Many Unpleasant Returns Page 9

  “We came here because we hate each other’s families,” said Carla. “Just teasing, dear,” she added to her befuddled husband, who started to say something, but seemed to change his mind.

  Miss Miller directed her attention to the Nesbitts. “Will you be doing something for Music Hall?”

  Sheila hesitated. “I used to do a modern dance routine. I don’t know if that would be appropriate for a Christmas pageant.”

  “Then Judge Waverly will be doing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ on the spoons,” Tiffany said.

  “Tiffany means that anything goes,” Miss Miller said. She proceeded down the list. “Norman and Geraldine will be doing ‘Night Before Christmas’ with a creative twist.”

  Frankie burst into laughter. “Does that mean you’re going to get up and stamp on the roof?”

  “Don’t be an ass, Frankie,” Carla said without rancour.

  Frankie grinned, apparently not offended.

  “I will do a Cohenesque version of ‘Silent Night’ with Tiffany on the piano,” said Miss Miller. “Tiffany will remain on the piano to accompany Lloyd, who will be doing ‘All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.’”

  “‘If I Only Had a Brain’ might be more appropriate,” said Frankie, who could barely contain himself.

  “And what will you be doing, Mr. Franklin?” Norman Phipps-Walker fixed him with an innocent look.

  “I didn’t bring my clarinet but I do play a few of the reeds. I’m good.”

  “Being so modest,” Keith murmured.

  “And I do a little percussion, a little guitar, a mean ukulele just to fool around.” Frankie shrugged. “I was in the band at university.”

  “What university did you attend?” Simpson asked.

  “Queen’s.”

  “Queen’s,” Keith said disparagingly. “What year?”

  “’Ninety-two.”

  “Isn’t that the year one of you clowns cut the Q out of the carpet at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel?”

  Frankie’s face wore an innocent expression. Carla smirked.

  Thornton interjected: “I heard about that. I was at U of T. It was pretty asinine. Of course, at U of T, we thought everything they did at Queen’s was asinine.”

  “And we thought you folks at U or T were a bunch of deadheads without enough spirit to stuff a thimble,” Frankie countered.

  “I don’t think vandalizing a carpet counts as a show of spirit,” Keith said.

  “It wasn’t just any carpet,” said Frankie. “It was royal blue with a big gold ‘Q’. Somebody wanted it for their study.”

  “You?”

  “The girlfriend of somebody in the band.” Frankie shrugged. “It was Kill McGill weekend.”

  “That’s supposed to explain it?” Keith appeared astonished.

  “It explains it,” said Johnny. “We’re not saying it justifies it.”

  Carla fluffed Johnny’s hair. “Johnny doesn’t have a sense of humour about the carpet,” she said. “He didn’t do it but he took the blame.”

  “He was the band manager,” said Frankie.

  “They expelled him from all extracurricular activities,” said Carla.

  “I heard the band was scandalous,” said Thornton.

  “Scandalous?” Carla sent him a questioning look.

  “Ah, everybody blamed everything on the band,” said Frankie dismissively. He looked serious for moment and then smiled. “There was a real stink when they found out a piece of the carpet was missing.”

  “How strange,” said Mr. Bole.

  “I’d have found out who the guilty party was and sent them packing,” said Keith.

  Frankie picked the onion out of his martini and popped it into his mouth. “That’s why Johnny took the blame. He was a straight-A student. All kinds of grants. They couldn’t kick him out. Crazy times,” he finished, swallowing the onion.

  “Sounds like rampant silliness,” said Keith.

  “Keith was in the military,” Sheila said. “I went to a rather sedate women’s college. We didn’t have much occasion to kick over the traces.”

  Frankie met her gaze and winked.

  Carla sniffed. “I went to Queen’s. I didn’t spend a lot of time kicking over the traces.”

  “Carla was in the band,” Johnny said. “She was one of the highland dancers.”

  “She was the sweetheart of Sigma Chi,” said Frankie. He raised his glass to her.

  “Does the sweetheart of Sigma Chi have a number for Music Hall?” Miss Miller asked, holding up the program.

  Carla shot Miss Miller a cool look. Johnny frowned.

  “Elizabeth was asking if you have a number you’d like to do,” Edward said to Carla.

  Frankie finished his martini and poured another from the shaker. “Does she have a number? I mean, does she have a number?”

  Carla gave him a kick in the ankle.

  “Ouch,” said Frankie.

  “Sorry,” said Carla, who did not look sorry.

  “That’s all right,” said Frankie. He took a swig. “Remember that routine we did at university? The Roaring Twenties thing? We could do the Charleston.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Yeah,” said Frankie, “and I used to do that soft-shoe routine with the boater and everything.”

  Miss Miller turned to Johnny. “What about you, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Johnny did the Charleston until he got kicked out of the clubs,” said Frankie.

  “Oh, yes,” Thornton said wearily. “The carpet thing.”

  “I didn’t do much,” Johnny said. “I was a behind-the-scenes kind of guy.”

  “Would you like to help with the stage management?” Miss Miller asked.

  “Or you could do the Charleston and I’ll do the stage management,” said Frankie.

  “Or the two of you could do the Charleston,” Carla said to Frankie and Johnny.

  “OK,” said Frankie. “Although, I can’t imagine what Johnny would look like in a cloche.”

  Miss Miller sighed. Geraldine tapped briskly on the table. “Let’s not get carried away. We need to get the program settled. For Mrs. Rudley.”

  “We could all do some harmony,” said Frankie. “We used to do that.”

  Carla hesitated for a moment, then said, “Yes, we could do that.”

  Thornton shrugged. “Drama Club, Glee Club, band. How did any of you manage to get through university?”

  Frankie laughed and nodded toward Johnny. “With a little help from our friends.”

  Chapter Seven

  Brisbois arrived at the scene to be told that Creighton was up on the shore road, a secondary road that branched off the main road a quarter of a mile before the accident scene. The shore road ran parallel to the main road above the rock cut before dipping down to run alongside the lake. The main road and the shore road reconnected at the laneway that led to the Pleasant Inn. He hitched a ride up with a tow truck that was waiting for clearance to remove a car in the ditch inside the zone.

  “That was one of the fools who tried to do a U-turn without supervision,” the driver said with a toothless grin.

  Brisbois found Creighton and a forensics officer going through a small car parked toward what seemed to be the side of the road.

  “You got a search warrant for that?” Brisbois demanded.

  Creighton gave him an innocent look. “The door wasn’t locked and we had reason to believe the car belonged to the victim.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s a Santa wig and beard on the seat.”

  Brisbois glanced inside the car and nodded. “OK, that makes sense.”

  “Anyway,” Creighton continued, “this is a rental car. We called the agency. It was rented to a Mr. James Morton. He has an international driver’s licence among his effects and a p
assport. It looks as if he pulled the car over, got out, and fell over the edge of the rock cut onto the road.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Maybe he couldn’t see where he was going.” Creighton pointed to the dash. “He left his glasses in the car. Maybe he pulled off the fake beard before he got out and the glasses came off with it. Maybe he was just in a hurry to get out of the car.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he had to take a leak. Isn’t that what happens to old guys like you?”

  Brisbois glared at him. “Maybe someone forced him out of the car. He tried to get away and ran over the rock cut.”

  “I don’t think so.” Creighton led Brisbois to the edge of the rock cut, an area marked off with yellow tape. “See that?”

  “The broken tree branch.”

  “It’s a new break, about hand high for the average guy. Our guy, minus his glasses, is fumbling around out here. It’s snowing. Maybe there was something wrong with his car. He was planning to get help and was trying to get oriented. He gets to the edge of the rock cut, says oh, oh, his foot slips, and he grabs the branch. Unfortunately, it breaks off and he falls onto the road where, sometime thereafter, he is hit by an orange Mini driven by Margaret Rudley.

  Brisbois did a double take. “Margaret?”

  “Yes, Boss, this is a good news, bad news kind of story. The good news is that Mrs. Rudley did not kill Mr. James Morton with her car. The bad news is that Mr. Morton was one of her guests.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Our dead friend was visiting from England. His address while here was 1125 Wood Lake Road, which is the Pleasant Inn.”

  “Did they take Margaret to the station?”

  “No, Ruskay released her to Lloyd. He brought down the truck for her. Ruskay didn’t think there was any point in dragging her into town, especially given the mess on the roads. He thought it was more important to secure the scene and control traffic and call ambulances and tow trucks.”

  “I like that boy. I’d say Ruskay’s smart enough to make detective some day.”

  “I’ll say. And he’s smart enough to be sitting in a nice warm car while we’re up here tramping around in three feet of snow.”

  “There isn’t that much yet.” Brisbois glanced around. “Have they still got just the two cars out here?”

  “There was another one on the way but it ran off the road into a bush. A big bush. There’ll be another one along.”

  “Are the officers OK?”

  “Ruskay said someone broke his wrist.” Creighton winked.

  Brisbois exploded. “That damn Semple!”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I wouldn’t mind so much if he restricted himself to maiming himself. But shooting a perfectly good patrolman in the foot?” Brisbois took off his porkpie to swipe the snow from his thigh. “OK,” he said, pushing his hat back on his head, “let’s go down to the inn and talk to Margaret. She’ll be relieved to know she’s not a murderer.”

  “Couldn’t we just call?”

  “We need to ask a few questions.”

  “Sure.” Creighton turned to hide a smirk. Brisbois had a crush on Margaret, one he refused to acknowledge. “How are we getting there, Boss? I hope you aren’t planning to walk. We can’t get a car around that mess.”

  “We’ll call Lloyd, see if he can bring the truck down and meet us on the other side.”

  “Detective” — Margaret sat at the dining room table with Rudley over coffee — “I’m grateful you and Detective Creighton braved this storm to come.”

  “They could have phoned,” Rudley muttered.

  Creighton chuckled. Brisbois ignored him.

  “That poor man. You say he fell from the rock cut?”

  “That’s our working theory. We believe the fall was accidental.”

  “What a shame. And so close to the holidays.”

  “He was probably drunk, Margaret,” Rudley scoffed. “Probably thoroughly steeped, stumbling around, fell off the rock cut, causing untold grief to an innocent soul who had the bad luck to happen on him. Why,” he added, “Margaret’s lucky she didn’t swerve trying to miss him and plow headfirst into the rock wall.”

  Brisbois concentrated on his notebook, reviewing the statement from Ruskay. His feet were wet from plodding through the snow and the collar of his shirt was soaked from snow dripping down the back of his neck. He’d missed Mary’s party. He had to conduct an investigation under lousy conditions. He believed Creighton was probably correct: Mr. Morton had stepped out of his car without his glasses to have a pee. Being modest, he sought the cover of the trees and took a header off the rock cut he didn’t realize was there. Still, he had to look at all the angles.

  “Couldn’t we get through one holiday without the police swarming around?” Rudley was fussing in the background. Brisbois caught the words incompetent and flatfoot. Or was it flatfeet? Margaret was trying to hush her husband. Creighton was chuckling. Brisbois forced himself to remain calm — that kept him from saying something inappropriate. Better, he knew it drove Rudley nuts. He felt more sympathy for Rudley than usual. Margaret had been through a bad experience and he was right in suggesting she might have slid into the rock cut. What saved her was that she was going at a snail’s pace.

  Now for the hard part.

  “Are any of your guests missing?”

  “Missing what?” Rudley demanded.

  “Have any of the guests not returned as expected?”

  Margaret frowned. “I’m not sure, Detective. I haven’t caught up…”

  “Of course no one is missing,” Rudley interrupted. “Don’t you think we’d know if someone was missing?”

  “You had Mr. James Morton as a guest?”

  “We did.” Rudley folded his arms over his chest. “He checked out this morning.”

  “He went up to Ottawa this morning,” Margaret added. “He was hoping to catch a flight to London.”

  “So he was no longer a guest,” Brisbois said.

  “We kept his room in case his flight didn’t get out. What…” Margaret’s voice trailed off.

  “Well, damn to hell,” Rudley exploded. “Are you trying to tell us Mr. Morton pushed that man off the rock cut?”

  Brisbois turned to Margaret. “I’m afraid Mr. Morton is likely the man you ran into.”

  Margaret blanched. “Are you sure?”

  “Ninety-nine percent,” Brisbois said, glancing at Creighton. “We’re sorry.”

  Although the staff tried to keep things quiet, by breakfast the next morning, everyone knew what had happened. Everyone regretted Mr. Morton’s death, but the staff and regular guests were mainly concerned for Mrs. Rudley. Mr. Bole knew what was going on. Norman and Geraldine — we’re on a first-name basis now — knew. The Sawchucks weren’t at our table, so they may not have known.

  Later, in the drawing room, Frankie, after a couple of drinks, laughed and said, “I heard the old man yelling, ‘Margaret did not kill anyone’, so I assumed someone had killed somebody. As it turns out, I was right.” Johnny hastened to quiet Frankie. Johnny is astute enough to recognize the intimate relationship between the Rudleys, their staff, and the older guests, and he always seems to feel obliged to apologize for Frankie. Perhaps he feels responsible for him because he came here as part of their party. Johnny seems to be one of those types who does what they call “over-function.” Carla, although she sometimes chides Frankie, doesn’t seem to feel the same level of responsibility. She strikes me as a rather detached person.

  So there it was. We’ve had Mr. Sawchuck’s feelings ruffled and Mrs. Rudley running over a “stiff,” as Frankie called the unfortunate Mr. Morton. During the Christmas season, death always seems more tragic. Mrs. Rudley could have been forgiven for taking a few days off, but she’s a Brit. She put on a brave face and aft
er a cup of tea got on with it. Of course, when you look back on the history of the Pleasant, she’s had plenty of practice. Still…

  “Mrs. Rudley is an admirable woman to deal so well with such a dreadful event,” Mr. Bole said, raising his glass. “I salute Mrs. Rudley. Unfortunately, she’s had a lot of experience.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Tim.

  “None of it is her fault,” added Tiffany.

  “The place is cursed,” Mr. Thornton said.

  “I don’t believe it’s cursed,” Mr. Bole objected. “People seem to bring their nefarious activities here, by hook or by crook.”

  “But you have to admit, the number of deaths here defies statistical expectations.”

  “None of what happens is the Rudleys’ fault,” said Tiffany.

  “I didn’t say it was, Tiffany.” Thornton sat back, his breakfast finished. “Let’s try out the snowshoes,” he added brightly.

  After Thornton and Tiffany left the room, Norman remarked, “I don’t think that young man is suitable for Tiffany.”

  “He’s not that young, either,” said Geraldine. “But he’s a writer. You know how Tiffany is about creative people.”

  “Why do you find him unsuitable, Norman?” Mr. Bole asked.

  “Rudley doesn’t like him.”

  “Mr. Rudley is like any father,” Mr. Bole said. “And I do believe he considers Tiffany a daughter.”

  “Rudley is not always a gracious man,” Geraldine said, “but I’ve never seen him give anyone the cold shoulder before.”

  “He liked Officer Owens,” said Norman.

  “Perhaps because he knew that relationship would never work out,” said Mr. Bole. “Officer Owens and Tiffany had nothing in common.”

  “What sort of boyfriend do you think he’d approve of?” Norman asked.

  “Perhaps a gentleman like Mr. Simpson,” Mr. Bole replied. “He likes Simpson.”

  “Mr. Simpson is honourable and respectful,” said Geraldine.

  “And reliable,” added Norman. “A man of his word.”

  Mr. Bole nodded. “Yes, Rudley would appreciate that. Mr. Rudley is an honourable man.”