Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders (4 page)

Gerald jumped up from the bed. “Okay, have it your way. I have to get back.” He paused at the door. “Is there anything I can get you?”

Adolph followed him to the door. “I wouldn’t mind some decent books. The housekeeper keeps bringing me the collected works of dead white men.”

“She means well. What do you want?”

“Patricia Cornwell. Perhaps some Peter Straub. I’d like
Koko
if you could find it. I’d feel better knowing someone else is in a bigger horror show than I am.”

Gerald patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay. Trust me.”

“Hold still, Rudley.”

Rudley stood in the middle of his office while Margaret took in the ornate waistcoat.

“This is what I get for maintaining my figure, Margaret.”

“You haven’t gained an ounce since I met you.” Margaret stood back to examine the fit. “There it is. Perfect. Try the wig, Rudley.”

He let her fuss with the wig. “Lovely idea, Margaret, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. But I’m not sure how I feel about you losing your head.”

“It has to be done in the interests of historicity.” She reached into the box and took out a papier-mâché head. “Magnificent job, if I do say so myself.”

Rudley shuddered. “Put it away, Margaret. It gives me the willies.”

“That’s the point. It’s for Halloween.” She beamed. “It’s going to be perfect, Rudley. The forecast calls for an overcast, wind-tossed night. Imagine. The branches of the oak trees, gnarled arms writhing in the wind, the moon riding scudding clouds. Bats flitting in and out. Lloyd will make a wonderful scarecrow. I can’t wait for the children’s reaction when he leaves the garden and advances toward the house.”

“I don’t know about the children but Sawchuck will piss his pants.” Rudley took off the wig. “Why on earth did Pearl decide to come as Harry Truman?”

“She’s always wanted to wear a bow tie.” Margaret put the head back in the box. “The menu will be wonderful as always. Gregoire is making candied apples and popcorn balls for the children. Dozens of assorted cookies. Chocolate and brown-sugar fudge.”

“I assume we can put all that stuff in a bag and throw it at them as they come up the walk.”

“Be nice, Rudley.” Margaret took a program from her pocket. “The children will be touring the sites. Then Tiffany, Lloyd, and I will supervise a special party for them in the coach house.”

“In that case, I’ll be needed up here to ride herd on the adults.”

“Except you will need to make a brief appearance to declare that the mummy has risen.”

“I see.”

“And that will conclude the program for the children.”

“Then the parents will come to pick them up and take them away.”

“Some will collect them early, Rudley, but others will want to stay to enjoy the party. Therefore, we’ll take turns amusing them. I expect most of them will be collected by ten.”

“Sounds pretty grisly, Margaret.”

“It will be splendid. And such fun for the children.” She patted his arm. “I’m going to take these things upstairs and do the alterations.”

Margaret left, humming. Rudley flopped into the chair behind his desk, swivelled to face the wall, and stared at the map of the lake and environs. Almost fourteen months without the flag at half-staff, he thought. No drownings, no accidental poisonings, no dead bodies cluttering up the woods and cabins.

Tiffany was coming to the party as Lucrezia Borgia. Compared to a Borgia, Harry Truman seemed benign. Well, except for that damned A-bomb thing.

Mrs. Phipps-Walker was coming as John James Audubon. He supposed Norman would accompany her as a dodo. The Sawchucks were coming as James and Dolly Madison. Mr. Bole was coming as the Duke of Wellington. He wished Margaret didn’t have to lose her head.

He swivelled his chair back to the desk and plunked his feet down on it. He couldn’t imagine being married to anyone but Margaret. She had deserted him for the High Birches just twice in the past year, once for calling the president of the Ladies Auxiliary a picklepuss, the other time for insulting her brother Roger: “You know he’s sensitive about his middle-aged spread, Rudley.” He looked to heaven. “Beer belly’s more like it.”

Margaret’s family had a fondness for the bottle. Witness Aunt Pearl. Margaret was the only one who seemed immune to the habit. He didn’t have any moral issues around drink and didn’t mind a nip himself now and then. Still, Roger did have an unseemly paunch.

Although Tim hadn’t returned from his Mexican vacation, Gregoire said the two of them were coming as Radisson and Groseilliers — as if anyone could imagine that pair exploring North America. Rudley stood and did a sedate dance step across the room. He and Margaret were polishing their minuet. To be historically accurate, he reminded himself. He danced his way to the stairs, then did a Fred Astaire up to the lobby.

He ran into Aunt Pearl, who had paused at the top of the stairs to powder her nose. She snapped the compact shut and tucked it into her purse.

“You look as if you’ve stuck your nose in a flour bag.”

She retrieved the compact, wiped a clear space in the mirror, took out a Kleenex, and removed the blob of powder from the tip of her nose. “Thank you, Rudley. This blasted mirror is useless.”

“What are you up to today?”

She checked her lipstick. Scarlet’s Passion. “Afternoon tea with the chaps in the drawing room.”

“A little Rumoli?”

“Five-card stud.”

“How much did you relieve them of last time?”

“A hundred or so, but who’s counting?” She snickered. “If I play my cards right, that charming Mr. Lawson might invite me to dinner.”

“He has all the charm of a travelling salesman.”

“He’s a fine specimen.”

“If you like overgrown elves.”

“He’s my age, he’s a member of the opposite sex, and he seems to have good bladder control.”

“Pearl, everyone knows optometrists are virtually asexual.”

She smiled demurely. “Speak for yourself, Rudley.”

Rudley watched her feel her way along the wall. “The woman needs cataract surgery, but at least she seems happy,” he said to Gregoire, who was crossing the lobby from the dining room.

“She is a walking advertisement for you-are-never-too-old-for-love.”

“If you say so.”

Gregoire handed Rudley a list. “I have the menu for the children’s party.”

“Can’t they eat what everybody else does?”

“No peanuts or shellfish. And we have to have animal crackers for the canapés, straws with loops, and sprinkles for the ice cream and cookies.”

Rudley curled his lip at the list. “Cheese strings and marsh-mallows. They’ll be upchucking all night.”

“And that is what makes a successful dinner party for kids.”

“The little twerps aren’t even paying a cover charge.” Rudley handed the list back to Gregoire. “At least I get the satisfaction of going down and scaring the hell out of them.”

“That should be the icing on your cake.”

“Indeed.” Rudley checked his schedule. “We’re going to have a busy weekend. Tiffany’s going to the big city with Mr. Greenjeans. Tim’s not back. Melba has a harp camp.”

“I hear she’s making amazing progress.”

“We have a full slate of dinner guests for Saturday.”

Gregoire spread his hands. “I don’t anticipate any problems. Trudy is always reliable. Margaret will help if necessary. And Gerald is like he is on amphetamines. He could probably handle the dining room by himself.”

Rudley lowered his voice. “Is he taking anything illegal?”

Gregoire shook his head. “Never. Gerald has done many crazy things, but he has never done that. He is just a human generator of energy.”

“Refreshing,” Rudley murmured as Gregoire left. “Someone who works full tilt and never complains. We could use more of that.” He paused as Gerald flicked past the door. “Or perhaps not.”

He couldn’t fault Gerald as a waiter. He showed up on time, was pleasant, attentive to the guests, and got along well with the rest of the staff. But he realized he didn’t want Gerald around forever. All that activity would drive him nuts eventually. He preferred the contemplative life, far removed from the hustle and bustle of city life, like Thoreau at Walden. Rudley shrieked as a drawer opened behind him. “What are you doing here?” He turned to face Lloyd.

“Looking for my jackknife.”

“What would your jackknife be doing in my drawer?”

“Put it there.” Lloyd pulled out another drawer and sorted through it. “Here it is.” He grinned. “Wanted to make sure I knew where it was. For my jack-o’-lantern.” He returned the knife to the drawer.

“You can leave now,” said Rudley.

“Yes’m.”

Rudley pulled out his package of cigarettes. Of course, he thought, Thoreau didn’t have to put up with this crowd.

The sun had set hours before. The dining room had shut down, the chatter of dishes and clatter of silverware now absent. Rudley lounged against the desk, sipping coffee and reading a creased copy of the
Globe and Mail
.

“Rudley.” Geraldine and Norman Phipps-Walker appeared before him.

Rudley lowered his paper. “Mrs. P.W., Norman.” He gestured at the device Mrs. Phipps-Walker had strung around her neck. “Doing some night photography?”

“We hope.”

“We’re looking for the great horned owl tonight,” Norman said as if he were announcing he was looking for his shoes.

Mrs. Phipps-Walker removed a box from her pocket. “We’re also hoping to get a recording.”

“Perhaps we could feature that at Music Hall.”

“Wonderful idea,” said Norman.

“We’re optimistic we’ll have a good experience tonight,” said Geraldine.

“Lovely evening for it,” said Rudley.

“We couldn’t have asked for better.”

“Planned it myself, Mrs. P.W.”

She stared at him for a moment, then smiled. “You’re a caution, Rudley.” She started toward the door. “Come along, Norman.”

Rudley watched them leave. Norman has been trailing after Geraldine for forty years, he mused as he straightened the newspaper and picked up his cup. He paused to stare dreamily across the lobby. The evening was perfect, with the quiet glow of the lobby, the dining room dark and silent, the gentle click of dice from the drawing room, and the occasional burst of laughter from the gentlemen enjoying cigars on the veranda. In an hour or so, he would call it a day and retreat to his quarters with a good suspense novel and a glass of Chivas Regal. He glanced at the empty spot on the lobby carpet. Margaret had taken Albert for a walk along the shore. No need to worry when she’s with Albert, he thought. She’d fight to the death to save that slavering behemoth. He took a deep breath and smiled. The life of an innkeeper, he thought, was onerous but damned near perfect.

Gregoire gave the kitchen a final inspection, turned off the overhead lights, tossed his apron into the laundry hamper, and let himself out the back door, locking it behind him.

A glass of wine, a little light opera, and to bed for a well-earned few hours. He sauntered down the path to the bunkhouse.

When he arrived, Gerald was modelling a shirt in front of the hall mirror. “Do you like this?”

Gregoire studied the silk Art Deco print. “Very nice.”

“Or what about this?” Gerald ran to his room and returned with a flaming red number. “With black leather pants.”

Gregoire went to the kitchen and poured a glass of chardonnay. “It would be a big hit in Amsterdam. Otherwise, it’s a bit much. Where are you planning to wear it?”

“I have a date.”

“A date?”

“Yes.” Gerald checked his image in the mirror and flicked back a lock of hair. “The Silver Fox.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Salvadore Corsi.”

Gregoire paused, his lips kissing the rim of the wine glass. “Mr. Corsi?”

“Yes. Didn’t you notice? He’s been making eyes at me since he got here.”

Gregoire put his glass down. “No, I didn’t notice. I am too busy in the kitchen to notice that the waiter is hustling the guests.”

Gerald smoothed his lapel. “Don’t be a prude.”

“I am not being a prude. It is not proper to date the guests.”

Gerald waved him off. “You don’t have to yell. I have ulterior motives.”

“I don’t care what motives you have. It is not right.”

“The man’s a filmmaker. He does documentaries. A guy has to take advantage of his opportunities in this business. Who knows? He might want to do a documentary on female impersonators.”

“That is even worse. Not only are you dating a guest, you plan to take advantage of him.”

“In all the ways I can.”

Gregoire drew himself up to his full height. “I will not let you do this.”

Gerald gave him an oblique look. “What are you going to do about it?”

Gregoire picked up the telephone. “I will call him myself. As chef and captain of the dining room. I will tell him it is against the policy of the Pleasant Inn for the staff to meet privately with the guests.”

Gerald caught his arm. “Oh, don’t be such a goody two-shoes. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Do you think I’m going to pass it up because it violates some old crab’s silly rules?”

Gregoire removed Gerald’s hand. “Rudley may be an old crab, but he took you in when nobody else was seeming to want you and gave you a job and a nice place to stay.”

Gerald opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. “Good night, Gregoire.”

Gregoire ran to the door, shouting after him. “This is the last time. You will not get away with this with me again.”

“Poo to you,” Gerald called over his shoulder.

“I warn you…” Gregoire stopped, his face flushed. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Phipps-Walker.”

Rudley woke to a familiar sound. He leapt out of bed and seized the alarm clock. Twenty minutes past five. He looked over at Margaret. She was sleeping soundly.

“Damn sirens,” he muttered. “They’re so common now, they might as well be loons.”

He threw on his bathrobe and ran down the stairs, pausing at the dining room door to catch a whiff of Gregoire’s wonderful coffee. There was none.

He charged into the kitchen. The lights were on. Ingredients for omelettes and pancakes, waffles and muffins sat on the counter. A bowl of fruit glistening with water droplets cozied up to the juicer. The coffee urn waited, ready to be turned on.

“Gregoire?”

He checked the pantry, opened the back door, and stepped out onto the porch. The morning mist lay like a blanket two-feet deep across the lawn, shredding at the edges with dawn’s first light. It was thick, but not thick enough to obscure the red and blue flashing lights in the lane behind the bunkhouse. He secured his bathrobe and scurried across the lawn, coming to a halt at a line of yellow tape. Beyond the tape, two police cars and an ambulance squatted in the shadows. A uniformed officer and a civilian in a blue windbreaker and grey chinos huddled together at the shore. A little man in khakis and a straw hat stood outside the tape.

Rudley stopped short of the tape. “What in hell is going on?”

The uniformed officer turned. “Mr. Rudley. How kind of you to grace us with your spindly white legs at this hour in the morning.”

“Ruskay.” Rudley glared at the officer, then turned to the man in the straw hat. “Norman what are you doing out here?”

Norman gave him a blank look. “Trying my luck as usual.”

“In a fog bank like this?”

“I thought it might be clearer out in the middle.”

Ruskay returned his attention to the lakeshore.

“What in hell is going on here?” Rudley repeated.

“Well,” said Norman, “I got fifty yards out or so and still couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, so I decided to return to the shore. Except I couldn’t see the dock. I didn’t want to run the boat aground so I decided to make a soft landing in the reed bank. I searched until I found the spot where the reeds thin. I had almost reached shore when I ran into him.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t believe what I saw.”

Rudley gave him a pleading look. “What did you see, Norman?”

Norman bowed his head. “I know you don’t want to hear this sort of thing, but there was a man hanging over the bank with his head and shoulders in the water. He was practically naked. Gregoire was bending over him. I called to him: ‘Gregoire, help me get him out of the water.’ He looked up at me. His eyes were like saucers, gleaming white through the fog. Finally, he responded. We hoisted him out of the water. It was then I realized it was Gerald.”

“Gerald?”

“Dead as a doornail.”

“Dead?”

“We tried, Rudley, but we couldn’t do a thing for him. I suppose we shouldn’t have taken him out of the water before the police arrived. I suppose we destroyed evidence, but we couldn’t tell for sure he was dead. When it was clear he was, I called the police.” He produced a cellphone from his pocket. “With all that goes on around here, I decided it was prudent to carry a telephone with me at all times.”

“Gerald? Our Gerald?”

“I’m afraid so, Rudley.” Norman observed a moment of silence, then said, “The police questioned me, then they questioned Gregoire, then they took him into the back of the cruiser for further interrogation.” He gave Rudley an oblique look. “They were friends weren’t they? Gerald and Gregoire?”

“Yes.”

“This is the first time we’ve had a body around here near and dear to someone.”

Rudley’s mouth drooped. Damn, Gerald, Gregoire’s old friend from grade school. He understood they hadn’t been close in recent years but still… He thought of Squiggy Ross, his childhood playmate, the cute little boy with the blond curls and gap-toothed smile. Damon and Pythias, they had been. He hadn’t seen Squiggy in years. He’d turned into a toothless rummy, as bald as a cue ball. Sat around on corners, begging for change. Still, if he heard Squiggy had drowned…

“They had an argument last evening, on the steps of the bunkhouse,” Norman went on. “Geraldine and I heard them.” He gave Rudley an apologetic shrug. “I didn’t mean to implicate Gregoire, but the argument came up in the line of questioning. By the police. Geraldine and I weren’t the only ones. The Sawchucks were taking a stroll nearby. They also heard the argument.”

“What were they arguing about?”

“I don’t know, but Gregoire was clearly upset. He was screaming at Gerald: ‘You won’t do this to me again,’ he said. And Gerald replied: ‘Poo to you.’”

Rudley’s brow wrinkled. “‘Poo to you?’”

“Yes. And then Gregoire said: ‘I warn you.’ At that point he saw us and went into the bunkhouse.”

Rudley glanced toward Ruskay. “You’re sure he was dead when you pulled him out of the water?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, damn.” Rudley waved to get Ruskay’s attention. “I want to talk to Gregoire.”

Ruskay sauntered over to the tape. “I’m afraid not. We’re about to take him to the station.”

“What in hell for?”

“We need to question him further.”

“How much further?”

“I can’t say.” He took a roll of police tape from his pocket. “We’re going to cordon off the bunkhouse. No one’s allowed in.”

“Now see here, Ruskay.”

“We’re waiting on a search warrant.” Ruskay turned away.

Norman tugged at Rudley’s sleeve. “Who’s going to fix breakfast, Rudley?”

“Lloyd” — Margaret put a tray on the trolley — “take this to the Sawchucks, please. And if anyone’s waiting, find out what they want.”

“Yes’m.”

“That’s a dear.”

Rudley stood over the counter, hacking up strawberries and melon. “After what’s happened, those philistines should be satisfied with toast and coffee.”

Margaret patted her forehead with the tail of her apron. “We have to carry on, Rudley. Mind you don’t bruise the strawberries.”

“I don’t know why they had to take Gregoire to the station. I don’t know why they won’t let us talk to him.”

“I suppose they don’t want us interfering with the investigation.”

“Since when have we interfered?” Rudley paused to mop up juice from the mangled strawberries. “Ruskay knows Gregoire wouldn’t kill anyone.”

Margaret sighed. “Who knows what any of us would do in the heat of passion.”

“I hope you’re not going to say that when they ask — as they inevitably will.” Rudley put the knife aside and pulled out a tray of fruit nappies.

“I’ll be discreet.”

“If that damned Phipps-Walker had only kept his mouth shut.”

“The police would have heard about the argument one way or another.”

Rudley grabbed a tray of croissants. “No, they wouldn’t have. Not one of them could find his head if it weren’t attached to his shoulders.”

“Be nice, Rudley”

Lloyd returned with the trolley. “Mr. Bole wants blueberry pancakes and sausage. He says he wants the pancakes with two pats of butter put on just as they come off the griddle, and maple syrup on the side. Warmed.”

“Tell Mr. Bole to take a flying leap.”

“And the sausage. Three of them, with a dollop of mango chutney on the side. A garnish of thin-sliced orange and strawberries cut in quarters with a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar. He says Gregoire would know how to do it just so, but you would have to be told.”

“Mr. Bole is just being helpful,” said Margaret as Rudley’s face turned red.

“And Mr. Sawchuck said to tell you the coffee was — ”

“Tell Mr. Sawchuck — ”

“ — the best he’s ever had.”

“Well, we have at least one guest with a discriminating palate.”

“Lloyd, dear, would you go into the pantry and bring out another tray of eggs?”

“Yes’m.”

“We’ll get by, Rudley.” Margaret gave his arm a squeeze, leaving a handprint of flour. “Gregoire will be back by lunch. Everything will be all right.” She paused. “Poor Gerald. It will be a while before everything is normal again.”

He glared at the wall. “It seems to me, Margaret, everything is entirely normal.”

A dusty grey sedan pulled up to the bunkhouse. Detectives Michel Brisbois and Chester Creighton got out. Brisbois, the older of the two, started to button his jacket, then gave up. Creighton tall and angular, stretched and yawned. Ruskay trotted down to meet them as they advanced toward the lakeshore.

“I was planning a quiet day reading the
Sunday Star
, Stan,” Brisbois said in greeting. “I’d like to hear some compelling evidence that this is a murder scene.”

“Well, sir,” Ruskay began, “it was the way they found him. His head and shoulders were in the water. The rest of him was sprawled on the bank.”

Brisbois took out his notebook. “Had he been drinking?”

“No evidence of that so far.”

“Drugs?”

“Nothing on him. Nothing in the bunkhouse except a bottle of Tylenol. There was half a bottle of wine and a six-pack in the refrigerator.”

Brisbois’ eyes drifted over the body. “Who’s the victim?”

“Gerald Murphy. He’s been working here as a waiter the last two weeks.”

Brisbois made a note. “Who found him?”

“Gregoire. Then Phipps-Walker came by in his boat. He states he found Gregoire kneeling over the victim.”

“Phipps-Walker? That old coot’s here again?”

“Yes. He says Gregoire’s eyes were like saucers. That he had to prompt him to get him to help get the guy out of the water.”

“Okay.”

“They got him out. Tried to do
CPR
. No luck. Phipps-Walker called 911 on his cellphone. The call was clocked at headquarters at ten to five.”

“Around five. How come Gregoire wasn’t in the kitchen?”

“Says he was. Went up at four, as always. Phoned down at a quarter to five to wake Gerald up. Didn’t get an answer. Came down to the bunkhouse. Found Gerald’s room empty. Went looking for him. Almost tripped over him. Then Phipps-Walker came out of the reeds in his boat.”

“What in hell was Phipps-Walker doing in the reeds?”

“He said he was fishing.”

Brisbois massaged his forehead. “Go on.”

“The deceased wasn’t wearing anything except a pair of red jockey shorts. The coroner thought they were silk.” He looked to Brisbois for validation of his opinion of this perversion. Brisbois merely shrugged so he went on. “There were clothes strewn around his room. Apparently, he was out last night. Had a date. Nobody seems to know what time he came in.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a bit of a mess in the room. The doily on the night table’s half off. There’s some stuff on the floor — one of those mini-flashlights, a watch, some change. Otherwise, nothing.”

“What about his wallet?”

“In his pants pocket. Looked intact. Identification. A few dollars.”

“Door jimmied?”

“No sign of that. According to Gregoire, both the doors — the victim’s and the main door — were ajar when he came up.”

“Did he lock the main door when he went up to the kitchen?”

“No. Apparently that’s usual.”

Brisbois shook his head. “Given that they had a murder here last year, you’d think they’d lock up like Fort Knox.” He thought for a moment. “So the guy gets up. He’s been out late. Goes outside to clear his head. Maybe he dunks his head in the lake, except he goes too far forward, panics and drowns.”

Ruskay’s shoulders sagged.

Brisbois pushed back his hat. “I’m simply offering an innocent explanation. I agree it doesn’t smell right.”

“There’s another thing.”

“Okay.”

“Witnesses overheard them — the victim and Gregoire — having an argument last night.”

“Time?”

“Around ten. The Phipps-Walkers were out looking for birds. And Walter and Doreen Sawchuck, they were taking a walk along the shore. Gregoire and the victim came out onto the porch. I guess it was pretty loud.”

“Could they tell what the argument was about?”

Ruskay consulted his notes and read back what Norman had told him.

“‘Poo to you?’”

“Yeah. When Gregoire saw the Phipps-Walkers he broke it off and went back inside.”

“What does Gregoire say they were arguing about?”

“He refused to say. That’s why we took him in.”

“And locked him up?”

Ruskay flushed. “He’s a suspect. He refused to cooperate. He was at the scene. They’d had a fight.”

“It’s okay, Ruskay. You did the right thing.” Brisbois turned to Creighton who was conferring with an officer on the bank. “What do you see, Creighton?”

Creighton stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Not much. Rudley keeps things pretty tidy. A stray butt or gum wrapper would stand out like a sore thumb. There’s a mess of footprints in the soft soil near the edge. The team lifted a couple, but there were a lot of different people around — Phipps-Walker, Gregoire, the paramedics.”

“Was our victim wearing shoes?”

“No.”

“Any barefoot prints?”

“No.”

Brisbois nodded. “Okay.” He motioned to Ruskay. “Back up a bit. What did Gregoire say exactly about his itinerary this morning?”

Ruskay thumbed through his notebook. “He says he got up at a quarter to four. He showered, shaved, dressed. He was in the kitchen at five after four. At a quarter to five, he called the victim to wake him up. Apparently, Gerald wasn’t used to the early hours they keep around here. He didn’t get an answer so Gregoire went down to the bunkhouse.”

“So he got down here around a quarter to five.”

“Yeah.”

Brisbois paused to follow the flight of a pair of ducks. “Any idea how long the guy’s been dead?”

“The coroner thought not long, maybe a couple of hours on the outside.”

“Strange.” Brisbois took a few steps away, turned back. “Did Gregoire see him before he went up to the kitchen?”

“He says he didn’t.”

“Did he see him come in last night?”

“No.”

“Do we know if he came in last night?”

Ruskay scratched the back of his neck. “Gregoire said the victim left his door open when he went out last night. It was closed when he got up this morning.”