Pleasantly Dead (3 page)

“That nobody else is going to be murdered in the wine cellar,” Gregoire said.

“The odds of that happening again are astronomical.”

“I wouldn’t go out of my way to go down there,” Tim said.

“Well, you don’t need to worry about that. The wine cellar is off limits. By police order.”

“I suppose I’m supposed to serve cooking sherry with the filet mignon,” Gregoire said.

“I’ve put in an order to keep you going until Brisbois releases our stock.” Rudley said. “Now it behooves us to look after our guests.”

“The guests,” Tim said, “are having the time of their lives.”

The guests had moved out onto the veranda. Garret Thomas had taken a disposable camera from his pocket. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think this is a moment worth preserving.” He took several snapshots and then turned the camera on the doorway. “One of Officer Ruskay too.”

Ruskay ignored him and continued to stand poker-straight, eyes forward.

“I wonder how long he can maintain that pose,” Elizabeth Miller said.

“He’s probably hoping the case will be solved expeditiously.” Garrett Thomas put the camera away, sat down, and took out a cigar. He examined it, then tucked it into his breast pocket.

“It is quite a mystery,” Edward Simpson said. “A stranger murdered in the wine cellar of a country inn.” He paused. “I hear he was stabbed.”

“I believe Rudley saw a knife,” Thomas said.

“It could have been a mob hit,” said Miss Miller.

Thomas took out a cigarette and a gold lighter. “Surely you don’t think Mr. Rudley is involved in organized crime.”

“According to the brochures, the Pleasant was built by the mob.”

“I doubt if Rudley is involved in anything untoward,” Thomas sniffed. “Except being chronically miserable.”

“Tim told me the wine cellar is always locked and nobody has the key but Rudley.”

“Mr. Rudley doesn’t seem the homicidal type,” Simpson said.

“All sorts of people who turn out to be murderers don’t seem the homicidal type,” said Miss Miller. “What do you think, Mr. Thomas?”

“Perhaps he committed suicide.”

“Perhaps the maintenance man did it — that sinister young man who was lurking in the bushes when I arrived.”

“I imagine he was trimming the hedge, Miss Miller.”

“He looks capable of murder and he certainly has the tools at hand.”

Tim sailed out onto the veranda, balancing a tray of coffee and hors d’oeuvres.

“We were discussing the murder,” Miss Miller said. “A murder committed in a locked room.”

“Rudley thinks he may have left the door unlocked by mistake,” said Tim.

“Then the murderer must be someone who knew Mr. Rudley left the door unlocked,” said Simpson.

“Or,” said Miss Miller, “the murderer was pursuing the victim. The victim ran into the inn and raced from door to door until he found one that was unlocked. He ducked in, but not in time. The pursuer saw him. He followed him in and savagely murdered him.”

Thomas smiled. “You should write that one up, Miss Miller.”

“The problem with that theory, Miss Miller,” Tim said, “is that the back door is locked at ten and isn’t unlocked again until six-thirty.”

“Then it must be an inside job,” said Miss Miller.

Thomas raised his brows. “I think we have a Miss Marple among us.”

Rudley was at the front desk, trying to sort out the mess he had made with the drawers, when Peter Leslie checked in. Leslie was a tall, handsome man with an expensive wardrobe and a twinkle in his eye.

“I see you’re a bear for security,” he said, nodding toward Officer Ruskay.

“Intrusive boob,” Rudley muttered. He pulled himself together and turned the register for Leslie to sign. “Here’s your key, Mr. Leslie. May I escort you to your cottage?”

“Oh, no need. I’ll follow the map in the brochure.”

“Low Birches,” Rudley repeated.

Rudley didn’t tell Leslie about the murder. He knew the other guests would fill him in soon enough and in a more entertaining fashion. He was embarrassed about the incident. Besides, it was hard to work the topic into conversation: “Here’s your key, Mr. Leslie. Meals are served at the hours posted. Refreshments are available up until 10:00 pm. If you wish a picnic lunch, please let the kitchen know the evening before. If you want extra towels, ask at the desk. If you plan to walk in the woods, we can offer several excellent repellants. If you wish to explore the neighbouring villages and environs, we have brochures in the lobby, listing points of interest and upcoming events. Lloyd will help you with your suitcases and, by the way, there’s been a murder in the wine cellar. No one we knew. And since most victims are known to their murderers, the murderer is probably no one we know either. Although, given the six-degrees-of-separation theory, that logic doesn’t necessarily hold. The murderer
could
be someone we know, although not someone we like. Still, statistically, Mr. Leslie, it is unlikely you will be murdered at the Pleasant by someone you don’t know.”

Rudley threw the remainder of the papers into the bottom drawer and gave the drawer a kick. Why couldn’t the chap have been murdered in the woods, preferably on Crown land where the body could moulder away until the hunters found it in the fall?

“Mr. Rudley.”

That damned detective again.

“You have a Mr. Leslie booked into the Birches cottage.”

“He just checked in.”

“I’m confused. You said your wife was staying there.”

“Mr. Leslie is staying at the Low Birches. Margaret is at the High Birches.”

Brisbois forehead crimped.

“The Low Birches is the last cottage on the left. The High Birches is directly behind the inn. On the rise. That’s why it’s called the High Birches.”

“Now’s as good a time as any to interview your wife, I suppose.”

“Lucky her.”

“I presume she’s in.”

“She might be. Or she could be in the village, consoling her friend the flower lady.” Rudley shoved the telephone aside. “Of course, she could be damned near anywhere.”

Brisbois left, shaking his head. Rudley returned to the business of checking reservations. Confirming names and dates against deposits, he found he had to keep going back over the ledgers. The laughter from the veranda was giving him a headache.

“What in hell is wrong with people these days?” he said as he flubbed a set of figures. “A man was murdered yards away and they’re laughing.” So what if they didn’t know the son of a bitch? He shoved the ledger under the counter, pulled out a bottle of scotch and a tumbler, and poured two fingers. A token half-day of silence seemed appropriate. He was the kind of man who stopped his car and removed his hat when a funeral procession passed. And although he was vexed at this stranger for dying in his wine cellar and ruining the start of the summer season, he felt every life deserved a modicum of respect. “Hell,” he said as Tiffany crossed the lobby with a stack of towels, “it has to do with our basic humanity.” For the same reason, he grudgingly opposed the death penalty. “It makes us all murderers,” he said.

Tiffany turned, wild-eyed. “What did you say, Mr. Rudley?”

“It turns us all into murderers,” he said. “The damned death penalty.”

“Yes, sir.” She hurried on.

The laughter on the veranda trickled into the dining room as Gregoire rang the bell for lunch. Leo George thundered up the steps and into the lobby as the clock struck twelve.

“It’s like opening a can of dog food,” Rudley muttered as Mrs. Phipps-Walker weaved down the stairs, checking her watch.

Geraldine Phipps-Walker had been coming to the Pleasant for forty-five years, beginning when Mr. MacIntyre was the proprietor. The rumour was she had had an affair with a lake guide, an assignation she renewed every summer for five years. The affair ended when the guide fell through the ice one winter and drowned. After a season of mourning, she married Norman Phipps-Walker and brought him here every year. Geraldine was a dedicated ornithologist. She declared that the blue herons at the Pleasant were the truest to form she had ever encountered. She dressed sensibly and carried binoculars and a small camera around her neck on a leather thong. Mrs. Phipps-Walker arrived at the bottom of the stairs, went to the door, scanned the lake, nodded, and went on into the dining room.

Rudley knew what the nod meant. Mrs. Phipps-Walker had spotted Norman paddling toward the inn. He had come off the lake for breakfast and gone back out the moment Brisbois released him. Norman had had little to tell. He had awakened Garrett Thomas at four, as arranged. At four-fifteen, they stopped by the kitchen to pick up a thermos of coffee. They had got their boats, which had been tied up at the dock the night before, and headed out to the shoals.

Norman secured the boat and headed toward the inn with his fishing rod and pillow.

“No luck?” Rudley asked as Norman entered the lobby.

“They’re not biting today.”

“Thomas brought in a dandy this morning.”

Norman grimaced. “He seems to have all the luck, doesn’t he?”

Rudley finished his drink and shoved the glass under the counter. He was thinking of dropping around to the kitchen to see what looked enticing and perhaps irritate Gregoire by asking him to rustle up a mess of poutine.

Brisbois and Creighton chose that moment to return.

Brisbois fixed Rudley with a blank stare. “Your wife doesn’t seem to be at the cottage.”

“She must have gone into Middleton. Is her car there?”

“We didn’t see a car.”

“Bob’s your uncle.”

“When did you last see your wife?”

“How in hell would I know?”

Brisbois rolled his eyes.

“What I mean is, it’s been hell around here. Getting ready for the summer season. We close for two weeks and work like dogs.”

“You and Mrs. Rudley had a fight. She moved out, and you can’t remember when that was?”

“It wasn’t a fight.” Rudley reached under the desk, pulled out a chamois, and gave the counter a vigorous polish. He draped the cloth over his shoulder. “You see, I think Margaret invents these things when she wants privacy. She pretends to be mad at me about some imaginary situation. Like insulting the florist.”

“It sounds as if you did insult the florist.”

“She’s damned delicate if she thought my remarks constituted an insult. You can’t be sensitive if you’re in business.” He shrugged. “In any event, the next thing I knew, Margaret was taking herself up to the High Birches.”

“And that’s the last time you saw her?”

Rudley put a finger to his lips, eyes shifting side to side. “I think I saw her after that, but I’m not sure exactly when. It might have been yesterday. Actually, I’m not sure if I saw her. I was in the closet behind the reception desk, looking for a box of receipts. She came up behind me and said something about the cat, something about picking up the cat.”

Brisbois took out his notebook, stood, pen poised. “Was the cat at the vet’s?”

“I don’t think so.”

Brisbois sighed. “One of the windows in the door up there’s broken. Did you know that?”

“No.” Rudley stepped out from behind the desk. “Lloyd?”

Something fell on the floor down the hall. Within seconds, Lloyd materialized.

“Did you know one of the windows in the door at the High Birches is broken?”

“Weren’t yesterday.”

Brisbois turned to him. “Did you see Mrs. Rudley yesterday?”

“Did do. She came up to the garden to get some leaf lettuce.”

“Did you see her today?”

“Nope.”

Rudley retreated behind the desk.

Brisbois leaned over the desk. “How do you think the window got broken, Rudley?”

“Margaret probably tossed something, contemplating my iniquities.”

“How often do you and the missus have these spats?”

“Once or twice a year.”

“Maybe three or four,” Lloyd said, oblivious to Rudley’s glare.

Brisbois shook his head. “If my wife moved out on me three or four times a year, I think I could keep that straight.”

Rudley’s jaw tightened. “I don’t like your insinuations, Detective. Margaret has been doing this for twenty-seven years. We work sixteen hours a day. We eat in the kitchen ninety per cent of the time — sometimes together. If I don’t find Margaret in my bed, I assume she’s at the High Birches. The years run together. I’m too busy to keep track of these things, year to year. Unlike some people.”

“What if she wasn’t in your bed because something had happened to her?”

“If anything happened to Margaret, someone would tell me.”

There was a long pause while Brisbois contemplated this. “Do you ever talk to your wife, Rudley?” he said finally.

“Of course I do. When she’s not being ridiculous, we’re a normal married couple.”

Brisbois tipped back his hat, rubbed his forehead. “Mr. Rudley, would you get the key to your wife’s cottage and come with me?”

“I propose we take the solution of this murder on as a vacation project,” said Miss Miller.

Peter Leslie arrived in the dining room at that moment, paused, and glanced about uncertainly.

“That gentleman seems to be alone,” Simpson said. “Shall we invite him to join us?”

No one objected. Simpson stood as Leslie neared their table. “Sir, I believe you’ve just arrived. Would you care to join us for lunch?”

Leslie smiled, showing teeth fit for a dental commercial. “Why, that’s very gracious of you.” He offered his hand. “Peter Leslie. Montreal.”

“Edward Simpson, Toronto, by way of London. Elizabeth Miller from Toronto and Mr. Garrett Thomas from Chicago.”

“Chicago.” Leslie made himself at home at the table and signalled for Tim. “I’ll start with a martini, very dry, please. Chicago. I did my MBA at the University of Chicago.” He paused. “Garrett Thomas. Name rings a bell.”

“It’s a common name.”

“No, I’m thinking way back. Something in the paper while I was at school.”

“You’re probably thinking of Garfield Thomas. He was a fixture in municipal politics in the old days.”

Leslie hesitated, then flashed a smile. “Probably. Wonderful city though.”

Miss Miller leaned across the table. “Did you hear there was a murder here this morning? A John Doe was found, stabbed to death, in the wine cellar.”