Pleasantly Dead (2 page)

Rudley knelt in front of the cupboard. The bottom three drawers hung open as he glommed through, tossing papers and cursing.

“Where in hell did that go?”

Tim, the waiter, leaned over the front desk, a tray tucked under his arm. “Gregoire wants you to know the strawberries that came in last night are as hard as bullets.”

“Then send them back.”

“He had to use maraschino cherries to complete the palette of his fruit salad. He’s not happy.”

“Tell him I don’t give a damn.” Rudley yanked the bottom drawer off its runners and turned it upside down on the floor. “Where in hell is the damned linen inventory?”

“I’ll tell Gregoire you don’t give a damn.” Tim flipped the tray into the air, caught it, turned on his heel, and waltzed back toward the dining room.

Aromas promising Belgian waffles, asparagus crêpes, and French roast coffee drifted through the lobby. Seven o’clock. The kind of morning that inspired even people on vacation to be up and about. Tim paused and stepped out onto the veranda.

The lake dazzled with lazy swells capped with sea gulls. The breeze released the fragrance of pine resin that blended with clean water and the aroma of cranberry-orange muffins from the kitchen exhaust. Tim spotted Garrett Thomas on the lake, casting off toward the flat rocks. Norman Phipps-Walker coasted near him. Phipps-Walker was stretched out in his rowboat, letting his line drift on the swell. Soon they would be dragging in to deposit their catch in the freezer on the back porch. Gregoire would not have the fish in his kitchen freezer. Mongrels, he called the local fish. Tim chuckled and went on into the dining room.

Several of the guests were already at their tables. Leo George, from Toronto, who was in hardware, sat alone in a window seat facing the lake, working his way through a plate of waffles and bacon in a businesslike manner, a newspaper propped against the salt and pepper shakers. In his three-piece suit and tie, he looked as if he had just come from a business meeting instead of a stroll by the lake.

Geraldine Phipps-Walker watched the lake between bites of fruit salad, periodically taking up her binoculars to monitor Mr. Phipps-Walker. He had fallen asleep. She checked to make sure he was wearing his life jacket. He was. She turned her attention to a loon. Before she could focus properly, it dove. She waited patiently, sweeping the binoculars back and forth across the lake. Bird watching was Mrs. Phipps-Walker’s first passion. Norman was somewhere on the list.

Doreen and Walter Sawchuck were retired people from Rochester, New York. They had been coming to the inn every summer for thirty years. Doreen had osteoarthritis. Walter had prostate trouble. Otherwise they hadn’t changed much since they married fifty years before. They loved the Pleasant because it was homey. Trevor Rudley catered to them as he catered to all his guests — by meeting their every need and swearing a lot.

The Sawchucks wore matching outfits of which they had a seemingly unlimited supply. Today, they wore pale-yellow golf shirts, forest-green Bermuda shorts, white athletic socks, and brown orthopedic oxfords. Mrs. Sawchuck had hooked her cane over the back of her chair. The Sawchucks ate heartily and sat close to the bathroom.

Tim stopped at their table. “Can I get you more coffee?”

“No, thank you, Tim,” Mr. Sawchuck said. “Lloyd’s getting a rowboat out for us.”

“Our doctor says rowing’s good for Walter’s joints,” Mrs. Sawchuck said.

Edward Simpson was a young man from England. He had come to Canada a year earlier to do postgraduate work at the University of Toronto. A friend had suggested the Pleasant as the perfect place to enjoy the Canadian cottage experience without the disadvantage of outdoor privies and black flies.

Simpson had arrived three days before, intending to stay three weeks. He wished he had booked for the entire month. The food was excellent, his room comfortable, and the ambiance, apart from the perpetual rudeness of the innkeeper, humanely gracious.

One of the first people Simpson had set eyes on upon arrival was Elizabeth Miller, a librarian from Toronto, who, he guessed, was close to his age. Miss Miller had sat at a table across from him the previous two evenings, just at enough of an angle to allow him a discreet perusal. This morning, she was sitting along the wall near the sideboard. He was, once again, able to observe her undetected. He noted she seemed comfortable eating alone, nibbling on a piece of toast while absorbed in a well-worn copy of
Wuthering Heights
. He wished he were Heathcliff. Miss Miller, he believed, was too fine to be interested in an ordinary chap like himself. Simpson was one of those rare handsome men who didn’t realize he was.

Miss Miller regretted she could permit herself only the occasional oblique glance in Edward Simpson’s direction. She had registered at the Pleasant for three weeks on the recommendation of a cousin who had spent her honeymoon here. She found the inn charming. Mr. Rudley was a grouch. That didn’t offend her. Many interesting people were, in her opinion, ill-tempered and off-putting.

She had noticed Simpson the moment she crossed the threshold. It was lust at first sight. She decided to conquer him before the week was out. Behind the ginger hair and freckles, the grey-green eyes obscured by thick glasses, Elizabeth Miller was a woman confident in her sexuality. She had no doubt she could bring Mr. Simpson to heel.

Rudley gritted his teeth as the jet ski cut a curve in front of the Pleasant, then roared off across the lake. “Rotten kid.”

Tim covered his ears with his hands and mimed, “Are you talking about Jason Turner?”

“Ugly son of a bitch,” Rudley muttered. “He looks as if someone had stretched him on the rack.”

“Sort of like Gumby,” said Tim.

“Except he has that little pin of a head. Although, I suppose it’s ample to hold the brains he possesses.”

“Maybe he’ll look better when he fills out.”

“No, he won’t. He’ll always be an ugly snot. With any luck, he’ll fall off that damned thing and drown.”

“We can only hope, boss.”

“Yes.” The thought calmed Rudley. He returned to his work.

The Sawchucks had been rowing out to join Phipps-Walker who was dozing in his rowboat, a pillow tucked behind his head, his fishing rod, loose in his hand, dipping in and out of the water with each breath. He was trying to ignore the sound of the jet ski that was threatening to destroy his nap.

Garrett Thomas was thirty feet away, casting out with studied precision. He was a trim man with a neat moustache and eyes like blue marbles. The kid dashing about on his jet ski was getting on his nerves. It took a lot to do that. He was a lawyer by profession, a cool customer.

He reeled his line in and took up his binoculars. He could see the Sawchucks cowering in their boat like two large frightened mice before a leering cat. “You have no manners, young man,” he muttered. “Precious little compassion either.” He took up an oar, manoeuvred himself closer to the Sawchucks, glancing at Phipps-Walker who had put his rod down and was holding the pillow over his ears.

Jason Turner whipped past, turned for another assault. Thomas scowled and prepared his rod.

The Mepps Comet lure caught Jason in the backside. Thomas set the line, pulling away a generous swatch of electric-blue wet suit. He reeled his catch in and dropped it into the bottom of the boat.

Jason made a bare-bottomed run for home, shouting over the roar of the jet ski, “You old fool, you old bastard. My father will…”

“If I have to pay for your wet suit, it will be worth it,” Thomas muttered. He checked his lure and cast out.

The Sawchucks waved their thanks. Phipps-Walker gave him a thumbs up and relaxed back into his pillow.

Rudley glared at the grandmother clock. “That damned clock has stopped.”

“It has,” Tim said.

“What in hell time…” Rudley peered at his watch. His eyes widened. “The laundry truck!” He stuck the laundry list into his back pocket and galloped out the front door and down the steps.

He ran down the driveway, took a furtive look around, then began to search the driveway, bent at the waist, eyes riveted to the ground.

“There you are.” He straightened, putting his hands on his hips. “I’ve told you time and time again not to come up here. It’s bloody dangerous.” He bent again, picked up the bullfrog, and headed for the reeds to the right of the dock. “I don’t know why you won’t stay here. It’s quite congenial for one of your type.” He looked up at the sound of a motor. “Now, if I’d left you up there, you’d have ended up a large unpleasant squish on that man’s tire.” He put the bullfrog down. “My feet are sloshing wet. I want you to stay here from now on.” He scampered back to the driveway to confront the truck driver.

“I want a dozen extra towels this trip,” he shouted as the laundryman came down from the truck. He waved the crumpled laundry list. “You shorted me last time.”

The laundryman peered at the paper. “It’s signed off, Rudley.”

“I didn’t sign a damned thing.”

“Mrs. Rudley signed it. Right there.”

Rudley grabbed the paper back, stared hard. Sure enough, there were Margaret’s elegant initials on the lower right-hand corner.

The laundryman smiled. “Relax, Rudley, the missus and I recognized the error when we counted out.” He took out a packet and showed Rudley the attached note. “I brought the extras today as promised. As we agreed, Mrs. Rudley and I.”

“Why didn’t you say so before I made a fool of myself?”

“It’s settled now.” The laundryman tittered. “You could say it all came out in the wash.”

Rudley rolled his eyes.

“If you don’t mind me saying so,” the laundryman went on, “if you’d put your inventories on a computer. They have invented such things.”

Rudley gave him a look to melt pig iron and rampaged back to the inn. The laundryman proceeded to load his dolly. Rudley grabbed a pen from the desk, scrawled “fixed” across the laundry list, and rammed it into the bottom drawer. “Computers,” he muttered. “Ugly damned things, sitting about hissing and grumbling.” He rounded up the scattered papers, threw them in alongside the laundry list, and shoved the drawer shut.

“Mr. Rudley.” Tiffany, the maid, edged into his line of vision.

“Yes.”

“The door to the wine cellar is open.”

“What the hell. Well, close it.”

Rudley turned his attention to the grocery inventory. Hell’s bells. Extra-virgin olive oil? Couldn’t Gregoire make do with something cheaper? What a damned temperamental bunch these cooks were. First there was the hairy Finn who wanted to serve horse meat. Then the Cajun who blamed him for the Evangeline mess. He’d had Gregoire for five years and every year he had a new bee in his bonnet. One year it was an experiment with acorns, then a plot of horseradish. How much horseradish did one inn need anyway? There was the wild mushroom caper — they wouldn’t be trying that again. All of these conventions, that trip to France. That’s what gave him these strange ideas. Rudley’s face softened in bliss. Gregoire was a magnificent cook.

“Mr. Rudley.”

“What, Tiffany?”

“There seems to be wine spilled on the floor in the wine cellar.”

“Well, clean it up.” Rudley bit his lip so hard his eyes crossed. He regretted quitting smoking. Smoking made dealing with this group of ninnies much easier. Worse, he knew he was probably responsible for the unlocked door and the spilled wine. He had pulled a bottle halfway out, got distracted, and run out, forgetting to latch the door.

“Sir.”

“Yes.” Rudley hunched forward over the desk, arms rigid, jaw thrust forward.

“You told me never to go into the wine cellar.”

“I’m saying you can,” he said through clenched teeth.

Tiffany hurried away. Rudley straightened. If he didn’t have to deal with jackasses and sundry distractions, this sort of thing with the wine cellar wouldn’t happen.

When he purchased the Pleasant twenty-five years ago, the owner had given him one piece of advice.

“One piece of advice, Rudley” — a stubby finger had jabbed him in the chest — “always keep the wine cellar locked. Hide the key. Or they’ll rob you blind. All of them.”

He ruminated over his oversight. Gregoire had demanded a particular Chardonnay for Sunday dinner. He’d taken a quick trip to the cellar to review the stock. He had just pulled out a bottle to inspect the label when Tim interrupted him to say one of the guests was in a flap. She’d found a spider in her bathtub.

“Hasn’t that damned woman seen a spider before?”

He’d had to go to her room, capture the spider — all two millimetres of it — and carry it outdoors. He was a superstitious man. Killing spiders brought rain. The last thing he needed was to be trapped in the inn with this crowd, trying to entertain them with bingo, ballroom dancing, and art classes, the latter problematic since it would have involved sweet-talking Mrs. Rudley back from the High Birches. It would have involved an apology. He didn’t think he had behaved any worse than usual and felt abused.

He loved Margaret, but thought she could be a pain in the ass at times. He couldn’t see how what he had said could possibly have offended the flower lady.

“I like solid red and solid white,” he had told her, “none of these insipid tinted things you’ve been bringing lately.”

For some reason Mrs. Blount burst into tears. She was a sensitive soul. More important, she was a friend of Margaret’s.

“That’s what you get for mixing business with pleasure,” he muttered.

“
Apologize, Rudley.
”

“
When hell freezes over.
”

That frosty image depressed him.

He reached under the counter and took out a battered package of Benson & Hedges. He turned his back to the sign that said “No Smoking, Maximum Penalty, $2,000,” and lit up. He was standing there, trailing smoke through his nostrils when Tiffany reappeared. She stared at him, chin quivering.

“Now,” he said, “I suppose you’re going to tell me there’s a dead body down there.”

As it turned out, it wouldn’t have mattered if Rudley had killed the spider. A tornado could have picked up the Pleasant and deposited it in Oz. Once the police arrived, all hope for a normal day was lost.

Gregoire had planned a to-die-for linguini with a crisp Caesar salad for lunch. With all the fuss, no one could tell him when he would be allowed to serve the meal. He fumed. In such matters, timing was everything.

The uniformed officers arrived first, followed by the crime scene van. The forensics team had barely unloaded their gear before Detectives Michel Brisbois and Chester Creighton pulled up in their dusty unmarked Ford. Brisbois had the round, rumpled look of a mid-career high-school teacher. Creighton was a tall, thin man with a Dick Tracy sharpness.

Brisbois went over the scene with forensics, then directed Creighton to assemble the guests and staff in the lounge. After posting Officer Stan Ruskay at the entrance with strict orders to detain anyone who set foot on the property, he entered the lounge and closed the door.

He took a picture from his pocket. “I’m going to pass this picture around,” he said, indicating a Polaroid of the victim. “I’m hoping somebody will recognize this guy.” He paused. “This is a murder investigation. I expect your cooperation.”

He passed the photograph to Creighton, who handed it to Geraldine Phipps-Walker.

Mrs. Phipps-Walker took out her reading glasses, brought the photograph close to her nose, and shook her head. “He looks rather startled, doesn’t he?”

Brisbois rocked back on his heels. “This isn’t a movie set. That isn’t Tom Hanks. That man is dead. He isn’t an actor. He isn’t a mannequin. He isn’t a pencil salesman who wandered in here and had a heart attack. He’s a human being and someone killed him. He deserves our respect. A little regret wouldn’t be out of order either.”

Mrs. Phipps-Walker shrugged and passed the photograph to Thomas. Thomas studied it for a moment, frowned, and handed it to Mr. Phipps-Walker. “No.”

“Sorry, Detective,” Mr. Phipps-Walker said.

“Nothing to be sorry about. If you don’t recognize him, that’s that.”

Simpson took the photograph, studied it solemnly. “I’m afraid not, Detective.” He passed the picture to Miss Miller.

“He’s quite ordinary looking, isn’t he?”

The Sawchucks held the picture together, shaking their heads and tut-tutting. “We can’t help you, sir,” Mr. Sawchuck said at last.

Rudley looked at the photograph and then handed it to Tiffany.

“Nothing to say, Rudley?”

“No.”

Tiffany shuddered.

“Does he look familiar, miss?”

“No, but with a murder happening directly beneath us, are we safe?”

Brisbois’ expression softened. “I suspect he was murdered for a particular reason. There’s nothing to indicate the murder was random or frenzied. I think the risk to everyone here is low. We will be keeping a uniformed officer at the door. And Detective Creighton and I will be spending a lot of time here over the next few days.”

Rudley rolled his eyes. “Surely, you don’t believe anyone here killed that man. The murderer is probably long gone.”

Brisbois took the picture from Tiffany and glanced at the skinny young man lurking in the doorway. “Who’s that?” he whispered to Creighton.

“Lloyd Brawly. Maintenance,” Creighton mouthed.

Brisbois turned back to Rudley. “I haven’t ruled out anyone — not a single member of your staff, not a single one of your guests. I haven’t even ruled out the postman.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“The man was killed in your basement.”

“His socks were wet,” Lloyd said.

Brisbois wheeled on him.

Lloyd grinned. “I saw him before they zipped him in that bag.”

Brisbois turned to Creighton, who shrugged. “Okay.” He turned back to the assembly. “Everyone remove their shoes.”

Thomas had been toying with an unlit cigar. He yanked it from his mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

“I could get a warrant, drag you all down to the station, ruin your vacation.”

The suggestion was met with grumbling and hostile glances toward Thomas.

“Oh, very well.” Thomas removed his loafers and sat twitching his toes.

Lloyd sat down on the floor and tugged off his work boots.

Brisbois signalled to Creighton to take notes. He started down the line. “Looks as if you’ve been wading,” he said to Rudley.

“What, may I ask, are you looking for?” Thomas asked. “May I put my shoes on?”

“Everyone can put their shoes on except Mr. Rudley and Lloyd.” Brisbois stopped in front of Lloyd. “How did you get your feet wet?”

“I walked over the wet floor.”

Tiffany broke in. “He did. I had just washed the kitchen floor. Gregoire spilled orange juice. Lloyd came in to get coffee. I made him take his boots off.”

Lloyd grinned.

Brisbois nodded. “Okay, Lloyd walked across a wet floor. Rudley?”

Rudley folded his arms across his chest. “If you must know, I stepped into the marsh.”

“And what time was that?”

“Somewhere around seven, I suppose.”

“And what were you doing wading in the marsh at that hour?”

“I wasn’t wading. I was standing at the edge and I slipped.”

“What were you doing in the marsh in the first place?”

Tim and Gregoire exchanged glances.

“I’m not telling.”

“I see. And after stepping in the marsh, you didn’t bother changing your socks.”

“I barely had time to go to the bathroom this morning.”

“They looked just like Mr. Rudley’s,” Lloyd said. “That dead man’s socks. Dark on the bottom and up into the toes and light above.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“I figured you noticed.”

Brisbois turned to Creighton and said in a low voice. “Make sure they take a good look at his socks.”

“Where do you think his shoes went?” asked Lloyd.

Creighton and Brisbois dismissed the staff and guests — for the time being — and asked to meet with Rudley in his basement office, three doors away from the wine cellar. Rudley sat at his desk across from the officers, wondering what else could possibly go wrong that day.

“Are you sure you don’t recognize the victim?” The suspicion in Brisbois’ eyes seemed a permanent condition.

“I don’t think I’d recognize myself if I were in his condition.” The wine he had shooed Tiffany away to mop up had turned out to be blood — blood oozing from the chest of a stout man who lay on his back on the floor between the reds and the whites. Since he didn’t recognize the man, Rudley saw no reason not to be relieved that the spillage wasn’t one of his better vintages.

“What did you do with his personal effects?”

Rudley stared at the detective.

Brisbois stared back, his pale oval face expressionless. “Did anyone check his pockets, remove his wallet for identification? You must have been curious about who he was.”

“Nobody removed anything. Nobody touched him.”

“And he doesn’t look like anyone you’ve ever seen before?”

“I can’t say that he does.”

“You must meet a lot of different types in your business.”

“You can say that again.”

“Your guests, are they usually people here for a week or two?”

“Sometimes longer. We have a few old biddies who stay the whole summer.”

“Dinner guests?”

“Yes.”

“Mostly locals?”

“Mostly. Boaters tie up and come in for dinner or a drink from time to time. We have a bar and an excellent wine cellar.”

“Do you have occasion to meet all of your guests?”

“Most of them.”

“Possibly the victim was someone who stopped for a drink.”

“Possibly Adolph Hitler stopped in for a schnapps. But I don’t think so.”

Brisbois didn’t blink. “You’ve never seen anyone around here who resembled this man.”

“I don’t usually see people wandering around covered in blood, Detective.” Rudley crossed his arms. “Now, I have a question for you. What in hell was that man doing in my wine cellar and what happened to him?”

Brisbois made a you-tell-me gesture with his right hand. “I have no idea what he was doing here — yet. As for what happened to him, we’ll have to wait for the autopsy.”

“It looked to me as if there was a knife stuck between his ribs.”

“I won’t speculate prematurely.”

“I’d speculate he was stabbed,” Rudley said. “What a mess. You’d think someone around here would have noticed the man getting knocked off.”

“Yes, you would think so.”

“It’s not that big a place. Gregoire is in the kitchen by four.”

“Gregoire.” Brisbois ruffled through his notes. “Is that the one who looks like a movie star?”

“That’s Tim McAuley, the waiter. Gregoire’s the cook. Gregoire Rochon. The little round man with the doe eyes and the five-o’clock shadow.”

Brisbois wrote this down. “Would there be people coming and going in the wee hours? Parties and the like?”

“The dining room shuts down at nine. We take orders for drinks until ten. Later, for special occasions. Every now and then, someone has a wingding in one of the cottages. But that sort of thing doesn’t usually start until later in the season.”

“Do you have security on the premises?”

“No.”

“Alarm system?”

“That would ruin the ambiance.”

“Unlike a dead body.” Creighton chuckled.

Rudley glared at him.

Brisbois inspected his notebook. “You say the wine cellar is usually locked.”

“Yes. Otherwise, they’d steal you blind.”

“Who?”

“Every Tom, Dick, and Harry who walks through the door. Delivery people. Guests.”

“Staff?”

“The staff wouldn’t steal from me.”

“So the door is normally locked, but this morning when the maid” — Brisbois checked his notes — “Tiffany Armstrong, went down, it was not locked.”

“Apparently not.”

“What was she doing down there?”

“I suppose she went to get her linen cart.”

“You said you may have left the door unlocked.”

“Last evening I came down to check the inventory. Someone distracted me. I must not have pulled the door closed.”

“Who else has keys to the cellar?”

Rudley lowered his voice and glanced around. “Mrs. Rudley.”

“Would Mrs. Rudley have had occasion to go to the wine cellar?”

“Margaret wouldn’t know a Chardonnay from pig piss. She’s British.”

Brisbois stared at him for a moment, then turned a page in his notebook and ran his finger down the lines. “We don’t have your wife’s name here. Is she away?”

Rudley glowered.

“Is there a problem?”

Rudley shrivelled into his chair. “She’s at the High Birches. All hell is breaking loose and she’s probably sitting on the back porch with a cup of Earl Grey Breakfast tea.”

“The High Birches?”

“You know how the British like to give every shack a fancy name. It’s one of our cottages. It sits further back than the others. We keep it for our private use. Family and friends.”

“And Mrs. Rudley lives there?”

“She visits there.”

“And how long has she been visiting there?”

“A couple of days.”

Brisbois’ lips curved. “In other words, she’s making you sleep on the couch.”

“If you must know, she’s upset with me because she feels I insulted the old bat who supplies the carnations.”

“Does this old bat have a name?”

“Frances Blount. I didn’t like the batch of carnations she brought. I was straightforward about it, the way I would be with anyone. How was I supposed to know she’s so thin-skinned?”

Brisbois flicked his pen, filled half a page with emphatic jabs. “So what were you doing in the marsh?”

“What I was doing in the marsh is deeply personal and doesn’t have a damned thing to do with your investigation.” He twisted in his chair. “Are you through with me? I have an inn to run.”

Brisbois made another note. “For now. You’re going to have to work around us for a while. Certain areas will be cordoned off. I’ll need to interview your staff and guests again. Perhaps several times. I can run people back and forth to headquarters. But it might be more convenient — for all of us — if you assigned us a space here.”

“You can have this if you want.”

“Your office?”

“I seem to get to use it only when I’m being interrogated by the police anyway. No one gives me a moment’s peace.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Brisbois who did not look sorry. “We’ll be posting an officer at the front door as well.”

“That clod with the big boots?”

“Among others.” Brisbois tucked the notebook into his pocket. “I’m going to take a look around.”

“As long as I can get on with my business.”

“You can get on with your business. But nobody is to leave the jurisdiction without my permission — at least for the next few days. And instruct your staff and guests to stay outside the police tapes.”

“What about the wine cellar?”

“Especially the wine cellar.”

Brisbois wandered off toward the back door followed by Creighton.

Rudley reached for the phone. “It’s Rudley at the Pleasant. I want eight cases of the good stuff. Two boxes of that South American stuff and two boxes of that pink swill the old ladies like. I’ll send someone over.” He slammed the receiver down. “Lloyd.” He yanked open the door, stepped out into the corridor. “Lloyd, where in hell are you?” He took two steps, peered into the gloom at the end of the corridor. A hand touched his shoulder. Rudley shrieked.

Lloyd grinned.

“What in hell are you doing standing behind me?”

“You asked me to fix the hinge on the storeroom door.” He held up the hammer.

“That can wait. I need you to go to the liquor store and pick up some wine.”

“Right now?”

“Right now. Let me know when you get back.” He shooed Lloyd out the side door and scampered up to the lobby.

The staff milled about the front desk.

“All right,” he said, “the fun’s over. Everybody back to work.”

“Detective Brisbois said we were to stand by,” Tiffany said.

“He didn’t mean at this moment,” Rudley said. “He merely wants us to be available. For days on end, it seems. In the meantime, we have guests. We need to look after them, reassure them…well, you know.”