Pleasantly Dead (13 page)

“We could use the barn.”

“The barn is infested with mice and bats.”

“Summer theatre aficionados expect that sort of thing.” She sighed. “I had a lot of time to think during my captivity. It cheered me to think up projects for the inn.” She gave Rudley a sideways look. “And with the theatre, we could keep Tim. He wouldn’t have to go off to Toronto to find his audience. We don’t want to lose Tim.”

“If you say so, Margaret.” He considered the possibilities. “We could finance the performances by splitting the profits with the actors.”

“With a guarantee. We can’t expect actors to perform for nothing.”

“Saturday nights?”

“Friday nights. Saturday is…”

“Music Hall.”

Brisbois briefed his team. “I was able to get hold of Leslie’s brother,” he said. “According to him, Leslie’s been pinching bottoms all over the country for years. Seems he takes these trips, tells his wife it’s business, sows some wild oats, then goes home to be the dutiful family man.”

“Maybe Leslie wasn’t as discreet as he thought he was. Maybe the wife found out. Maybe she hired a hit man,” Creighton said.

“I don’t think so. These two murders are connected. Once we identity our John Doe, things will start to fall into place.”

“His picture is circulating in every police jurisdiction in the world. Something’s got to break.”

“It better.” He shuddered. “This damned show tonight. I’ve never seen so much excitement over an amateur hour. If I’d asked them to cancel, they would have lynched me.”

“So our mission is to keep them from murdering each other between numbers.”

“Your mission,” Brisbois said, leaning against the desk, “is to keep your eyes and ears open. You will be responsible for the areas and people marked on your briefing papers. I’ll be going over the floor plans in a minute. If anybody asks questions, you’re tourists staying at one of the inns on the east side of town. That’s important. Guests from the Pleasant tend to frequent Middleton. Guests further out favour Bridgeport for their incidental shopping, sightseeing, whatever. Or you’re staying with family in the area. If anyone in your area of responsibility makes a move, note who, when, and where.” He took a deep breath. “Try not to act like cops. Act like people on vacation. Dress is casual. Golf shirts, sports shirts, and slacks for the men. Same for the women. Casual. Whatever you would pack for a vacation at a country inn. Wear your hair down, if you have any. And talk it out so you don’t all look alike.” He sat down. “The stack of papers Creighton is about to hand out are programs for the show. You’ll find a seating plan with the tables numbered. If anyone leaves their table, put an
x
on their spot and the time. The tradition of the show is to vote for your favourite acts. There’ll be pens and ballots at all of the seats so you won’t look out of place if you jot something down.” He waved off the raised hands. “You could write all night and not stand out. They hand out trophies for best act, best act by a guest, by a couple, a group, a dinner guest, a staff member.”

“Do the dinner guests have to do a number?”

“You don’t have to and you don’t want to.”

“I was looking forward to bringing my sax and doing ‘Glow Worm’.”

“Save it for the police banquet. Remember, our first mission is to prevent another murder. Our second mission is to smoke out whoever committed the first two. If, by happy coincidence, we do both, I’ll be overjoyed.”

“What if we have to go to the bathroom?”

“Just make sure your partner’s there to hold the fort.”

“Are we allowed to drink?”

“Glass of wine with dinner. The Pleasant has a good cellar. That’s it. You know who will be watching.”

“One who knows if you’ve been bad or good?”

“And be good for goodness sake.” Brisbois opened his program, turned toward the blackboard. “Okay, let’s go over the logistics.”

After briefing the troops, Brisbois met with Mrs. Leslie, who had arrived an hour earlier from Montreal. He escorted her to the morgue.

Vivian Leslie was a handsome woman who would have looked at home with the horsy set. She had touches of grey in her jet-black hair, and lines around her mouth and eyes that she had earned and had elected not to part with. Brisbois decided he liked her.

“Can you tell me how Peter died?”

She was pale and distressed under her composed veneer, taking pains, Brisbois thought, to spare him a show of grief that would have made him uncomfortable. He suspected she was well schooled in the art of hiding her emotions.

“He received a blow to the head, but the pathologist says death was due to hemorrhage. We believe he was hit on the head and pushed under water. Then his wrists were cut. The pathologist believes he was unconscious before the other took place.”

“I don’t know why anyone would do this to Peter.”

He fidgeted with his pen. “We were hoping you might have some idea. Did your husband have any enemies? Did anyone except you know he was coming here?”

She shook her head. “Peter came from old money. He inherited the family business. He didn’t have to climb over anyone on his way up or create bad feelings in the usual way. He treated his employees well.”

“How long had he been in business?”

“Just over thirty years. He completed an MBA at the University of Chicago, then joined the firm.”

He jotted a note. “And who knew he was staying here — apart from yourself?”

She pursed her lips and studied the table. He waited out her silence.

“Detective, I didn’t know he was here. I thought he was in Toronto on business. He called me every day, told me how the meetings were going.”

Brisbois avoided her eyes.

“There’s no need to feel embarrassed for me,” she said. “I’ve known about Peter’s side trips for years. It’s something he seemed to need.”

She raised her eyes. Brisbois met them. “You must have been pretty upset,” he said.

“The first time — at least the first time I’m aware of — yes.”

“How did you find out?”

“He made a mistake. He told me he’d had dinner at a particular restaurant, a place we’d been to together a year or so before. I mentioned the restaurant to a friend who was visiting a few days later. She told me it had been closed for months. There had been a fire.”

“You found him out, but he didn’t stop.”

She smiled. “I didn’t tell him, or anyone, I’d found him out.” She took a deep breath. “Peter was a handsome man, cultivated, charming. We have two children. A grandchild. If I’d confronted him, we might not have had that. He was discreet. He took his act out of town, so to speak. When he was at home, he was kind, considerate. What would I have gained by confronting him? I would have caused a great deal of pain. For our family. For Peter. He loved his children; he doted on his granddaughter. And whether you believe it or not, he loved me too.”

Brisbois thought about that as he framed his next question. “Where were you when your husband was murdered?”

“You said it happened early in the morning. I had a breakfast meeting downtown at Saint Joseph’s Hospital. I’m on the board of governors.”

“All right.” He tapped the notebook. “If you could provide the names and numbers of his colleagues and other family members. I’ll need to talk to everybody.”

“I don’t know what anyone could tell you.”

“It’s routine.” He paused. “So you weren’t even a little bit bitter about your husband’s extracurricular activities?”

She shook her head. “Some women choose to ignore emotional distance, lack of affection, gambling, violence. I chose to ignore Peter’s infidelity.”

“You’re a generous woman.”

Her shoulders lifted. “Everyone has a weakness.” She took a deep breath. “I’d like to see Peter now.”

He took her to the viewing area.

He was glad the face looked peaceful. He took a step back. She took a long look, then turned away.

“Can I escort you to your car, Mrs. Leslie?”

“No. I’ll be all right, thank you.” She took a step, lurched and reached for the wall.

He took her arm and helped her down the front steps.

“My driver’s in the parking lot.”

The man had been enjoying a cigarette. He extinguished it and brought the car around when he saw Mrs. Leslie come down the steps. Brisbois helped her into the back seat and watched as the car drove away.

She was a beautiful woman, and if she were telling the truth, she was also brave. In spite of what she said, he knew it had cost her to keep her family together. His wife would have nailed him with a baseball bat if she caught him with another woman. She would stand over him, arms akimbo, giving him a tongue-lashing as he lay dazed. Once she had worked him over to her satisfaction, she would forgive him. At least, that’s what he thought she would do. He had heard her recommend this approach to others. “I’d forgive you once,” she said. “Twice at the most.” He was determined she wouldn’t have to forgive him even once.

Still… He cautioned himself to remain objective. It was easy to fall under the spell of a woman like Mrs. Leslie. But who had a better motive for murder? While Leslie hadn’t rubbed her nose in his dalliances, she had to be afraid that someone in their crowd would learn their secret. For a woman in her position, dedicated to manners and status, that would be intolerable. Perhaps she had put a private detective onto him, and once the magnitude of his sins was revealed, had hired a hit man.

He frowned. But how to connect the murders? He considered the possibilities: First, the hit man got the date of Leslie’s arrival wrong. Then he mistook Margaret Rudley’s cottage for the Low Birches — after all, who would imagine someone calling the cottages the High and Low Birches? Once he discovered his error, he had tried to confuse the issue with a kidnapping. And then he had taken Margaret’s keys, let himself into the wine cellar, and killed a man who bore not the slightest resemblance to Leslie. Then, recognizing his error, he concealed himself in the Pleasant long enough to learn the routines and having tried Margaret’s keys and finding they no longer worked, followed Tiffany to the Low Birches, knocked her over the head, killed Leslie, and dissolved into thin air.

And then the wolf came out of the woods and ate Little Red Riding Hood and they all lived happily ever after.

He sighed. Mrs. Leslie was a suspect only if he believed there was no connection between the murders. The thought of two different murderers gave him a headache. He considered the evidence. Not much. Each man had been dispatched efficiently, one with a blow to the head, the other with a sharp instrument.

The identity of John Doe was key.

He was determined there would be no more dead bodies at the Pleasant. At least not on his watch.

“I shudder to think of how close you were to the murderer,” Simpson said. “If you hadn’t gone out the window, who knows what would have happened?”

“If I had gone out the door instead of the window, I would have met Tiffany coming in. I would have seen the person creeping in behind her. I would have screamed, thrown something. Leslie would have jumped out of the tub, buck naked, and our frustrated murderer would have galloped off into the forest.”

“Or he could have killed all three of you.”

“How would he have killed all three of us with a straight razor?”

“Perhaps he had a gun.”

“If he’d had a gun, he would have shot Leslie.”

“I would say a gun would make too much noise, but if he really had to…”

“Edward, you worry too much.” She gave his lapel a tug. “I wish you were doing Leonard Cohen with me.”

“I look ghastly in black.”

“You don’t have to wear black.”

“I’m a bit shy.”

“That you are.” She gazed off dreamily. “I don’t have a fix on the Leslie murder yet, but I think our deductions are spot on about the first. The man came to the Pleasant by canoe in the middle of the night for a clandestine meeting. He tossed his shoes toward the platform in the boathouse, but missed. He then made his way to his assignation where he was murdered. Why, I don’t know. I don’t know who killed Peter Leslie but I’m sure the murders are connected. After all, you don’t have people running in and out of the Pleasant committing murder, willy-nilly.”

“I wouldn’t rule it out, Elizabeth.”

“There has to be a connection,” she said and then sighed. “And we’ll probably have to be the ones who figure it out.” She picked up the telephone. “Read me the next name, Edward.”

He checked the list. “Geraldine and Norman Phipps-Walker, Ottawa.”

“Thank you, Edward.” She dialed briskly. “Information, please. I would like the number for Shoniker’s Shoe Repair. Thank you.” She turned to Edward. “Next?”

“Walter and Doreen Sawchuck, Rochester, New York.”

A few minutes later, she carefully replaced the receiver, turned to him in triumph.

“Etta Knowles, Windsor,” Edward continued, his eyes still on the list.

“We have a hit, Edward.”

He looked up. “Really?”

“What’s the inn’s fax number?”

He looked around for a pad of stationery. “Here it is. It’s on the letterhead.”

“Good.”

“What now, Elizabeth?”

She smiled. “Edward, I have a plan.”

He looked at her solemnly. “What sort of plan, Elizabeth?”

“Nothing dangerous, Edward. Nothing that involves snorkeling in cold water. I’m going to fax a note to a librarian friend in Toronto. I need some information.”

Brisbois was taking a walk. He had sent Creighton into town to follow up what leads existed. He wanted to form his own impressions without someone tagging along, monitoring his moods and reactions.

The Pleasant was, well, pleasant. Sixty acres of beauty. Clear water, clean beaches, with a thriving marsh that gave sanctuary to birds and animals he hadn’t seen since he was a boy.

He had always dreamed of having a cottage, but life kept getting in the way. Four kids to put through college. Being at the Pleasant reawakened his resolve. Once the kids were on their way, he and his wife would have that cottage.

He took a deep breath and slowed his pace. Any one of the cabins would make a grand cottage. There was an extensive woodlot that actually belonged to the inn — it wasn’t an illusion, a domain separated from a manicured lawn by a barbwire fence, as woods were at most of the inns. The Pleasant was a world unto itself; the rocks that lined the driveway were the burdens the guests laid down as they crossed the line.

He was enjoying the tranquility, feeling the tension in his neck ratchet down a notch when Creighton bore down on him, shouting his name in evident excitement.

“Yes?”

“Are you ready for this?”

Brisbois gave him a Gallic shrug.

Creighton thrust a sheaf of papers into his hand. “It’s a bleeding gold mine.”

Thomas answered the door in navy-blue pinstripe pants and a white shirt. A matching jacket and yellow silk tie hung over the valet behind him.