Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders (7 page)

Creighton shrugged. “You might not like his style but he’s got an ironclad alibi.”

Brisbois pushed his hat back. “Even if he didn’t, it would be hard to imagine him killing Gerald. Spindly little guy. Must be at least sixty.”

Brisbois took a turn onto the dock, walked to the end. Creighton followed.

“Don’t jump,” said Creighton. “It isn’t that bad.”

Brisbois gave him an aggrieved look.

“So if it wasn’t Corsi and it wasn’t Gregoire, then it must have been somebody from outside.”

Brisbois took out a cigarette. “They would have had to know when Gerald would be alone.”

“They’d have to get that information from somebody at the inn.”

Brisbois turned abruptly and headed back up the dock. “I think we’re going to a party.”

The dining room was empty save for the table by the kitchen. Gregoire, minus his chef’s cap, and Tim, immaculate at the end of a long evening, sat around the table with Miss Miller, Mr. Simpson, and the Rudleys.

“I can’t believe Detective Brisbois thought you were a murderer, Gregoire,” said Miss Miller.

Gregoire bristled. “I don’t think for one minute he believed I was a murderer. He was being stubborn because he wanted me to tell him something I did not want to tell him.”

“You didn’t want to tell him that Gerald had a date with Mr. Corsi.”

“That was it,” said Gregoire. “That was all. It wasn’t important.”

Margaret put a hand on Gregoire’s shoulder. “Gregoire was trying to protect our reputation. He didn’t want to see lurid headlines splashed all over the tabloids: ‘Sex Escapade Leads to Murder.’ That sort of thing.”

Gregoire blushed. “Yes, and I couldn’t see that Mr. Corsi would have killed Gerald. He’s just a little older guy.”

“And he was also trying to protect Gerald’s mother,” said Margaret.

Gregoire’s eyes teared. “I couldn’t have her see something like that in the papers. I couldn’t have Gerald’s lifestyle pushed in her face like that. She was so good to me when I was little. She stood up for me when other kids picked on me. We came to Newcastle from Quebec because my father got a job. The kids thought my accent was funny.” He moistened his lips. “And she taught me to cook. My apple pie and rhubarb shortcake are hers. Even after we moved back to Longueuil, she sent me recipes.”

“That’s very noble of you,” said Simpson.

“Is the Crown charging you with obstructing the investigation?” Miss Miller asked.

Gregoire sighed. “Let’s say we made a deal. They will not charge me with that and I will not sue them for charging me with murder with such flimsy evidence.”

“I’m sorry about the death of your friend,” said Simpson.

Gregoire shook his head. “Poor Gerald. He was not a bad person. But he could get into a lot of hot water sometimes. Detective Brisbois is certain he was killed because he was doing something reckless.”

“Was he doing something reckless?”

“He was a waiter. Sometimes he worked as a female impersonator. Apart from turning an ankle in his stilettos or tripping over the hem of his evening gown, I cannot see how he was doing anything reckless. But I don’t think the detective sees it that way.”

“Detective Brisbois can be unsophisticated at times,” Margaret said.

“Well,” said Miss Miller, “I’m here now.”

“Fresh from Outer Mongolia,” Tim added.

“It was lovely. Wasn’t it, Edward?”

“It was.” He cleared his throat. “Stimulating.”

“Edward especially liked the yak rides.”

“The locals were quite taken with Elizabeth,” Simpson said. “They were especially impressed with her willingness to eat all sorts of things.”

“Let’s just say their culinary arts are different from yours, Gregoire.”

Tim relaxed back in his chair. “Do you have a theory about the murder, Miss Miller?”

“Did you say Gerald was murdered between the time Gregoire left for the kitchen and returned an hour later?”

“That’s the rumour.”

Miss Miller narrowed her eyes. “Then clearly it was an inside job.”

Creighton and Brisbois, in matching clown costumes, sat on a deacon’s bench just inside the ballroom door.

“Do you think we’re fooling anyone in these outfits?”

“With this nose, my wife wouldn’t recognize me.”

“I feel like an idiot.”

Brisbois shrugged. “So what? These costumes are roomy enough to conceal our weapons. Besides, they’re comfortable.”

“We could have come as gorillas.”

“Just keep smiling and pay attention.”

Creighton gave his shoes a disparaging look. “So far, we’ve witnessed several reels and minuets, a seventy-year-old woman doing the Charleston, and an apple-bobbing contest. The best moment, so far, was when Doreen Sawchuck pinned the tail on Rudley’s ass.”

“She tripped. The poor old gal has arthritis.” Brisbois smiled and nodded as a couple dressed like Sir John A. Macdonald and his wife, Agnes, stopped near them. Sir John’s costume included a mask with a prominent nose. “Nice costumes,” he said.

They nodded their thanks.

Creighton pulled at his ruff. “You know what Miss Miller would say if she were here?”

“I hate to think.”

“She’d say we don’t know what in hell we’re doing.”

Mrs. Macdonald snapped her fan shut. “Miss Miller would never swear, Detective Creighton. Not that Miss Miller is a prude. She simply believes that swearing displays an absence of imagination or a failure to command the vocabulary of our English language. Isn’t that right, Mr. Prime Minister?”

“If you say so, Agnes.”

Creighton stared, bewildered. Brisbois shook his head, then rose to shake hands. “Miss Miller. Simpson. I heard a rumour you’d be here for Halloween.”

She tapped him smartly on the shoulder with her fan. “I wish I could say I was flabbergasted to see you, Detective, but given the idiosyncrasies of the Pleasant…”

“Say no more.”

“Shall I fetch you some cider?” Simpson asked his companion.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Gentlemen?”

“Nothing for us, thanks.”

Creighton waited until Simpson was out of earshot. “So, you haven’t snared him yet.”

“On the contrary. He’s quite well snared.”

“I thought you would have been married by now.”

She fluttered her fan. “As you may know, Detective Creighton, it’s more exciting to hunt without a licence.”

Brisbois suppressed a smile.

She folded her fan and sat down on the Queen Anne chair next to Brisbois. “Let’s recap your situation, Detective.”

He crossed his arms, amiably. “All right.”

“You have a man murdered. As yet, you don’t know who did it or why.”

“I haven’t a who yet. I have a pretty good idea about the why.”

She leaned toward him. “Do tell.”

“The usual reasons, Miss Miller, money, love, revenge.”

“That strikes me as simplistic, Detective.”

“Well, you know, when you hear hoof beats, think horses not zebras.”

She tilted her head. “Obviously, you think the killer may be here tonight.”

“Might be.”

“Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Dressed like Bozo and Chuckles the Clown,” Creighton finished.

“Actually, I like your costumes. Especially the large red shoes.” She paused. “You’ve vetted the guests?”

“Of course.”

“Any red flags?”

“You tell me.”

She frowned. “I’ve been here just twenty-four hours, Detective. I haven’t had a chance to get to know everyone. Tim seems to find Mr. Harvey suspicious. I must say, he strikes me as oily.”

“So does my car mechanic, Miss Miller, but I’m pretty sure he’s not a murderer.” He paused. “Did you have anyone else in mind?”

She smiled. “Give me a few more days.”

Simpson returned with the apple cider.

“We were discussing the recent murder, Edward.”

“Shocking,” he said. “Terrible for Gregoire.” He paused, then said hopefully, “I imagine the detectives have the matter well in hand.”

She beamed. “Edward, dear, of course they don’t.”

Napoleon, aka Gregory Frasor, staggered across the ballroom to the buffet. He snared a glass of punch and lumbered over to the mouse who stood in the corner, balancing a plate of canapés. “Let me guess” — he waved a hand in the mouse’s face — “you’re the guy who chases the birds.”

The mouse froze.

“No. You’re too short.” Napoleon snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. You’re the old guy I play poker with.”

The mouse turned away.

Napoleon grabbed a fuzzy ear and pulled.

The head came off. The plate shattered on the floor.

“Professor!” Margaret ran toward him and grabbed the mouse’s head from Napoleon, who was waving it like a captured flag. “Let me help you.” She stuck the head back onto Adolph who had shrunk back against the wall and led him into the hallway.

Miss Miller turned toward Simpson. “Did she say ‘professor’?”

Simpson nodded. “That was rather immature of Napoleon. The gentleman seems distraught.”

“I don’t remember seeing him before.” Miss Miller looked to the detectives, who exchanged glances and shrugged.

“He’s a bit of a recluse,” whispered Tim who had come to refill the punch bowl. “Doesn’t leave his cabin as a rule.”

Frasor took a slug of punch and set out to pursue the mouse into the hallway.

Rudley seized him by the shoulder. “Now, Mr. Frasor , perhaps you’d care to take part in the ring toss.” He steered Frasor toward the opposite side of the room. “Right this way.”

“It’s been a splendid party, Rudley.”

Rudley glanced around. The party had dwindled to a few stray souls. “Thank you, Mr. Bole. I hope the guests had a good time.”

“A good time, as always.” Bole tipped his hat. “Sorry about the accident.”

Rudley put a hand tenderly on his right buttock. “All in a day’s work.

Margaret waved to Mr. Bole as he left. “You were a good sport about that, Rudley.”

“I’m just grateful she didn’t have more than a tack in her hand.” He looked around. “I take it Tiffany bribed the parents to take the last of the children.”

“They’re all gone, Rudley. I think Tiffany went out back with Lloyd. They were going to light the jack-o’-lanterns and take some pictures for the scrapbook.”

“Fine idea.”

“I guess Christopher isn’t going to make it.”

“Pity.”

“And Jim didn’t show up. I thought he was keen.”

“The man’s such an airhead, Margaret, he probably forgot the date.”

Detectives Brisbois and Creighton emerged from the ballroom.

“I wondered where you clowns had gone,” said Rudley.

“Funny, Rudley.” Brisbois turned to Margaret. “Lovely party, Margaret.”

“Any new ideas on Gerald’s murder?” she asked.

“Nothing in particular. Just a few things jiggling around.”

“With any luck they might run into each other by spring,” Rudley murmured.

“Be nice, Rudley.”

The detectives left. Mr. Frasor teetered out of the ballroom.

“I guess I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He looked back over his shoulder, almost losing his balance. “Looks as if I’m the last one out.”

“I take it you had a good time.”

“I had a wonderful time, Mrs. Rudley. So good, I think I’ll come back next year.” He grinned. “Maybe sooner.”

“Would you like an escort back to your cabin?”

“No, I’ll be fine, Rudley. I could get there in my sleep.”

“Good night, then.” Rudley turned to Margaret. “Did the mouse ever come back?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ll have to go down in the morning to apologize. I had no idea anyone would tamper with his head. I forgot to tell him it zippered on. I did it up for him but he wouldn’t stay.”

Rudley stretched. “Well, apart from that, a good evening was had by all, I would say.”

“Indeed.” She sighed. “I suppose we should go in and package up the leftovers.”

He put an arm around her. “Take a break, Margaret. Tiffany and Lloyd will be back in soon. They’ll want a snack. Tim and Gregoire are still in the kitchen. They’ll want something, too. We might even get Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson back for a nightcap.”

“They went upstairs rather early.”

“Something about a big nose being seductive.” He smiled and turned to show her his profile. “I’ve always believed that myself.”

She waved him off. “Oh, Rudley.”

“Let me get you a glass of wine and we’ll…”

Rudley’s words were lost in two sharp cracks, sounding out in rapid succession.

Rudley stiffened.

Margaret gasped. “Do you know what that sounded like?”

“Yes, Margaret.” He grabbed her and pulled her down behind the desk.

Tim reached for a walnut meringue. “I’m glad the guests didn’t scarf all of these.”

Gregoire surveyed the sandwiches. “We have enough left over for some bedtime snacks. The children demolished everything I prepared for them.” He snapped to attention. “What was that?”

Tim reached for a serviette and wiped his fingers. “One of our drunken patrons must have set off a firecracker.”

“It sounded like a very big firecracker.”

Tim reached for another meringue, then recoiled at the clank of metal on metal. “I think something just hit the flagpole.”

Gregoire grabbed Tim’s arm. “That was not a firecracker.”

“You’re probably right.” Tim dropped the meringue and dove under the table.

Gregoire joined him.

“It’s probably one of the boys from town,” Tim said. “Maybe that idiot who murdered the pumpkins last year.”

“You mean tipping cows is now out of fashion?”

“Guess so.”

“What should we do?”

“Call the police.”

Gregoire glanced toward the phone. “Which one of us is going to put our head over the table?”

“How about the short one with the tall hat.”

Gregoire gave Tim a sour look.

They were quiet for a moment, then Tim said, “I think Tiffany and Lloyd are out back.”

They scrambled together for the phone.

Margaret winced. “There’s another.”

“I know.” Rudley pulled her closer.

“What should we do?”

“I’m not sure.” He paused, straining to listen. “I wonder where Brisbois and Creighton are.”

“Probably halfway back to town.”

“Of course.” He flinched as another report split the air, followed by a metallic ping. “I think he got the flagpole.”

A door down the hall burst open. Light, rapid footsteps came up the stairs and advanced toward the desk.

Rudley grabbed an ornamental door stopper. “Get ready, Margaret.”

“Mr. Rudley, where are you?”

“Tiffany, get in here.”

She gasped. “Mr. Rudley, are you behind the desk?”

“Don’t advertise the fact. Just get in here.”

She toppled in beside him.

“What in hell is going on?”

“I was out in the back yard with Lloyd,” she whispered. “We were trying to decide how to arrange the pumpkins for the photographs. We thought we’d put them against the tall grass beside the bench.”

Margaret’s voice rose an octave. “Is Lloyd all right?”

The door banged open again. Footsteps pounded down the hall.

“Yoo hoo.”

“Lloyd.” Margaret waved a hand over the desk.

Lloyd ducked in beside her.

She touched his cheek, then recoiled. “Lloyd, what’s that on your face?”

“Someone shot his jack-o’-lantern,” said Tiffany.

“It was first-rate too,” said Lloyd. “Round like a marble and same colour all around.”

“Was anyone else out there?” Rudley rasped.

“Mr. Bole came by, then he was gone.”

“Where?”

“I guess to his cottage. He said, ‘Is that the jack-o’-lantern that won first prize?’ I said yes and he went on.”

“Somebody’s got to do something.” Rudley popped his head over the desk. His eyes darted across the lobby to the unlocked door. He ducked as another shot rang out.

“That one sounded close,” said Lloyd.

“Albert hasn’t even opened his eyes.” Rudley lunged for the phone and dragged it in behind the desk. He stopped to catch his breath, then dialed 911. “Wood Lake Road. The Pleasant Inn.” He paused. “Why, I resent that, miss. It’s nothing to laugh at. Somebody’s shooting at us. What? All right.” He hung up. “Tim’s already called in from the kitchen.”

“I hope he’s all right. Is Gregoire with him?”

“We didn’t get that chatty, Margaret.”

“Bring the phone around, Rudley. If he sees it stretched over the desk, he’ll know we’re here.”

He scrambled to the task. He could hear wood splintering as he plastered himself to the side of the desk. “That better not have been the porch spindles.”

“We can replace the spindles.” Margaret pulled on his arm. “See if you can wake Albert and coax him in here.”

“I don’t think whoever it is will bother shooting him, Margaret. He looks dead already.”

“Maybe we should lock the front door,” Tiffany said.

Rudley hesitated. “Better not. In case someone needs to take cover.”

“The police will be here soon,” said Margaret.

They sat shoulder to shoulder, staring at the back of the desk. Rudley’s watch sounded loud against the silence.

Rudley started. “What’s that?”

“What?”

“I heard steps on the gravel.”

“Maybe a raccoon,” said Lloyd.

“Damn big raccoon.” Rudley hitched back against the wall, strained to see through the window. His view was obstructed by a settee. “Where are the damned police?”

“They were probably several miles away when the call went out, Rudley.”

Another shot creased the air, followed by a flurry of steps down the staircase.

“What’s going on around here?”

“Pearl,” Rudley hissed, recognizing the voice, “get in here.”

Pearl peeked in behind the desk, her mouth formed into a surprised O. “What’s everybody doing here?”

“Those were gun shots, Pearl.”

“I know they’re gun shots. I thought they were coming from the television.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“They aren’t shooting at us, are they?”

He gave her a stricken look. “He, Pearl. I’d hate to think there’s more than one. And I don’t think he’s being particular. So far, he’s destroyed Lloyd’s pumpkin and probably hit a flagpole, a tree, perhaps a canoe, the veranda, or the porch spindles.” He flinched as a bullet flinted off something hard. “And perhaps a rock.”