Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders (3 page)

“And the chance for a little intelligent conversation is always welcome. I get a little tired of talking to myself.”

“Go ahead into the dining room, Mr. Harvey. In the unlikely event that anyone capable of intelligent conversation shows up, I’ll send them your way.”

“You’ve got a great sense of humour, Rudley.” Harvey gave him a wave and went on into the dining room.

“I wasn’t trying to be humorous,” Rudley mumbled. He supposed a man could get hungry for a decent meal and some company, living alone as Paul Harvey did. From what he’d heard, Harvey didn’t have much of a social life. He belonged to a couple of clubs but most of the clubs in the village met only every two weeks and not at all during the summer months. He imagined the man got lonely. He knew he would have. He paused, brow furrowing. He’d never lived alone a day in his life. He had gone from a comfortable home in Galt to a university dormitory, then to the hotel rooms he occupied during his hospitality apprenticeship. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever eaten Spam. He smiled. He was a blessed man. God knows, man is a social animal, he mused, although he would have gladly eaten Spam from time to time if it meant escaping these ninnies for a few hours.

He opened the accounts ledger and jotted a note. A crash made his hand skitter across the page. He looked up to see Aunt Pearl clutching the newel post. “Pearl, what the hell?”

She dragged herself up. “No harm done, Rudley. I missed the bottom step. Damned trifocals.”

“It wouldn’t be the Jack Daniels.”

She gave him a reproachful smile. “Rudley, you know I don’t have a palate for southern spirits.” She grabbed his arm for support. “Anything interesting happening this morning?”

“Actually, it’s been rather soporific, what with late nights taken up by chamber music and harp recitals.”

“I’ll be glad when Tim gets back. This place is a grave without him.” She gazed dreamily across the lobby. “He’s in Acapulco as we speak. That lithe young body sprawled on a white beach under azure skies. The sun, hot, hot, hot. He’ll come back bronzed like a god, hair like corn silk. Those blue eyes.”

Rudley cleared his throat. “Contain yourself, Pearl. The man’s fifty years younger than you.”

“I could get around that.”

“I don’t think you’re his type.”

She paused. “You’re right. I probably can’t get around that. What’s a girl to do? You haven’t booked a single available man in my age group, Rudley.”

“I must admit that’s a flaw in my booking schedule. I have never inquired in advance about a guest’s suitability for my wife’s aunt.” Who drinks like a fish and steals anything that isn’t tied down.

Pearl peered into the dining room. “Is that that nice Mr. Harvey?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’ve been meaning to get to know him better.”

Rudley nodded. “But then you were distracted by Mr. Crowe, then Mr. D’Amato, then Mr. Peabody.”

She smirked. “What can I say, Rudley? They swept me off my feet. That Mr. D’Amato. What an operator.”

“Mr. Harvey is rather bashful.”

“Margaret says he’s a gentleman.”

“He is that.”

“A retired gentleman.”

“So I understand,” Rudley said absently.

“What did he do?”

“I believe he was a school teacher.”

“Do you think he’d be interested in a little company?”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Pearl. The man’s a virtual recluse.”

“Imagine, a dreamboat like that.”

“The man is bald and on the heavy side. I know your vision isn’t what it used to be, but you’re pushing the boundaries of imagination.” He took her elbow. “But if you’d like to have brunch with him, I think that could be arranged.” He steered her into the dining room. “Mr. Harvey, I believe you’ve met our Aunt Pearl.”

Mr. Harvey stumbled up, making a grab for the chair as it tipped. “Miss Dutton.” He hesitated. “Would you care to join me?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Well, good.” Rudley pushed Pearl’s chair in. “I’ll run around to the kitchen and get you a nice omelet.”

“And a half-glass of orange juice.”

“And a half-glass of orange juice.” Rudley scurried off to the kitchen, reminding himself that he did at least promise Mr. Harvey an interesting tablemate. He barged into the kitchen where Gregoire was putting the finishing touches on a plate of bacon and home fries. He snagged a piece of bacon. “I’ve dragged Pearl in. Could you make her an omelet?”

“Of course.”

“And a half-glass of orange juice.”

“To save her the trouble of drinking half a glass before she can empty her vodka into it?”

“Right.” Rudley grabbed a cup of coffee and a croissant and returned to the desk. He considered himself a lucky man, with a lovely wife, a beautiful inn, and congenial staff. He reconsidered: Make that a lovely wife and a beautiful inn. He’d even devised a way to keep Aunt Pearl under reasonable control. Amazing what a dash of water in the whisky will do. A duplicitous act, he realized, but what the hell — it saved wear and tear on Pearl’s liver. She’ll probably outlive us all, he thought, turning to the cupboard door and flinging it open. The handle came off in his hand. “Well,” he muttered, “Lloyd will be back soon.”

Lloyd could fix anything, and he was good in the garden, too. Rudley often thought the man was capable of being an ax-murderer. He had no evidence to support this belief, but the idea played on his mind from time to time. This morning, though, he waved the thought away and moved his mind toward something more pleasant.

Halloween. He grinned a lopsided grin. That was it! Halloween at the Pleasant was the high point of the fall season. Tim and Margaret would go overboard with the decorations. They’d do the usual spectacles with dry ice and cobwebs fashioned from string and shredded cotton. Margaret could spin webs with the best of them. They’d do the cold hands from the shadows, accompanied by shrieks and maniacal laughter. Doors that opened on squeaking hinges. Tombstones scattered about the lawn. Caskets, some of them yawning open to reveal skeletal remains clawing at the edges. And of course there’d be the apple bob. Pin the tail on the donkey. The pumpkin-carving contest. Mulled cider. All of it capped off with the costume ball. He smiled, did a little shuffle, then fox-trotted across the lobby, neatly sidestepping Albert. “Best hoofer west of the Thames,” he said. He turned and ran smack dab into a wisp of a man, holding a valise.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. He caught the stranger’s nervous look as Albert raised his head. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t attack except on cue.”

“Professor Wyler.”

Rudley stared at the man, baffled. Then it came to him. “Oh, of course.” He trotted back to the desk and pulled out the register. “Yes, the Oaks.” He turned the register toward the guest. “Sign here, please.”

The guest hesitated, then took the pen. He scrawled his name, then, looking over his glasses, said, “I don’t have any identification.”

Rudley gave him a blank look.

“I bought a new wallet. I forgot to transfer my identification.”

“Do you plan to do a lot of driving?”

“No. I have cash and traveller’s cheques.”

“Then you should be all right. As long as you know who you are.”

Adolph leaned in and whispered. “Will anyone know I’m here?”

“Do you want anyone to know you’re here?”

“No. I’m on sabbatical. You know how hard it is to get time away. When people know who you are and keep wanting things.”

“I can relate to that.” Rudley went into the cupboard for the key.

“Everyone wants to ask questions.”

“What’s your field?”

“Uh…English literature. The Romantic poets.”

“Well, people would certainly be snapping at your heels if they knew that.” Rudley stopped Tiffany who was crossing the lobby. “Tiffany would you show Professor Wyler to the Oaks?”

“Of course, Mr. Rudley.”

“The usual orientation.”

“Yes, Mr. Rudley.”

Tiffany took Adolph’s valise and led him off toward the Oaks. Rudley checked the register. Terrible penmanship. He put the register down. “‘Oh, to be in England, now that April’s here.’”

Margaret paused at the desk. “Rudley, how romantic.”

“Our Professor Wyler just checked in. He specializes in the Romantic poets.”

“I must see if he’ll do some Wordsworth for Halloween.”

“Better not, Margaret. He indicated he wants his privacy. Heaven knows the rush that would occur if he started quoting Shelley.”

“I do so love Wordsworth.”

He folded his hands, looked skyward. “‘I wandered lonely as a cloud that floats on high o’er vales and hills.’”

She beamed. “Rudley, you’re smashing.” She hurried away, humming.

Rudley did a quick patter. “Not bad for a boy from Galt.”

The stairs creaked as Serge and Mitch made their way to the third floor.

Serge paused on the landing. “You could stand to lose a few pounds.”

“If you hadn’t lost him outside of Tim’s, we wouldn’t need to be doing this.”

“Just shut up and get ready to do the lock.” Serge eased down the hallway and stopped in front of Adolph’s apartment. “Pretty quiet. The tenants here must actually work for a living.”

Mitch bent over the lock. “I got it,” he said finally.

“Okay.” Serge eased the gun from his belt.

They entered the apartment. Serge jerked his head toward the living room. “Check that out.”

Mitch inched his way toward the living room, circled through the kitchen, and reappeared at the door. “Nothing.”

“Okay.”

They moved down the hall. Serge opened the door to the linen closet and stared at the neat stacks of sheets and towels. “Check the bathroom,” he mouthed. He waited in the hallway, gun poised.

“Nothing in here.”

Serge stepped around him and flicked the shower curtain aside. They went back up the hallway.

“Nobody home,” Mitch said.

Serge went into Gerald’s room and kicked aside a pair of thongs. “Looks like somebody left in a hurry.” He turned to Mitch. “Go back and put the chain on the door.” He poked through the closet, then went into the bedside table and took out some envelopes. There was a credit-card application for Gerald Murphy, half-filled out, and a couple of pieces of junk mail. He grinned. “Look at this,” he said to Mitch, who had returned to the bedroom. “Birthday card. Hugs and kisses, Hector.” Serge moved to the bureau, opened one of the drawers, and rummaged through. He pulled out a pair of black pantyhose. He threw the pantyhose aside, jiggled open the bottom drawer. “Look,” he said, “falsies. They say he does porn. Maybe he’s a female impersonator too.”

“Maybe he turns tricks on the side.”

“Whatever.” Serge stood up. “Let’s see what’s in the other room.”

They went into Adolph’s.

“Looks like they both left in a hurry, ” said Serge. He went to the closet and pointed at a shirt with a button-down collar. “This one looks more conventional.” His gaze swept the room. He picked up a picture from the bureau. “Mom and Dad. And their three sons. Heartwarming. Which one do you think he is?”

“Maybe none of them. Maybe he took the picture.”

“Maybe he didn’t. Take a guess.”

Mitch shrugged. “How in hell should I know?”

Serge gave him a disdainful look. “I’d say, by the size of the shirts, he’s the shrimp on the end. The one who’s about the same height as the old lady.”

“So what? We’re after the homo.”

Serge turned to Mitch and spoke with exaggerated deliberation. “Because the homo probably spilled his guts to the shrimp. Maybe he’s his boyfriend. So we got to look for both of them. Maybe we’ll get a bonus.”

“You think so?”

“No. But if we leave any loose ends, we might get a couple of broken arms.” He paused. “Bring that picture.” He knelt and shuffled through the bedside table. “This one’s a lot neater. Oh, look here, income tax return. Adolph Green. Works at Concordia University. Who in hell would call their kid Adolph?”

“Mrs. Hitler.” Mitch sat down on the bed. “So what do we do now?”

“Come with me.” Serge led Mitch to the bathroom, looked around, then opened the medicine chest. “See what I see?”

“What?”

“No shaving gear. No deodorant. No combs. I’d say they packed up and left.”

“So we’ve got to put the squeeze on another super.”

Serge shook his head. “In case you haven’t noticed, this place isn’t a roach motel like the others.” He wandered out into the hall and checked out the living room before moving into the kitchen. He stopped and stared at the telephone.

Mitch hitched up his pants. “I already checked that. There weren’t no messages.”

“Look at this, turnip.” Serge punched in *69. He listened, then hit a button.

“Good morning. Pleasant Inn.”

“Oh, sorry. Wrong number.”

“Quite all right.”

Serge dropped the receiver into the cradle. “The last person to call here was somebody from the Pleasant Inn.”

“So?”

“The guys are missing. The last call they got was from an inn. What do you suppose that means?”

“Nothing. I get stupid calls like that all the time.”

“I think it means they hightailed it out of Dodge and maybe got a room at that place.” Serge took out his cellphone, punched in a number, and spoke quickly. “Yeah, just to let you know, we got a lead. We had to twist a couple of arms. Nothing serious. They know not to talk. Anyway, we think they’re headed for a place called the Pleasant Inn and…”

The voice on the other end cut him off.

“No kidding,” Serge said when the voice had finished. “Okay, we’ll come by.”

He snapped the phone shut and turned to Mitch. “The boss says he knows the place. He’s got friends in the area.”

Margaret was putting out flowers in the lobby when Jim Devlin swept in.

“Margaret.” He put an arm around her and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Do you have time for coffee?” He glanced up and noticed Rudley glowering at him over the front desk. “Rudley, how are you?”

“Perfect, thank you.”

Jim returned his attention to Margaret. “I wanted to talk to you about my watercolours. I’m trying to decide which pieces to take to Portland.”

Margaret squeezed his arm. “Here you are, showing your pieces, and all the time telling me you were just dabbling.”

His eyes twinkled. “I lied.”

I lied, Rudley mouthed.

Margaret took Jim by the arm. “Let’s have a spot of lunch. Gregoire’s made some wonderful chicken Kiev.”

Aunt Pearl wandered in from the drawing room. “Was that Jim?”

“It was.”

“Now there’s a real Adonis.”

“I find him rather ordinary myself.”

She smirked. “If that’s ordinary, you shouldn’t get out of bed in the morning, Rudley.”

“I think it’s damned silly, a mature woman simpering over a callow youth.”

“He’s a thirty-year-old hunk.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t distinguish that with a remark.”

Pearl glanced back into the drawing room where a group of men were gathering around a card table. “I’d better get back to the game. I have a feeling I’m going to have a big afternoon.”

“Don’t cheat.”

“Rudley, what do you take me for?”

“A geriatric alcoholic kleptomaniac. And a nymphomaniac to boot,” he said when she was out of earshot. “Adonis,” he muttered. “Thirty-year-old hunk.”

He reached into a drawer, took out a pack of Benson & Hedges, and lit one. He took a hurried puff. So what if he looks as if he’d stepped off the cover of a Harlequin Romance, he thought. Doesn’t have a thing Rock Hudson didn’t. Rudley exhaled smoke through his nose. Yes, Jim Devlin was charming. And he supposed he could act. He’d done a passable Billy in Margaret’s production of
Carousel
. His singing voice was only a rich baritone, though. Give me a good tenor anytime, Rudley thought. Baritones are pretentious. He supposed, though, he should admire the young man for turning that abysmal brick up the bay into a bed and breakfast. He imagined the renovations had cost a pretty penny. He expected his parents had bankrolled him. “He lacks sincerity,” he said out loud.

“Who, Mr. Rudley?”

He looked up to see Tiffany. “Our elected representatives.”

Tiffany craned her neck to see into the dining room. “I thought I saw Mr. Devlin come up the walk.”

“You did.”

“Isn’t he charming?”

“If you say so.”

He shooed Tiffany away. Of course an impressionable young woman like Tiffany would find this Lothario charming. Look what she had to compare him to — Christopher, that washed out string bean. Of course, Christopher played the bass viol. Rudley scowled. He supposed Devlin was a virtuoso on several instruments. “I can play the accordion,” he told Albert.

He suddenly sensed someone behind him. “How in hell did you get in here?” he barked at Lloyd, who grinned.

“I came out of the ballroom and took a left-hand turn in behind you because you said your drawers were sticking.”

“They probably just need some Slide and Glide.”

“They’re all warped and splintered seeing how they get mashed around so much.”

“Hmm.” Rudley glanced toward the dining room. “What do you think of Devlin?”

“He’s kind of friendly and he smells like Gregoire’s apple pie. And Aunt Pearl and Tiffany say he looks like a movie star. Tim looks like Paul Newman and Mr. Devlin looks like Pierce Brosnan. And Mrs. Rudley said you look like a movie star too.”

“Did she say which one?”

“Don’t know. Before I could hear they sent me to get the mail.”

Rudley pretended to busy himself with the register. “And what do you think of Christopher Watkins?”

Lloyd grinned. “He’s kind of jumpy.”

Rudley paused. “Do you think Tiffany likes him?”

Lloyd removed the drawers and stacked them on the desk to show Rudley the damage he’d done. “She likes that he plays the fiddle.”

“Do you think she likes him well enough to go away with him?”

“Guess so. She said she’s going up to the city with him for the plays.”

Rudley started to say that’s not what he meant, then changed his mind. “Why don’t you take those things down to the workshop and see what you can do with them .” He waited until Lloyd left, then pulled a bottle of whisky from under the desk and poured two fingers into his water tumbler.

He hated the thought of losing any member of his staff. Not that he would tell them that. Take Tiffany. Just a girl, really. Had a master’s degree in English Literature — that and a dollar could buy you a newspaper. Tiffany had been at the inn since coming to look for a summer job four years earlier. She seemed content with her situation, he thought. She’d decorated her quarters in the bunkhouse quite tastefully, had taken up writing, and regularly submitted stories to literary magazines. She’d even had some of them published. They were quite good, he considered, although a little arty. She’d always had a reasonable social life, but Christopher had lasted longer than her previous escorts.

He frowned. What if Christopher got a job with a real symphony and left town, taking Tiffany with him? He dismissed the thought. Why would a young girl give up all this for a twit like Christopher? Room to herself. On duty twelve hours a day, six days a week. Excellent working conditions. He took a drink and smiled. Splendid boss.

Lloyd returned. “Just came to measure the gliders.”

“At least I don’t have to worry about losing you.”

“I’ve got a compass.”

Rudley hurried Lloyd through his measurements, then downed the remainder of his drink. The door opened and a small, older man with hazy eyes behind rimless glasses walked in. He carried a suitcase and a garment bag. Rudley stole a glance at the reservation list.

“Roy Lawson,” the man said. He nodded toward Albert. “Nice dog.”

“He’s a treasure.” Rudley turned the register toward Lawson. “Room 203. I take it you’ve come for the Halloween party.”

Lawson wrote his name in a fine script. “I didn’t know about the party. I’m here on business.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’m thinking of relocating my optometry practice. I thought I’d look into a few spots in the area.” He lowered his voice. “I was thinking about checking into the hotel in Middleton, then I heard how good the food was here.”

Rudley drew himself up to his full height. “I can assure you, you won’t be disappointed.” He took down the key to room 203 and handed it to Lawson. Looking around and seeing neither Lloyd nor Tiffany, he added. “I’ll help you with your bags.”

“Oh, no need, young man. I think I can manage.”

“All right. Lunch is being served now. There’s a brochure in your room with the dinner hours. There’s a singalong in the ballroom and a euchre tournament in the drawing room tonight.”

Roy smiled. “I thought I saw a card game going on in your side room when I came in.”

“That would be poker.”

“Playing for matchsticks or something more interesting?”

“I would say something more interesting.”

“I’ll stash my bags and see if I can sit in.” He saluted Rudley and trotted up the stairs.

Rudley shook his head. Mr. Lawson was on a fool’s errand. He doubted if there was sufficient population in cottage country to support an optometrist. Why was a man of Lawson’s age looking for business opportunities anyway? He guessed he didn’t have enough sense to retire. A man would have to have an arid mind, he thought, not to have the imagination to enjoy his retirement.

He paused and tugged at his ear. He’d never thought of retiring, really. How could one retire from the Pleasant? He considered this, then brightened. Being an innkeeper isn’t a job, Rudley, he said to himself, it’s a vocation. One couldn’t retire from a vocation. He had responsibilities to his guests, to his staff. The Pleasant was an institution. He was the keeper of a hallowed tradition.

He remembered someone coming around with a survey once. Some damn
MBA
student. Wanted to know how he ran his inn. How did he spend his days? He hadn’t agreed to the project, but Margaret, for some fool reason, had given the young man permission. She had agreed to let him follow her husband around with a clipboard all day, watching him over his glasses and jotting notes. He had later sent along a copy of his results: Time spent at desk, starring into space — forty per cent. Rudley glowered in remembrance. Didn’t the young boob know that a great deal of an innkeeper’s life involved contemplation, planning? Time spent interacting with staff and guests — thirty per cent. At least, Margaret had commented, he didn’t break the interactions down to civilized versus uncivilized. Time spent searching for pieces of paper — twenty per cent. And God knows what he did with the remaining ten per cent, the student concluded. Cheeky, Rudley recalled. I should have complained to his supervisor. Since the young man disappeared the minute the clock struck four, he couldn’t have seen what went on all evening. Entertaining the guests, for instance. Discerning. Counselling. Walking the dog.

Albert yawned, dribbling saliva over the rug.

An innkeeper’s life is an onerous one, Rudley reflected.

The phone rang. Professor Wyler calling from the Oaks to put in his lunch order.

“May I recommend the spicy gazpacho. The crab cakes are nice today with potato puffs and a crisp chef’s salad. There’s also a vegetarian pizza with sun-dried tomatoes and feta cheese. Chicken Kiev. Crêpe or omelet of your choice. A sandwich? Of course.” He grabbed his pen and scribbled a note. “I’ll send it over right away.”

He got off the phone and ran into the kitchen “Gregoire, the professor wants a cheese sandwich.”

Gregoire rolled his eyes. “I suppose he would like it on gummy white bread.”

“Actually, he’d like it on rye. And add a small bowl of clam chowder and a slice of lemon pie. I’m sure he’ll eat it if it’s on the tray.”

“Very well.” Gregoire sighed. “One cheese sandwich. Swiss cheese on rye with lettuce.” He added a dollop of Dijon mustard and a swirl of alfalfa sprouts and placed a sliced dill at the side. He stood back. “There, there’s only so much you can do with a cheese sandwich.”

“And you’ve done quite enough.” Rudley grabbed a tray and reached for the sandwich.

Gregoire ladled out the soup, added a sprig of parsley and a sprinkle of fresh-ground pepper.

“Pie.” Rudley held the tray out. “And a glass of milk.”

Gregoire added a generous slice and a glass of milk.

At that moment, Gerald came into the kitchen, fishing a package of Player’s Light from his pocket.

“Going on break?” Rudley asked, regarding his newest staff member, who had arrived the day before.

“Yes.”

“Drop this off at the Oaks and take an extra five.”

“You’ve got it.” Gerald took the tray and whisked out the back door.

“Energetic,” Rudley remarked.

Gregoire checked his gazpacho. “He’s as high as a kite almost all the time. Which is a good thing in a wait person.”

“Hell to live with.”

Gregoire slid a tray of potato puffs into the oven. “Believe me, in the short times I have lived with him, he is murder.”

Gerald trotted over to the Oaks, shifted the tray to his left hand, and tapped on the door. The door opened a crack.

“It’s me.”

Adolph sighed and opened the door.

“Your lunch.” Gerald’s eyes darted over the cabin. “Why have you got all the curtains drawn?”

“It seems the prudent thing to do.”

Gerald set the tray down. “Cheese sandwich? You could eat high on the hog here.” He parked himself on the bed and lit a cigarette.

“Are you supposed to be doing that?”

“I’m on break.”

“What’s going on out there?”

“The usual. People who’ve been coming here since the Ice Age. They eat a lot, play games, walk around, looking at the flora and fauna. They’re having a singalong tonight. I hear the staff takes part.”

“Are you going to do your Barbra Streisand?”

“I think I’ll just go with the flow.”

“They seem like nice people.”

Gerald took a long drag and relaxed. “They’re dears to work for. The old man yells a lot but nobody pays any attention to him.”

“Maybe you could stay here forever.”

Gerald rolled his eyes. “I’d be bored out of my skull.”

“I wouldn’t mind being bored out of my skull, Gerald.”

Gerald inhaled briskly. “I must admit there are a few goodies around here. A couple of hunks in for dinner last night. And this older guy, the silver-fox type, I’m sure he’s been sending me signals.”

“How can you think of that at a time like this?”

Gerald spread his arms. “At a time like what? There is no time here, Adolph. We’re timeless. We’re in a little bubble, perfectly insulated from the big, bad world. Nothing could possibly happen to us.”

Adolph picked up his sandwich, then put it down. “You can stay as long as you want to. I can’t.”

Gerald jumped up and grabbed an ashtray from the desk. “I couldn’t stay here forever, even if I could. I’d go insane. I need bright lights, a little grit and glitz.” He paused. “I’ve been thinking. We can wait this out. Maybe once the big shipment is distributed, once the goods hit the streets without repercussions, they’ll figure we didn’t squeal and forget about us.”

“Do you really think so?”

Gerald sank down onto the bed again. “Nice digs you’ve got here.” He crushed the cigarette and lit another. “No, I don’t really think so. They’ll harass us to our graves. I imagine I’ll have to relocate to Antarctica. But as long as we stay here, we’re safe.” He gestured toward the tray. “Eat your sandwich. Next time, ask for the crab cakes. They’re to die for.”

“You’re not making me feel any better.”

“Look, you’re in a nice place. Try to enjoy yourself. Go down to the dining room. Join in some of the activities.”

“I’d rather just stay here.”