Many Unpleasant Returns

Many Unpleasant Returns

Judith Alguire

 

 

Doug Whiteway, Editor

© 2014, Judith Alguire

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

 

Cover design by Doowah Design.

Photo of Judith Alguire by Taylor Studios, Kingston.

 

 

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.

 

 

 

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

 

Alguire, Judith, author

     Many unpleasant returns / Judith Alguire.

 

(A Rudley mystery)

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-927426-57-9 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-927426-58-6 (epub)

 

 

     I. Title. II. Series: Alguire, Judith. Rudley mystery.

 

 

PS8551.L477M35 2014      C813'.54     C2014-905448-3

     C2014-905465-3

 

 

 

Signature Editions

P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon, Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7

www.signature-editions.com

For my great-nephew, Galen

 

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

About the Author

 

September: The Pleasant Inn

 

Margaret Rudley and her husband, Trevor, proprietors of the Pleasant Inn for thirty years, stood at the front desk, him peering at a column of figures, her staring at the lake. Although it was nearly seven, the lobby was unusually quiet.

Tim McAuley, the waiter, wandered in from the kitchen and paused by the desk. “It looks as if all of our early risers checked out,” he said.

“A few of the guests went out at dawn for a fishing expedition,” Margaret said. She looked wistful. “Have you noticed how, just after Labour Day, it turns to fall? The light is different, the colour of the sky changes. Even the lake takes on a foreboding edge.”

Tim nodded. “It's definitely quieter.”

“It's a matter of perception,” Rudley murmured. He took a look at the paper he'd been working over, balled it up and threw it toward the wastepaper basket. “Margaret, why didn't you tell me I was looking at last year's invoices?”

“I knew you'd notice it yourself, Rudley.”

He took the box of last year's paperwork and threw it into the cupboard behind the desk. “Where are the invoices for July and August?”

“On the desk where I told you they were this morning.”

Tim laughed. Rudley gave him a half-hearted glare.

“I feel a bit sad this morning,” Margaret said.

“You always feel sad the morning after Labour Day, Margaret.”

“I suppose I do, Rudley.”

“You'll perk up tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow we'll start planning for Thanksgiving and Halloween,” Tim offered.

“I always hate seeing our old regulars go.”

“They'll be back before you know it, Margaret.”

“You're right, Rudley, they will.” She shook her head. “I suppose Labour Day always signals that winter isn't far off. I've never really got used to winters in Canada.”

“Yes, Margaret,” he said absently, as if they had had this conversation before and, indeed, they had. “I know it was difficult to trade months of dank, drizzly London for the invigorating, crisp cold of a Canadian winter.”

“I could trade them both for Majorca,” said Tim. He returned to the dining room, whistling.

“Perhaps Tim's right. What do you think, Rudley, if we closed the inn down for a month every winter and spent Christmas with Ralph in Tahiti?”

Rudley crossed his eyes. Margaret was going on about how pleasant it would be to lie on a beach while all Rudley could imagine was Margaret's portly brother, Ralph, parading about in a sarong.

“You might like Tahiti so much you might want to stay forever,” said Margaret.

“I'd rather cut off my head than stay in Tahiti forever.”

She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “I'm teasing, Rudley. I know how you love Christmas at the Pleasant.”

“I think you do too, Margaret.”

She smiled. “The Phipps-Walkers will be here. And Mr. Bole. And Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And the Sawchucks.”

He paused. “I suppose every Eden must have its snake.”

“You like the Sawchucks.”

“I swear they're getting weirder and more demanding every visit. They're a pain in the ass.”

“You're used to them. They keep you on your toes.”

“I suppose,” he said grudgingly. He paused and smiled a jaunty smile. “There, you see, Margaret, you've cheered up already.”

“I have. We'll have a beautiful autumn and a wonderful winter. I'll have a wealth of subjects to paint for my showing next summer.”

“I'm sorry about the exhibition this past season.”

“That crazy Mr. Phelps, shooting an arrow through Eric's knee because he didn't like the way he'd displayed
Sunshine and Water Lilies
. I don't think we should ever take him on as a guest again, Rudley.”

“We won't have to worry about that for at least two years, Margaret, even if they give him time off for good behaviour.”

“I hope they wouldn't let him have any kind of weapon again.”

“I wouldn't think so.” Rudley paused. “When you think about it, we've done very well this year. Just one guest shooting someone with a bow and arrow. Not on our property. And the man survived.”

“Eric still has that bit of a limp. He says he'll never play golf again.”

“But generally things are looking up. I think we can look forward to a good autumn and an outstanding Christmas.”

Margaret gave him a hug. “You're right, Rudley. Who needs Tahiti?”

She went off toward the kitchen. Rudley took a file from the box on the desk and paused before opening it. They'd had their moments at the Pleasant, some of them quite unpleasant, but they'd always managed to get through Christmas unscathed. Must be all the peace on earth, good will toward men, he thought. Or the eggnog. Probably the eggnog, he decided. He didn't have much faith in the other.

 

After some thought, I've decided to spend Christmas at the Pleasant Inn. Not a lot of thought, mind you. Up until this year, I've spent the holiday with my niece, my only sister's only child. Heather died in the spring — quite unexpectedly. She had never married and had no children. We were best buddies. I always worried about what would happen to her once I was gone, thinking how sad it must be to be the last one standing in a family. Now, I guess I'll find out. I have friends, of course. But it's never the same as family. Not for me.

In deciding to spend Christmas at the Pleasant, I was returning to something familiar, to a place I had never thought I would see again. But here I am, packing my bags and thinking it'll be just the ticket to get me out of my slump. For the first time since Heather died, I feel a sense of anticipation. I'm not going to be waiting around for the daughter of a kind but remote neighbour across the hall — someone younger than myself — to present me with dinner on a plate covered with plastic wrap. I am going to be with like-minded people only if they have, like me, no other place they'd prefer to be or are able to be. Heather would be happy for me.

But enough ruminating. I have to finish packing. My train reservations are confirmed. And that's that.

 

The foreman of the jury stood to render the verdict. Her voice was firm. “We the jury…”

Detective Michel Brisbois nodded. He knew what she was going to say. The crime had been horrendous — a young girl savaged for no reason other than sport. There were no mitigating factors in his mind. The accused had shown no remorse. He and his partner, Detective Chester Creighton, had prepared and presented their case meticulously.

“…find the defendant guilty.”

He turned to Creighton and gave him a discreet thumbs-up. Creighton winked. They didn't speak until they were out of the courthouse and headed toward their car.

“It's nice to have that over before Christmas,” Creighton said.

“Yeah.” Brisbois sighed. He wouldn't have to think about the case over the holidays. Better, the girl's family wouldn't have the outcome hanging over their heads as they tried to put some semblance of Christmas together for their remaining kids. The victim, just seventeen years old, was the eldest of four. The youngest child was nine. He thought of his own kids, his oldest, Ellen, who had been like a third parent to her siblings, and how hard it would have been for them if such a tragedy had visited his family. “We're lucky,” he said. The words caught in his throat.

“Yeah,” said Creighton. He put the key in the ignition and blew on his hands as he waited for the car to warm up.

Brisbois pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. Creighton didn't understand what he had meant. Creighton, the perpetual bachelor, never felt these things in his gut the same way. Creighton was a cool customer.

Brisbois fumbled for the seat belt. He had gained five pounds during the trial — compulsive eating. “I need to lose a few pounds,” he said.

“You've been saying that for years.”

“It's true.”

“It's your body type,” Creighton said, reaching for his shoulder strap. “After a certain age, guys like you add pounds. It's your metabolism. You're stocky. I'm tall and svelte. That's just the way it is.”

“Thanks.” Brisbois shifted. The cold made his back act up. “Do you think the department might spring for a car with heated seats?”

Creighton laughed. “They'd probably think we'd fall asleep.”

“I hope we don't get anything nasty over the holidays. I'd like to spend some time at home.”

“I thought you said the kids weren't coming until New Year's.” Creighton eased the unmarked car out of the parking lot.

“They're not. But I was hoping to spend a few hours with Mary.”

Creighton scanned the traffic. In the rearview mirror, he saw the father of the victim standing on the steps of the courthouse. He had come alone for the verdict. “Mr. Marks looks a hundred years old,” he said.

Brisbois nodded.

“I'll be seeing my family at some point,” Creighton said.

“I should have been a teacher or a farmer. I would never have missed a holiday.”

“I hear the same thing every year from you, Boss. Why did you go into police work?”

Brisbois shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea when I was a kid. Security. Good pay. Exciting. Challenging. Kind of romantic.”

“I got in because I'd heard women like a man in uniform.”

“I just hope Christmas is quiet.”

“If we're lucky, Rudley won't kill anybody at the Pleasant.” Creighton chuckled.

Brisbois took his cigarette pack from his pocket and opened it. The clean white sticks with their alluring fresh-tobacco aroma beckoned. He removed a cigarette and reached for his lighter.

“Don't,” Creighton interrupted. “I've got a date for supper and I don't want to show up smelling like an ashtray.”

“I'll crank down a window.”

“Now you want to freeze my ass off.”

Brisbois put the lighter away reluctantly and rolled the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. “Surely, we can go through one holiday without some kind of ugly mess.”

“You'd think.”

 

The kitchen at the Pleasant was redolent of chocolate. Chef Gregoire Rochon stirred the pot while Tim watched.

“Do I get to lick the spoon when you're finished?” Tim asked.

Gregoire turned, the bits of hair peeking out from under his cap at the nape of his neck forming tight curls. “No one is going to be licking any spoons in my kitchen,” he said. “You are going to have to wait until I have finished with my creations.”

“You know how I crave dark chocolate. Especially yours.”

Gregoire gave him a suspicious look. “Your flattery will not get you anywhere,” he said. “Why don't you scrape the crumbs from the fudge plate and leave me in peace. Making these bonbons is an exacting business.”

“Why haven't you ever made those before?”

“Because I had not until now perfected my technique,” Gregoire said. “Getting the shell just so, filling them with the most delectable fruit jams and jellies, sealing each one without blisters and ridges — it requires the skill of an advanced chocolatier.”

“Of which you are one.”

“Yes, now that I have taken the advanced courses I am that close.” Gregoire showed a narrow space between thumb and index finger. “To be a master it is now just a matter of perfecting a few tiny details.”

“Pretty fancy for a country inn, having an in-house chocolatier,” Tim said. He gathered a spoonful of fudge crumbs. “Even the Pleasant.”

“My grandmother always says a great chef needs nothing more than a source of heat and a stone.” Gregoire looked solemnly toward heaven. “May she rest in peace.”

“But how handy it is to have a fully equipped kitchen.”

“But then there is no excuse for failure.” Gregoire turned the heat down a touch, stepped back from the stove and wiped his brow with the tail of his apron. “I have been slaving for weeks but it will be worth it. My fruitcake will change every misconception anyone has ever had about such creations. I have devised an array of cookies never before seen in the same place. I could open a sweet shop with the varieties of things I have created. And Christmas dinner” — he paused and closed his eyes in bliss — “it will have the guests dropping dead with excitement.”

Tim finished off the crumbs and snatched a piece of fudge from the box Gregoire had set aside. “They're usually dropping dead of something,” he said. He slipped out of the kitchen into the dining room, leaving Gregoire spluttering in his wake.

Margaret, who was headed toward the back steps, stopped and waved him over.

“Tim, I'm just on my way to the coach house. Could you watch the desk until Rudley gets back?”

“Why don't you stay here? I'll get what you want.”

“I wanted to see if we had enough bulbs for the great tree. As I recall, several of them were smashed while we were packing them away.”

They shared a moment of silence to acknowledge that Rudley had been responsible for the destruction.

Tim coaxed her out of her coat. “I'll get them. I know how you hate the cold.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I shiver even thinking about it.”

Tim grabbed his coat and headed down the back stairs. Margaret returned to the desk, inhaling the wonderful aromas from the kitchen. What would Christmas be without baking, especially Gregoire's? He was a virtuoso with the fancier European dishes and with the traditional Canadian fare. His tourtière on Christmas Eve had become a tradition, a family recipe that had been handed down for generations. He didn't forget her traditions either. His Yorkshire pudding and plum pudding made her feel she was at home near London. People were always denigrating English cooking — why, she could never fathom. She was pondering this when Rudley came down the hallway.

“Yes, Margaret,” he said, “we do have enough toilet paper to carry us through the aftermath of a nuclear explosion.”

“It's always good to know that, Rudley.” She gave him a meaningful look. “You know what the long-term forecast is suggesting.”

“The long-term forecast?” He rolled his eyes. “Those ninnies change the long-term forecast every five minutes. I suppose it's hard for a person who's been trained as a meteorologist, who makes an egregious sum of money, to admit he doesn't know what the weather is going to be until he sticks his head out the window.”

“They do say the weather is becoming more unpredictable.”

“My father always said that the way to deal with the weather is to carry an umbrella at all times. That way he didn't have to worry about being surprised.”

“Except by a tornado, I suppose,” Margaret murmured. She paused, wondering if she should remind him about the generators and the pellet stoves. “Rudley?”

“What now, Margaret?” He made a move to ball up and toss the latest piece of paper into the wastebasket, but tossed the pen instead.

“Rudley, whatever is wrong with you?”

He surveyed her calmly. “Not a thing.”

“You've been like a bear today.”

“I have not been like a bear.” He went to retrieve his pen from the basket. “Margaret, we have a situation.”

“Yes, Rudley, we always have a situation. What is it this time?”

“I hear that Tiffany is planning to go to Toronto for Christmas.”

She busied herself with the mail. “Did she tell you that?”

“Gregoire let it slip.”

“Really.”

“Her family won't be in Toronto this year.”

“I know that, Rudley.”

He opened the drawer to look for a piece of paper, then slammed it shut as a thought dawned on him. “She's chasing after that damn writer, isn't she?”

“Don't slam that drawer so hard, Rudley. You're going to break it again.”

“She's spending Christmas with that ass, isn't she?”

“Don't call him an ass. His name is Dan. Dan Thornton.”

Rudley scowled. “I don't know why everyone goes to such lengths to keep these things from me. It's inexplicable.”

“Then let me explain.” Margaret opened a card and placed it on the display rack in front of the desk. “Isn't that a pretty card? It's from the MacPhersons.”

“Lovely,” he mumbled. “Explain, Margaret.”

She sighed. “Every time Tiffany keeps company with a young man you don't approve of, you get your back up. You refuse to give her beaux the benefit of the doubt.”

“The girl needs direction. If it weren't for me she would have married one of those dunces.”

Margaret took the pen from his hand. “Rudley, Tiffany has spent time overnight with young men before. The world hasn't come to an end. She has a good head on her shoulders.”

Rudley huffed and puffed. “You know the bunch of idiots she's gone out with. Going to Toronto to spend time alone with that nincompoop? Why couldn't she at least take him to where her family's going to be?”

“Her brother's going skiing in Whistler with his fiancée. Her parents are going on a mission to Haiti.”

“I didn't know they were missionaries.”

“It's a recent conversion.” She opened another card. “Besides, you misunderstood Gregoire,” she added hurriedly. “Tiffany is not going to Toronto.”

Rudley brightened. “Then we'll have her for Christmas after all.”

Margaret opened a letter. “This is from your doctor, Rudley.”

“Put it in the garbage where it belongs.”

“He's reminding you of your annual screening.”

“I know what he wants, Margaret. If he knew what went on around here, my colon would be the least of his concerns.” He smiled. “So, when all was said and done, Tiffany chose us.”

“You could say that.” Margaret opened another card. “This is from our insurance agency.”

Rudley froze with a sudden realization. “That ass Thornton is coming here, isn't he?”

“Tiffany was hoping to stay with him in Toronto, but he said there was some sort of problem with his apartment — plumbing or the like. So she invited him to come here.” She paused. “I don't think you should call him an ass. You've never met him.”

“Ninety-nine percent of her beaux have been asses. I would say the odds are excellent he is, too. He's a writer, isn't he? Those arty types are always suspect.”

Margaret waited patiently as he went on about the iniquities of the artistic crowd. Dear Rudley, she thought, sometimes it was best to let him vent. He was so protective of the staff, especially Tiffany, although he would be loath to admit it. And, she had to allow, Tiffany's choices hadn't always worked out well. There had been the flautist, the bass violinist, the poet, the artist, the novelist…