Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant (18 page)

Brisbois turned to greet him. “Mr. Cowperthwaite?”

The man hesitated as Brisbois introduced himself and showed him his police badge. “Actually, it’s Fred Lewis. I bought the shop from Mr. Cowperthwaite.” He paused. “What’s this about?”

Brisbois held up his envelope. “We’re trying to track down where this envelope came from. Do you sell something like this?”

Mr. Lewis took a close look at the envelope. “Yes. It’s from Cheltham. This particular one is called Chantilly Lace.”

“Do you sell a lot of this?”

“No. Chantilly Lace isn’t popular nowadays. It’s a rather heavy antique ivory. People these days tend to be seduced by the bubblegum colours.”

“Can you tell who purchased Chantilly Lace recently?”

“If they paid in cash, probably not.” Mr. Lewis sighed. “I don’t handle all of the transactions personally and I don’t always know the names of customers, particularly summer residents.”

“Could you check your sales records?”

“Certainly.”

Brisbois expected Mr. Lewis to haul out a dusty box. Instead, he went to a computer at the back of the store and scrolled down a screen. “
LB
will pick up,” he muttered. “Oh, yes.” He turned to Brisbois. “We’ve sold three boxes this year.
LB
will pick up.” He nodded. “All three went to the Pleasant Inn.”

The campers were on the river paddling slowly, glad to be away from the stretch of turbulent water.

“That was rougher than Gil thought,” Margaret said.

“I, for one, would have preferred not to have had to be so alert for hidden rocks,” Rudley said. “A vacation should be a relaxing experience, Margaret.”

“Although Mr. Simpson had trouble keeping Miss Miller from plunging into the worst of it.”

“I think that’s been his problem from the start, Margaret.”

She looked over her shoulder at him reprovingly. “Oh, Rudley, I think Mr. Simpson has always enjoyed Miss Miller’s adventurous side. I imagine that’s one of her attractions. I suspect he’s always longed for adventure but has always been a little timid about undertaking risk on his own. I don’t think he realizes how brave he is.”

“Consorting with Miss Miller is the definition of bravery.”

She gave him a smile. “Now, haven’t you always liked my adventurous side, Rudley?”

“I have, Margaret. I’ve just been smart enough not to be drawn into it.”

She started to respond, but a large bird circling overhead caught her attention. “Ooh,” she uttered admiringly. “Rudley, look at that magnificent hawk.”

“He is a beauty.”

“I feel sorry for the little creature he’s after.”

“Yes, Margaret. Nature is red in tooth and claw.”

·

Seeing no one at the desk of the Pleasant, Brisbois tapped the bell.

“Keep your shorts on, for heaven’s sakes,” a voice came from down the hallway.

Brisbois peered in the direction of the voice to see Mrs. Millotte’s derriere sticking out of the hall closet. Presently Mrs. Millotte’s front half appeared. She frowned at Brisbois and said, “What in hell are you doing here?”

Brisbois smiled. “Planning to open your own inn, Mrs. Millotte?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re starting to sound a lot like Rudley.”

Mrs. Millotte shuddered. “I’m sorry, Detective,” she said, recovering her normal tone. “How may I help you?”

“I need to ask you about an order from Cowperthwaite’s Stationery.” He glanced at his notes. “May twenty-fourth, to be exact.”

“Remember it as if it were yesterday,” she said. She went to the cupboard behind the desk, brought out a ragged file box, and plunked it down on the desk. She removed a folder, opened it, and eyed the contents. “Nothing unusual, Detective.” She handed him a file. “Business forms, number ten envelopes.”

“And three boxes of stationery,” he noted, reading the list. “Chantilly Lace.”

“That was for the Benson sisters.”

“Rudley buys stationery for the guests?”

“He provides the usual hotel stationery for most of the units. He gets the fancy stuff for the sisters and bills them for the difference. See?” She pointed to a note. “
BD
— bill difference.
EP
— Elm Pavilion.”

He frowned. “Why don’t the sisters just buy it themselves?”

She looked at him over her glasses. “Because he gets a commercial rate. Rich people don’t get rich by wasting money on stationery.”

·

Brisbois and Creighton stood outside the door of the Elm Pavilion, waiting for a response from the sisters. Eventually, Emma answered.

“Detectives.” She swung the door open and beckoned them in. “I apologize but we were at a particularly critical part of
Psycho
.”

“I’m sorry,” Brisbois said.

“Would you like some cordial?” Kate asked.

“Lime or raspberry,” added Louise.

“This reminds me too much of
Arsenic and Old Lace
,” said Creighton.

Louise tittered. “Oh, Detective, we wouldn’t poison you with cordial.”

“It would be wrong,” said Kate.

“Detectives,” said Emma, picking up a carafe. “Perhaps I could interest you instead in coffee and petits fours.”

“That would be nice,” said Brisbois, watching her pour two cups of coffee.

“Why don’t you sit down?” said Kate.

Brisbois and Creighton took the chairs across from the sisters, who grouped together on the sofa. “Ladies,” Brisbois began, “if we may ask you a few questions.”

“Tsk,” Louise said reproachfully. “They’re here on business.”

“Business and pleasure,” said Brisbois, smiling and taking a petit four from his saucer. “It’s always a treat to visit the Elm Pavilion.” He quickly consumed the pastry and took out an envelope. “Ladies, have you seen an envelope like this?”

Emma glanced at it. “Of course, Detective.”

“Chantilly Lace,” added Kate.

“We’ve used it for years,” said Louise.

“Our mother always used it,” Kate continued. “Mother wrote hundreds of letters. She had wonderful penmanship.”

Brisbois took out his notebook. “And where do you purchase your stationery?”

“Mr. Rudley orders it from Cowperthwaite’s,” said Emma.

“Always Cowperthwaite’s,” said Kate.

“We wouldn’t think of purchasing it anywhere else,” said Louise.

Brisbois flicked his pen. “Did anyone borrow any stationery from you or are you missing any?”

“No,” Emma replied. “We keep it locked in our secretary.” She got up and went over to the antique cherry writing desk at the far wall. She took a key from her pocket, opened the secretary, and took out a box of stationary. “Still here,” she said.

“You lock up your writing supplies?” Creighton blurted over his coffee cup.

Emma gave him an impatient look. “We don’t lock up the stationery per se. We keep it in the secretary where we keep our valuables.”

“Father’s stamp collection,” said Kate.

“And great-grandma’s cameos,” said Louise.

“We trust the staff implicitly,” said Emma, “but you never know who might be wandering around.”

“But you don’t worry about keeping your doors and windows locked,” Brisbois said in an exasperated tone.

“If someone broke in, we’d hear them,” Emma responded crossly.

Brisbois sighed and looked to Creighton, who rolled his eyes.

“Do you remember ever lending or giving some of your stationery to anyone on the premises?” Brisbois pressed.

The sisters regarded each other, then shook their heads.

“I don’t think anyone but us would want it,” said Kate.

“That’s why Chantilly Lace is so hard to find,” Louise said.

“People these days don’t have a taste for it,” Kate added.

Brisbois smiled. “You gave me an envelope.”

“Because you’re special.” Kate sipped her coffee. “Were you thinking of purchasing a supply of Chantilly Lace, Detective? You seem so interested in it.”

Brisbois hesitated. “We don’t want to upset you ladies. We know you’re fond of the children.”

“Lovely children,” said Louise.

“We received a kidnap note,” Brisbois explained. “It was delivered through the mail slot at the local newspaper office. The envelope was identical to the one you gave me. Chantilly Lace.”

The sisters gasped.

“What in hell?” Emma muttered.

“We’re shocked,” Kate dropped her cup in its saucer.

“We were hoping they’d just run away,” Emma moved to the window and stared out.

“We thought whoever took the kids might have got hold of one of your envelopes.” Brisbois’ eyes narrowed. He had a sudden thought. “The kids had some Polaroids in their room.”

“Oh, yes,” said Louise. “We took dozens of pictures of the children. Do you want to see them?”

“Not right now,” Brisbois responded impatiently. “Did you happen to give the kids their pictures in one of your Chantilly Lace envelopes?”

“No,” said Emma, turning from the window.

Louise reflected. “Oh, I think we did, Emma.”

“Now, Louise, we’d never give the children one of our fine envelopes,” Emma countered.

“Children have sticky fingers,” Kate reminded her.

“I’m sure we gave them their photographs in a number ten business envelope,” said Emma.

“I thought it was a plastic bag,” said Kate.

Brisbois sighed. “I was hoping the kidnapper might have come by the envelope through the kids. It might narrow things down.”

“I can assure you that would be impossible,” said Emma.

“For the sake of curiosity,” Kate ventured. “How much did the kidnapper request?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Louise frowned. “Seems low.”

·

“That envelope could have come from anywhere,” said Creighton.

He and Brisbois were sitting on the bench near the flowerbed, while Brisbois reviewed his notes.

“It could have been bought by anyone and not necessarily from Fred Lewis at Cowperthwaite’s,” Creighton continued.

“But the Pleasant connection is the only one that makes sense,” Brisbois argued. “I think the envelope was purchased locally and whoever mailed the letter came across the envelope in an indirect way.”

“Maybe somebody years ago gave his mother or old auntie a box of Chantilly Lace for Christmas,” Creighton countered, stretching his legs and tipping his hat forward.

“Not just old people write letters,” said Brisbois.

“Mostly just old people write letters.”

Brisbois sighed. “Possibly the kidnapper got that envelope indirectly and possibly it doesn’t have anything to do with the Pleasant, but — ”

Brisbois was about to finish the thought when his cell phone rang.

·

The sergeant at the station in Middleton greeted Brisbois with a smile. “We’ve solved all your problems, Detective.”

“Good for you.”

“Come here.” The sergeant led him down the hall to the interrogation room and gestured toward a one-way window. “See that guy?”

Brisbois found himself looking at a thin, young man with scraggly, greasy hair, wearing glasses with heavy frames taped together with masking tape. Under a filthy green jacket he had on a T-shirt of questionable colour. A baseball cap rested on the table in front of him.

“Who is he?”

“That,” the sergeant replied jovially, “is Johnny Adams. He was caught coming out of a cottage two miles west of Middleton with a knapsack full of watches, the wallet of a guy who reported it stolen from a nearby campsite, a couple of washcloths — I guess he never got a chance to use them — and a silver sugar bowl with the logo of the Pleasant Inn. We’re waiting for a fingerprint match from the laundry van. I have no doubt it will be a good one. And he matches the general description of the eat-and-run from the bus station in Lowerton. We’ll get him in a lineup for that — unless he confesses, which he probably will.”

Brisbois felt a surge of pity. The boy looked alone and hopeless. “You’ve answered some of our problems, for sure.”

The sergeant shrugged. “But I doubt if he’s your kidnapper. If he’d touched that ransom letter with those paws, there’d be dirty prints all over it.”

“Does he have a record?”

“Possession, minor trafficking, shoplifting, the usual stuff. He just got out of Quinte Detention Centre ten days ago. Shoplifting this time. He was supposed to be on his way to Nova Scotia — he’s got family there. He says he lost the ticket his social worker gave him. Probably traded it for Dilaudin. He was hitchhiking. Got a ride as far as Lowerton. I guess he liked the area and decided to stay for a while.”

“How old is he?”

“Nineteen.”

“Christ.”

“I don’t think he’s your murderer either. He was in Quinte when the old man was killed in that jewellery store in New Brunswick. You’re operating on the theory one guy committed all the murders, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s waiting for his lawyer. As soon as we mentioned the laundry van, he clammed up. I think he’s been able to get off lightly so far by throwing himself on the mercy of the court. He knows vehicular theft could land him in the big house.”

“They’d eat him alive there.”

“Yeah, well, the lawyer’ll probably be able to get auto theft knocked down to a joy ride.” He glanced at Brisbois. “Don’t look so sad, Detective. He’ll probably get away with another few months in a provincial facility.”

“I hate cases involving kids,” said Brisbois.

“Me too,” said Creighton, mistaking Brisbois’ compassion for disgust. “When I was a beat cop I spent ninety per cent of my time chasing sixteen-year-olds for one jackass thing or another, only to have them smirking at me when they beat the rap.” He jingled some change in his pocket. “Give me a good murder any day. At least we get to smirk at them.”

Brisbois turned to the sergeant. “Who’s the lawyer?”

“Adele Delaney.” He checked his watch. “She’ll be here in an hour. We should have the prints by then.”

“Okay,” said Brisbois, “we’ll wait.”

·

Late afternoon, with clouds threatening the sky and thunder rolling in the distance, Gil decided to pull the canoes from the water for the night.

“I thought your outfit guaranteed sunny skies the whole trip,” Turnbull grumbled when they’d assembled on shore.

Gil shrugged. “Storms come up, sometimes without warning. This one may pass completely. I’m following protocol and pulling out early. In the meantime, I’m going down to check in with headquarters.”

Turnbull watched Gil walk down to the shore with his satellite phone in hand. “I hope nobody here has a train to catch.”

“Now, Mr. Turnbull,” Margaret responded, “Gil is being appropriately cautious.”

“If anyone has a travel schedule that tight, Mr. Turnbull,” Miss Miller said, kneeling to prepare the fire, “they deserve to miss their train.” She glanced across the river where a black cloud menaced the trees. “If you want to make the situation as pleasant as possible, why don’t you help collect some extra firewood? In case it rains tonight, we might want to have some dry kindling.”

“Otherwise it might be dried bread and cold water for breakfast tomorrow,” Norman added, favouring Turnbull with a buck-toothed smile.

Turnbull responded to Norman with a twist of the lips and ambled off into the woods.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so young and sarcastic,” said Rudley.

“You weren’t like that when you were young, were you, Rudley?” Norman asked in a serious tone.

“Rudley was as sweet then as he is now,” Margaret replied.

Norman raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Peters, who had gone into the woods to gather twigs the moment the party landed on shore, appeared now with a substantial bundle. He set it down and went back for more.