Many Unpleasant Returns Page 4

  “I hope he enjoyed Venezuela.”

  “We’ll see. I think he was hoping to witness some of the revolution but his postcard said it had petered out pretty much before he arrived.”

  “Surely he could have chosen a spot where the revolutions are guaranteed.”

  “Perhaps he wanted something in the Western Hemisphere.” Margaret flipped through the reservation book. “I think he was just hoping to capture some of the flavour of the event.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know why a man of Mr. Bole’s age would venture that far from home. I thought he was through with these grand adventures.”

  “He was, for the most part, but his great-nephew has a position with a fair-trade organization. He’s in Colombia for a year, inspecting the conditions with the coffee growers. Mr. Bole is rather fond of his great-nephew. I think he sees a good deal of himself in him.”

  “Knowing Mr. Bole, the trip was probably just an excuse to experience meeting one of the drug lords.”

  “And the others will be coming by car. Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson will be arriving just after lunch.”

  “Have they decided anything about hyphenating their names?”

  “I don’t suppose it matters, Rudley. It would involve changing all of their identification. It would be different if they had children.”

  “Knowing Miss Miller, she’d probably wait until they were eighteen and let them decide for themselves.”

  Margaret smiled. “If you had waited until you were eighteen, what surname would you have chosen?”

  “Laurier, I think,” he said. “Distinguished, patriotic.”

  “I think I would have chosen Eyre. So romantic.”

  “Indeed.”

  Margaret went off to the ballroom. Rudley closed the reservation book. He was looking forward to seeing the regulars. James Bole, that cultured man of independent means, travelling the globe in search of enlightenment. Mr. Bole had stayed closer to home the last few years — his trip to Colombia the exception. But in his day he had trod the soil of every continent. He amused himself these days by performing literary masterpieces with finger puppets: War and Peace, Waiting for Godot, Lady Chatterley’s Lover — that last one, Rudley thought, had been a trifle risqué, even with finger puppets. He’d lost track of Mr. Bole’s age. Not that it mattered. Mr. Bole always struck him as timeless.

  Then there were Doreen and Walter Sawchuck who, although considerably younger than Mr. Bole, always struck him as ancient. They were born old, he decided. It was all about bowels and prostates and sodium intake and joints. Weight control didn’t seem a concern. Doreen ate like a thresher and showed it. She saw mice, bats, and centipedes at every turn. (The Pleasant had a few of each around, although they were mainly discreet.) Mrs. Sawchuck was highly suggestible, capable of turning a leaf into a bat, a dust bunny into a rat, and a bathrobe sash into a boa constrictor.

  Norman and Geraldine Phipps-Walker would be here soon as well, Norman champing at the bit for the ice to freeze hard enough to try out his new fishing gear. The number of fish Rudley could recall Norman catching over the years would fit into a small cooler. In any event, Norman would probably not get to his ice fishing this winter unless he was prepared to bulldoze three feet of snow — if the predictions were correct. No matter. Norman and Geraldine would amuse themselves harassing the winter birds that were probably hoping to have a few months of privacy. Norman and Geraldine were avid ornithologists.

  The Benson sisters wouldn’t be here for Christmas this year. The three elderly ladies were spending the winter months in Guadalajara. They had hinted to him that they had gone there to close up their house and would be moving into their favourite cabin at the Pleasant full-time. Their letter had talked about choosing a new colour pattern for the Elm Pavilion and replacing the carpet in the main room. The sisters treated the large cabin as if it were their own, and after all these years, they probably thought it was. He didn’t mind.

  And then there were Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson. Simpson was a professor in Canadian literature at the University of Toronto. Miss Miller continued to do freelance travel pieces for the Star. Most recently, according to her postcards, she had visited Sicily. Probably took on the Mafia single-handedly, he thought. Miss Miller had been coming to the inn for several years, where she had met and married Simpson. Miss Miller was delightful, in Rudley’s opinion, spunky, intelligent and good-hearted, under a prickly exterior. He paused. Also meddlesome and intrepid to the point of being reckless. Miss Miller was at the centre of everything, including each unfortunate event that occurred at the Pleasant during her stays. Miss Miller had developed a taste for investigating and an aptitude for solving these unfortunate occurrences. She had much better instincts than that bumbling Brisbois and that jackass of a Creighton, who thought his main function was to stand around looking good.

  In spite of the projected storms and in spite of his apprehension about the unknown — who knows what kind of boobs these new guests might turn out to be — and in spite of Dan Thornton, Rudley was sure Miss Miller would have nothing to do this trip but enjoy the ambiance of the Pleasant. Winter had never been a high season for murder, after all.

  As for the new guests, they were probably coming here because they hated their families. Perfectly understandable, especially during the holidays. Or they might be yuppies, the kind of people who liked to spend Christmas at inns and lodges rather than with their families, just to show other yuppies how modern they were. And then there were the types whose families had left town to avoid spending Christmas with them. Or — he shrugged — there were the solitary souls who came here simply because they didn’t think it was proper to spend Christmas alone. He thought of all the fuss and bother at this time of year and decided being alone during the holidays was not only proper but also damn sensible.

  Brisbois woke to a grey world and lay staring at the ceiling, waiting for his alarm clock to go off. He moved a foot and hit something soft and protesting. He glanced down to see Tilly, the cat. She gave him an annoyed look and resettled.

  “I suppose you want to be fed,” he said.

  Tilly didn’t stir.

  Brisbois inhaled, expecting the aroma of coffee. He sighed. Perhaps he and Mary had forgotten to set the coffee pot on the timer. He strained to hear. Not a sound from the kitchen. No light from the bathroom. The only light on was the night light in the hallway. A few large wet flakes pasted themselves to the windowpane. He groaned and swung his feet over the side of the bed. The floor was warm, thanks to the programmable thermostat. He guessed Mary was probably shovelling her car out.

  He went to the window. The streets were a couple of inches deep in snow. He noted a suggestion of tire tracks in the driveway. He returned to the bedside table and picked up the alarm clock. The time was 8:00 am. The alarm clock had been reset for 10:00. He went to the bathroom, then grabbed his bathrobe and went out into the kitchen. The coffee pot had been programmed to start at 9:30. Mary had left a cup of coffee for him in a thermos cup on the counter. She’d also left a note: If you’re up and the coffee’s not ready, you’re up too early.

  He took his thermos cup and sat down at the table. He had the day off and no plans. What was he going to do? It seemed strange, with Christmas on the doorstep, not to be in a state of controlled hysteria. But the gifts had been bought and sent a long time ago. He and Mary were having Christmas dinner with her mother. Mary had made fudge and a few dozen cookies, mainly to take to work as gifts. God, he thought, when the kids were at home, she’d be baking morning to night. He’d come home, whenever that would be, to a house smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg, sage and cranberry. To kids sticky with fudge, their faces smeared with chocolate from licking the pot. Did kids fight over the pot and the spoon anymore? Did people even make fudge anymore? Probably not, he guessed, with so many mothers working. Maybe when he and Mary retired they could start making scads of fudge and Christmas cookies
. They’d send them to the kids and grandkids, hand them out at soup kitchens, or take them to the Christmas dinner at the church hall. That idea cheered him.

  Creighton drove fifty miles to his sister Carole’s for breakfast. She and her husband, Gary, raised beef cattle on three hundred acres. Her kids had got out of school for the holidays the day before and hooted with delight when he appeared at the door. His sister gave them their cereal and sent them to the dining room.

  “What are you doing way out here?” she asked.

  “I came for breakfast.”

  “What are you doing way out here for breakfast without calling?”

  He hoisted a brown bag. “I come bringing muffins from Tim Hortons.”

  Carole smiled. “I guess you can stay then.” She opened the bag and took out a date muffin. “We’d better eat all of these. I’m sure they’re too rich for the kids.”

  “For sure.”

  “Mom’s coming in tomorrow morning.”

  He fished out a muffin and took the coffee she offered. “How’s Mom?”

  “She’s fine. She says you don’t call her enough.”

  “Isn’t that what daughters are for?”

  She gave him a long look. “I told her it was because you were such a self-centred pig.”

  “And she said: ‘How can you say that about my son?’”

  She punched him in the shoulder. “She said, ‘he’s a man. What can you expect?’ And I said, ‘you’ve got that right.’ And we both laughed until we fell off our chairs.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He drained his coffee. “Is Gary in the barn?”

  “No, he took the sleigh to the woodlot.”

  “Storing up wood for the coming deluge?”

  “No, he’s already done that. He went for the Christmas tree. Mom likes it fresh when she decorates it.”

  Creighton took a bite of his muffin. “Good old Mom.”

  “If it weren’t for good old Mom, you’d probably have ended up as a permanent resident in one of our better penal facilities.”

  He laughed. “The woman’s a real Attila the Hun. Not an easy thing to be when you’re four-eleven with your shoes on.” He sobered. “I should call her more often.”

  “Well,” she said, “you’re a bachelor. You need someone to help you develop a sense of responsibility. Have you thought about getting a cat?”

  He had expected her to nag him about getting a wife and was momentarily speechless. “Hell,” he said finally, “I was even thinking about giving Louise to the kids. I’m never home.”

  “I don’t think a goldfish minds if you’re away.”

  “Louise is in love with me. My landlady says she doesn’t eat that well when I’m away.” He smiled. “I’m irresistible to women.”

  “So I’ve heard. I think I heard it from you.”

  Creighton finished his muffin and went over to the counter. He lifted the coffee pot and tilted it toward her inquiringly.

  “No thanks,” she said.

  He poured himself another cup. “Don’t let me forget, I’ve got your Christmas presents in my trunk. I’ll bring them in before I go.”

  “You drove fifty miles so I could wrap your Christmas presents for you?”

  “Did not,” he responded with a look of feigned hurt. “Already wrapped them. Not too good but they’re wrapped.”

  Carole folded her arms across her chest. “Are you backing out on Christmas dinner?”

  “Not if I can help it, but you know how it goes.”

  “Chester…”

  “I brought your presents just in case, on the slim chance I don’t make it.”

  “That,” she said, reaching for the coffee pot, “is an unfortunate choice of words.”

  I came into town on the train. I was surprised to find it so packed. Many of the passengers were young people. The area has become very popular, it seems, for skiing. The hills aren’t far away. I had thought I would need to find a taxi to take me in from town and was surprised when I saw my name on a cardboard sign held aloft by an odd-looking young man with a somewhat sinister grin. He explained to me that Mrs. Rudley had sent him to get me. She was worried I might have trouble getting a cab. Hearing of her concern cheered me right away because it suggested the Pleasant didn’t consider me a nonentity. And Lloyd, in spite of his appearance, was very kind. He took my luggage, took my arm and escorted me to his truck. I’d never been in a half-ton before but he boosted me in and once settled I felt quite comfortable. He chatted all the way to the inn, obviously excited about the plans for the holidays and eager to fill me in. He told me how much I would enjoy the tobogganing and the snowshoeing, as if he hadn’t noticed my wrinkles and my arthritic old hands. He made me feel young again, like a college student home for the holidays being picked up by her older brother at the station.

  Home for the holidays. Signed in by Mrs. Rudley, a lovely warm woman. She must have thought I looked chilled (I was) because she took me to the drawing room and brought me a cup of tea. She chatted with me for a while, then a handsome young man delivered another cup of tea and a nice strawberry scone. I’m sure Tim’s gay. He’s too elegant to be otherwise. Not that it matters. At my age it’s enough to have something nice to look at.

  While I was enjoying my snack, an older couple came into the drawing room. They introduced themselves as Geraldine and Norman Phipps-Walker. They seemed to be a cheerful, pleasant couple. It seems they’re avid bird-watchers. Mrs. Phipps-Walker mentioned she was especially eager to spot some snowy owls. They talked about their amazing camera. It sounds like quite an improvement over my old Kodak. I took pictures when I was young but I wasn’t much of a photographer. Mainly I wanted something to remember people and events by. I stopped taking pictures a long time ago. It got too hard to find film for my camera. I can’t say I miss the photographs. I find that as I grow older I remember the people and events I want to. If I don’t remember them, then they probably weren’t that important or, for some reason, best not remembered.

  The Phipps-Walkers seem like a lot of fun. On my first trip here almost forty-five years ago, everyone seemed so staid. Perhaps that was because I was much younger, although I tend to think it was because the previous innkeeper, Mr. MacIntyre, thought his only responsibility was to provide us with bed and board and some ordinary sort of entertainment — travelogues and the like. Mrs. Rudley seems to really care about people and not in a way that fulfills some need of her own. You see plenty of that among caregivers. Don’t I know.

  I think I’m going to like it here.

  Later that afternoon, Rudley was leaning over the desk reading the newspaper. Supper was being served in the dining room. He couldn’t say he was that hungry. That was the problem with Christmas. There was food all over the place at all hours. And he felt compelled to eat it, to sit down with everyone for a nosh whenever they waved him over. Not to do so would seem antisocial. “And I’ve been accused of that often enough already,” he murmured to himself, turning a page of the paper. The portable radio played in the background:

  Massive winter storm barrelling our way from the American plains states…expected to wallop southern Ontario over the holiday week. Snow falling now from the Great Lakes to the Ottawa Valley. Five to ten centimetres expected overnight. But this is just a harbinger of things to come. Get out your woolies and shovels, folks.

  Rudley snapped the radio off. All weathermen were alike, he surmised. Couldn’t anyone give a straightforward reportage of the weather anymore? These idiots acted as if they were auditioning for a comedy club.

  Margaret came out of the kitchen with a small tray. “Rudley, I’ve brought you tea and some of Gregoire’s vegetable soup. You’ve been scarfing down all of those sweets and rich canapés. You need something plain.”

  “Yes, Margaret.” He lifted the lid on the container, picked up the spoon and sampled the soup. “That hits the spot. Ho
w are things in the kitchen? The last time I looked in, Gregoire ordered me to leave. That doesn’t seem right. I’m the boss, after all.”

  “Gregoire’s been going nonstop for days. He’s running on adrenalin.”

  “I told him I would be happy to get him a sous-chef for the holidays.”

  “You know he loves preparing for the big day even if it does wear him to a frazzle. He couldn’t tolerate another person underfoot in his kitchen.”

  “Well, I’m quite happy to stay out of his kitchen.” Rudley sat down on his stool and tucked the serviette into his shirt.

  Margaret pulled out the guest register and leafed through it. “Everyone’s signed in,” she said with satisfaction. “That Mrs. Gowling is a nice lady.”

  “Yes, quite a departure from the Benson sisters. She seems sane.” Rudley took a spoonful of soup. “Some of those other people don’t seem quite right.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, bewildered.

  “The Nesbitts seem too glamorous.”

  “They’re a handsome couple, Rudley. As far as I know, that’s not an indictable offence.”

  “I think they would feel more at home if we had an indoor gym.”

  “Rudley…”

  “I would imagine they’re the type who run marathons.”

  She gave him a rap on the cranium. “Rudley, I hate it when you get into these moods where you become so judgmental and such a contrarian. I agree they’re attractive and athletic-looking. They’ve expressed an interest in cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. Neither of them mentioned an indoor gym.”

  He took another spoonful of soup and felt soothed. “The other couple, the Johnsons. She reminds me of a vampire.”

  “Mrs. Johnson didn’t strike me as particularly exotic.”

  “I don’t think she would look out of place wielding a whip.”

  “Now, whips are rather exotic.”