A Most Unpleasant Wedding (10 page)

“So it doesn't work out,” Creighton theorized. “She tries to break it off. He's angry. He comes to her house. They argue. He kills her. Or he calls her. She doesn't want to see him. They argue. She hangs up on him. He comes over, surprises her as she's about to set out on one of her reflective rides. He whacks her.”

“Could be,” Brisbois said. “But you'd think Carl would have heard something going on.”

Creighton sniffed. “Carl was probably sucking his thumb with a pillow pulled over his head.”

Brisbois' cell phone rang. He blotted his fingers on the serviette, took the phone from his pocket. “Yeah? What?” His brow creased. “OK, thanks.” He jammed the phone back into his pocket, took a bite of hot dog.

“What?” said Creighton.

“That blood,” said Brisbois. “Animal blood. Probably equine.”

Creighton shrugged. “We know the horse was cut.”

“I was hoping it might belong to the murderer.” Brisbois uttered a mild oath as the phone rang again.

Brisbois drew a line across his notebook, wrote: Interview, Elizabeth Miller. “OK, you saw a saddle. Anything else?”

“All sorts of things,” said Miss Miller. “Unfortunately,” she added, glancing toward Simpson, “I didn't have the opportunity to itemize them.”

Simpson cleared his throat. “It didn't seem appropriate to go through someone's belongings.”

“We'll have the warrant shortly,” Brisbois murmured.

“Detective,” Margaret broke in. “The place you're talking about…I'm sure the chap who occupies it had nothing to do with Mrs. Hopper's death.”

Brisbois gave her a sympathetic smile. “We don't know anything yet, Margaret.”

“He's a hobo,” Rudley said.

“He is a vagabond of sorts,” Margaret conceded. “He picks up things here and there, but I'm sure he's harmless.

“Brisbois waited, pen poised. “How long has he been camping out up there?”

“We're not sure,” said Rudley. “We saw him going through our garbage around Easter.”

“We tried to talk to him,” Margaret said. “But he was like a stray cat. Finally, Gregoire started putting out food in Tupperware containers. We didn't see him take the food, but, a few days later, the empty containers appeared on the back porch.”

“To be washed and refilled,” said Rudley.

“I don't suppose he has the facilities to wash dishes,” Margaret said. “The point is, he never stole anything from us. Sometimes we left out a few things with the food — socks and so forth. He didn't take anything that wasn't meant for him.”

“A scrounger.” Brisbois reviewed his notes. “What's this guy's name?”

“Herb,” said Rudley.

“We're not sure if that's his real name,” said Margaret. “He's known a bit around Middleton. I don't know if he told someone his name was Herb or if someone gave him that name for the sake of having something to call him.”

Brisbois closed his notebook, pocketed it. “We'll have a word with him.”

Margaret looked distressed. “I'm sure he didn't do anything wrong, Detective. He just picks up things he finds.”

“A saddle's a big thing to just pick up.”

“Don't frighten him, Detective, or we'll never see him again.”

Brisbois' brows shot up. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

She gave him a reproachful look. “It's not cricket to kick a man when he's down.”

Brisbois inhaled sharply, nodded, and left. Creighton gave Margaret a wink and followed him out onto the veranda.

“What next, Boss?”

Brisbois fished out a duMaurier, lit it. “What in hell do you think?”

“What's got your goat?”

“A woman hammered to death, that's what.”

“I think you're mad because Margaret called you on Herb.”

Brisbois turned on Creighton, trailing smoke through his nostrils. He looked defiant, then relaxed. “Margaret's right. We shouldn't go after a guy because he's down on his luck. But that saddle has got to be Ned's. Even if all he did was pinch it, he's got to know something.”

Brisbois and Creighton waited on the veranda for the officer to appear with the warrant.

“We could probably get by without one,” said Creighton. “According to Miss Miller, the place was nothing more than a cave with a bush for a door.”

“Exactly the kind of situation where some judge is going to get pissy.” Brisbois hunched his shoulders, looked down toward the dock where Lloyd was helping Bonnie Lawrence into a canoe.

“For someone who says she doesn't care for the country life, she's taken quite a shine to this place,” said Creighton.

Brisbois smiled. “I think she likes being fussed over — Lloyd taking her for canoe rides, Tim hovering over her table, all the admiring looks.”

“She's a pretty lady.”

“I can't say she's my type,” said Brisbois.

Creighton gave him a surprised look. “Hey, what's not to like? She's pretty, dresses well, always has a nice smile.”

Brisbois watched Lloyd paddle away. “I get the feeling she's always waiting for someone to rescue her. I like a woman with a little spunk.”

“Like Miss Miller.”

Brisbois lit a cigarette. “I like Miss Miller just fine. I'd like to know if I was up to my ears in quicksand the woman I was with wouldn't just throw up her hands and scream.”

Creighton laughed. “Miss Miller would make a rope out of vines or something she learned in Girl Scouts.” He gestured toward the departing canoe. “But I don't mind doing a little rescuing now and then.”

Brisbois grimaced. “I'm surprised she isn't twirling a parasol.”

“She sure isn't like any of the women we've seen here before,” Creighton said. “Most of the women here are tough old bats.”

“Yeah, otherwise they'd be taking their vacations at some kind of spa.”

A cruiser pulled up. Officer Semple alighted and came toward the veranda, holding out the warrant. “Here you are. Signed, sealed, and delivered.” He handed the warrant to Brisbois and turned back toward the car.

“Hey” — Brisbois waved the paper at him — “where do you think you're going?”

Semple gave him a blank look.

“You're coming with us.”

Semple gave him a wary look. “Where?”

“Up into the woods.” Brisbois stuffed the warrant into his breast pocket.

Semple uttered a silent curse.

Creighton chuckled. “Are you worried about getting your shoes dirty? Or are you afraid of falling into a hole, the way you did last time?”

Semple sighed. He waited until they came down from the veranda, then fell in behind them.

Brisbois stopped, checked Miss Miller's map. “This is it.” He put up a cautionary hand. “Let's keep cool. If the old guy's in there, we don't want to spook him.” He pointed at Semple. “You stay back, over there by the trees, in case he makes a run for it.”

Brisbois and Creighton approached the cave.

“Herb?” Brisbois called out.

They waited.

Brisbois signalled to Semple, mouthed, “Be ready.” He turned back to the cave. “Herb, it's the police. We'd…”

Before Brisbois and Creighton could react, a dishevelled man erupted from the entrance. He spun off Brisbois, knocking him off balance.

Brisbois took up pursuit. “Get him,” he shouted at Semple, who stood rooted to the ground, staring in disbelief.

“Stop. Police,” Semple yelled as Herb charged toward him.

Herb lowered his head, driving it into Semple's midsection. A laughing Creighton loped through the trees to find Semple writhing on the ground while Brisbois tried to wrestle Herb into handcuffs.

“A lot of good you were,” Brisbois gasped as he finally corralled Herb's left hand.

Semple struggled to his feet .

Brisbois turned to Semple. “You're all right, aren't you?”

Semple uttered a series of squeaks.

“Good boy.” Brisbois patted him on the shoulder. “You keep an eye on our friend while we look around. You can do that, can't you?”

Semple finally captured a breath. “I didn't want to pull my gun on him.”

“No, no,” said Brisbois. “You did the right thing.” He turned to Herb, who was struggling against Creighton. “Herb,” he said as the old man glared at him, “we've got a warrant to look through your place.”

Herb gave Creighton a kick in the shins.

“That hurt,” said Creighton. He handed Herb over to Semple.

“I want you to sit down on that stump over there and relax,” Brisbois told Herb. “We aren't going to hurt your stuff.” He motioned to Creighton.

They ducked in behind the shrubs, swept aside the tarp. Brisbois removed his hat, crouched to enter the cave. He ducked back out, turned to Creighton. “Let's get a team up here. We've hit the mother-lode.”

Margaret hovered at the veranda railing as the detectives coaxed Herb into the cruiser. “I can't believe they've arrested Herb. Surely, they don't think he had anything to do with Mrs. Hopper's death.”

“I'm sorry,” Miss Miller said. She looked chastened.

Margaret turned from the railing. “You couldn't have known.” She headed for the lobby. “I must get Rudley. We have to make sure Herb has representation.”

Miss Miller returned to the table where Simpson was enjoying an orange squash. “It seemed like such a promising lead,” she said.

Simpson nodded. “It did. Of course, the old gentleman may not be a murder suspect. The detectives may have just taken him for questioning.”

“In handcuffs?” She paused. “He did have the saddle.”

“The man's a scrounge, Elizabeth. The saddle may have slipped off, or he may have found the horse wandering and took what he could.” He put the glass down, centring it carefully on the coaster. “Or he may have encountered the victim in the forest and done her in — most savagely, according to what we've heard.”

She studied him. “You're developing quite a taste for the macabre, Edward.”

He cleared his throat. “I'm afraid the Pleasant does inspire that.”

She tented her fingers, stared pensively toward the lake. “You're right. He could have encountered Mrs. Hopper in the forest and bludgeoned her to death. But it doesn't seem likely. According to Officer Owens, Mrs. Hopper wasn't in the habit of riding in the forest at night.”

Simpson frowned in concentration. “Perhaps he didn't encounter her in the forest. Perhaps he was in her stable, looking to bed down. He startled her. She rode off into the woods to escape him. He was afraid she might report him to the authorities. He pursued her and murdered her.”

“He doesn't look as if he'd have the strength to do that.”

He picked up his glass. “People in desperate circumstances often muster unusual strength.”

She narrowed her eyes. “According to Tim, Officer Owens suggested that Mrs. Hopper may have sustained the lethal head injury when she fell off her horse and hit her head on a rock. He also hinted she may have received a blow to the head earlier.” She paused. “If it weren't for Officer Owens trying to win Tiffany's favour, we'd be completely in the dark. Detective Brisbois has been less than forthcoming.”

He gave her a pointed look. “Elizabeth, I don't believe the detective is obliged to share information with us.”

She sighed. “You're right, Edward. But he would save himself a great deal of trouble if he confided in us from the start.”

Simpson digested this. “Perhaps he realizes we need to focus on the wedding — the bouquets, the favours, the little trifles with our names on them.”

She gave him a stern look. “Edward, don't try to distract me.”

Aunt Pearl toddled out onto the veranda, took a myopic look around.

Simpson stood, held out a chair. “Aunt Pearl.”

She sat down. “Are we talking about the wedding?”

“The murder,” said Miss Miller.

“Good.” Aunt Pearl leaned across the table. “So what's the latest?”

“Detective Brisbois just took a man away in handcuffs. Herb. I understand he comes around here from time to time.”

Aunt Pearl's mouth fell open.“They arrested Herb?”

“They found what they believe to be the victim's saddle among his possessions.”

Aunt Pearl sat back. “Herb wouldn't hurt a fly. He's a little rough around the edges, a man of experience. But with a new set of clothes, a haircut, and a shave, you couldn't pick him out of a lineup of Bay Street lawyers.”

“A diamond in the rough,” said Simpson.

“I didn't know you knew Herb so well,” said Miss Miller. “Margaret suggested he kept his distance.”

Pearl smirked. “You young people don't always know what's going on. I meet him occasionally. We share a smoke. He's in a state of illiquidity at the moment.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He's a travelling man. He goes where the wind takes him.Very romantic.”

“Do you know where he's from?”

“Somewhere down the line. For the past few months, he's been staying in the vicinity.”

“I understand he lives in that cave in the woods,” said Miss Miller.

“He's a rebel at heart.” Aunt Pearl sighed. “A James Dean–Jack Kerouac type.”

“Obviously, you don't think him capable of murder,” said Simpson.

She waved the suggestion off. “Of course not. Herb's the kind of man who lives by his wits.” She paused, looked around for Tim. “Besides, he's a gentleman. He would never assault a woman.”

Miss Miller considered this. “He came to the Pleasant. Do you think he might have wandered onto Mrs. Hopper's property as well?”

“I don't know. If he had gone there, I imagine he would have got a rude reception. She was that kind of woman. Herb wouldn't have shared that with me. He has his pride.”

Miss Miller's eyes brightened. “I didn't know you knew Mrs. Hopper.”

“I didn't. But my gentleman friend Nick did.”

Miss Miller smiled. “I didn't know you were seeing Nick.”

“He takes me cruising every week.”

“I thought you didn't like the way he dashed about.”

“He's slowed down since his hip surgery.” She smirked. “At least as far as the boat is concerned. If you know what I mean.”

Simpson blushed.

Miss Miller planted her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hands. “What does Nick have to say?”

“He says she was pretty snotty, as if she were a few rungs above the rest of us.”

Miss Miller's eyes narrowed. “So she may have made some enemies.”

“Nick says she treated you according to the size of your boat. He said she was a bit flirty with one man who has a big yacht in port.”

“She was married,” Simpson said.

Aunt Pearl waved that off. “Since when has that stopped anybody? Besides, Nick says her husband's a wimp.”