Many Unpleasant Returns (15 page)

Having said this, it isn't that I'm not involved; it isn't as if I'm immune from speculation. For example, Tim and Lloyd seem too calm. Lloyd is an odd character. Tim is smooth, perhaps too smooth. Tiffany is obviously unnerved. Of course we have examples in literature where some sweet young thing turns out to be a homicidal maniac, but they usually have that look in their eyes. Tiffany does not. Mr. Rudley's behaviour is not normal, but from all accounts it is normal for him. Gregoire is in a constant state of excitement. I understand this, too, is normal for him. He's a creative person, after all. Mrs. Rudley is distressed, mostly by the inconvenience to her guests, but she's British. She carries on.

Someone — I think it was Mr. Thornton — put forward the idea that the whole thing was a prelude to something for Music Hall. But that was disproved when nothing happened. Someone else — I can't remember who — suggested Mr. Bole might be behind the tricks as a prelude to his puppet performance. But Mr. Bole put forth another theory — that someone was inviting us to join in an elaborate Clue game. Now that is an intriguing possibility. Mr. Justus, too, has come under suspicion, because he is an amateur magician, but none of his tricks involved any extraordinary sleight of hand, as far as I could tell.

Norman suggested this sort of thing wouldn't happen if Mr. Rudley had surveillance cameras in place. Mr. Rudley, apparently, doesn't believe in spying on his guests. Tim told me with a wink that the real reason is that Mr. Rudley is a Luddite.

Being new to the inn, I have no prejudices in these matters. When all of this nonsense started, the staff and old-timers believed one of the newbies was the culprit. The newbies don't know whom to mistrust.

Everyone seemed perplexed the culprit hasn't been caught. Miss Miller is frowning a lot these days. She's usually quick to get a handle on these things, Tiffany tells me. I can't say I'm surprised. Nothing this trickster has done would be that difficult to pull off undetected.

I would have to say that at this point no one trusts anyone completely. The drowned Santa, for some reason, seemed to bother the staff more. Tiffany explained to me that the little drowned Santa was reminiscent of an earlier event involving a member of the Pleasant Inn family, whereas the others were more generic. She didn't say more and I didn't ask. The drowned Santa seemed to confuse the staff. I heard the word
malicious
frequently. No one likes to believe anyone they know would do something malicious.

The two police detectives were here today. I believe it was the same pair that came to tell Mrs. Rudley she was not a murderer. Brisbois and Creighton. I was introduced to them. I heard most of the conversation. As I've said, old people are largely invisible, and even when they are visible, they're discounted. No one thinks we have the physical prowess or the mental acuity to carry out an elaborate prank. No one sees us, and if we are seen, it is assumed we can't hear well enough, or even if we could hear, are likely to be too addled to remember or comprehend what we hear. We would make perfect spies.

I didn't tattle about the conversation I'd overheard between Detective Brisbois and the Rudleys about the chocolates. Detective Brisbois had a lot of questions. Mr. Rudley jumped to the conclusion that the detective was accusing him of using the chocolates to poison Mr. Morton. I realized that I'd been eavesdropping and I don't think it's proper to pass along information gained in that manner. As it turned out, I didn't have to spread the news. Within the hour, rumours were floating around that a chocolate had played a role in Mr. Morton's death and that the chocolate had come from the Pleasant — the implication being that someone had poisoned the candy. The rumour spread quite quickly but didn't get a lot of traction. Everyone had eaten some of Gregoire's exquisite bonbons. No one had been even slightly ill. The only one who seemed to give the theory any credence was Walter Sawchuck, who, after the hot pepper flake incident, was convinced everyone was out to poison him.

In any event, the Little Santas were taken away as evidence. Someone said they thought that should be the end of it. Most of us agreed. Surely the prankster would give up the game, now that the police were involved.

 

Rudley sat up in bed as if someone had stuck a pin in him. “What in hell was that?”

“The phone, Rudley,” Margaret murmured, pulling the pillow over her ears as a displeased Blanche resettled on the bed.

Rudley fumbled for the instrument, knocking the receiver off the cradle. He pulled at the cord, reeled the receiver in and barked: “Who in hell is this? Do you know what time it is?”

“Of course, Rudley. It's four o'clock in the afternoon.”

“Pearl.” He took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully. “It's four o'clock in the morning here.”

“I've been trying to get through to you for days,” she said. “I thought it had finally happened.”

“What?”

“A mass murder at the Pleasant.”

He yawned and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Nothing that exciting, Pearl. The phones have been out.”

“As long as I know you're alive, I can get back to my game.”

“Poker?”

“What else?”

“Winning?”

“Of course. So far, a fishing boat and an oil tanker.”

“You can't moor them here, Pearl.”

“Oh, Rudley, you know I'll trade them before I come home.”

He didn't ask for what. He promised to pass on her greetings to Margaret, the staff, and the regulars and hung up.

“That was Pearl,” he told Margaret.

She answered with a gentle snore.

 

“The phone's out again.” Rudley jiggled the cradle button, shook the phone, checked the connection, then thumped it down on the ink blotter.

Margaret reached a protective hand toward the telephone in case Rudley's next step would be to drop it into the wastepaper basket. “The workmen told us the lines were iffy. They may be up and down — down more than up. We'll just have to deal with the situation until they can get the whole system up.”

“They've had ample time to get the system up.”

“They've been working like dogs, Rudley. All the service people — the hydroelectric workers, the telephone linesmen — working through these storms. And another storm on the way. Those poor people, when they came in for a bite, they looked exhausted.”

“Fine thing, Lloyd inviting them here.”

“Rudley, he invited them because he thought they were cold and hungry. They were working on our lines. It was the least we could do.”

He glared at the phone. “I think we could have done less.”

“Now, Rudley, this isn't like you. I know you like to bluster about, but you've always had a generous streak.”

“I don't like things not working, then working, then not working. I like things to either work or not work.”

“Didn't you hear that one man say someone in the village turned a gun on them because his satellite dish wasn't working and he couldn't watch television?”

He relented slightly. “That was asinine, Margaret, to make such a fuss over television.”

“So why are you so upset about the telephone?”

“I simply like to know if I can count on something to work or not. That way, I can plan properly. I don't want to have the generators up if the power is going to be back up in an hour or so. What if we run out of fuel?”

“I suppose spring would come eventually,” she said. “If necessary, we'll burn the furniture.” She uncurled his fingers from the telephone receiver. “Now, who were you so urgently needing to call?”

“The laundryman. If he doesn't get here on his regular stop, we'll run out of towels.”

“The guests won't mind if we can't change the linens every day. And Tim can put out paper serviettes and place mats in the dining room if necessary. Linens simply aren't a priority.” She backed him up to his stool and sat him down. “Now, Rudley, you're much too sturdy to get in a fuss about a few linens. I think you're getting cross because the guests are spending so much time indoors. It's like having the children home during vacation.”

“They always seem to be wanting something. Doesn't that bother you, Margaret?”

“Not particularly. But that's because I'm a sociable person and you're a natural grouch.”

“There's always someone around my desk, wanting something, wanting to know something, wanting to know my theory about the Little Santa caper, as they've taken to calling it. That's no way to run an inn, Margaret.”

“But it does give them something to do. They can't be out in the snow all day. I think they've been real troupers as it is.”

“If you say so.”

“And they're going to be especially busy the next two days. Mr. Bole's put up a roster for anyone wanting to help get the coach house ready for his big production. Everyone has signed up. And everyone is excited about rehearsing for the play. It's going to be a grand event even if the roads keep anyone from showing up from town.”

“I'm glad you didn't sign me up for any of that.”

“So am I,” she said, then added quickly, “We'll be occupied over at the coach house for hours today. Gregoire is even going to bring our meals down. It's going to be great fun and you get to hold the fort here all by yourself.”

“All by myself?”

“Pretty much.”

“Brisbois thinks we tried to poison someone with the candy,” he blurted. “We've never poisoned anyone.”

“Mrs. Bell did poison Mr. Bell with his heart pills.”

“That was an accident. The poor old doll couldn't read the label properly. She thought she was putting saccharine in his coffee. If he hadn't had such a sweet tooth, he probably would have survived.”

“We assume it was an accident,” she said. “You know that was never thoroughly investigated.”

He rolled his eyes. “That was before that imbecile Brisbois came on the scene. He would have snooped around until he cooked up enough evidence to hang her. This business with the chocolates, it's ridiculous. If Gregoire wanted to poison us…” He paused. “Of course there were the wild mushrooms.”

“That wasn't Gregoire's fault. He sincerely believed that wild patch was of the edible variety. And,” she added, “no one died.”

“No, but it does make one wonder.” He slumped in his seat. “Margaret, Brisbois is going to do his best to turn Mr. Morton's death into a murder.”

She put an arm around his shoulder. “Rudley, I'm sure he's doing it for the family. Mr. Morton's sister was eagerly awaiting his return for the holidays, then look what happened. The man comes here to settle his father's estate and tie up loose ends. He did so because he was a dutiful son. A lawyer could have done it. And then the poor man has a dreadful accident. I'm sure Detective Brisbois wants to reassure the family that no stone was left unturned.”

“He'll probably turn those awful little Santas into murder too.” He paused. “Margaret, whatever persuaded you to bring those wretched little things into this place?”

“Rudley, they were a gift.”

“Mrs. Blount. That damn woman. There is no evil she isn't at the bottom of.” He hopped off the stool. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“Rudley,” Margaret beamed, “you're back to your old self.”

 

“Are you going to give us a sneak peek at your performance, Mr. Bole?” Miss Miller asked.

Mr. Bole smiled. “Not exactly, Miss Miller. What I want to do today is make sure the angles are correct with the lighting and so forth. I haven't done finger puppets on the large stage before. Usually, the performances have been in the ballroom or the dining room.” He surveyed the coach house interior. “The stage here is higher and a good deal deeper. I thought it would be a wonderful challenge to try projection with the puppets.”

“Interesting,” Simpson agreed, “but won't the wonderful details of your puppets be lost for much of the audience?”

“That's true, but I felt the need to do some experimenting.” He glanced toward the door. “If the upcoming storm is as severe as we've heard it's going to be, I've probably chosen a good time to go off form. Our audience may be limited to staff and guests.”

“I'm afraid so,” Simpson said.

“But the show must go on,” said Mr. Bole.

“Jim” — Frankie interrupted — “I should be able to get the lighting set up to give you some nice crisp projections.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Franklin.” Mr. Bole put a hand on his shoulder.

“I used to do this sort of thing in college,” said Frankie. “I'm pretty good at it.”

Mr. Bole smiled. “You must have been a busy boy in college. Band, drama club, stage management, tennis team, squash team.”

“Yes,” said Miss Miller. “How did you squeeze in your classes?”

“I got by with a little help from my friends.” Frankie grinned. “Hey, Johnny,” he yelled to his friend, who was standing about watching the others. “Come and help me move this projector.”

“I think Mr. Franklin was what we used to call a
BMOC
,” Mr. Bole said. “I can't say I ever aspired to the position.”

“I think it takes a certain personality,” said Miss Miller.

“Yes, such chaps usually end up being salesmen…or politicians — which is the same thing.” Mr. Bole glanced toward Tim, who was on the stage waving to Tiffany.

“So Tim is taking the lead,” said Miss Miller. “I never imagined him as Macbeth, even in a musical version.”

“Or Tiffany as Lady Macbeth,” Simpson added.

“She doesn't have Lady Macbeth's aura of blind ambition,” said Mr. Bole, “but she is rather good at getting out those damn spots.”

 

The rehearsal went well.

“That was amazing,” said Simpson, “adapting
Macbeth
as a three-act, one-hour production without losing the essence of the work.”

Tim put a finger to his lips. “The Scottish play,” he corrected.

“Oh, yes,” Simpson said. “I forgot the old superstition about not naming
Macbeth
in the theatre. Tiffany did do a wonderful job with the production.”

“Tiffany is talented,” said Tim.

“And to emphasize the romance over what is really blind ambition,” Simpson added.

“Tiffany has a romantic soul,” said Tim.

“We've put the decorations along the wall,” Sheila Nesbitt called out.

Everyone turned to the New Year's motif of cherubs welcoming in the New Year with trumpets.

“That looks great,” said Tim, “and you did a wonderful job cleaning up those old sconce lamps.”

Sheila smiled her thanks. “What would you like us to do with him? Him,” she repeated to their puzzled expressions, gesturing toward the big Santa.

“Oh, yes.” Tim sighed. “He usually spends the season at the ballroom door but the mice got to him. I guess we'll just have to stick him backstage.”

“I can do that,” said Frankie, beckoning to Johnny. “Come on. Give me a hand.”

“I could have done that,” Keith said.

“Except,” Frankie responded with a wink, “I'm wearing an old sweater and you've got angora. You wouldn't want to get mouse turds on that.”

Nesbitt smiled suddenly and took his wife's hand. “Actually, I wouldn't.”

Frankie and Johnny grabbed the big Santa and hauled it out of sight into the wings.

Sheila pressed against Keith's arm. “Let's go stand by the door to see what the decorations will look like to people coming in.”

He gave her a smile.

“I think Mr. Nesbitt has finally learned how to handle Mr. Franklin,” Simpson said.

“Oh?” Miss Miller looked at him quizzically.

“By showing some affection for his wife,” said Simpson.

Mr. Bole winked. “A very good strategy.”

 

It was nearly 10:00 pm before Margaret arrived back from the coach house. She found Rudley at the front desk playing solitaire.

“How did it go, Margaret?”

“The young people had a wonderful time. Our rehearsal came off with flying colours. The Nesbitts did a smashing job with the decorations. Mr. Franklin helped prepare for the puppet show. He's really quite nice…”

“When he isn't being an idiot?”

“Something like that, Rudley. I might have said when he was being more himself.”

“If you say so.”

“Rudley, every now and then we have someone come here who doesn't seem to know exactly what the behaviour standards are.”

“Yes, Margaret, we have had those who have the impression we're a pick-up joint, a Fort Lauderdale sort of destination. It must be the allure of types like Aunt Pearl, Mrs. Gowling, Geraldine and Doreen gracing our lobby. What Lothario wouldn't lose his head?”

“Rudley.”

“The point is, Margaret, a man, even one of the usual youthful appetites, should have the manners, not to mention the self-control, to conduct himself as a gentleman. As Mr. Simpson did.”

“Mr. Simpson has always conducted himself as a gentleman.”

“Of course, he had no need to step out of line.” Rudley smiled. “As I recall, Miss Miller was all over him from the beginning.”

“The point is, Rudley, we had a wonderful day down at the coach house. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. And I can't believe how well everyone did their lines.”

“Well, Margaret, what can I say? We can't expect things to turn out badly every time.”

She paused as the lights flickered. “I would feel better if I was sure the lights would hold out until after we've put on the play.”

 

Gregoire was packing leftovers when Tim stepped into the kitchen. “Snow's picking up,” he said, brushing the stuff from his hair.

“Tell me some new news,” Gregoire grumbled. He sealed a container, labelled it with a grease pencil, and stacked it with a dozen others on the counter. “Could you put these in the freezer in the pantry?”

“No room in here?”