Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant (19 page)

“I’ll cover those with a tarp,” said Simpson.

“Mr. Peters has fit in well,” Geraldine observed. “He seemed awkward at first but he’s turned out to be an angel.”

“I believe he just needed to feel useful,” said Simpson.

“Yes,” Margaret agreed. “It’s amazing how everyone falls into a role. Mr. Simpson helps Gil with the canoes and setting up the tents, Geraldine and Miss Miller cook, and Mr. Peters gathers wood.”

When Turnbull returned carrying a bundle of twigs, Miss Miller gave him a smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Turnbull yawned. “What’s for supper?”

“Slugs,” Miss Miller replied as he flopped down by the fire. “Edward and Norman are going out any minute now to turn over some rocks.”

“Elizabeth meant that as a joke,” Simpson explained. “I believe we’re having pancakes and desiccated sausages.”

“With petit pois and carrots, also desiccated,” said Margaret.

“I’m going out right now to see what forest greens might be available,” said Geraldine. “And I might identify a mushroom patch we can harvest tomorrow.”

“I hope Geraldine wasn’t involved in that mushroom escapade at the Pleasant,” Miss Miller remarked once Geraldine had left.

“Oh, no,” said Margaret, “that was Mr. Bole’s mistake. He mistook a poisonous variety for an edible type he’d encountered in the Ardennes. Geraldine correctly identified the species.”

“I always thought it would have been more useful if she had identified them before Gregoire cooked them up and served them to Doreen,” said Rudley.

“Syrup of ipecac is a wonderful medicine,” said Margaret.

Rudley sighed. “I wonder what’s happening at the Pleasant.”

·

Tim returned to the kitchen and slid the trolley into the pantry.

“How are the sisters?” he asked Gregoire, who was grinding pepper into a white sauce.

“A little tense. Perhaps
The Texas Chainsaw Murder
was a bit much.”

“I don’t know why. They’ve watched every horror film ever created.”

“They left half their dinner.”

Gregoire frowned. “Did Blanche show enthusiasm for her dinner?”

“That cat ate every scrap. But, then, she wasn’t allowed to watch the movie. Emma thought it was too violent for her.”

Gregoire paused, peppermill in mid-twirl. “She could have a point,” he said. “Blanche is several million years old and has a heart condition.”

Tim pulled up a stool and watched as Gregoire whisked the sauce. After a moment, Tiffany stepped into the kitchen and pulled up a stool next to Tim. She sat down with a noisy sigh.

“What’s wrong with Miss Tiffany tonight?” Gregoire asked.

“Detective Brisbois was around to see the sisters again. I think his repeated interrogations have upset them.”

“They left half their dinner,” Tim repeated.

“Detective Brisbois is frustrated.” Gregoire shrugged. “He is like a bloodhound with all of these excellent scents going in different directions. He has the murders and the kidnappings and the laundryman’s van and that filthy guy breaking into my pantry.” A look of disgust crossed his face. “I cringe, thinking of him going into my things, putting his dirty hands on my linens, perhaps handling my utensils. I have been over everything with Javex three times and still…” He frowned. “Nothing is normal around here. If the Rudleys were here, none of these awful things would be happening.”

Tim snatched a carrot curl from the counter. “At least we’re not suspects anymore.”

“That was just Officer Semple,” said Gregoire. “He has always had a complex about us.”

Tim rose from his stool and went to the refrigerator. “I think,” he began, removing a block of cheese, “if what’s been going on here lately was anything like those past episodes of mayhem we probably wouldn’t pay much attention to the investigators. Rudley would be in denial. Miss Miller would have a working theory. Norman would have a different theory.” He reached for a tray of crackers and began preparing himself a snack. “Mrs. Millotte doesn’t have any interest in the investigation.”

“Melba believes one should leave these things to the professionals,” Gregoire agreed.

“Speaking of which,” Tim asked, “where are they?”

“They have gone back into town.”

“I don’t know why the detectives aren’t taking a greater interest in Mr. Bostock,” said Tiffany. “Aunt Pearl and Nick saw him on the lake again today. This time by the Bridal Path. They were sure he was taking pictures. He was wearing a bushy moustache and a baseball cap.”

“Maybe he’s a developer,” said Tim. “He’s going to buy up all of the old inns and turn them into luxury condos with swimming pools.”

Gregoire rolled his eyes. “I cannot bear the thought of that.”

·

Brisbois left the interview room, walked straight out the back door of the station, and lit a cigarette. Creighton waited a minute, then followed.

“You’re going to kill yourself with those, Boss.”

“That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea right now,” Brisbois groused.

“That kid’s going to end up back in jail and there’s nothing you can do about that.”

“I know.”

“We did get a few questions answered, though.”

Brisbois took a long drag. “We’ve wasted hours running around after that Johnny Adams because we thought he might be involved in the kidnapping. If anything happens to those kids because of that…”

“Look at it another way,” said Creighton. “Now we have more time to follow the other leads.” He looked at his watch. “Why don’t we catch a couple of hours of sleep and start again in the morning?”

The aroma of coffee brought the campers to the fire one by one. Gil came up from the shore. He held out two fish, already filleted.

“Nice catch,” said Norman.

Gil grinned. “Bass. I caught them right off the rock down there.” He hunkered down, moved the coffee pot over on the grill and began to prepare his skillet.

“Are you any good at cooking?” Turnbull said.

“Sure.”

“Just asking. It’s just that you’ve never cooked anything for us. Miss Miller usually cooks.”

Gil gave Turnbull an exasperated look.“You’re right,” he said, “I’m not any good at it.” He handed Turnbull the spatula. “Maybe you’d like to do it.” He picked up the case that contained his satellite phone. “I’m going down to check in.”

“What?” Turnbull looked at him as he retreated, then at the frying pan.

“As soon as the butter sizzles, put the fish in,” Geraldine advised.

“Well, what about the batter?”

“You don’t need a batter,” said Geraldine, “unless you want one. Did you have a favourite recipe in mind?”

“No, but…”

Peters smiled as Geraldine took the spatula from Turnbull’s hand and said, “I’ll look after the fish.”

“Fine.” Turnbull stomped off toward his tent.

“Oh, dear,” said Margaret, “we’ve hurt his feelings.”

“Don’t worry, Margaret,” said Rudley, “he’ll be back as soon as the work is done.”

As predicted, Turnbull reappeared as breakfast was being served. Gil returned at the same time.

“Did you ask if they’d heard anything about that poor man who was murdered near the border?” Margaret asked him as he took a plate and sat down.

“I didn’t speak with anyone,” Gil replied. “I just left a message.”

“I wonder if they’ve identified him yet,” Simpson said.

“I’ll ask next time I call in.”

“I hope the murderer isn’t near the Pleasant,” Margaret fretted.

“I’m sure he’s miles away from there by now,” said Rudley.

“I know I’d be,” said Turnbull.

·

Brisbois woke, groggy, when his alarm went off at six, three hours after he had fallen asleep. With his wife still slumbering, he grabbed an Egg McMuffin on his way to work and managed to spill coffee on his shirt. By the time he arrived at the station he was in a bad mood. But a message left for him by the fingerprint analyst turned his frown to a wide smile. He tried to phone Creighton, but to his surprise his partner had already left home.

“I’ve been over all these fingerprints,” the analyst said when he arrived in Brisbois’ office. “The ones from the pantry window in the kitchen belong to Johnny Adams.”

“Yup.”

“And the ones from the laundry van too.”

“Okay.”

“But Adams’s fingerprints aren’t on the ransom envelope or on the note.”

“We kind of figured that,” Brisbois remarked, disappointed.

“There were fingerprints all over the ransom note and envelope but most of them aren’t good enough to match,” the analyst continued. “Except for one good thumb print and one good index finger print.”

“Yes?” Brisbois responded excitedly.

“I matched them with someone on the exclusion list. Melba Millotte.”

“I could kiss you!” Brisbois thumped the man on his shoulder.

“Guess whose fingerprints are on the ransom envelope?” Brisbois said to Creighton moments later in the parking lot. “Melba Millotte!”

“You think Mrs. Millotte kidnapped the kids?”

“No.” Brisbois flung open the door of his car. “But it proves that envelope came from the Pleasant.”

Mrs. Millotte was on the phone when Brisbois and Creighton arrived at the Pleasant’s front desk.

“Are you sure you included the prune juice with that order?” She fumed into the receiver. “Well, I’ve checked everywhere anyone could have inadvertently put it.” She tapped her nails against the wood, her face stony. “Believe me, Mr. Gingras,” she continued after a pause, “if someone had drunk a gallon of prune juice over the past twenty-four hours, I would know by now.” She sighed. “I’ll have to take your word for it. If you’ll add prune juice to today’s order, I’ll have Lloyd pick it up this afternoon.” She dropped the receiver into the cradle and scribbled a note on the invoice.

“Prune juice trouble?” Brisbois smiled sympathetically to mask his amusement.

“Summer.”

“Summer?”

“In the summer, the local establishments hire high school students. Enough said.” Mrs. Millotte put the pen aside. “Now, what can I do for you, Detective?”

“Would it surprise you to know,” he began, looking her straight in the eye, “that the ransom note that ended up at the local newspaper had your fingerprints on it?”

“Yes.”

“Then how could it happen?”

“It couldn’t. Unless the letter was mailed from here.”

“Could you have picked up a letter someone had to mail while you were making your rounds?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“No?”

“Tiffany sometimes picks up letters to be mailed when she’s doing the rooms, or Tim, if he’s delivering a meal. But I don’t.”

“So, if a letter ended up here at the desk, how would your fingerprints end up on the envelope?”

“Because I sort the mail.”

“Are there a lot of letters going out?”

“Several a day at least.”

“Do you take a peek to see where they’re going?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course. We read all of the guests’ mail and blank out any derogatory comments about Rudley. But seriously, Detective, all we do is take a quick look to see if they’re stamped.”

“So if someone addressed something to the local paper nobody would notice.”

“Anything to the paper we sort separately for hand delivery,” she said. “Lloyd takes them in. The old-timers here correspond regularly with the local rag. They follow everything that goes on. If they put in a new street sign in town, we’re talking letters to the editor. Rudley spoils them. If they had to pay postage, they probably wouldn’t be so opinionated.”

“So everything for the newspaper goes into that envelope marked ‘newspaper,’” Brisbois said, gesturing to a battered interdepartmental envelope he noticed on the side of the desk, “And gets hand delivered.”

“You’ve got it.”

“So you’d handle any mail that goes in there.”

“Unless someone put it in there themselves. Sometimes the old-timers do that.”

“Or the staff?”

“Or the staff.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Millotte. We’ll talk to you later.”

“I’m sure you will.”

·

“So anybody who knew the Pleasant’s routine could have put that ransom note into the newspaper envelope,” Creighton mused as he and Brisbois passed onto the veranda.

“Lloyd’s fingerprints weren’t on the envelope.”

Creighton shrugged. “They wouldn’t have to be. Unless the letter in question was on the very top or very bottom. He probably just takes the whole bundle and stuffs them into the mail slot at the paper.”

“True.”

“Where to now?”

“The Elm Pavilion,” Brisbois said. “Somebody must have got hold of one of the Benson sisters’ envelopes.”

“You’re thinking the sisters gave one to the kids with the pictures inside and forgot they did. And the kidnapper got it that way.”

“Or the sisters gave it to the kidnapper and don’t realize they did.”

Moments later, Brisbois was knocking at the door of the Elm Pavilion, but to no response.

“The old dolls probably can’t hear a thing over that television.” Creighton stepped forward and hammered on the door.

“Just a moment,” a voice sang out. After a few more moments had passed, a prim voice invited them to come in.

“Oh, it’s Detective Brisbois and that handsome Detective Creighton,” Kate greeted them at the door. She turned to Louise. “We must get the gentlemen some coffee.”

“Oh, no thank you, Miss Benson.” Brisbois removed his hat. “Sorry to disturb you so early.”

“I gather this isn’t a social call,” Kate said.

“Not exactly.”

The sisters exchanged glances.

“We have a couple of more questions for you about that envelope. It seems the ransom note it contained was mailed from the Pleasant.”

“From The Pleasant?”

Brisbois nodded.

“Oh,” said Louise, as Kate looked away and murmured, “How interesting.”

“And,” Brisbois continued, “the only fingerprints on that envelope belong to Melba Millotte.”

“You don’t say,” said Kate.

“We know the letter originated from the Pleasant and we know Mrs. Millotte’s fingerprints were on it,” Brisbois continued. “So we wondered if you could think again about anyone you might have given an envelope to or anybody who possibly could have taken one from you.”

“I don’t remember anything about that,” said Louise.

Kate caught Brisbois’ eye and tapped a finger against her temple. “Memory,” she mouthed.

“I saw that,” Louise snapped.

Emma advanced to the sideboard and, to Brisbois’ astonishment, given the time of morning, poured herself a sherry. “I think this has gone far enough.” She finished the drink in one swallow and addressed her sisters. “We need to tell the detectives what’s going on. We can’t have Melba implicated in this.”

Louise suppressed a gasp.

“Emma — ” Kate began, but Emma cut her off.

“We have to trust the detectives. I’m sure they wouldn’t assist in anything illegal.”

“Emma.” Kate spoke through gritted teeth. “We’ve discussed this.”

“Kate, if I may…” Brisbois began, shooting Creighton a stony glance to stop him snickering. “First, Emma’s right. You can trust us not to do anything illegal.”

“And I’m sure you wouldn’t do anything that would bring harm to those children,” Emma continued.

“I promise you, we’ll proceed cautiously with any information,” Brisbois said with growing impatience. “Now, if you have anything to tell us.”

Kate interrupted him. “Could we have a minute, Detective?”

“Of course.” Brisbois sighed, motioning to Creighton and steering him aside while the sisters huddled. For a few minutes all the detectives could hear was the hum of urgent, whispered conversation.

Finally, Emma nodded and stepped forward, Louise and Kate flanking her, the latter wearing an aggrieved expression. She invited Brisbois and Creighton to take a seat, while she and Louise took their places opposite, on the sofa. She invited Kate to join them, but Kate dithered. Finally, bristling a little, Kate opted for an occasional chair.

“Miss Benson?” Brisbois addressed Emma.

“Detective.” Emma appeared to gather her thoughts. “Before I say a word, we have to be assured the information will be used with the utmost sagacity and discretion.”

“I guess,” Creighton muttered, “if I knew what sagacity meant.”

“I assure you it will,” Brisbois responded, elbowing Creighton.

“We are deeply concerned that no one come to harm as a result of what we are about to divulge.”

Brisbois sighed. “Miss Benson, I can only promise to give what you have to say a fair hearing. But I do have to remind you that to withhold information could expose you to criminal charges.”

“We don’t want anyone to get spanked,” Louise piped up. “We don’t believe in corporal punishment.”

Brisbois frowned, perplexed. Emma rolled her eyes. “We agreed, Louise, that I was to carry the ball on this one. Now,” she continued briskly, as her chastened sister lowered her eyes, “It has come to our attention that the Sawchucks’ grandchildren are the subject of a kidnapping plot.”

Brisbois glanced at Creighton.

“The story is that the children’s parents are on vacation in Switzerland.” Emma paused to appraise her sisters, then proceeded. “That is not true.”

Brisbois started. “It isn’t?”

“No.” Emma regarded him sternly. “The children’s parents are having marriage problems. The father has lured the mother to Switzerland, promising to work out their differences.” She frowned. “In fact, the children’s father has a paramour waiting for him.”

Creighton’s hand went to his mouth to suppress a chuckle. Brisbois kicked him.

“Waiting in Switzerland?” he asked.

“In an undisclosed location,” Emma replied, “Possibly Monaco.”

“The father — ”

“Jim Danby.” Brisbois glanced at his notes.

“ — has paid an agent to abduct the children and spirit them out of the country.”

“How?” Creighton asked from behind his hand.

“In a private airplane.” Emma frowned at Creighton. “The children would be taken to an undisclosed location.”

“Monaco?” Brisbois asked.

Emma gave him a look that suggested she found him obtuse. “Dubai. Possibly Brazil.”

“Once the children are secreted away,” she continued, “the father will go out for the proverbial pack of cigarettes and never come back. While his wife searches for him in vain, he’ll be in Rio with this Jezebel and those unfortunate children.” She crossed her arms to punctuate her final words, fixing Brisbois with a triumphant stare.

“Miss Benson,” Brisbois responded, as his notebook slid down his knee, “that is a fascinating theory.”

“It is not a theory, Detective, it is fact.”

“May I ask the source of your information?” he asked, reaching to retrieve his notebook from the floor.

“The children!” Louise blurted, then covered her mouth as Kate opened hers to remonstrate.

Emma raised a hand. “It’s all right, Kate. The cat is out of the bag.” She lowered her hands on her knees and leaned forward. “Yes, Detective, the children told us. They’re frantic at the prospect of being separated from their mother, from their home, from all that is familiar. They scarcely know the other woman. She’s a personal assistant of some sort. A well-paid strumpet is more like it.”

“Miss Benson, where are the children?”

“They’re safe, Detective.”

“That’s the best news I’ve had in days, but where are they?”

“I will tell you under one condition.”

“Yes?”

“The children must be given sanctuary. You must be prepared to notify Interpol to get their mother back while their father is detained.”

“Miss Benson, I can promise you one thing. The children will be protected until we get this thing sorted out. But first we have to know where they are.”