Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders (16 page)

Creighton thumped up the steps into the lobby.

“Have you spoken to Detective Brisbois?” Margaret greeted him. She had smoothed Rudley’s invoices and returned them to the file box, brushing aside his concerns about her well-being.

He stopped short.

“He phoned an hour ago,” Margaret continued. “He said to let you know he was looking for you. And that he would be back in about two hours.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“No. But he did speak to Officer Owens.”

“Okay.” Creighton ducked back out and ran down the steps, shouting, “Owens.”

He found Owens down by the Pines, walking slowly, his gaze sweeping the woods.

“Mrs. Rudley said Brisbois called.”

Owens glanced around, then whispered Brisbois’ message.

“You’re kidding. Are you sure you got that right?”

“Yup.”

Creighton ran a hand down his cheek. “I’ll be damned.”

Elmo, the driver of the truck, looked into his side-view mirror. “That friggin’ car’s been following us for miles.”

“Are you sure?” Kenny twisted in his seat to look out the passenger’s side window.

“Yeah, it ran a couple of lights.” He checked the mirror again. “I’m going to pull off on the nearest side road and see if he follows.”

Kenny responded by patting the holster on his right ankle.

Simpson checked the gas gauge. They had planned to fill up on the way home. The gauge now hovered near empty and the truck was turning off onto a deserted road. They had driven for what seemed like miles, although a glance at his watch showed only a few minutes had passed.

The truck slowed to forty miles an hour. Simpson eased off the gas. The car swerved as it hit a rut. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I don’t think this road is used often,” he muttered. “Or the township council is unusually unresponsive.” He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “If you have any water left in your bowl, Albert, I think I might be persuaded to drink it.”

The truck slowed, then stopped. It sat, lights blinking.

Simpson pulled to a stop. “I hope they’re having motor trouble,” he told Albert.

“I got what you said,” Creighton said. “And I’m wondering if you’ve had too much to drink.”

Brisbois clung to the steering wheel and pulled the phone back from his ear. “Say that again? I’m getting a lot of interference out here.”

“I said I hear you.”

“Okay. I’m about twenty minutes from headquarters. I want to drop by the station for a minute. I should be pulling into the Pleasant in about half an hour.”

The men approached. Simpson glanced about, but he couldn’t spot anything to use as a weapon. He checked to make sure the car doors were locked. The men stopped, stared at him through the windshield, then split, one going to each side of the car. The one on the driver’s side motioned for him to get out. He lifted his hands off the steering wheel, smiled, shook his head. He jumped as a crash sent a shower of glass against his cheek. He put up his hand, which came away with a smear of blood. The man on the passenger’s side reached through the jagged hole and unlocked the door.

“Get out.”

He unlocked the driver’s door and got out on wobbly legs. Albert leapt over the seat and wriggled past him

The man on the driver’s side, pointed a gun at him. The other rummaged through the car, then got out, leaving the door open.

“What are you doing, following us?”

Simpson stammered. “I wasn’t following you.” His knees buckled as Albert pushed against him.

“Kind of a coincidence, ain’t it? We saw you way back on Main Street, and you’ve been behind us all down the highway, and out onto this shit road.”

Edward swallowed painfully. “Perhaps we have the same destination.”

“I don’t think so.” The gunman jerked his head toward his friend. “Check him out.”

The man stepped toward him. God help me, Elizabeth, Edward thought. I’ve done the best I could. The man rifled through his pockets, then reached inside his jacket. He could hear her say, no, you haven’t, Edward. He closed his eyes and brought his knee up sharply into the man’s groin. The man crumpled. Edward winced, waiting for the gunshot. Instead, he heard a low growl and a surprised scream. He turned to see Albert on top of the second man, teeth bared. In the headlights he saw the gun a hand away from Albert’s victim.

He reached for the gun. The man punched Albert in the head. Albert responded by sinking his teeth into the man’s lower lip.

Simpson gripped the gun. “Albert, come here. Now.” He edged toward the truck, keeping the gun leveled. The first man continued to writhe on the ground. He glanced into the truck and almost fainted with relief when he saw the keys in the ignition.

He opened the door and hurried Albert into the passenger’s seat. The man Albert had savaged started toward them, screaming. Edward jumped in, slammed the door, and punched the locks down. “All right, Albert,” he whispered, “I’ve never driven one of these, but it can’t be that difficult.” He put the truck in first and it lurched forward. In the mirror, he saw the man break off the pursuit and run for the car. He fumbled the truck into second gear.

The car was gaining on them, then it stopped.

Simpson wiped his forehead. “Albert, I believe they’ve run out of gas.”

“It’s almost six-thirty, Rudley.” Margaret picked up the phone. “I’m calling the police.”

Rudley peered out the window.

“It isn’t like Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson to be delayed,” she added.

“It is like them to be delayed, but usually it’s because they’re in some kind of mess.” He pointed to the phone. “Call the police.” He said the last word as if it strangled him. “Call them.”

Brisbois pulled into the service station and surveyed the scene before getting out of the car. A white cube truck sat just beyond the pumps. A uniformed officer was speaking to a youngster in coveralls. A large furry dog lay tethered to the bike rack. A man who looked suspiciously like Edward Simpson sat in the back of the patrol car. Brisbois shook his head, got out of the car, approached the officer, and showed his identification.

The officer tipped his hat. “Didn’t expect they’d send you out here, Detective.”

“I was at the station when the call came in.” He gestured toward the truck. “What’s going on? These back roads are jumping tonight.”

“That guy” — the officer pointed toward the cruiser — “pulled in here in that truck. Asked the proprietor to call the police. Claims” — he checked his notes, shook his head — “now let me read this back to you, word for word. This is about the weirdest story I’ve heard in a long time.”

Brisbois listened, suppressing a smile. “Are you telling me by any chance that a certain Miss Miller’s locked in the back of that truck?”

“Well,” the officer began, shooting Brisbois a puzzled glance, “he asked the kid” — he indicated the attendant — “for a pair of bolt cutters to break the padlock. The kid was justifiably reluctant. Something about her trying to kick the door down. He thought it best to wait until help arrived. I thought the same thing.” He gestured toward the cruiser. “This gentleman — Simpson — mentioned your name. I didn’t pass that on to dispatch, so I was surprised when you showed up. I figured you must be telepathic.”

Brisbois gestured vaguely. “I heard the names floating around.” He pointed toward Albert. “I see you arrested the dog, too.”

“You know the dog?”

“Yes, but I think it’s the first time I’ve seen him awake.” He glanced toward the truck. “Open it up. It might be wise if I were the first person she sees.”

“Is she dangerous?”

“Moderately.”

The officer nodded to the attendant who left and returned with a pair of bolt cutters. At Brisbois’ nod, he snapped the padlock and stepped back. Brisbois stepped up to the door. “Miss Miller, it’s Brisbois. You can come out now.”

There was a pause, then the door opened. Brisbois offered a hand. Elizabeth smiled sweetly in acceptance and stepped down.

“So tell me your story, Miss Miller.”

She swept dust from her sleeve. “We were on a stake-out at Lawson’s funeral home in Brockton. A white truck pulled up. We observed two men unloading things and carrying them into the funeral home.”

“Things?”

“Coffins.”

“Sounds suspicious so far.”

Miss Miller indulged his skeptical remark. “While Edward was walking Albert, I decided to check the truck.”

“And?”

“It was empty. I heard the men returning so I shrank back against the wall. I thought at worst I’d have to wait until they got into the cab before hopping out. As it turned out, they not only closed the door but padlocked it.”

“Uh huh.”

“Unfortunately, I wasn’t privy to the details of what went on after that. I do remember a long drive, the truck stopping, a dog barking, a few shrieks. The next thing I knew, the truck started up again and we arrived here after a rather horrendous ride.”

“I guess Simpson isn’t used to driving a truck.”

She ignored that. “The truck stopped. I heard Edward’s voice. Then an argument ensued in which these gentlemen” — she indicated the officer and the attendant — “refused to release me.”

“That was prudent, Miss Miller. They couldn’t be sure what was going on.” He smiled. “Not knowing you as I do.” He raised his brows. “I think what you’re really peeved about is being locked in the truck while all the action was taking place.”

She gave him a disparaging look over her glasses. “What now, Detective?”

He tipped his hat back. “I think we should start by releasing Simpson and Albert and get you back to the inn. Once you’ve had a chance to recover, I’ll take a full statement.”

“I suppose our car is long gone,” Miss Miller said as they started back toward the inn.

Brisbois smiled. “As a matter of fact, no.”

“You found it?”

“One of our patrolman did. As I was saying to the officer back there, it’s been a wild night in our neck of the woods. It seems two men tried to siphon gas from a Jeep parked in front of a hunting shack. A pack of good old boys with shotguns came barrelling out. They held the gas thieves and called us on a cellphone. The men gave the officer a story about running out of gas and not knowing anybody was home. Planned to borrow the gas and leave some money and a note. That sort of thing. When the officer checked the registration it didn’t match up with their ID. They figured car theft.” He glanced into the rearview mirror where Simpson sat with Albert. “How does it feel to be a hero, Simpson?”

“Actually, I think Albert’s the hero, Detective. We wouldn’t have escaped without him.”

“Would you have fired that gun if you had had to?”

There was a pause. “I don’t think I could have hit the broad side of a barn door, Detective. Fortunately, they didn’t know that.”

Brisbois shook his head.

Brisbois let his passengers out at the back door. “Go in quietly. Try not to attract too much attention for the time being.”

Miss Miller smiled. “I think we can manage that.”

Brisbois waited until they had gone inside, then pulled around to the front. Creighton was waiting on the veranda.

“Everything under control?”

“Yup.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

“They’re in the ballroom.”

Brisbois and Creighton entered the ballroom. Tiffany was on stage with Lloyd, accompanying him on the piano. Mr. Bole, the Sawchucks, and the Phipps-Walkers watched from the floor. Mr. Harvey sat beside Margaret holding a flute while she reviewed a piece of sheet music. Pearl and Roy sat at the next table. Pearl was laughing and shuffling cards.

Brisbois crossed the floor and stopped in front of Margaret and Harvey. “Margaret.”

Margaret gave him a questioning look. “Detective?”

“Sorry to disturb your rehearsal,” he whispered in her ear.

She frowned and looked to Mr. Harvey.

Brisbois leaned toward the next table and tapped Roy on the shoulder. “Mr. Lawson, if you’ll come with me…”

Brisbois filled his cup from the carafe before responding to Miss Miller’s question. “When we searched the funeral home, we found an appreciable amount of cocaine and Ecstasy in that baby coffin.”

They were in the dining room at the Pleasant. Miss Miller turned to Simpson. “I knew he was up to no good.”

Simpson shook his head. “I must say, Mr. Lawson seems an unlikely drug dealer.”

Brisbois shrugged. “He didn’t want to be a drug dealer. But they had something on him.”

Miss Miller leaned forward. “Mr. Lawson was quite talkative, then.”

“He’s trying to reduce his sentence.”

She tilted her head. “I don’t suppose you could tell us what he had to say.”

He hesitated, then relented. “Our Mr. Lawson got himself into a compromising situation. He was quite the consumer of pornography. He spent a lot of time in Montreal. Got to know Marcel Dupré — drug dealer, porn distributor. Roy decided he’d like to star in his own film, something he could take home and enjoy over and over. His costars were young girls — fourteen, fifteen mainly.”

“Not the sort of film likely to win any Oscars.”

“No. But Dupré kept a copy. So when he came calling for a favour, Roy felt he had to oblige.”

“He became a snitch.”

“He prefers to say he was gathering information. He watched and listened. Wheedled what he could out of Aunt Pearl.”

Miss Miller grimaced. “Which wasn’t difficult, given that she was smitten with him.”

Brisbois shrugged. “And half-potted most of the time. Anyway, he got things right about Gerald. Gregoire’s comings and goings and so forth. But he messed up pretty thoroughly on Adolph. First, he got the location wrong.” He paused. “Our boys — Serge Michaud and Mitch Flanagan, by the way — their first impulse was to snatch Adolph from the Oaks and do him in in some discreet locale. But the cottage was too exposed. Lawson told them about the Halloween party and about the incident the year before where somebody shot up the pumpkin patch. Our boys saw that as a good distraction. They positioned themselves in the woods and waited.”

“And shot up the place, Rambo-style.”

“Yes. And you know how that worked out, Miss Miller.” Brisbois paused to sample his coffee. “Anyway, Lawson finally figured out where Adolph was. Serge and Mitch tried to keep it simple this time. They snatched him from the High Birches and got to hell out of there.”

“Because Mr. Lawson had informed them there were police officers on the premises.”

“Right.”

She frowned. “What I don’t understand is why didn’t they simply dump Adolph in the middle of the lake and make their getaway?”

“They wanted to get him out of sight and get him to a place where they could interrogate him, undisturbed.”

“But why Harvey’s?” she persisted.

“Because Lawson advised them it was secluded and that Mr. Harvey posed no threat and had a big boat. They figured they could stuff Harvey and Adolph into the boat, take them upstream, and make it look as if somebody got careless with the gasoline.” He smiled. “Mr. Lawson also picked up on the fact you saw Mr. Harvey as a suspect, Miss Miller. He thought using Mr. Harvey would further confuse the investigation.”

Simpson spoke up. “I think it would have been more straightforward to shoot us on the spot.”

Brisbois made an I-agree gesture with his right hand. “They didn’t want to make it look like a gangland execution. They didn’t count on your resourcefulness, Miss Miller. Letting that canoe float was a lifesaver.”

She looked disappointed. “Our diminutive Mr. Lawson was behind the entire escapade.”

Brisbois nodded. “Lawson was helpful in all sorts of ways. He gathered information. He let Serge and Mitch use his house outside of Brockton as a staging area. He let them know Devlin was out of town. They stashed their car behind his place. The plan was to scuttle the outboard, get rid of their stuff, and make a clean getaway.”

“Why were they so eager to get rid of their jackets and caps?”

“That gear might have made them look like good old boys around here, but it was kind of loud for guys on the lam.”

“Do you think Mitch and Serge will ever be apprehended?”

Brisbois sat back. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Simpson, they were picked up outside of Shawinigan last night. One of the patrolmen tried to pull them over. They decided to outrun him. He called ahead and set up a roadblock. They were hauled into the station where someone recognized them from our composite.”

“Obviously, our descriptions were good.”

“They were, Miss Miller.” Brisbois smiled. “The funny thing is the only reason the officer pulled them over was to tell them one of their rear wheels was wobbling.”

Miss Miller considered this. “So you’ve rounded up all the bad guys.”

“Pretty much. Everybody squealed on cue.”

“Then Adolph is safe to resume his life,” Simpson said.

“I think he’s going to be okay.”

“It seems those gangsters would have been better advised to have left Gerald and Adolph alone,” Simpson said.

“I’m sure they’d agree with you about now.”

Miss Miller sighed. “I’m sorry about Gerald. And I’m sorry about Aunt Pearl. She must be devastated.”

Rudley leaned over the desk and watched as Pearl came down the stairs. She stopped in front of the desk.

“I’m sorry things didn’t work out, Pearl.”

She shrugged. “Oh, it’s all right, Rudley. It was a gas while it lasted. He played a great game of cribbage, had a pretty good sense of humour, and was a dreamy dancer and a snappy dresser.” She paused. “He was a hell of a lot of fun. But he was a lot more fun when I thought he was an optometrist. After I found out he was a mortician, you might say the bloom was off the rose.”

“Then it was all for the best.”

She patted his cheek. “He’s not the only fish in the lake. I think I’ll have Tim fix me an aperitif.”

Margaret came in with Albert. “Sit, Albert, while I remove your leash.”

Albert obliged, then ran in behind the desk and offered Rudley a paw.

“Being a hero has certainly increased his intellectual capacity, Margaret.”

“He always had it in him, Rudley. He just needed a little recognition.”

Brisbois came out of the dining room. “Margaret, Rudley, I think we can return your office to you.”

“That’s gracious of you.”

“I may need to come back for some follow-up interviews, of course.”

Rudley crossed his eyes.

“Are you going to take some time away, Detective?” Margaret asked. “Now that the case has been solved?”

He sighed. “I may be able to scrounge a few days.”

“Why don’t you use those few days to take your wife for a nice trip?”

He paused. “She’s working full-time now, Margaret. I don’t know if she could take the time.”

“I’m sure she would if you asked.”

He gave her a long look, then smiled. “You may be right.” He tipped his hat. “Until next time.”

“Margaret,” — Rudley put an arm around her — “peace reigns. At last.”

“Not entirely, Rudley.” She sighed. “It seems Tiffany has a date with Officer Owens’ partner. She found out he writes poetry and plays the clarinet.”

“That brainless Semple? The one who got his foot stuck in a hole?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Well, damn to hell. Does that mean we’ll have him and his big flat feet hanging around?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, Rudley.”

“Couldn’t you teach Owens to paint or play something?”

“I’m afraid the arts aren’t part of his repertoire.”

Rudley digested this. “Apart from your disappointment as a matchmaker, everything else worked out.”

She tapped him on the arm. “That nice Mr. Corsi…”

“Slipped out without paying his bill?”

“Oh, no. He says he wants to make a film about us.”

He thought for a moment. “No one would believe it, Margaret.”

She sighed. “You’re probably right.”