Many Unpleasant Returns Page 5

“The husband seems rather mousy.”

  “Rudley, you’re becoming a stodgy old thing. You’re just too comfortable with the old regulars. You expect everyone to be like the Phipps-Walkers and the Sawchucks.”

  “Perish the thought.”

  “You don’t like a lot of new young people around because you feel you have to mind your manners. After all, they aren’t used to you and, unlike some of our older guests, they aren’t hard of hearing.”

  “You’re partly right, Margaret. I don’t want to reinvent myself for every Tom, Dick and Harry who walks through the door.”

  “No one expects you to be anything but yourself, Rudley.”

  “And then there’s that silly Mr. Morton. He reminds me of Doreen Sawchuck and Walter combined. Fussing around about his glasses, needing to find a washroom every time he turns around.”

  “He told me he was taking a diuretic.”

  “There, you see? Just like Walter. Can’t these people keep their private matters to themselves?”

  “Eat your soup, Rudley.” Margaret headed for the kitchen.

  Gregoire was at the counter, his knife dancing across the cutting board as he diced an apple. “Did himself approve of his soup?”

  “He thought it was excellent.”

  “Good.” Gregoire exhaled sharply. “I could not take anyone complaining about anything now.”

  “Gregoire, please sit down and take a rest. What can I help you with?”

  “I was cutting up some fruit.”

  “I can do that.” Margaret banished him to the corner with a cup of coffee.

  What a wonderful time everyone has at Christmas, she thought. Working themselves into a frazzle. But it was only for a few weeks. Then, after New Year’s, everyone would feel let down with the quiet. It was that way every year. Gregoire exhausting himself, Rudley being impossible. Dear Rudley. The main problem was he liked being in control — as if he ever was. She took a pineapple, peeled and cored it, and helped herself to a tidbit. Wonderful. Sweet and juicy.

  Gregoire appeared at her elbow. “Has Mr. Rudley had a chance to meet Tiffany’s latest beau?” he asked.

  “No, he’s managed to avoid Mr. Thornton so far. I doubt if he can too much longer.”

  “Did you tell him about the Santa Clauses?”

  “Yes,” she replied, selecting another piece of pineapple. “I’m afraid he’s not keen on them.”

  “They are a little strange, Margaret, with their long arms and legs and skinny little bodies. I have never seen Santas like that.”

  “They’re made so the arms can be wrapped around branches on the tree. Once they’re packed with treats, they’ll fill out.”

  “They will look like people who have spider bodies.”

  Margaret sighed. “I agree they’re not very attractive. Frances’s tastes are rather catholic. Occasionally she’s a bit off.”

  “So they will be put on the tree?”

  “We’ll put them around somewhere, perhaps in the ballroom. We have to put them out — or Frances will be hurt — but somewhere they don’t stand out too much. You know how Rudley is about the balance of his Christmas decorations.”

  “He is quite anal retentive.”

  “Yes.” Margaret sighed and reached for a pear.

  Gregoire eased the knife from her hand. “I am ready to go back to work and you should have your dinner so you can preside over games night.”

  “Oh, I don’t need to worry about that. Miss Miller has volunteered.”

  All of the guests had gathered in the drawing room for a games tournament.

  “So” — Miss Miller tallied up the points from euchre, Parcheesi and Chinese checkers — “I declare Mr. Justus the winner of our tournament.”

  Harry Justus beamed.

  Walter Sawchuck dismissed his brother-in-law’s achievement. “First time he’s won a thing in his life,” he muttered.

  “Shh,” Doreen hissed.

  “It’s not as if he won the Nobel Prize.”

  Noting Harry’s smile fade, Miss Miller hastened to add: “In winning the first of our games nights, Mr. Justus has accumulated twenty points, which gives him an excellent chance of winning the grand prize.”

  “What’s he get?” Walter huffed. “A blue ribbon?”

  “Which I happen to know,” Miss Miller continued, “will be one of several nice gifts selected by Mrs. Rudley as prizes for our various contests over the holidays. And for winning tonight, Mr. Justus receives a gift box of our local jams and jellies.”

  “Mr. Sawchuck’s a bit of a poop,” Dan Thornton murmured. He was sitting beside Tiffany, one arm draped over her shoulder.

  “Who’s a poop?” Norman Phipps-Walker asked in a stage whisper.

  “Group,” Tiffany whispered to Norman. “Dan just noted we were a wonderful group.”

  Norman smiled a buck-toothed smile. “Yes, we are.”

  “I think you’ve had too much to drink, Walter,” Doreen said in a voice she thought low, but which carried halfway across the room.

  “I’ve had one glass of punch,” Walter growled.

  “Which proved to be too much,” Miss Miller murmured.

  “It looks as if there’s trouble in paradise,” said Norman as Doreen gave Walter a frosty look, then turned away.

  “I imagine Mrs. Sawchuck wants to support her brother,” Simpson whispered. “Walter was treating him unfairly.” Aware of the others straining to hear him, he announced, “We were listening to the weather report on the way down. It seems we’re in for a dilly.”

  “We did come here for the snow,” said Carla Johnson.

  Miss Miller shot her an irritated look.

  “Quite,” said Simpson.

  “It’s probably exaggerated,” said Ted Franklin, yawning. “Even if it’s a bummer, it’ll blow over well before we have to leave.”

  “I imagine they’re used to handling bad weather here,” said Peter Johnson.

  Thornton smiled a self-satisfied smile. “I’m sure they are. I’m not sure I’d want to be snowbound in a remote area though.” He took a sip of his drink. “Especially in a place with the reputation of the Pleasant.”

  Sheila Nesbitt took a drink from the tray Tim offered, gave him a dazzling smile, then turned her attention to Thornton. “Why do you say that, Mr. Thornton?”

  “There have been a number of incidents here.”

  “The brochures say the inn was built by the Mob,” Johnson said.

  “I’ve heard someone was murdered here once,” said Carla. “Shot, stabbed or something.”

  Thornton cast a smug look around the room. “Actually, there have been several murders here.”

  Sheila leaned toward him. “Really?”

  Her husband, Keith, frowned.

  “Yes.” Thornton paused, as if reluctant to pursue the subject, then said, “Throat slashing, knifing, bashing, hanging…”

  “That was an accident,” Tim broke in.

  Thornton gave him a look that suggested he didn’t think the help should interrupt his story.

  “And not on our property,” Tim added.

  “A guest of the Pleasant had an accident on the ski lift,” said Miss Miller.

  “There were also a couple of drownings,” Thornton said, “at least one of them not accidental, and a couple of poisonings, one of them at least not accidental.”

  Franklin laughed. “Geez, sounds like that book about the ten little Indians. Weren’t the guests snowed in in that one and they kept dropping off one by one?”

  Mrs. Sawchuck gasped. “Do you think that could happen? Ten people?”

  “We’ve never had more than two at once here,” Geraldine trilled. “Is that my Dubonnet, Tim? Thank you.”

  “Enough of this,” said Miss Miller. “Let’s have another game. Just for fun.”
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br />   “Let’s do I Spy,” Simpson suggested with enthusiasm.

  Franklin uttered an exaggerated groan. Miss Miller gave him a withering look.

  “That sounds like fun,” said Sheila. “I haven’t played I Spy since I was a kid.”

  Franklin gave her an appraising look. “I can’t believe you were ever a child, Sheila.”

  Keith Nesbitt glowered.

  “So,” said Miss Miller, “who wants to start?”

  Sheila waved her hand. “I will.” She looked around. Her eyes narrowed, then brightened. “I spy something with my little eye and it’s black.”

  “I think she might be describing her husband’s mood,” Mr. Bole murmured to Simpson, who arched his eyebrows.

  Tim stopped by Mr. Morton’s chair and placed the whisky neat beside him. Startled, Mr. Morton’s head jerked up.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Morton, were you asleep?”

  Mr. Morton rubbed his eyes. “I guess I was. Long day. And I have to get an early start tomorrow as well.”

  Tim took the last drink to the corner table. “Mrs. Gowling, one gin and tonic.”

  She smiled. “Lovely.”

  “Would you like to move closer to the fireplace?”

  “Thank you, Tim. I’m fine right here.”

  I feel right at home with this group. Because everyone assumes I might be a little hard of hearing, I pick up things. I cultivate this impression by seeming to be a little vague at times and tilting my head to one side. It’s fun.

  Tiffany, I’ve heard, is the housekeeper here, but on vacation at present. It seems Mr. Thornton is her beau. She seems a gentle, rather fanciful young woman.

  I love to watch people. People are fascinating, even the ones most people don’t find very interesting. Even boring people are interesting to watch if only to try to figure out how they manage to amuse themselves, how they make the beautiful commonplace, how they manage to avoid even a hint of intellectual curiosity.

  So far, I find the Sawchucks fit the bill. They seem to have much money and little charm. He’s especially banal. She’s at least amusing with her little concerns and fears. I was told we couldn’t play Snakes and Ladders because she’s afraid of snakes. She also raised the alarm when Lloyd brought in some kindling for the fireplace. She assumed there might be some sort of creature in the sticks. I pity her brother, Mr. Justus. He’s a quiet man, seems afraid to open his mouth. I’m not surprised. Every time he does, Mr. Sawchuck puts him down.

  Mr. Franklin and Mr. Johnson have been friends since university, I’ve heard. They refer to themselves as Frankie and Johnny. Frankie invited us to do the same. Frankie is lanky and seems to have a low tolerance for boredom. He appears to like his drink but holds it well. I imagine he’s the life of the party once he gets going. Johnny is a small man, quiet and serious. Johnny’s wife, Carla, I think her name is, is an attractive woman in an old-fashioned way. About five-five, I would say, and slender. She was friends with the boys in university. I suppose that’s where Johnny met her. She has a certain jaded serenity about her.

  Mr. Bole — now there is a truly charming older man. Courtly. The sort of man not often available to women of my age. Elegant in manner and appearance. Independent, intellectual. Most of the men interested in women of my age are looking to replace the wife who kowtowed to them for fifty or sixty years. They expect that any woman would leap at the chance to fix their meals, do their laundry, and clean up after them simply by virtue of being an available male. Mr. Bole is not that kind of man. He’s been looking after himself all his life, it seems. I hear he’s going to be putting on a show with finger puppets. Tim told me he actually did War and Peace and Lady Chatterley’s Lover. How he did the first, I do not know. How he did the latter I’m not sure I want to.

  Then there are the Nesbitts. Sheila and Keith are a handsome couple. He is tall and well built and reserved to the point of being rude. She is also tall and well built, in a different sort of way. Flaming red hair, skin as delicate as fine porcelain, emerald-green eyes. She is the sort of woman one would call voluptuous. She comes across as flirtatious, as being a bit of a coquette, although I’m sure she’s not aware she does. I suppose that speaks to the desires of those who put the label on her. The men, generally, seem quite taken with her. I’ve noticed Carla Johnson giving a subtle eye roll as if to say, what fools men are.

  Then there’s Mr. Simpson and Miss Miller. I think I will like them. She’s not particularly good-looking but she has a sassy side I find quite appealing. I wish I could have had the confidence she has when I was her age. I understand she’s been coming here for some time and has played a significant role in solving some of the incidents that have happened. Her husband, Mr. Simpson, is a doll. He dotes on Miss Miller. I suppose some might call him henpecked. I think, with him, it’s more a matter of knowing what’s important. Of all the men here, I think he’s the one least affected by Sheila Nesbitt’s sexual aura.

  The Phipps-Walkers are a nice couple. They seem to like each other, something not often seen in people who have been together for a long time. Perhaps their mutual interests hold them together. Most long-standing marriages I know are held together by lies and inertia. People are indeed strange.

  Dan Thornton is one of the men most taken with Sheila Nesbitt, I would say. Not that he would flirt with her, not like Mr. Franklin. Mr. Thornton is terribly fond of himself. I’m sure he believes that he could have her if he really wanted to. Thornton is a writer. He mentions his books every chance he gets. Is that what you call promotion? In his case, I would call it bragging. He writes local histories and such, the sort of book people admire but seldom read. I can’t remember the last time I read something called Mica Mines in Ontario or Sweet Quebec: A History of Maple Syrup. At my age you don’t read anything you’re not sure you’re going to like. If I had to define Mr. Thornton in one word it would be smug. I feel sorry for Tiffany, who is clearly smitten with him. He is mostly smitten with himself. His main interest in her, I imagine, is that she is smitten with him. If Sheila Nesbitt were to give him as much as a wink, he’d desert Tiffany in a flash.

  Chapter Five

  Lloyd walked up from the basement in his sock feet, snow clinging to his toque and parka. He took off his mitts and waved them about to knock the snow off.

  “Are you planning to stand there and drip-dry over Albert?” Rudley asked.

  Lloyd grinned. “No, just came to tell you I got the pathways done and took a pass down the driveway.”

  “Six inches?”

  “About.”

  “About what was expected,” said Rudley. He glanced toward the window. “It’s still snowing.”

  “Not much right now.” Lloyd took off his toque and shook it, sending melting snow across Rudley’s newspaper.

  “How are the roads?”

  “Half and half. The plow came through last night but the road filled in again halfway.”

  “Passable then?”

  Lloyd nodded. “For now. It’s supposed to start snowing hard later.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Mrs. Sawchuck.”

  “Since when did Mrs. Sawchuck become an expert on the weather?”

  “She says her joints tell her. And she heard it on the radio.”

  “One’s as good as the other, I suppose.” Rudley waited as Lloyd tarried. “What do you have on your agenda for today?”

  “Breakfast.”

  “I mean after that.”

  “Bring in some wood, do some more shovelling, dust.”

  “Dust?”

  “I’m helping Mrs. Rudley, since Tiffany’s on vacation.”

  “You won’t be wearing her apron, will you?”

  “Mrs. Rudley didn’t say.”

  Rudley crossed his eyes. “Go have your breakfast, Lloyd.”

  Rudley was shaking droplets of melted snow from his ne
wspaper when Margaret came out of the dining room with a tray full of candy dishes. She placed one of fudge and one of bonbons on the desk.

  “I don’t know if you should put those out so early in the morning, Margaret. It’ll spoil everyone’s breakfast.”

  “It’s Christmas, Rudley. The guests expect candy everywhere.”

  He took a piece of fudge.

  “Rudley, have some breakfast before you start eating fudge.”

  “I’ve had coffee, Margaret. I’ll have something once things settle down in the dining room.”

  The grandfather clock struck nine. The guests dribbled out of the dining room. Frankie plunked down on a sofa in the lobby and began flipping though magazines. Johnny and Carla wandered on into the drawing room. Mrs. Gowling took a wing chair near the desk and brought out a book. Norman and Geraldine passed by the desk, dressed for an excursion.

  “Going out to bother the birds?” Rudley asked.

  “We’re hoping to catch some snowy owls.” Geraldine showed Rudley her camera. “We’re devoting ourselves to owls this trip.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be glad to hear that.”

  Norman smiled a buck-toothed smile. “Often they’re asleep, Rudley.”

  “Would you believe, Rudley,” said Geraldine, “we have thousands of pictures at home?”

  “I would, Mrs. P-W.”

  “We’ve been so busy snapping shots we haven’t had time to catalogue most of them,” Norman added.

  “And we were completely up to date at one time,” Geraldine added.

  “Then we got these wonderful cameras with memory cards,” said Norman.

  “No bird has had an iota of privacy since,” Rudley murmured. “The birds must feel about you the way celebrities feel about the paparazzi.”

  “We’re more discreet,” Norman said.

  Mr. Morton flew by carrying a suitcase. He squeezed in between Norman and Geraldine. “I’m off, Mrs. Rudley.”

  “Did you ring Ottawa about an earlier flight?”

  “I did. They don’t have anything yet but they suggested I take a chance on standby. It seems things are in a bit of flux. So I may catch a break and get to London early.”