Pleasantly Dead (5 page)

“Nothing permanent.”

“Love ’em and leave ’em. That was my credo at your age.”

“I’m footloose and fancy-free.”

“You are a man after my own heart.” She tested the wine. “Exquisite. Now, why is Rudley looking like the wreck of the Hesperus?”

“Tiffany found a body in the wine cellar.”

“You don’t say.”

“A man. Apparently, he was stabbed.”

“No one we know,” Tim said. “No one anyone knows as far as we can tell. The police are all over the place.”

Pearl smirked. “The Pleasant. You should have called it The Present. Come here and you’ll be alive for the present.”

Rudley looked stricken.

Pearl dabbed her lips with a serviette, leaving a smear of Sweet Scarlet. “I don’t mean to criticize, Rudley, but you have had a bad run. Dead body in the wine cellar. What was it last year?”

“Heart attack,” said Gregoire. “Mr. Baldwin in room six.”

“And the year before that it was the boat thing,” said Tim.

Pearl shook her head. “Remember that first year, Rudley? Some fool got his scarf tangled in the ski lift. I can still see him dangling there.”

“Didn’t happen at the Pleasant,” Rudley said.

“He was a guest.”

“I don’t remember hearing about that one,” Gregoire said.

“Long before your time,” Pearl said. “We don’t talk about it often. He hung up there for an hour before they were able to cut him down.” She looked at Rudley, who managed to look angry and deflated at the same time. “It’s not your fault, Rudley.” She hoisted her wine. “Remember the newlyweds? She fed him several digitalis tablets. Dead as a doornail.”

“That was definitely an accident,” Rudley said. “The poor old doll got them mixed up with his saccharin.”

“Bad luck is bad luck.” Pearl drained her glass, held it out for a refill. “Well, now that that’s out of the way, where’s my darling niece?”

“We don’t know.” Gregoire jumped as Rudley kicked him under the table. “I’ll see to your quiche.”

Pearl looked at Rudley.

“We don’t know where Margaret is at the moment,” he said.

“Where was she at the last moment?”

“At the High Birches.”

“Oh, another of those.”

“It was nothing.”

“When do you expect her back?”

Rudley cleared his throat. “We’re not sure.”

“She set out to fetch me and she got lost, didn’t she?”

Rudley didn’t answer. If Margaret had failed to keep her promise to meet Aunt Pearl, something was seriously wrong.

Pearl patted him on the arm. “You’ve got to get yourself together, Rudley.”

“I’m all right, Pearl.”

“You’ve got a sassy staff, you’ve got a dead man in your basement, and you’ve lost Margaret.”

“The staff’s always been sassy. You too, Pearl. The body’s gone and I’m sure Margaret will show up.”

“If she’s not here by sundown, Rudley, you’re in a lot of trouble.” She stood up. “I’m going out to the kitchen to see if Gregoire has something light.”

“I’ve never considered brandy something light.”

“Be nice, Rudley.”

Rudley wrapped his hands around his coffee. By suppertime, Pearl would be royally stewed. The guests were out of control. The unfortunate event in the cellar had, it seemed, given them licence to jump the traces and move away from the sedate and benign routine he strived to maintain. Next thing he knew, they’d be getting sauced, swinging their legs over the railing, feet bare, making rude gestures at the little paddle boats from the inn up the bay. Hotel guests were like kids at camp. They deserved their fun, but required direction.

He refused to believe that anything bad had happened to Margaret. The demeanour of the staff assured him nothing was wrong. The staff loved Margaret. They wouldn’t be horsing around if they thought she had come to harm. He recalled Margaret’s words as they prepared for the summer season: “We’re going to have the perfect summer, Rudley.” She hadn’t added — although it hung between them — “not like the others with all those hearses and ambulances roaring around and all those moments of silence with the flag at half mast.”

The idea of another flag at half mast depressed him. He loved the flag, loved dashing out to run it up the pole as soon as the sun rose over the line of cedars, loved the sentiment of the sunset ceremony that marked the end of a day on the water or tramping in the woods or playing croquet on the expansive lawn and the ushering in of the evening activities — marshmallow roasts, little theatre, ballroom dancing, Yahtzee tournaments, with Margaret presiding over it all, making every event a celebration.

At times like that, he didn’t even hate the guests as much as he professed. Some of the older ladies had been coming here for years. The cottages were their summer homes. He expected the Sawchucks and the Phipps-Walkers would be coming here as long as he was at the helm. He imagined the guests growing older. He could see himself wheeling Mrs. P.W. down to the marsh to bother the ducks, tethering Norman to the dock with his fishing pole and pillow. Perhaps Miller and Simpson would get together, come back year after year, bringing their children. That thought snapped him back to reality.

He hated kids.

Miss Miller ducked under a branch. Mr. Simpson reached to sweep another from her path.

“I don’t think we’re going to find anything, Miss Miller.”

“We haven’t even started.”

“The shoes could be anywhere.”

Miss Miller peered through the trees toward the inn. “My guess is they’re right under our noses.”

“Why would he remove his shoes?”

“Perhaps he thought they would make too much noise.”

“Why wouldn’t he simply wear plimsolls if noise were of concern to him?”

She sat down on a stump, rested her chin on folded hands, and looked directly into his eyes. Simpson blushed. The thick glasses only added to her beauty in his estimation, giving her a dreamy look quite at odds with her rather sharp personality.

“Of course, we’re assuming the victim came here with criminal intent,” she said.

“If he didn’t have criminal intent, why was he skulking around?”

“We can’t assume he was skulking.”

“If he didn’t have criminal intent, why didn’t he come to the front door?”

“It was the middle of the night.” She hugged her knees. “Let’s assume he didn’t come here with criminal intent. He came here…because he was enticed. Someone owed him money. That person lured him here on the pretense of settling the debt.”

He thought for a moment. “Possibly. Although, why would he choose the Pleasant? And why in the middle of the night?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Because the person who murdered him is staying at the Pleasant.”

“Perhaps.”

“The murderer is among us,” she said.

He glanced over his shoulder. “I suppose you could be right.” The light filtering through the leaves turned her hair to spun copper. At that point, he would have been willing to suppose anything. Anything at all. He hesitated. “But why did his shoes go missing?”

“There was something about his shoes that would serve to identify him.”

“Such as?”

“Perhaps he was wearing cowboy boots. Snakeskin with silver toe caps.”

“He didn’t look like that sort of man.”

“Perhaps they were the sort of shoes associated with a particular profession — he was a workman or a military man.” She gave him a peeved look. “Edward, it’s your turn to think of something. About his shoes, I mean.”

“He had his name stamped on the soles. He was wearing women’s shoes. Size thirteen spikes. Fuchsia.” He stopped, chastened by her expression. “I don’t mean to be facetious. I simply don’t have any ideas of merit.”

His words hovered between them. She looked over his shoulder. Brightened. “That’s it. I can’t believe I’m so clever.”

He smiled.

“No one mentioned finding his car.”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Therefore, he came by boat,” she concluded. “And if that boat were a canoe, he would have found conventional shoes uncomfortable. Therefore, he removed them.”

He leaned forward. “Now, that’s interesting.”

“He landed the canoe, threw his shoes up onto the dock. But he missed. The shoes either fell short or sailed right over the dock.”

“He had to walk across the lawn in his stocking feet. The grass was damp with dew. Ergo his stockings were wet.”

“He probably tried to retrieve his shoes, but it was dark and the water would be at least six feet deep. So he wandered up to the inn and made his way to the wine cellar where someone murdered him.” She bit her lip in concentration. “What should we consider next?”

We should consider tearing off each other’s clothes and making passionate love right here beside the bog, Edward thought. He gulped. “I suppose we should wonder what happened to the canoe.”

She smiled. “Exactly.”

“If I didn’t want to be seen, I would paddle into the boathouse and tie the canoe up there. I would then skulk up the side of the house behind the shrubbery.”

“Let’s go.”

She grabbed his hand. They scrambled down the slope, giggling like schoolchildren.

“This is a bit of a lark,” he said as they stopped beside the boathouse.

She put a finger to her lips. “We should be quiet. The murderer may be watching our every move.”

“If someone spots us, we can just say we ducked in here to…get out of the sun. Or because we heard a frog.” He smiled. “That’s it. We were on a nature hike. We heard a frog in the boathouse and had to identify it.”

He let her lead the way, something she seemed intent on doing anyway. She had a pleasing body, neat and compact. But it was her mind and manner that compelled him. No, he thought. That wasn’t true at all. He was thinking that way because he had grown up in the feminist age. He liked her body. A lot. He needn’t be ashamed, he told himself. After all, a man could entertain whatever thoughts he wanted. She was nice to be around in all sorts of ways. Going to bed with her would be an exhilarating experience. He paused. It would be terrifying. He had a feeling Miss Miller always got what she wanted.

“Look,” he said. “A cormorant.” He pointed out the bird perched on a stump halfway down the bay.

She drew him on.

They reached the boathouse.

“We’re in luck,” she said. “The door’s on this side. They won’t be able to see us from the inn.”

She tested the door, swung it open, and looked in.

Simpson peered over her shoulder. “Rudley keeps it in tip-top shape.”

“Neatness may be his only virtue.” She pulled him inside and closed the door. A rack on one side held a half-dozen canoes. Two rowboats and a motor boat were moored along the far side.

“What do you suppose the practice is if you want to take out a canoe?”

“You ask at the desk.”

“And then?”

“Someone, usually Lloyd, takes one from the rack by the dock. I suppose if those are engaged, he takes one from the boathouse.”

“Do they bring them into the boathouse at night?”

“I don’t believe so. I imagine they leave most of them on the rack. Unless the weather’s unusually inclement.”

She picked her way along the platform. He followed, resisting the urge to topple her into the water for the pleasure of rescuing her. He was an excellent swimmer.

“Orange, red, and green,” she said, staring at the canoes. “Otherwise, they’re identical. Except for that one.”

“Quite right. All the others bear the inn’s logo. That one has a set of serial numbers.”

“That must be the canoe our victim arrived in.”

“We mustn’t jump to conclusions. Rudley could have a misfit.”

“Help me up.”

He hesitated.

“I want to see if our misfit is damp.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Edward, I need a lift.”

He bent down, let her climb onto his shoulders. He blushed. A little personal, but not difficult. She was light and balanced herself well.

She squealed in triumph. “We were right, Edward. It’s the only one that’s damp. You can let me down now.”

He squatted. She dismounted.

“We need to tell Brisbois, straight away,” he said.

She frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t trust him to come to the correct conclusion. He’ll probably accuse Rudley of stealing the canoe. I don’t think he’s very good. He didn’t know the man’s socks were wet until Lloyd pointed it out.”

“We can’t withhold information.”

She lifted the lid of a large cedar box that turned out to contain life preservers, their tapes carefully tied. “You’re right. Rudley does keep things in good order.” She closed the lid. The next box contained nautical cord. “Come on.” She grabbed his hand. “We’ve got to check the other canoes.”

Her hand lingered. He would have followed her anywhere.

They were startled by the sound of someone thrashing around in the tall grass behind the boathouse.

Miss Miller went to the window and stood on tiptoes to peer out. “It’s Mr. Phipps-Walker.”

Phipps-Walker was slashing about with a walking stick. He stopped, stared at the boathouse, then circled toward the side door.

They looked at each other. Miss Miller threw herself into Simpson’s arms. “Try to look convincing, Edward.”

The door swung open. Phipps-Walker staggered back in surprise. Miss Miller broke her embrace, tugged primly at the collar of her blouse. “Why, Mr. Phipps-Walker, what are you doing here?”

“I was hoping to scare up some frogs.”

“Oh,” said Simpson, “you’re a herpetologist.”

“I was planning on trying one on a muskie.”

Miss Miller bristled. “You want to use the poor things for bait? That’s disgraceful.”

“Frogs get eaten by fish every day, Miss Miller.”

“What do you think Mr. Rudley would think about you poaching his frogs?”

“I can’t see that they’re his.”

“They’re on his property.”

He looked aggrieved. “I suppose I should leave you to get back to whatever.”

Miss Miller watched through the window as Mr. Phipps-Walker trudged back toward the inn. “What do you think he was really doing here?”

“Looking for frogs. He doesn’t strike me as a murderer. I think he and Thomas have a rivalry going over their fishing. He’s probably hoping to find an advantage.”

She grabbed his hand. “Let’s get out of here before anyone else comes in.”

She dropped his hand once they were out of the boathouse and sailed off toward the dock. He drifted along in her wake.

Several canoes were stacked in a rack near the dock.

“All P’s,” Simpson said.

“Identical to the others.”

“Do you want to take out a canoe?” Lloyd materialized from behind the rack.

“Yes.” Miss Miller scrutinized the canoes with the discerning eye of Imelda Marcos in a shoe store. “Let’s take the orange one, Edward.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a red one, Elizabeth?” He blushed. There. He’d done it. He’d used her first name.

“I like green,” Lloyd said. “Except in duck-hunting season.”

“Let’s take the green one.”

“Green it is.”

“Do they all come with that P on the side, Lloyd?”

“Every single one. P’s for the Pleasant. Mrs. Rudley paints them on.”

A few minutes later, they were paddling away from the inn.

“You do this rather well,” he said.

“Brown Owls, Girl Scouts. I spent every summer of my life in a boat.”

“I’m used to sculls, mainly.”

“That odd canoe is significant.”

“It could be the personal property of one of the guests, or one of the staff.”

“Rest,” she said. She balanced the paddle across her knees. “It was damp.”

“True.”

“That canoe is an important piece of evidence.”

“Which we must share with the police.”

“Not until we’ve confirmed our suspicions.”

He raised his brows.

“I have a plan,” she said. She spun the paddle into the water and headed down the lake.

“We’re not supposed to be here, Pearl.” Rudley hovered behind Pearl as she pushed at the door to the High Birches.

“No, you’re not.” Brisbois opened the door, catching Pearl before she fell headlong into the room.

Pearl tried in vain to duck under his arm. “I’m trying to find out what happened to Margaret.”

“We’re working on it, Miss Dutton.”

“You aren’t working on it very well.”

“Be patient. We’ve just started the investigation.” He motioned her back from the door. “You know you’re not allowed past the police tape.”

“I told you,” said Rudley.

“Something’s happened to Margaret and you’re trying to cover up.”

“There’s no indication your niece met with foul play.”

“Except the window’s broken, the cottage is ransacked, and Margaret is missing.”

“We don’t know that she’s missing.”

“She’s not here. I call that missing.”

Brisbois turned to Rudley. “Please take Miss Dutton back to the inn.” When Rudley reacted as if he’d been asked to pick up a rattlesnake, he relented. “Is there anything in particular you were hoping to find here?”

“I wanted to see if Margaret got my letter. If she had got my letter, she wouldn’t have wandered off.”

“Sometimes letters get lost in the mail.”

“Why in hell didn’t you just phone her?” Rudley asked. “Don’t tell me. You refuse to make the phone company rich.”

“Not after they shut down the independent.”

“That was decades ago.”

“Did Mrs. Rudley have her mail delivered here?”

“The staff brings it to her when she’s here,” said Rudley.

Brisbois swept the hair off his forehead. “I guess it wouldn’t do any harm to take another look. If Mrs. Rudley was expecting Miss Dutton she probably wouldn’t have taken off. Unless, of course, she’d made some other plans and had asked you to pick up her aunt, Rudley.”

“I’m sure she didn’t,” said Rudley, who wasn’t sure at all.

Brisbois stepped aside. “You can come in, but don’t touch anything. My officers took a good look, though. I don’t recall any mention of personal mail. There were a few invoices for her artwork and ads for workshops. That sort of thing.”

Pearl bristled. “Margaret wouldn’t mix her business and personal mail. I suppose you got that stuff you’re talking about from her desk.”

“Yes.”

“Margaret keeps her personal mail in a little binder with her writing materials. When she’s down here she keeps it in that little footstool over there.” She pointed to a small ottoman covered in green brocade. “The lid flips up. Margaret’s had that stool since she was a girl. She used to keep her letters from her boyfriends there to keep them away from her brother.”

“Did you know about this, Rudley?” Brisbois raised his brows and received only a glare. “Of course, you didn’t.” He pulled on gloves, knelt, and lifted the lid. He took out a packet of letters. “Here’s one from Ralph Dutton.”

“That’s her brother.”

“The one who used to snoop into her mail,” Rudley said.

“He’s in import-export,” Pearl said. “He travels the world, searching for treasures.”

“He imports plastic junk from China.”

“And this one,” Brisbois said, “is a postcard from Pearl Dutton. ‘Arriving village 6:00 am. Meet me.’ She knew you were coming, Miss Dutton.”

“I told you so.”

Brisbois shuffled the envelopes. “Ralph doesn’t have much to say. ‘Dear Margaret, here’s some pictures of me in Indonesia.’ And here are the pictures.”