Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant (2 page)

Gregoire stepped back from the stove, mopping his forehead with the tail of his apron. “He has been taking my most luscious strawberries, the ones I had chosen myself for the fondue.”

Rudley looked at Tim.

“I did not take his luscious strawberries,” said Tim. He returned his attention to the crumb tray.

Rudley thought for a minute. “Were those the ones in the yellow bowl by the sink?”

Gregoire turned and looked at him suspiciously. “Yes?”

Rudley coughed. “You’re right. They were luscious.”

Tim laughed. Gregoire rolled his eyes and returned to his saucepan.

“I suppose you’ve heard about this canoe trip,” Rudley added hastily.

Gregoire froze, spoon in hand. “We are not going.”

Tim sniffed. “I was keen on going until I found out I’d have to carry a canoe and wear khaki. But,” he hastened to add, “you’ll love it.”

“And you?”

Gregoire huffed. “I do not mind cooking over an open fire once a week for the fish fry. I would not care to do it three times a day for seven days or so — although I would, if absolutely necessary. But it will not be necessary because I am sure you will enjoy preparing your own meals as part of the camping experience over an open pit with kindling you have ignited with mirrors.”

Rudley paused. “I’m sure Lloyd will be coming.”

Tim shook his head. “Lloyd doesn’t like travelling.”

“Besides,” said Gregoire, “we need him here to fix whatever is broken.”

“I see.” Rudley poured himself a cup of coffee and returned to the desk.

Fix whatever is broken? Surely they didn’t expect the inn to fall apart in a week. He sighed. He knew he would have to go on this damn trip — better to suffer a week with mosquitoes and camp toilets than suffer an eternity of guilt for disappointing Margaret and ruining her enjoyment of the adventure. And it was probably just as well that the staff remained at the inn. He was sure they would cope very well in the wilderness, but they would drive him insane.

He slumped over the desk, defeated. He had no desire to spend a week in the wilderness. He was perfectly happy where he was — at the front desk with his coffee and his illicit package of cigarettes, presiding over his kingdom with a firm but benign hand.

He sighed. The year had got off to such a promising start. A New Year’s Eve with an outstanding Music Hall. Melba Millotte had wowed the audience with her mastery of the flute, although, to his mind, she’d always been rather good at puckering her lips. Tim and Gregoire had done a superb dance routine to a medley of songs from
Guys and Dolls
. Tiffany had performed several études from Bach. He wrinkled his nose — toe-tappers they were not, but he had to give her credit for being an excellent pianist. Then Lloyd with his creepy rendition of “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.” Aunt Pearl had warbled through a heartwarming version of “White Cliffs of Dover.” The old judge had done “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” on the spoons, a performance he had favoured them with for at least the past fifteen years. Then — he smiled — he and Margaret had put the frosting on the cake, waltzing to a selection of Broadway show tunes. He did a few steps behind the desk. Ah, if there were anything that would keep him from that desk, it would be dance. He glided out into the lobby, did a pirouette, and almost tripped over Albert, who had chosen that moment to roll over.

“Never took a dance lesson in my life,” he told Albert. “I learned from watching the best. Fred Astaire, Bill Robinson.” I might have been a dancer too, he thought, if it hadn’t been for my father. He’d wanted to take tap dance lessons as a boy. His father suggested instead that he play hockey, football, baseball, basketball, tiddlywinks. “Anything, Trevor,” he had said, “anything but dance. People might think you were peculiar.” He was thirty years old before he realized what his father meant. Hell of a thing to think someone was peculiar because they danced. Dance is in our souls; it’s an expression of joyous abandon. He wouldn’t have met Margaret if it hadn’t have been for dance.

Rudley smiled in recollection. There he was at that gathering in London, putting up with the pretentions of a band of arty twits, standing in a corner with a bottle of Irish whisky, when she approached and asked him to dance. A bit cheeky of her, he thought. She told him later — once their romance was well-established — that she couldn’t bear seeing everyone in the room having such a good time while this Canadian grump stood in a corner, swilling whisky, and looking ready to kill. He hadn’t been swilling whisky — he’d had only three shots — and the grumpiness was the result of his feeling out of place. But he didn’t tell her that when she approached him he had been reduced to a blithering idiot. That he’d been watching her all evening while pretending he was not. It wasn’t because she was the most beautiful woman in the room — although after he had known her a few minutes he was sure she was — it was because she seemed so vibrant and devoid of airs. And — as he quickly discovered — she was also kind and thoughtful.

People were always telling him how lucky he was to have married a fine woman like Margaret. More like a miracle, his father once said. He knew he had snared the blue ribbon when Margaret said yes. His smile broadened. Not bad for a boy from Galt.

Aunt Pearl came out of the drawing room at that moment and paused. “So nice to see you looking happy, Rudley. And so rare.”

Rudley picked up a stack of mail and began to sort through it. “Just because I’m not grinning like the Cheshire cat all the time doesn’t mean I’m not happy, Pearl.”

“You’re a grouch, Rudley. You’ve been a grouch as long as I’ve known you. You probably were a grouchy baby.”

“Perhaps I was,” he said. “And in a world overflowing with calamity, I think a little gravity is called for.” He cleared his throat. “Will you be coming on the wilderness adventure?”

Pearl fixed him with a myopic stare for a moment, then broke into laughter. “Of course not, Rudley. The Pleasant is sufficiently rustic for me. Why, when I lived in London, I thought Hyde Park was the frontier. I was never one for mucking about in straw hats and Wellingtons.”

“I suppose we’ll be wearing Tilleys and hiking boots, but I appreciate your sentiment.”

“Besides,” Pearl continued, “Tim and Gregoire aren’t going. I like to be close to my boys.”

Because you can twist them around your little finger, he thought. “I see you’re aware of the details of our trip, Pearl. I was apprised only a few minutes ago that the whole damn thing had been arranged.”

“That’s all right, dear. Sometimes it’s better to go with the flow. Besides, you have more important things to worry about than a journey into God-knows-where.”

He gave her a dubious look.

“Better to have it arranged and presented for your approval.”

“Pearl, you’re laying it on a bit thick.”

“All right, then. Everyone knows you’re a killjoy, Rudley. Better to go ahead and make plans and let you carry on about it afterwards than have you throwing cold water on the project from start to finish.” She brightened. “Oh, there’s Mr. Patry. I promised him a game of cribbage.”

“How much do you plan to take him for today?”

She smirked. “He’s not much of a gambling man but he has lovely eyes.”

Rudley watched as Pearl intercepted Mr. Patry and steered him toward the drawing room. The woman’s like a spider spinning her web, he thought. If I were an older gentleman, I’d worry about becoming the latest fly. Of course, he’d never had any complaints from these older gentlemen. He smiled. Wonderful woman, Aunt Pearl. Everyone adored her in spite of the fact she was a souse and an unreformed kleptomaniac. He supposed that had something to do with having had a bomb dropped on her during the war. She didn’t travel much these days, apart from that trip to Pago Pago, where, according to Ralph, Margaret’s brother, she turned the island on its ear. Won one of the villagers in a card game, Ralph reported, although she gave him back before she left.

Rudley had never understood the itch to travel. Why anyone would want to be anywhere other than the Pleasant stumped him. Where else could you find so much beauty? A pristine lake, a forest brimming with flora and fauna, beautiful grounds, wonderful food, and — he smiled a self-congratulatory smile — a firm but gracious innkeeper. He’d heard that travel built community and erased ignorance and misunderstanding. Nonsense, he thought. If we hadn’t travelled in the first place, we’d never have discovered how much we loathed one other.

The Pleasant was idyllic, soothing. True, there had been the odd murder on the premises. But none of them were his fault and he saw no reason to apologize for them. He did think, however, that there had been quite enough of them and he was determined there would be no more. The last thing he wanted was another go-around with Detectives Brisbois and Creighton sticking their noses into his Eden.

Lloyd, the handyman, came by the desk

“What do you want?” Rudley asked.

“On my way to the kitchen. Gregoire says he has lemon pie for me and some jam-jams.”

“Oh.” Rudley sagged against the desk, deflated. He was in the mood for confrontation and Lloyd’s reasonable response had taken the wind out of his sails. “By the way,” he said peevishly, “how did you get out of this canoe trip?”

“Told Mrs. Rudley I didn’t want to go. I like being at home.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said, ‘I understand, dear.’”

Rudley sighed. “You may go now.” He shooed Lloyd away, reached under the desk, and took out a crumpled pack of Benson & Hedges. “I told Mrs. Rudley I didn’t want to go, that I liked being at home,” he muttered. “That didn’t work for me.” It would have been handy to have Lloyd on the trip. He could fix anything, improvise all sorts of contraptions. And if they ran into a bear? Lloyd had a way with animals.

Lloyd would have come if Margaret had coaxed him. He was responsive to Margaret. More than to me, Rudley thought with chagrin. Of course, Margaret pampered Lloyd, let him have whatever he wanted — because he was an orphan. Margaret had read too much Dickens.

Lloyd’s probably an orphan because he murdered his parents, Rudley considered. The man looked enough like a psychopath to make that notion plausible. He pondered the idea for a minute, then reluctantly dismissed it. Even if Margaret had insisted on taking Lloyd on the trip, even if she could have persuaded the rest to come along, she still would have wanted her husband to accompany them. “We can’t leave you alone here at the inn, Rudley,” she would say. He paused, a blissful look crossing his face. All alone at the Pleasant. He could stand at the desk all day, reading his paper, sipping his coffee, smoking as much as he wanted, and enjoying the odd glass of whisky. No one to bother him.

He was about to light a cigarette when Margaret returned from the High Birches, coming up the back stairs, measuring tape in hand. He threw the pack of cigarettes under the desk. “Perhaps this canoe trip isn’t such a bad idea. It’ll give me a break from the staff.”

“And vice versa.” Margaret smiled and went on into the drawing room.

Donnie finally had to move from his cherished apartment into a basement bachelor in a seedy part of Fredericton. He kept a stiff upper lip as the truck from the used furniture store carted away his belongings for a fraction of the price he had paid for them. The truck dropped him and the few things he had retained off at his new place. It wasn’t until he was inside that he broke down. He allowed a few tears, then wiped them away stubbornly. He’d learned a long time ago that showing emotion had a high cost; when things were most dire, that was the time you could least afford to give up and fall apart. He washed his face and promised himself he would not grieve for his home again.

For the first few days he existed in a state of quiet paralysis. He sat on his cot, watching the legs of people passing and dogs sometimes doing their business on the weedy patch in front of his window. Sometimes he would close his eyes and pretend he was on his old street with its pleasant trees and flowerpots, breathing in the fragrance of cedar and geranium, taking in the quiet opulence of the jewellery store window.

Holding onto that image helped him block out the reality of the dog poop. Some people did pick up after their dogs, and if they didn’t, he did — at first. Then one day he didn’t until later. The day after that he didn’t bother at all.

Margaret stood at the desk opening the mail, placing the envelopes to one side. She unfolded each letter, smoothed it, scanned it, and set it aside for Rudley. “Well, here’s the last piece. Mr. Turnbull has confirmed with his cheque.”

“Another one for the expedition?” Rudley asked.

“Yes. So we’re all set. We’ll have Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson, Geraldine and Norman, Eric Turnbull and Vern Peters, and, of course, you and me. That’s eight, not including our tour guide.”

“Whom did you sign up with?”

“That friend of your father’s.”

“Mr. Jackson?”

“Yes. Archie put us onto him.”

“So my brother’s involved in this?”

“He agrees you should get away.”

“Old Clifton Jackson. Well, I do like a man with experience.”

“I doubt if it will be Clifton himself.”

“He’s foisting us off on a stranger?”

Margaret shook her head. “Rudley, Mr. Jackson is in his eighties. He’s titular head of the enterprise, but he no longer leads expeditions.”

“I don’t see why not, Margaret. I plan to be leading this enterprise when I’m in my eighties.”

“No one is apt to perish if a linen order gets mixed up.” She patted his arm. “Rudley, Mr. Jackson’s company has a good reputation. Our guide will, at the very least, be competent.”

“If you say so.”

“That’s it, Rudley. Mrs. Millotte will do a wonderful job while we’re away. We have nothing left to do but attend to the details of getting our kit together.”

“Our kit bags and matches.”

“Now you’re getting into the spirit, Rudley.”

He sang a few bars. “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile.” He hummed a few more bars, then stopped. What in hell were they smiling about? They were in filthy, rat-infested trenches, trying to warm themselves with matches. His grandfather had signed up for World War
I
, but had been thrown off his horse and broken his leg before his division left England. Then, by the time he had recuperated, the war was over. His father had volunteered in World War
II
, but had been rejected because of his flat feet. If it hadn’t been for Aunt Edie, we’d have no history of war service at all, he thought. Aunt Edie was a nurse in a field hospital. The old bat was still alive, driving everyone nuts, checking them for trench foot. He emitted a short laugh.

“What’s so funny, Rudley?” Margaret looked up.

“I was thinking about Aunt Edie up there in Preston, driving Archie and Betty to distraction with her weekly foot fungus check.” He paused and gazed toward the far wall, troubled. “You know, Margaret, when we’re Edie’s age, we won’t have anyone to drive to distraction.”

“Nonsense, Rudley. You’ll have the same people you have now.”

“I don’t know, Margaret. Tim and Gregoire will probably elect to spend their retirement in a warmer climate. Tiffany will probably marry. If she ever finds anyone she deems suitable.”

“Perhaps her standards will soften a bit.”

“Perhaps.”

Margaret ran a finger down the registry entries. “We’ll always have Lloyd.”

“Perish the thought.”

“And Ralph has been making noises lately about retiring near here.”

Rudley paused. Ralph. Margaret’s brother. King of imported plastic junk. “How near?”

“Quite near, Rudley. And” — Margaret hastened to add — “we have Officer Semple. He plans to retire here.”

“That idiot.”

“He seems to enjoy our company.”

“I don’t enjoy his.”

“And then, of course, we have Elizabeth and Edward. They’re practically family.”

“Fine young couple.”

“There you have it. Our golden years will be filled with people. All the young people we see regularly. Officer Semple, Officer Owens, Officer Vance, Officer Petrie. They’re like old friends too.”

“We only see them when someone is murdered.”

“Nonsense. They often drop by when they’re in the neighbourhood.”

“Just in case,” he murmured.

He let Margaret go on about the trip, pretending to share in her enthusiasm with the odd “hmm” and “ah.”

It was true, he thought, that there had been murders at or near the Pleasant, in addition to the more prosaic risks of cottage life, the drownings, the boating misadventures, the accidental poisonings, and the occasional exotic mishap. He could still see that man dangling from the ski lift by his scarf.

Why did they happen to him? Why not to Ott at the Bridal Path or to the MacPhersons at the West Wind or to one of the proprietors of the many B and Bs? Why should the anal retentive, the ordinary, and the insufferably stupid avoid these mishaps? Possibly because no one who patronized these places had a whiff of imagination or the heart and spirit for risk taking. Even his dullest guests — and the Sawchucks were high on his list of dullest guests — showed more stomach than the brightest of his competitors’ clientele. And Norman Phipps-Walker, in spite of his failings, was always up to a challenge. He didn’t have to aim his sled between the boulders and the bramble bush. He didn’t have to be in the sled at all. Norman seemed as invulnerable as a teenager. And then there was Miss Miller, who was not only always up to a challenge but often precipitated the excitement. Ott would close down if someone broke a leg. Rudley smiled a jaunty smile. Why, around the Pleasant, a broken leg was a badge of honour.

Not that he had any desire to have bodies piling up around his establishment. It wasn’t that it discouraged business. It didn’t. But he didn’t like the police crawling around, taking over his office, and interrogating his staff and guests. Murder disrupted the smooth functioning of the Pleasant and having the order of the Pleasant disrupted was why he hated the notion of this damn trip.

He sighed. How simple the world would be if everyone were more like him. People would, therefore, mind their own business and stay where they belonged.