Many Unpleasant Returns (19 page)

“I think the detectives will fill everyone in once reinforcements arrive,” Margaret said. “Detective Brisbois seems to think someone might disturb the scene and he doesn't have an official to post.” She paused, seeking another conversational gambit. “How are things with Mr. Thornton?”

Tiffany lowered her gaze. “ I'm not sure why he came here. He's not nearly as attentive as he was in Toronto. There, he seemed so interested in my work, my poetry, my prose.” She hesitated, then added, “I suppose some men feel they can be inattentive once they've achieved their goals.”

“I see.”

“He seems more fond of himself than of me.”

“As you know, Tiffany, creative types can have massive egos.”

“Well, there's no point in worrying about that now, given what's going on. I just hope Lloyd and Mr. Rudley are safe.” She glanced toward the window. “It would be easy to get lost tonight.”

“Rudley could get lost in the backyard,” Margaret said, “but Lloyd has the uncanny ability to find his way around.” She patted Tiffany's arm. “Why don't you get a snack? You've been on your feet all day.”

 

“It's rather quiet around here tonight,” Sheila Nesbitt said, noting everyone but the Sawchucks was in the drawing room. “The staff seems worried about something. Do you suppose we're running out of fuel?”

Mr. Bole gave her a reassuring smile. “I'm sure we aren't.”

“It is supposed to be the worst storm this area has experienced in half a century,” Norman said. “Of course, fifty years ago, people were not so wedded to their creature comforts as they are today.”

“Creature comforts like heat and light,” Thornton said.

“We couldn't freeze to death, could we?”

“People do freeze, Mrs. Nesbitt,” Norman said cheerfully. “But usually because they're outside or inside with no heat and a supply of alcohol.” He smiled a buck-toothed smile. “I would say our chances of freezing are very low. Even if the propane and the generators fail, we have the fireplace. We have plenty of wood and we can always huddle together under blankets, conserve and share our body heat.”

Keith Nesbitt said dryly, “Freezing to death might be more pleasant.”

“I suppose it depends on who you're huddled with,” said Mr. Bole. “I recall an occasion in the Northwest Territories — I was an observer with a research team — when bad weather forced us to spend four days straight in a very small tent. Of course none of us had had the opportunity to bathe for two weeks.”

“I don't think I need to hear about that,” Carla Johnson murmured. She was sitting on the sofa, bent forward, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, staring into the fire.

“It wasn't all that bad, actually,” said Mr. Bole. “The olfactory sense fatigues easily. It's the initial whiff that does you in.”

After a long silence, Sheila asked, “Why was that police detective here?”

“He was looking for the other detective,” Norman said.

“And what was the other detective doing here?” Keith Nesbitt asked.

“The usual,” Geraldine piped up. “They were investigating.”

“In the middle of a blizzard?” Keith scoffed.

“Neither rain nor snow nor dark of night…” Norman began.

“They're investigating those murdered Santas,” said Geraldine.

“I haven't seen Frankie all day,” Keith said. “I thought they might have come to arrest him for being an ass.”

Sheila looked away.

Johnny looked up, frowning.

“Now that's a rather harsh assessment,” Mr. Bole said.

Keith didn't appear chastened. “Who else could be responsible for all the tomfoolery going on around here?”

Mrs. Gowling sat in the corner in the drawing room, feeling quite at peace. She didn't mind the power going down. She'd grown up in the age of coal-fired furnaces, and kerosene lamps were at the ready, if needed. These people, she thought, were in the lap of luxury — even with the power down — and some of them didn't know it. She wasn't sure what was going on but, clearly, things weren't right and it had nothing to do with the storm. She'd caught quite a bit of Detective Brisbois's conversation with the Rudleys, enough to know his arrival at the Pleasant involved more than the mischief of the Little Santas. She gathered the detectives were still on edge about Mr. Morton's death, and although his death was rumoured to be an accident, the other events were casting bothersome doubts. Then there was Mr. Franklin. He hadn't been seen all day, and even with the snowstorm diluting everyone's attention, that seemed unusual. Unless — and she thought that was what Mr. Nesbitt was suggesting — the detectives had come to the conclusion that Frankie had done Mr. Morton in and had murdered the Little Santas and was on the lam, as they say. That was the only thing that made sense. That tied everything together.

“I think the detectives are simply trying to tie up loose ends,” said Norman, echoing her thoughts.

“Detective Brisbois simply loathes loose ends,” said Geraldine.

Mr. Bole smiled. “Yes, that seems to be true for most people. Loose ends make people uneasy, which is strange when you think about it, because life is full of loose ends.” He sighed. “It's a shame really, this obsession for an explanation for everything. I think it takes away from the wonder of the world.”

“Yes,” said Thornton, “we do have an obsession for completeness.” He turned to Johnny. “Where is Frankie? Didn't he go out with you this morning?”

“No,” said Johnny. “He was still a little wound up last night after we finished up in the coach house. He'd been going non-stop all day and was still on a bit of an adrenalin rush. He said he was going to work on a bottle. He's probably been sleeping all day. He does that once in a while.”

“He'll probably be up for supper,” said Carla. She hadn't taken her eyes off the fire.

“He was a veritable whirling dervish yesterday,” said Mr. Bole.

“When he was in college,” Johnny continued, “if he got really wound up, it would be go-go-go then sleep the whole next day.”

“Sort of like a two-year-old crossed with a teenager,” said Keith.

Tim entered the drawing room at that moment with a trolley laden with hot chocolate, coffee, tea, and mulled wine.

“I have some hot drinks,” he said merrily, “unless anyone wants something cold.”

“I think we need the heat,” Sheila said.

Tim stopped in front of Carla, smiled. “Mrs. Johnson?”

She reached for a cup of hot chocolate. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Gowling took a sharp breath. “Mrs. Johnson, you've got a nasty burn on your wrist.”

“Oh” — Carla pulled her sleeve down quickly — “it's nothing. I was ironing a blouse.”

“And you burned that nice Icelandic sweater too,” said Mrs. Gowling solicitously.

Carla glanced at the singed cuff. “I'm sure I can find someone to repair it.”

“A good knitter might be able to,” said Mrs. Gowling.

Carla gave her a quick smile. “Yes, I'll look into that.”

Geraldine accepted a cup of tea from Tim. “If Mr. Franklin isn't here by supper, someone should go down to wake him.”

“Or perhaps not,” said Keith.

Mr. Bole dismissed Keith's comment with a flutter of the hand. “I, for one, deeply appreciate what Mr. Franklin did for me yesterday. If he isn't up for dinner, I'll take him down a tray.”

 

I thought that was a generous statement by Mr. Bole. He was clearly unwilling to let Mr. Franklin be torn to shreds when he wasn't there to defend himself. And he managed to put Mr. Nesbitt in his place without making a scene. Of course, people of Mr. Bole's generation, and my generation, don't like to make scenes. Today, people seem to go to great lengths to make scenes. The influence of television, I suppose. People these days seem to have a hard time separating fiction from reality.

Mr. Bole went on to suggest that the men could work up an appetite for dinner by clearing the front porch and walkway, as the staff was stretched to the limit. Since Mr. Bole is a gentleman and not sexist in any way I've noted, I think he said “men” so no one would draw attention to me and, believe me, I'm well past the point of being able to shovel four or five feet of snow. Geraldine Phipps-Walker is up to the task. Sheila Nesbitt is young and athletic. Carla Johnson, in spite of being whip-thin, is strong. I've watched her cross-country ski and snowshoe. I think she could arm-wrestle her husband successfully. Mr. Johnson is, I'm afraid to say, a bit of a wimp, a rather morose one at that.

Keith then said that no one seemed worried about Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson and they'd been gone all day. The Phipps-Walkers and Mr. Bole looked at each other and laughed.

“Mr. Simpson is with Miss Miller,” Mr. Bole said.

“Miss Miller was a girl scout,” said Norman.

And that seemed, as they say, to make everything peachy keen.

 

Brisbois stopped at another tree to place another piece of reflective tape. Six inches came off the roll, leaving it bare. He looked back and gulped. He couldn't see the last one he'd placed. And he'd been so careful. He looked around but could see nothing but snow.

What was it his grandfather had told him? When you think you're lost, stay put. If you move any more, you'll just be more lost. He looked around for shelter and decided that if he had to he'd crawl under the skirt of a tree.

He was on his hands and knees, digging like a Jack Russell terrier, his head and shoulders hidden by the lower boughs of the tree, when something stepped on his foot. He yelled in surprise and pain as someone grabbed his legs and hauled him out. He struggled but to no avail. He turned his head and squinted into a flashlight.

“Ain't him,” he heard a familiar voice say. “It's Detective Brisbois.”

 

Margaret hurried in with a cup of tea.

“We're just wasting time,” said Brisbois, standing at the front desk looking like a yeti. “We need to get back out.”

Rudley crossed his eyes. “You were the one wasting time, Detective, and what was idiotic was us following your trail markers.”

“All around the lawn and back to the big tree by the tool shed,” said Lloyd. He grinned.

“In an almost perfect circle,” added Rudley.

“Creighton could have gone in a perfect circle too.”

“Yes,” Rudley murmured, “but knowing how the two of you operate, your paths would have crossed only tangentially.”

“Any word about the uniforms?” Brisbois barked to cover his frustration and embarrassment.

“The telephones show no sign of coming back up, Detective.” Margaret handed him the tea. “I know you're worried about Detective Creighton but the best we can do is to rest up, have something warm, then we'll all go out together.”

“‘Together' being the operative word,” said Rudley.

“So we can get lost together,” added Lloyd.

Brisbois's curse was cut short by a bump against the door as Albert charged in.

“Albert!” Margaret threw her arms around the dog.

Simpson stuck his head around the door. “Could we have some help out here?”

Rudley and Lloyd headed for the door. Brisbois followed.

“If we get our arms under…” Miss Miller was saying.

Brisbois frowned at the figure on the improvised stretcher.

Creighton looked up and grinned. “Hi, Boss.”

 

Creighton lay on the sofa in one corner of the lobby, his left leg, which was propped up on pillows, splinted with pine branches and held together with his tie, his belt and his scarf.

“How's it going?” Brisbois asked taking the chair next to him.

Creighton grimaced. “Not too bad, not too good.”

“Lucky you fell into that little depression. It kept the wind off you.”

“If I hadn't fallen into that hole, I wouldn't have broken my leg in the first place.”

“I could probably fix it,” Lloyd volunteered.

Creighton warded him off with outstretched arms. “No thanks.”

“On account the bone ain't sticking out through your pants and the ambulance might never get here.”

Tiffany appeared with a tray of food. She set it down, reached around Creighton and tucked a cushion behind his back. Then she tied a large napkin around his neck. “We'll put the tray right here where you can reach it. You must keep your leg up. Otherwise, the pain will be excruciating.”

Brisbois turned to Lloyd. “Why do you think the ambulance might never get through?”

“Cause the ambulance can't get through until the road's plowed and Officer Petrie and Vance said it would take forever to get an ambulance this way.”

“I think they said a while, not forever or never.”

The two officers had arrived a half-hour earlier, hitching a ride with the county plow, then slogging the last half-mile on snowshoes. The best part, as far as Brisbois was concerned, was the satellite phone they brought with him. They informed him cheerfully that they had passed the Jeep on the way. A two-foot limb had fallen from one of the oak trees and crushed it.

“Mr. Rudley said you'd get to the hospital faster if Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson dragged you on that sled,” said Lloyd.

Creighton winced.

“Gregoire has some apple pie for you in the kitchen,” Tiffany said to Lloyd, taking him by the arm and steering him away from the detectives.

Brisbois turned back to Creighton. “Now,” he said, “could you give me a few more details about what happened?”

Creighton lifted a soup spoon from the tray. “That trip back on the sledge was gruesome.”

“I guess Miss Miller and Simpson didn't have much choice. They were afraid you'd freeze if they left you to go for help.”

“I know.”

“So, what happened?”

Creighton took a sip of soup, then said, “I went down to cordon off the Pines. I checked to see if the door was locked. It was. I had just fastened one end of the tape when I saw what looked like someone inside — a shadow crossing the room. I ran around the cabin just in case whoever it was was planning to go out the window. Next thing I knew, the damn shutter flew back and knocked me on my ass.”

“Did you see footprints leading up to the door?”

Creighton shook his head. “I would have noticed if there were, I think. But it was blowing and drifting…it was hard to tell. So, I lay there, feeling as if I'd had my bell rung but good. My hat had blown off. I wasn't sure if I'd conked out or not. I thought I saw some dents in the snow leading away from the window. I decided to follow them. Then they just stopped. They might have been just little bare spots where the wind blew the snow away. I got turned around. I got lost. I guess I was still a little foggy. I fell into a hole and broke my leg.”

“I guess that hurts, eh?”

“Not so much when you're frozen as stiff as a Popsicle.”

“
OK
.”

“So I amused myself by trying to stand up. That was fun. There wasn't even a tree limb I could use as a crutch. I mean, there were limbs down all over the place but none within thirty feet of me. So I tried to make myself some kind of shelter. It was damn cold. I didn't have my hat.”

Brisbois was busy scratching notes. “Wasn't wearing a parka or a suitable hat, wasn't wearing long underwear,” he murmured. He looked at Creighton. “This is why you should always wear long underwear in the winter. You never know what could happen.”

“Yeah, I could meet a great-looking girl in a bar. Can you imagine taking a great-looking girl you met in a bar home if you were wearing long underwear?”

“I never meet girls in bars.”

“Where did you meet Mary?”

“In church,” Brisbois muttered. “Then what?”

“So, I'm lying there. The snow's so thick it's like a big cloud all around me. I'm sure I'm going to die. I hear a bark. I looked up and there was Albert looking down at me with that big goofy smile. Then he jumped on top of me and started licking my face.”

“So you sent him for help, like Lassie.”

“Sort of. I took off his collar and tied my tie around his neck. I knew when someone saw that they'd know something had happened. I had a hard time getting him to leave but he finally got the idea. I made a snowball, threw it as far as I could, and he ran after it. Would you believe he tried to bring it back? Anyway, I tried to stand up again and screamed. I think that scared him.” He laughed. “Next thing I know he's back with Miss Miller and Simpson. They built a kind of stretcher for me out of some branches. Miss Miller carries a hatchet, you know.”

“Miss Miller is always prepared.”

“She splinted my leg and they dragged me out.”

“I think that's why she has every girl scout badge in the Commonwealth.”

“I don't think there's anything she didn't have in that bag. I think she could have whipped up a seven-course meal if I'd been in the mood.” He paused to take another spoonful of soup. “That's good.” He put his spoon down and took a deep breath.

“Are you having much pain?”

“It's not too bad.” Creighton picked up a brown bottle. “Rudley gave me some Tylenol and medicinal brandy.” He opened the bottle and took a healthy slug.

“You're going to be in bad shape if they have to operate. Full of soup and half-snapped on brandy.”

“I guess I'm not on duty and it makes me feel a whole lot better,” he said sleepily.

Brisbois swiped a weary hand across his chin. “Stay with me just a little longer.” He turned a page in his notebook. “Now, did you get hit by a loose shutter or did somebody swing it back and catch you with it?”

Creighton yawned. “I didn't see anybody push it. It just came at me.”

“Rudley says the shutters button down in the inside. If you open them and don't secure them on the outside they just swing free. That's why he asks the guests not to open them unless they can fasten them down or have somebody to do it.” Brisbois imagined the scene at the Pines. “Maybe somebody heard you at the door, tried to go out the window and hit you with the shutter. They saw you lying there, kind of out of it, so they just turned and walked out the front door.”

“Wouldn't that be risky?”

“Maybe, maybe not. There wasn't anybody around. You didn't see anybody else, did you?”

“No.” Creighton strained to keep his eyes open.

Brisbois looked hungrily at Creighton's tray. “Are you going to eat that biscuit?”

“Tiffany will bring me another one if I ask.” Creighton pushed the tray toward him.

Brisbois split the biscuit, smeared it with a pat of butter, and took a bite, spilling crumbs over his tie.

“I should have been more careful,” Creighton said. “When I saw someone moving in the Pines, I was sure I had been spotted, so I headed for the window. I figured it was a slam-dunk. I didn't expect to get ambushed by a shutter. I mean, who has working shutters anymore?”

“The Pleasant.”

Creighton yawned. “So you figure whoever I saw was from here.”

“Yep.”

“Then when I set out across the Great White North, I was chasing ghosts.”

“I think so.”

“It couldn't have been someone from outside?”

“I can't see why a stranger would go out in a blizzard to break into a cabin.”

“I didn't see any sign of a break-in.”

“Me neither, but it looked as if someone might have been looking for something. Half the drawers in the place were hanging open.”

Tiffany reappeared with a pot of coffee and two bowls of rice pudding. “You're looking better, Detective,” she said to Creighton.

“It was your great soup.”

“You've been so stoical,” Tiffany said. “Lying there with your leg broken, tied together with pine boughs, swelling and turning yellow.” She poured two cups of coffee. “If there's anything you want, just ring your bell.”

“Thank you.”

“Tiffany,” Brisbois said as she turned to leave, “when you took that coffee to Officer Vance, did he say if my wife had left a message?”

“He didn't, Detective. I'm sorry.”

“Is he having any problems with communications?”

“He didn't say so.”

“Did you speak to Petrie?”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “No one has received a message yet, Detective. I'm sure they would have said so.”

“Did they let headquarters know I was looking for my wife?”

“I'm sure everything's all right, Detective. Mrs. Brisbois probably can't reach you because her telephone isn't working. The lines are down all over.”

He nodded. “Thanks, Tiffany.”

When Tiffany left, Creighton reached for the brandy. “I was feeling better before she brought up that part about my leg turning yellow.”

Brisbois peeked under the blanket and made a face. “Have another slug of brandy.” He sat back and poured some cream into his coffee.

“Mary's
OK
,” said Creighton. “I'll bet she's hunkered down at work to wait things out. She's too smart to be out in this.” He yawned again, propped the pudding against his chest, and took a spoonful. “I think I'm too tired to eat this. If I leave it, you won't eat it, will you?”

“No.” Brisbois took the pudding from Creighton and put it on the table.

Creighton closed his eyes. Brisbois pretended to concentrate on his notebook, worried about his wife. Creighton was right. Mary was at the office. She'd probably work until she got tired, then sack out on the couch in the bank's break room. It entered his tired mind that maybe she had gone to a nearby hotel for some supper with that new young intern, but, no, his wife wouldn't be tempted by a man the same age as her daughter. Creighton was right. Mary was at the bank waiting for a break in the weather.

Or maybe she tried to make it home and ran into that damn bridge abutment! Brisbois's jaw tightened. But Creighton muttering something in his sleep broke into his thoughts. He put down his notebook and peeked through a slit in the curtains on the screen Margaret had set up to assure Creighton some privacy. Margaret had brought bedding and hot water bottles as he lay shivering. Rudley had donated a bathrobe and one of his flannel nightshirts. They'd had to cut Creighton's pants off. The Rudleys and staff had done everything to ensure Creighton's comfort. Rudley hadn't even complained about the trail of snow and pine needles they left across the lobby as they carried him in and deposited him on the couch.

Someone was playing a light classical piece on the piano. He loosened his collar and leaned back to listen. He glanced at his watch. It was after 11:00 pm. He wanted to fall asleep but knew he couldn't. In a few minutes, he had to go out and relieve Vance. Another set of uniformed officers was scheduled to arrive, but Brisbois knew it would take some time. Car accidents and downed power lines had everyone busy. A forensics officer was expected soon, too. Brisbois himself had done a brief walk-through at the Pines. The kitchen and bathroom areas were exceptionally neat for a single man. The bed-sitting area, though, showed signs someone had been looking for something in a hurry — the most telling being drawers pulled out and not pushed back.

He straightened up in his chair and to ward off drowsiness reviewed his notebook. Frankie and his pal Johnny had been helping Mr. Bole yesterday with a puppet show. Frankie was in good spirits, everyone said. Johnny was his usual, somewhat subdued, self. Johnny said Frankie was pretty wound up when he left and was planning to treat himself to a nice bottle of Scotch. Earlier this morning, Mrs. Johnson said she expected Frankie to join her for brunch. She had knocked on his door on her way to the inn, but got no answer. She didn't think anything of it until she arrived at the inn and found out no one had seen him. Brisbois made a doodle in the margin. He supposed Frankie could have been the one who left the drawers in the Pines open. Still, there was the shadow. He felt certain Creighton had seen someone moving around in the cabin. Now all he had to do was figure out who.

He flipped a page in his notes. Checked the inventory he'd taken of the items on Frankie's body. There wasn't much. An expensive-looking watch on his left wrist, car keys, a pocket knife and lip balm in his front pockets. A wallet in his back pocket, apparently intact, with a couple of dollars in change. Brisbois noted a condom in the wallet. He wasn't sure what that meant these days. Once, he might have thought the guy was a jerk, constantly on the make. Today, it might mean he was considerate. Brisbois had never used a condom in his life. He was a good Catholic. He glanced over at Creighton, who appeared to be asleep. Creighton, he imagined, had gone through a crate.

Besides money and a condom, the wallet contained the usual things — credit cards, driver's licence, pictures. Next-of-kin was his father. Declined the opportunity to donate his organs. Nearby, on a hook next to the coach house door, were a jacket and a pair of gloves. On a chair in the first row of seats below the stage was a small backpack containing a camera with some pictures of birds.

Brisbois paused over his notes. The door of the Pines was locked when Creighton tried it. What were the possibilities? Maybe Frankie left the door unlocked. The person Creighton saw in the Pines simply walked in and locked the door behind them. Or Frankie left the key in the door. Someone saw it and took the opportunity to walk right in. He rechecked the inventory. There was no room key on Frankie's body or among his possessions at the coach house. What did that mean? Maybe Frankie had given his cabin key to the intruder. If so, what, if anything, did that person have to do with Frankie's death?