A Most Unpleasant Wedding (16 page)

“Well, Rudley?” Margaret looked up apprehensively as Rudley entered the lobby.

Rudley paused, leaned against the desk. “Lloyd has left to take Mr. Arnold's things to the train. The Pines has been scrubbed, aired out. New mattress, fresh linens. When the Franklins check in next week, they won't suspect a thing.”

“I'm glad, Rudley.” She came around the desk, gave him a peck on the cheek. “I think I'll grab a bite. Do you want anything?”

“Maybe later.” He went behind the desk, glanced at the newspaper. “War in the Middle East, forest fires in California,” he muttered. “I'm glad we're not in the headlines for a change.” He smiled, did a two-step, hummed a few bars of “I've Got the World on a String.” With the situation at the Pines behind him, the future looked rosy. And why not? Lovely wedding to look forward to. Wonderful girl, Miss Miller. The situation had looked dicey for a while, but everything was coming together as they had hoped. The police tapes were down. Detectives Brisbois and Creighton would be out from underfoot soon — none too soon. And the Pines was back to normal.

He paused. In spite of the reputation of the Pleasant, he'd never had a guest ask if someone had died in the accommodation they were about to occupy. Perhaps the cheerful hominess of the rooms made it impossible to believe that anything heinous had happened there.

So the mattress had gone to the dump. Arnold's personal effects had gone to his estate. He could safely say there was nothing left of Jack Arnold at the Pleasant.

He frowned. It was unfortunate that it was so easy to erase a human being from a place. A little Lysol, a set of crisp white sheets, the clean forest fragrance through an open window.

He remembered working at the Baltimore, where every room greeted a visitor as if it had been constructed for him alone. He grinned, wondering if those two old nuns could have imagined that the room they shared had been occupied by a salesman from Niagara Falls who had smuggled in a different lady of the evening three nights in a row. He thought for a moment, shook his head. Never.

Brisbois reminded himself to stop at the dry cleaners to pick up his blue suit. Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson had indicated in their invitation that guests were to come as they wished, but Mary had convinced him that it would be disrespectful not to wear his best suit. He wasn't sure what she would be wearing, but whatever it was, she would look good. Mary hadn't gained an ounce since they were married. He wished he could say the same for himself. Too many fast-food meals, not enough exercise. He sighed. Too much stress.

His hand reached compulsively for his notebook, fluttered back to the wheel. He hated this case.

Someone had clipped Mrs. Hopper on the head. The spade which might have done it was useless as evidence. He wished Terri Hopper had put a little more thought into what she was doing before she cleaned it and dumped it into the quarry. Carl Hopper's prints on the shovel would hardly have been incriminating. Not only had she destroyed evidence, she had not succeeded in making her father look less culpable.

Carl could have done it. Jack Arnold could have done it. Five hundred other people could have killed Evelyn Hopper who, as it turned out, was a nasty person. It was always easier to focus on a case when you liked the victim.

“I think Carl Hopper killed his wife,” he said out loud. It felt good to say that. The wife was fooling around. He was having trouble with his writing. He stood to lose everything — his wife, his home, his horses, his security and peace of mind. He was a quiet guy, the kind of guy to whom home and hearth were everything, and she was going to take it all away. He reached for his cigarettes, paused to take the corner before lighting up. He believed Nick Anderson's assessment that Evelyn had been having an affair with Jim Alva was correct. But the guy had an alibi for the night of the murder.

Besides, what motive would Alva have for killing Evelyn? He took a deep drag from his cigarette, flicked the ashes out the window. Unless she was making noises about telling his wife.

A car towing a boat passed him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone fishing. He returned his thoughts to Evelyn Hopper. If she'd had one fling, she could have had others. Maybe with somebody she didn't have on the books. He gripped the steering wheel harder than necessary. They'd go over her appointment book again. Maybe the gaps would tell them something.

He shook his head. Now he was thinking it wasn't Carl who killed her. And it wasn't Jim Alva. It was some mystery man, someone who had been very discreet.

He pushed his hat back, wondered what had brought Carl and Evelyn together in the first place. They said opposites attracted. He wasn't sure about that. He and Mary enjoyed a lot of the same things, thought the same way about many things.

He thought of Creighton and chuckled. Creighton was a dedicated bachelor, terrified of marriage. He made sure that everyone knew he wasn't interested in getting serious. Brisbois wondered if he would find anyone to go to the wedding with him.

Then there was poor Owens who, apparently, was in Tiffany's bad books for hunting. I think I'd give up that for Tiffany, he thought. He didn't understand why a guy like Owens was so devoted to the sport. He had no interest in it himself.

He rubbed his forehead. The case had too many threads, all running in different directions. He needed a clear eye. Maybe if he went over the evidence with Miss Miller… He struck the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. What was he thinking?

He sat back, relaxed as the twisting road gave way to a straightaway. Evelyn Hopper and Jack Arnold were dead. Jack Arnold had had an unfortunate encounter with Evelyn. Ergo, he killed her, then committed suicide out of remorse. He was in the vicinity. Lloyd had washed the evidence off his shoes. It was that simple.

“You know it's never that simple, Detective.”

“Maybe it is this time, Miss Miller.

In his imagination, she smiled at him, then disappeared.

On the morning of the wedding, not a soul at the Pleasant slept in. Guests and staff were up at dawn, flitting about the inn and the grounds, some busy with preparations, others busy getting in the way.

Rudley waited until the lobby was relatively quiet, then nipped into the kitchen for a croissant and coffee. He returned to the front desk, putting his coffee and croissant down on the newspaper, forgetting he had spread the newspaper across the ledger. The plate tipped, spilling the coffee and knocking the croissant onto the floor. He dove for it as Albert romped up, wagging his tail. Rudley grabbed the croissant, stood up, smacking his head on the edge of the desk.

“Goddamn.”

Tim leaned over the desk. “It's yours. You beat him to it.”

“Not before he got his tongue on it.” Rudley ceded the croissant to Albert, who ambled back to the rug.

Tim took a long look at Rudley. “If you don't mind me saying so, you look as if you shaved with Gregoire's potato peeler.”

“I was in a hurry,” Rudley muttered.

“I could get the makeup kit.”

Rudley glowered. “It'll be fine.” He paused, stiffening at the sound of a motor. “What was that?”

“Must be the laundryman.”

“What the hell?” Rudley dashed out from behind the counter, ran down the veranda steps, waving and yelling at the laundryman. “What in hell are you doing here at this hour of the morning?” He ran around the truck, searching the ground, distracted.

Tim had followed Rudley out into the yard. He looked at him, bewildered.

“Aha.” Rudley bent and picked up something.

“Mr. Rudley.” The laundryman trotted toward him.

Rudley turned on him. “What in hell are you doing here” — he shifted the object to one hand, peered at his watch — “at six-thirty in the morning?”

The laundryman straightened his cap. “And what are you doing with a bullfrog in your hand at six-thirty in the morning?”

Rudley ignored him. He turned back toward the inn, handing the bullfrog off to Tim.

“What do you want me to do with him, Boss?”

“Escort him back to the swamp.” Rudley charged up the steps.

The laundryman followed. “Would Mrs. Rudley be around?”

Rudley glared at him. “Not at the moment.”

The laundryman sighed. “I'm afraid we have an unfortunate situation. That's why I'm early. I wanted you to be advised of it as soon as possible.”

Rudley slammed his fist into the desk, slopping coffee over the ledger. “I knew it. You botched the linen order.”

The laundryman shook his head. “No, that's not it.”

“You've lost something.” Rudley thought for a moment, raised a triumphant finger. “I know. The serviettes. Did you know those damned things were brought directly from Ireland?”

“That's very informative, Mr. Rudley,” the laundryman said. “But that's not it.”

Rudley gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white. “You've put a stain on my formal shirt.”

The laundryman smiled. “You're getting a little warmer.”

Rudley glowered. “You've stained Margaret's gown. You've stained the bride's gown. You've ripped the seat out of the groom's pants.”

“Nothing was ripped or stained. As you know, Mr. Rudley, we have never ripped or stained any of your items.”

“Out with it,” said Rudley.

The laundryman paused, pursed his lips, then said carefully, “There was a fire.”

“A fire?”

“In the dry-cleaning section.”

“You mean our things were burned?”

“Melted. The fire was confined to a single row of hangers, but everything on it was singed or melted. Nothing recoverable, I'm afraid.”

Rudley braced his hands against the desk, levered himself forward. “How in hell am I supposed to tell the wedding party on the morning of the nuptials that their clothes have melted?”

“You could say someone died,” the laundryman said. “I've found people tend to be good sports in the wake of tragedy.”

“Now, that's a fine way to start a married life,” Rudley said. “Knowing someone perished trying to save your duds.”

“I'm afraid I have nothing better to suggest,” said the laundryman. “You and your guests will be reimbursed in full, of course.”

“Of course,” Rudley muttered.

“Well,” said the laundryman. “I suppose I'll be seeing you later.”

“Later?”

“The wedding. The young couple was gracious enough to invite me — owing to my attentiveness to their special needs.”

“Gracious,” Rudley muttered.

He shooed the laundryman away, pulled out a bottle of Chivas Regal. He squeezed a cigarette from the package of Benson and Hedges in the drawer, lit it. “I think I could be forgiven a few vices in the wake of this most recent development,” he told Albert. He smiled a jaunty smile. “I never could tolerate that suit. Formal wear is all very good for dance but when you're just standing around it makes you look like a damned manikin.” Simpson and Miss Miller had found their wedding outfits at a rummage sale. He admired their good sense. He stood for a moment, spewing smoke through his nostrils. How to tell the wedding party… He hoped everyone would be as reasonable as he.

“I'm terribly sorry to tell you this,” Rudley finished.

Bonnie Lawrence uttered a mournful cry, clasped her head in her hands. “This is a tragedy.”

Rudley glanced toward Miss Miller who was rolling her eyes. “The sinking of the
Titanic
was a tragedy, Mrs. Lawrence,” he said. “This is merely unfortunate.”

She regarded him with round, glistening eyes. “Unfortunate? Mr. Rudley, how can you be so insensitive?”

“Practice?” Tim suggested.

“A woman's wedding day is the most important day of her life,” Bonnie cried. “How could that establishment be so careless?”

Rudley pulled a long face. “I heard a rumour the proprietor may have died.”

“And there isn't time to get anything from the shops. Why didn't they telephone us immediately instead of waiting to send that man around…when it happened…when did it happen? If we'd known immediately, we might have been able to dash off to Ottawa…” Bonnie stopped, breathless.

“They probably had to put the fire out, call an ambulance, that sort of thing,” said Rudley. He shook his head at Miss Miller, who stood behind Bonnie, mouthing, “Did someone really die?'”

“What will we do?” Bonnie shrieked.

Rudley thought for a moment, then brightened. “We'll leave it to Margaret. She'll come up with something.” He cleared his throat, bellowed, “Margaret? Could you come here?”

She came out from the kitchen. “What's the matter, Rudley?”

“The laundry caught fire,” Tim said. “The wedding outfits were destroyed.”

Her jaw dropped.

“I told everyone not to worry, Margaret,” Rudley said. “I told them you would know how to handle the situation.”

Margaret paused, took in Bonnie's tear-stained face. “Of course,” she said. “No need to worry. We'll come up with something.”

“There” — Gregoire stepped back, gazed at his creation — “what do you think about that?”

Tim stared. “I have to say that is truly impressive.”

Gregoire drew himself up to his full height. “At The School of Creative Culinary Design, I was awarded first prize for my wedding cakes — for presentation, for innovation, for texture, moisture, and, of course, for deliciousness.”

“Maybe this will make up for the debacle with the outfits.”

Gregoire rolled his eyes. “I hear Mrs. Lawrence is practically having a stroke over that.”

Tim lowered his voice. “I actually heard Mr. Lawrence tell her to shut up about the damned clothes. Those were his words.”

Gregoire took a turn around his creation. “Mr. Lawrence is not a gracious man. Bonnie Lawrence is a noodle brain but she made a big effort.” He wiped his brow. “God knows I know that.”

“Maybe the wedding ceremony will soften him up.”

“I hope you are right,” said Gregoire. “It is not nice to see someone treated like that, even if you think they have no priorities and brains like birds.”

Tim selected a croissant, added a generous amount of peach butter. “I'm glad you have some of these left over. The guests are so excited about the wedding, half of them couldn't eat breakfast.”

Gregoire took in his cake, gave a sigh of satisfaction. “They are saving themselves for the wedding buffet. They will go through that like locusts.” He paused. “Maybe the wedding ceremony will improve Officer Owens' fortunes too.”

Tim checked the fruit salad. “I think he would improve his chances if he stopped shooting everything in sight.”

“Everyone must have his hobbies, I suppose,” said Gregoire. “Tiffany should look at the hunting as one of those things they disagree about and let it go at that.” He swept up his apron, blotted his forehead. “I have to say, if Tiffany continues to be so demanding, she will end up with the only one she approves of.”

Tim raised his brows.

“Herself,” said Gregoire.

Margaret came in, carrying a threadbare suit jacket, a pair of chinos, and an off-white shirt. “What do you think?”

“I think that outfit would go over very well at the lumberman's ball,” said Tim. “Provided they held it in the woods.”

Margaret sighed. “Herb was quite taken with the three-piece pinstripe. But since it burned, he won't wear anything but his own clothes. I'm afraid these are the best he has. But at least they're clean and pressed.” She gave the shirt a doubtful look. “I think this might have been white at one time, but it's the best I could do. I was able to get the grass stains out of the neckerchief. It has a rather nice pattern. Quite dressy. I'll see if he'll let me fix it up as an ascot.”

Tim tittered. “Now he'll look as if he was on his way to the lumberman's ball and ran into minor British royalty.”

“I think you did a good job to turn a pig's ear into a purse,” said Gregoire.

“He could have attended the wedding in a burlap sack — Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson would have thought nothing of it — but it's important for him to look the best he can.” She took another look at the ensemble. “I'm going to see if Rudley has found that oxblood belt.”

Miss Miller was at the desk, chatting with Rudley, when Margaret arrived in the lobby.

“Everything is going according to plan,” Miss Miller announced. “I've kept the parents away from the local newspapers.” She glanced around. “I've managed to escape Bonnie. She has some extravagant ideas for my hair.”

“I think I've got Mrs. Lawrence under control,” Rudley said. “I've commissioned her to write a poem to be read at the end of the reception and I've sent a complimentary bottle of champagne to her cabin. That should give her a good headache and, perhaps, keep her out of commission for a few hours.”

“I hate to think how she'll react when she sees the wedding outfits.”

“I think they're charming,” said Miss Miller.

“I'm afraid I couldn't persuade Herb to wear a period costume,” said Margaret. “I did the best I could with his things. I was thinking that oxblood belt of yours, Rudley, would be a good match with his outfit.”

“I imagine a piece of binder twine would suffice.”

“Be nice, Rudley.”

Miss Miller's gaze fell on the neckerchief. “That neckerchief doesn't look very Herb.”

“He probably got it from a bin at the church basement.”

Miss Miller continued to stare at the neckerchief.

“Is anything wrong, dear?” Margaret asked.

Miss Miller shook her head, “No, I just thought it looked familiar.”

“Perhaps you saw one like it in the shops.”

Miss Miller started to say something, then smiled and turned toward the stairs. “I'd better drop in on Mother. She's dying to see the dress.”

“Yes, dear.”

“She's beside herself.”

“I'll send up a bottle of white.”

“That might help.”

“Margaret, we're going to have everyone half-potted before the ceremony starts,” Rudley said.

“Sometimes that's for the best.” Margaret consulted her list. “I think we've done it, Rudley. I've telephoned the Reverend Pendergast to confirm Lloyd will be picking him up. The wedding clothes are ready. The cake is a work of art. You've taken care of Mrs. Lawrence.” She patted him on the arm. “That was chivalrous of you.”

He smiled a lopsided smile. “I'm a veritable knight in shining armour.”

She dropped the list to the desk with satisfaction. “Rudley, we've done it.”

“Don't we always?”

“It will be perfect.” She gave him a hug. “Unforgettable.”