding his guest rooms, I’m sure he’ll need to take on some help.” Margaret sorted through the reservation list. “I know he’d take Gregoire’s friend on if we recommended him.”

“We haven’t even met him yet.”

“If he’s a friend of Gregoire’s, that’s good enough for me.”

Gregoire dimmed the lights in the kitchen and picked up the telephone.

Gerald had just locked the door when the phone rang. He dropped his suitcases, fumbled the key into the lock, and dashed into the kitchen. But not in time. The caller had hung up. He played back the message.

“Gerald, it’s Gregoire. You should take the bus that gets into Middleton at eleven. If you get off at Lowerton, you can get a ride in with our maintenance man. He will be driving a pickup truck. He is tall and skinny and looks like a psychopathic killer but he is harmless. And if you have a pair of black pants and some white shirts and you want to work, bring them. We will see you tomorrow.”

“What was that?” Adolph stood in the doorway.

“Some instructions from Gregoire.” Gerald ran back to his room, grabbed a pair of black pants from the closet, rolled them up, and tucked them into his bag. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

“Did you turn off the light?”

Gerald pushed Adolph out into the hallway. “The electric bill is the least of our worries, Adolph.”

He slammed down the stairs, coaxing Adolph after him, and hailed a cab that was loitering at the corner.

“How much money have you got?”

“Two hundred in cash. I’ll get more at the ATM.”

“So we’re okay.” Gerald’s eyes searched the dark streets.

“For now,” Adolph mouthed. He sank down into the seat, exhausted.

Morning washed the lake with hazy pastels. A line of geese chattered off the water.

Rudley stood on the veranda, watching as the geese disappeared, their honking finally drowned out by the persistent shriek of a blue jay.

Margaret appeared in the doorway. “A penny for your thoughts, Rudley.”

“Wonderful morning, Margaret. I can’t remember when we’ve had a more beautiful fall.”

“It’s unparalleled.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I must get to work. Now that Gregoire’s friend is coming to give us a hand, I may be able to sneak out and capture one of these mornings with my palette.”

She disappeared into the inn. Rudley inhaled deeply, letting his gaze drift up the lake. Norman Phipps-Walker was out in his rowboat, dozing against his pillow, his fishing line drifting on the water. “I don’t know why he bothers with a fishing rod,” he muttered.

Rudley braced his hands on the railing and looked across the expansive lawn. Sixty acres of heaven, he thought. Best damned inn in the province. Twenty-six years in the business and he’d never regretted a day. He paused. Never regretted most days. Sublime shoreline, a reed bank that was his pride and joy. Superb collection of Anura. He turned to take in the chalets. Everything in perfect order. Not an inch of flaking paint. He watched as a heron high-stepped along the shore. You could have been a great hoofer, Rudley. The toast of Broadway. But you chose a higher calling. You had to be an innkeeper. He cocked his head to capture the weet-weet-weet of a cardinal, then left the veranda and returned to the front desk.

Tiffany, the maid, was sweeping the lobby.

“Good morning, Tiffany.”

She took one hand off her broom, stifled a yawn. “Good morning, Mr. Rudley.”

“Late night?”

“The chamber music recital went on and on. The audience demanded encore after encore. Christopher was thrilled.”

Rudley rolled his eyes. “Yes, there’s nothing like an evening of chamber music.” To bore the ass off a water buffalo, he added to himself as she shuffled out of earshot.

Trudy, the waitress, ran up the steps, cheeks aglow. “Good morning, Mr. Rudley. Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

“Good morning, Trudy.” He sighed and flopped over the desk. What was with all of this goodness and light? He missed Tim, his unflappable nature, his bad jokes, his irreverence, his sarcastic play-by-play on the passing show. Tim had his flaws — and they were many — but he had a buoyancy that brought the whole place up a notch. A certain touch, an ability to size the guests up instantly, anticipate their needs, play each like a fine violin. He thought of Tiffany’s new beau, Christopher Watkins, who played the bass viol. Lugubrious instrument, much like the player himself.

He glanced into the dining room. Melba Millotte was taking an order from Walter and Doreen Sawchuck. The Sawchucks had been coming to the inn for thirty-five years. Every morning, it was the same thing. Two poached eggs with a sprinkle of paprika, two slices of wholegrain bread, lightly toasted, with marmalade on the side, a fruit nappy with three stewed prunes, and two carafes of coffee. He admired the way Tim took the order every morning with a straight face. “Melba can’t take their order without puckering her butt.”

“She’s got a skinny behind,” said Lloyd.

Rudley spun to see Lloyd, the handyman, standing behind him with a hammer.

“She does exercises,” Lloyd added.

Rudley whipped out the maintenance log. “I think that’s enough talk about Mrs. Millotte’s derrière. What are you doing this morning?”

“Came to tap down a nail in the floorboard in the hall. Tiffany caught her sock on it.”

“Noted.”

“Then Mrs. P.W. has a sticky door.”

“Appropriate.”

“The hinges on the shutters at the Sycamore need oiling.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ve got to fix the counterweight on the kitchen window.”

“Ah, yes, wonderful old things. Best invention ever for a window.”

“Slick as a goose. Then I’ve got to go to Lowerton to pick up some spices for Gregoire. And he said to look at the bus for his friend.”

“I’ll let you at it then.”

Mrs. Millotte’s voice carried from the dining room. “Now let me make sure I got that straight. Two poached eggs with a sprinkle of paprika. Two slices of wholegrain bread toasted light with marmalade on the side. Three stewed prunes. Carafe of coffee. All times two.”

Rudley shook his head. “Never knew she had it in her. The woman has a sense of humour after all.”

When the last car dealership faded from view, Adolph sat back and relaxed his grip on his valise.

“Feel better?”

“Marginally.”

Gerald broke open a bag of chips. “I told you I’d get you out of this.”

“Get me out of this?” Adolph lowered his voice as the woman across the aisle of the bus turned to stare. “Gerald, you’re the one who got me into this. I gave you a place to stay. For free. Because you were between gigs and broke. I didn’t do anything to deserve this. I had a good job.”

“You’ve still got your job.”

“When they find out I’ve lied to them about the family emergency, I won’t.”

“Why would they check up on you ? You don’t make a habit of lying to them, do you?”

“No.”

“Who would check up on you anyway? You said your boss is on vacation.”

“He’s on sabbatical.” Adolph sighed. “If he wasn’t, he would have insisted on driving me to my mother’s. He would have sent flowers.” He paused. “I’m not like you, Gerald. It bothers me to take advantage of people.”

Gerald stared down the aisle. “It’s show business, Adolph. If you want to get ahead, you can’t get cold feet about beating someone out of a gig.”

Adolph looked hurt. “I guess that’s the way it is.”

“Besides,” Gerald went on, “you’ve always said the reason you like me is because I’m not boring.”

“You’ve never been boring, Gerald, but why did you have to do that film?”

Gerald grimaced. “I needed the cash. I was counting on that gig at the Carlton.”

“You could have sold your video and CD collection.”

“I need that stuff to perfect my act.” He slumped down in his seat. “I could have been big, Adolph. Bigger than Craig Russell.”

“You still can.”

“Not unless I get a face transplant.” He sighed. “I may be reduced to selling my bod.”

Adolph groaned. “Not that.”

“There’s a niche market of men who get turned on by female impersonators.”

“I don’t want to hear this. Why don’t you get a decent job?”

“Decent jobs are boring.”

Adolph pressed his forehead against the window, hypnotizing himself with the stream of cars in the opposite lane, jerking back as a kid in a passing car glanced up at the bus. “All I know, Gerald, is I’ve never put a toe over the line and I’m on the lam because you got mixed up with an artiste who turned out to be a drug dealer, not to mention a purveyor of kiddie porn.” He shook his head. “And signing into an inn under an assumed name — my boss’s name…”

“Count your blessings your boss is somewhere out in the wilderness.”

Adolph digested this. “What if someone calls my mother?”

Gerald shook his head impatiently. “She’s your mother. Give her a call from a payphone when you get into the station. Tell her you’ve met a girl. That you’ve gone off with her for a very long weekend. Tell her you gave the people at work a story about having a family emergency. Your mother will be so happy it’s a girl, she won’t care about you playing hooky. She’ll be too busy dreaming about grandchildren.”

“Until she finds out I’ve been murdered because my roommate knew too much.”

“They might not kill us. They might just work us over — badly.” Gerald’s gaze darted over the other passengers. “Try to relax. We’re going to what I’ve heard is a nice country inn. They’re going to put you in a nice cottage. There’s no way in the world they’d think to look for us there.”

Adolph’s features smoothed, then froze. “That message your friend left on the answering machine.”

“I erased it.” Gerald sat back, nibbling on a chip. “I’ll get off at Lowerton, meet the hick in the pickup. You’ll get off at Middleton and take a cab in.”

“A cab?”

“It’s only three miles.”

“Why can’t I ride in with you?”

“We can’t look as if we’re together.” Gerald waved the chip bag at Adolph. Adolph shook his head. “And, once we get to the inn, we can’t let on we know each other. Just in case somebody starts putting two and two together.” He finished the chips. “One thing I know, I’ll never be able to show my face in Montreal again. I’ll have to go overseas, or worse, to Calgary or some other conservative hole. You can go back to Montreal and get on with your life.”

“What if they keep looking for me?”

“You may have to get a new apartment and an unlisted phone number. Be discreet.”

“Discreet?”

“Change your appearance a bit. Lose the moustache.” He crushed the chip bag and dropped it to the floor. “As I’ve said, Adolph, these are not nice people.”

Adolph resumed his miserable watch out the window.

Rudley pulled out the reservation book and examined the guest list. The usual crowd for Halloween: Norman and Geraldine Phipps-Walker and Walter and Doreen Sawchuck, to start with. The Sawchucks had arrived from Rochester flushed with excitement over their custom-made costumes — James and Dolly Madison. Then there was James Bole, an amateur anthropologist of independent means, who, like the others, had been coming to the inn for decades. “I suspect he’s studying us,” Rudley muttered. “He’ll probably write a book about us.”

Next were the Benson sisters, who had stayed on at the Elm pavilion instead of making their usual October exit for Guadalajara. “One of these days, we’ll winter over,” Kate had told him.

Better make it soon, he thought. Louise, the youngest, was eighty-four.

Finally, there was Elizabeth Miller and Edward Simpson, who were arriving next week. He was disappointed they had gone abroad for the summer. “What does Asia have that we don’t?” he asked as Tiffany passed the desk.

“Mount Fuji, the Great Wall, the Taj Mahal.”

Rudley dismissed this with a sniff. “When is Christopher putting on his next recital?”

“Tonight, as a matter of fact. A singular event. He’s doing Mozart’s 21st Piano Concerto for the Seniors Association. Solo.”

“I’ve never heard Mozart’s 21st done solo on the bass viol.”

“That’s what makes it a singular event.”

“Indeed.” Rudley waited until Tiffany trotted up the stairs. “Big geek,” he said under his breath. “Looks like an ostrich.”

Christopher Watkins was the latest of the young men Tiffany had been keeping company with, all of them artistic types — musicians, painters, poets. He hadn’t approved of the painter — arrogant brute. The poet had been equally unsuitable — narcissistic twit. In his opinion, none of them would ever make a living from their pursuits — including Christopher, who, Rudley considered, was lucky to also be a certified public accountant.

He leaned across the desk and smiled. The past year had been the best ever. The fall had been uneventful — well, apart from that ninny-hammer who shot up the pumpkin patch last Halloween. Winter had been Christmas-card perfect; spring, with the Easter Parade, light-hearted — he whistled a few bars of the song and did a lateral shuffle — and summer had passed without incident. Well, no serious incidents. There was the occasion when Norman Phipps-Walker decided to take up waterskiing. But there had been no serious injuries and he had been happy to pay for that chap’s canoe. Margaret’s first season of summer theatre had been a resounding success. They’d managed
Twelfth Night
and
Carousel
. He’d persuaded Margaret to put off Ibsen for another time. “Preferably forever,” he’d added. Margaret had had a successful showing of her watercolours.

He sighed. They’d been operating the Pleasant for twenty-six years and the past year had been without parallel. All they needed now was the return of Tim, the young Paul Newman, waiter par excellence, star of summer theatre, sparkling dancer. Almost as good as myself, he thought.

He returned to the reservation list. Mr. and Mrs. John Smith. A couple flouting their wedding vows, he surmised, something he didn’t approve of. “At least they shouldn’t be so obvious,” he murmured.

“About what?”

“Oh.” He looked up as Margaret paused beside him. “This couple that signed in as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith.”

“Yes?”

“That’s how people sign into cheap motels, Margaret.”

“There must be some legitimate Mr. and Mrs. John Smiths in the world.”

“I certainly hope so. I wouldn’t care to have the reputation of the Pleasant sullied.”

“Virtue is a state of mind, Rudley.”

“Virtue is a state of mind,” he muttered as Margaret moved on to straighten the picture over the mantle. What in hell did that mean? He slumped over the desk. Next thing he knew, Margaret would be petitioning him to let Christopher and his bass viol move into the bunkhouse. Skinny wimp. He wasn’t sure if he approved of couples living together, without benefit of clergy. He and Margaret hadn’t shared a bed until their wedding night. Although, he thought, rubbing his chin and smiling a jaunty smile, I could have been persuaded. He slammed the ledger shut. He wasn’t sure if Christopher was the right sort for Tiffany. She needed someone to keep her grounded. “As Margaret did,” he said out loud, nodding confidently.

“As Margaret did what?” she demanded.

“As Margaret did wonderful watercolours.”

She shot him a suspicious look.

Rudley returned to his work, humming. Wonderful woman, Margaret. Kind to a fault. Optimistic — even though her optimism was usually quite unwarranted.

He was still humming when the door opened and a chubby middle-aged man entered.

“Mr. Harvey.”

“R-R-Rudley.” Paul Harvey paused, casting an eye toward the dining room. “I thought I’d stop by and see what you were serving for lunch.”

Rudley recited the menu. “Getting tired of your own cooking?”

“If you call fried Spam cooking.”

“I understand.”