Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant (10 page)

Mrs. Millotte had grown up on the lake. Her father and grandfather had been fishing guides and boat builders. Her mother took in summer guests, mainly fishermen. Nothing like the fancy people who frequented places like the Pleasant. The sounds of the lake were stored deep in her memory. She headed down the path toward the Elm Pavilion, Albert padding along beside her.

She liked Albert but thought him a poor excuse for a dog. He couldn’t help being what he was. He was a city dog. Sure, he sniffed things and chased everything in sight, but his activity wasn’t particularly purposeful. He had a lot of spunk but few brains, in her estimation. Skunks had sprayed him more times than she cared to remember. He’d been sprayed twice by the same skunk, no less, the one who liked to hang out under the back steps and didn’t bother anyone who wasn’t foolish enough to bother her. He’d tangled with a porcupine twice. Albert didn’t want to kill anything. He wanted to make friends.

She arrived at the Elm Pavilion, circling it before knocking. She had her master keys out but when she tried the door it was unlocked. Pushing it open a crack, she saw the Benson sisters, Louise, Emma, and Kate, huddled on the sofa watching
Bringing up Baby
.

Mrs. Millotte hesitated. If she startled them, one of them might have a heart attack. She was considering the best way to get their attention when Albert barked. The ladies turned in unison, unalarmed. Mrs. Millotte moved to the front of the sofa while Albert frisked among the sisters, soliciting pats.

“You didn’t lock your door,” Mrs. Millotte said.

The sisters exchanged glances.

“No, we didn’t,” Emma replied. “We didn’t want to have to get up in the middle of our Cary Grant marathon to answer the door. We thought if anyone needed us, they could let themselves in.”

“Detective Brisbois strongly advises us to keep our windows and doors locked at all times.”

Emma made a dismissive gesture with her right hand. “The detective is a nice man, but as you know, he’s an alarmist.”

“He’s asking us to take precautions because there may be a multiple murderer on the lam in our area.”

Louise’s attention drifted back to Cary Grant. “We’ve had murderers around here for years. None of them ever bothered us.”

“No one has a motive to dispose of us,” Kate added.

“Except me at this moment,” said Mrs. Millotte.

Louise tittered.

“Perhaps this man doesn’t need a motive,” Mrs. Millotte continued. “Perhaps he just enjoys killing people.”

Emma shook Kate’s arm to get her attention. “Mrs. Millotte says this man derives sexual satisfaction from killing people.”

“That’s not exactly what I said.”

“All of these people on
Criminal Minds
who don’t have legitimate motives kill because they derive sexual satisfaction from particularly gruesome, horrific crimes.”

“Usually after hours, perhaps days, of torture,” Kate added.

The sisters looked at each other. “We’ll keep the doors locked.”

“And don’t open the door unless you know who’s on the other side,” Mrs. Millotte added.

“Seventy percent of murders are committed by someone the victim knows,” said Louise.

“Well, figure out who around here is most likely to murder you and don’t let them in.”

“What if we all died during the night,” Kate piped up, “and no one knew because they can’t get in?”

“We’d notice if you didn’t call for breakfast.”

Louise shuddered. “My greatest fear is having someone find me dead on the toilet.”

“I’ll make sure they don’t include that in your obituary,” Mrs. Millotte said. “Now, is there anything I can do for you ladies?”

They glanced at each other and shook their heads.

“No, thank you,” said Kate.

“All right. Good night.” Mrs. Millotte peeped through the window, then slipped out the door, urging Albert ahead of her. She locked the door behind her and paused, gauging the sounds of the night.

·

Mr. Peters sat beside the fire, his marshmallow skewer over his knees, gazing into the flames.

“Like a kitten,” Turnbull murmured again.

Gil had gone to an open area to use the satellite phone. He came back to the group, loaded his skewer with marshmallows, and dropped down beside Simpson.

“Are you going to call home every five minutes?” Turnbull fixed Gil with a mocking smile.

Gil flushed. “No.”

“Makes a person wonder if you know where we’re headed.”

“Any news?” Miss Miller asked when Gil didn’t respond to Turnbull’s provocation.

“I was talking to my fifteen-year-old cousin. He’s not big on news.”

“I wonder if the police have found out anything about that poor man in the ditch?” Margaret worried.

“At least he wasn’t found on our property,” said Rudley.

“The murders that take place on our property are usually committed by our guests or their associates,” said Margaret.

Turnbull turned to stare at the Rudleys.

“They are usually in-house,” Simpson agreed.

“And usually with a well-defined motive,” Norman added. He looked to Miss Miller. “I don’t recall a murder at the Pleasant that was committed purely for pleasure.”

Miss Miller thought a moment. “I agree, Norman. In each case the motives were clear.”

Turnbull looked into the trees. “Did they catch the perps?”

“Oh, yes,” said Geraldine. “Every single one of them.”

“We have Miss Miller to thank for much of that,” said Margaret.

Turnbull looked at Miss Miller and shook his head dismissively.

“Really,” said Norman. “Miss Miller is a capable sleuth.”

“Nothing escapes her attention,” Geraldine added.

Miss Miller tilted her head in a self-deprecating gesture. “I believe we should give Detectives Brisbois and Creighton appropriate credit.”

“Which would be almost none,” said Rudley. “The two of them couldn’t find their own car in a parking lot.”

“Maybe someone else is on the case,” said Gil.

Norman frowned. “Oh, I don’t think so. They seem to look after most of the goings-on in the district.”

Rudley crossed his eyes.

“Well, we have nothing to worry about here.” Geraldine turned a fond eye toward the guide. “We have Gil to protect us.”

“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Phipps-Walker.”

A sudden footfall interrupted the conversation.

Peters jumped. “What was that?”

Norman speared two marshmallows. “Given our location in the boreal forest, I believe it could be a deer, possibly a moose.” He held his skewer over the embers. “Nothing to worry about. A moose can be formidable, especially in mating season, but…”

“I think the steps were too light to be a moose,” Geraldine said. “It was probably just a raccoon.”

“Or a mad trapper,” said Turnbull, grinning.

“Yes,” Margaret wondered, “what would we do if a mad trapper materialized out of the darkness pointing a high-powered rifle at us?”

“Why, I would throw myself on him,” Rudley said with a jaunty smile. “Take one for the team.”

Margaret beamed. “Why, Rudley, how gallant of you.”

Turnbull smiled smugly. He picked up a marshmallow, started to skewer it, changed his mind, and popped it into his mouth. He poked the skewer into the embers and watched it catch fire before thrusting it the rest of the way in. “If someone showed up with a high-powered rifle, he’d just pick us off one by one and we couldn’t do a thing about it.”

Miss Miller gave him a cool smile. “You might choose to do nothing, Mr. Turnbull, but Mr. Rudley is prepared to be heroic.” She turned to Simpson. “And Edward would also challenge the gunman. Wouldn’t you, Edward?”

“Of course, Elizabeth.” Simpson had just swallowed a marshmallow. The words came out in a high-pitched squeak.

“And Norman too,” said Geraldine.

“I would certainly challenge anyone with the audacity to point a weapon at us,” Norman declared.

“We would rush the intruder simultaneously,” said Miss Miller.

Turnbull picked up a handful of pebbles and began tossing them into the fire. “What about you, Peters? Maybe you’d just freeze.”

Peters had been eating a marshmallow. He looked up quickly.

“I think you’d all just freeze,” Turnbull added.

Margaret frowned. “Oh, I don’t think we would. We could have some sort of password worked out in advance. And at the password we would rush the intruder. The element of surprise would work in our favour.”

Turnbull smirked. “What kind of password? Like ‘that’s all, folks?’” He tossed another pebble, this time nicking Peters’s knee.

“How about ‘shoot Turnbull first,’” Peters muttered.

Turnbull’s smirk faded.

“I’m sure Mr. Peters doesn’t want you to be shot,” Margaret hastened to say. “After all, our mad trapper wouldn’t know who you were, so he wouldn’t know to shoot you first.”

“Couldn’t we simply scream ‘attack?’” Geraldine suggested.

“All of us at once?” Norman asked.

Geraldine looked at him, befuddled.

“May I suggest,” said Norman, “that since Miss Miller has always proven perspicacious in her assessments and the execution of any action that might be suggested by those assessments, that Miss Miller be nominated to shout ‘shoot Turnbull first’? And in her absence, this duty would fall to her delegate.”

Rudley’s eyes crossed. “Have you recently chaired some sort of meeting, Norman?”

“The semiannual Sparrow Society meeting,” Geraldine replied for her husband. “In Ottawa.”

“The sparrow is a much maligned and underappreciated member of our avian family,” said Norman.

“Plucky little chaps,” said Simpson.

“So it’s agreed, then,” Norman said, “that Miss Miller or her delegate will shout ‘shoot Turnbull first.’”

Turnbull looked at him, a faint smile playing about his lips.

Rudley encouraged a moth from his breast pocket. “Splendid plan. I doubt if a mad trapper will wander into our camp. But in the event one does, I am confident we will act in an effective and coordinated manner.”

Norman regarded him blankly.

“We’ll all turn and run like hell,” said Rudley.

Turnbull shook his head and laughed.

·

Lloyd was immersed in his comic book when Mr. Bole came out of the drawing room.

“I’m headed back to my cabin,” Mr. Bole announced. “If I don’t show up for breakfast, you’ll know I’ve been done in.”

“Yes’m,” said Lloyd without looking up.

Mr. Bole hesitated. “Lloyd, I’m going upstairs to hack the Sawchucks up with the fire axe.”

“Yes’m.”

Mr. Bole gave up and came around behind the desk. “What’s so interesting, Lloyd?”

Lloyd pointed to a cartoon panel. “The mayor just found out the guys he gave the keys to the city to were from outer space.”

“That would certainly throw a wrench into one’s day.”

“Yup.”

“Goodnight, then, Lloyd. Don’t forget to lock the door behind me.”

Lloyd locked the door.

·

Mrs. Millotte had let go of Albert’s leash for a second to make sure the Benson sisters’ door was locked. But a fox flashed past the inn and Albert took off into the woods in hot pursuit. She called the dog in vain. Albert was such a dummy, she thought. She checked her flashlight. The batteries were failing. Well, if she were going into the woods, she’d need the big light from the basement. She took her master key and set out up the path.

·

“Lloyd.” Tiffany ran up to the desk.

“Yes’m,” he said without looking up.

Tiffany grabbed the comic book and closed it. “Lloyd, I need you to help me with the Sawchucks. Doreen sat down in the occasional chair and she’s wedged in so tightly I can’t get her out. I need you to support her weight while I wriggle the chair free.”

Lloyd came out from behind the desk. “Mr. Rudley says she’s well-upholstered.”

“Lloyd, if you must make any comments in her presence, make sure it’s about the chair being terribly small.”

“Can do.”

“There are some bigger chairs in storage. We’ll pretend the little chair is broken and must be replaced.”

“Probably does now.”

Tiffany urged him up the stairs. “Lloyd, don’t say anything except perhaps ‘good evening’ and ‘yes, Mrs. Sawchuck’ or ‘no, Mrs. Sawchuck.’”

“Can do.” He paused. “There won’t be nobody at the desk.”

“It’s all right, Lloyd, I saw Mrs. Millotte come in the back door while I was checking the window locks in 206.”

“Could have been a robber.”

“It was Mrs. Millotte. I waved to her and she waved back.”

Tiffany quickly scribbled a note:
Lloyd’s helping me in 209
. She put the note on the desk and hurried up the stairs.

·

Mrs. Millotte had come through the back door to get the high-powered flashlight that was usually kept in the storage closet across from Rudley’s basement office. She searched high and low, with no results. Finally, she gave up, climbed the stairs to the first floor, and checked the closet in the hallway. There it was — perched on a box of toilet tissue. She cursed whoever was in the habit of taking things and not returning them to their appointed places. She removed the flashlight and proceeded to the desk, intending to let Lloyd know she was going out again.

No Lloyd.

She was about to give the bell a smack when she saw Tiffany’s note. She shook her head. Don’t tell me there’s a bat in the Sawchucks’ room, she thought. If that were the case, Lloyd and Tiffany were welcome to the task of removing it. She wrote a note of her own:
Lloyd, I’m going out to look for Albert. He slipped the leash. Have master keys.

Mrs. Millotte considered that she should have asked someone to accompany her. She thought about tapping on the door to the bunkhouse, but Gregoire had just closed down the kitchen and she knew he and Tim had had a long day. Besides, she felt embarrassed about the lapse that had allowed Albert to escape in the first place.

She was also worried. Albert was a good dog in many ways but the only one he paid much attention to was Edward Simpson. Must be the British accent, she thought. She’d grown up with dogs, all of whom roamed the country freely. They were quite capable of finding their way home. She wasn’t sure if Albert had that capacity. What worried her more was that he had run off with his leash attached. He could get snagged and hang himself or become easy prey for a coyote. Mrs. Rudley said he was an innocent dog, full of good will, believing all the forest creatures wanted to play with him. Innocent dogs usually learned after one or two unfortunate encounters. Stupid dogs never learned.