Many Unpleasant Returns (16 page)

“No. We have enough leftovers to make soups and meat pies, spaghetti sauce, and who knows what until next summer.”

Tim took the containers and went into the pantry. He came back a few minutes later. “Gregoire?”

“Yes?” Gregoire was busy carving turkey off the bones, contemplating a turkey noodle soup for lunch sometime in the next century.

“There's something I want you to see.”

“What is it?” Gregoire frowned.

Tim beckoned him into the pantry. “Come here.”

“You are going to tell me that the freezer has failed. Everything is turned to a disaster.”

“No, nothing like that.”

Gregoire put down his knife and followed Tim to the pantry.

Tim opened the upright freezer. Gregoire peered at the shelves, then his eyes widened. “If that is what I think it is, that is terrible.”

“It's what you think it is.”

“What should we do?”

“I think we should leave it until we have an expert look at it.”

Gregoire contemplated the tableau, chewing at the ends of his moustache. “I think you are right.”

 

Miss Miller stared into the freezer. “This is the little fisherman ornament from the tree.”

Tim nodded. “Mrs. Rudley found it in one of the shops and she wanted to hang it on the tree for Norman.”

Miss Miller frowned. “I wonder if anyone can remember when they last saw it on the tree.”

Tim shook his head. “There's been so much going on, Miss Miller, I couldn't say for sure.”

“Does it mean what I think it means?” Miss Miller looked grim.

Tim, shook his head. “I can't see how it could mean anything else. It would be too much of a coincidence.”

“It would,” said Gregoire. “Forty-five years ago Geraldine's paramour, who was a fishing guide on the lake, fell through the ice and drowned.”

“They didn't find his body until the lake thawed in the spring,” said Tim.

“And now this,” Gregoire concluded. “The little fisherman who is meant for Norman is drowned in ice water.”

“What should we do?” Miss Miller asked rhetorically. “I think we should place it in a waterproof container and leave it in the freezer,” she said. “And we should keep it to ourselves for now.”

Tim nodded. “We don't want Geraldine to know about it. Or Norman.”

“We'll call Detective Brisbois in the morning,” said Miss Miller.

 

I was up early the next morning. I wanted to get breakfast out of the way — not that I want to make that sound like an unpleasant experience. The word was we were in for a lulu of a snowstorm. Tiffany told me it would make everything that had come before pale by comparison. I guess that means there won't be a full house for Mrs. Rudley's play — a shame, given the good acting I saw in rehearsal. And Mr. Bole has a special puppet show he's going to do.

The staff seemed a bit on edge this morning. There were whispered conversations between Tim and Gregoire. Mr. and Mrs. Rudley were in urgent conversation when I passed the desk.

Mr. Bole joined me for breakfast. He'd noticed the whispered exchanges as well. “I get the feeling something's afoot,” he said after a few minutes. “There's a lot of whispering going on and Mrs. Rudley seems worried about something.”

“Oh.” I didn't want to pretend I was in the know — I wasn't really. “Perhaps it's the upcoming storm,” I suggested, less to offer an explanation than to get some information. I've always found you learn more by feigning ignorance, useful even when it's not feigned. “I hear it's been billed as the storm of the century.”

Mr. Bole did not appear convinced. “Perhaps,” he said, “although it's not usual for the Rudleys to be apprehensive about that sort of thing.”

Mr. Bole and I turned the conversation to more mundane things. We're both from Toronto, although it was apparent he had grown up in a better part of town. Not that Mr. Bole would give any sign he recognized that. Mr. Bole is a gentleman. It's my own insecurity that's the culprit.

“Are you planning to stay in with a good book?” Mr. Bole asked.

“Why, no. Tiffany's taking me out. We're hoping to get an early start before it gets too bad.”

Mr. Bole raised his glass to me. “Good for you. I don't know if I have an appetite for slogging around in the snow today.”

“So a good book for you, I gather.”

“Mainly I'm going to be putting some finishing touches on my puppets.”

“Fascinating.”

I love the theatre but I have to say I'm not keen on puppet shows as a rule.

Mr. Bole waited for me to finish my breakfast although I knew he was itching to get at his puppets. As I've said, Mr. Bole is a gentleman. He would never imagine leaving a lady to eat alone any more than he would consider spitting on the carpet.

Tiffany was waiting for me with my coat and boots when I came out to the lobby.

“I think we can get a nice trip in before the snow begins in earnest,” she said.

It seemed Mr. Thornton was coming with us as well. Tiffany didn't seem too enthusiastic about that. I think she's quite ambivalent about him, disappointed, perhaps, in his lack of attention. He behaves more like a long-term beau than a man who is trying to impress a lovely young woman. Of course, it could just be his way. He's supremely confident. I think he assumes any woman would be lucky to have him.

“Are you coming with us, Albert?” Tiffany held up his leash.

Albert had been dozing in the middle of the lobby, not at all concerned about people stepping over and around him, narrowly missing his tail on any number of occasions. He leapt up when he heard Tiffany jiggle the leash.

“Give me your toy,” Tiffany said. “We don't want anyone tripping over it.”

His ears picked up when she said
toy
. He followed her pointing finger, picked up the small stuffed dog and brought it to her, tail wagging. Tiffany took it and set it on the desk.

Mrs. Rudley gasped. “Oh, my. His eyes are missing. They've been gouged out.”

“Albert probably did it,” said Rudley without looking up from his magazine.

“I don't think so.” Mrs. Rudley's voice was barely a whisper. She turned to her husband. “He certainly didn't put those awful cross marks through them. Whoever did this wanted to make sure we knew Albert didn't do it.” I could hear the anger in her voice.

“I'm calling the police.”

 

“Mrs. Rudley is terribly upset,” said Simpson. “She's been stalwart through most of this. The little dog struck too close to home.”

“She believes someone is threatening Albert,” said Miss Miller.

Simpson nodded. “The other incidents were nasty but they appear to echo events that have happened in the past.” He lifted his chin. “No one will harm Albert on my watch, Elizabeth.”

She gave him a kiss. “How very gallant of you, Edward.”

 

Creighton hurried into the station. He took off his fedora, shook the snow from it, and checked to make sure it hadn't lost its shape. “Are you serious about going out in this weather?” he asked Brisbois.

Brisbois nodded. He was sitting at a table in an interview room with a file spread out in front of him. “Well, we've got some answers. The only fingerprints on the Ziploc bag were Margaret's and Mr. Morton's.”

“So the chocolates must have come from the Pleasant.”

“It would seem so.”

“Well,” said Creighton, “Gregoire said they looked like his chocolates.”

“Except for the one with the little blister.”

“So, logically, someone at the Pleasant altered a couple of the chocolates.”

Brisbois tapped the file in front of him. “Final toxicology confirms nothing more noxious than ingredients commonly found in
OTC
cough syrup.”

“So how did the cough syrup get into the candy?”

“They're thinking someone emptied the contents of some of the chocolates, maybe using a large bore needle or a small bulb syringe, or even a small straw, and refilled it with the cough syrup, then resealed it with a little blob of melted chocolate.”

“Cough syrup's something anybody could have around.”

“Most people have some kind in their medicine cupboards,” Brisbois said. “Bottom line is the doctored chocolates didn't kill Mr. Morton. They didn't taste great, which is why the goop ended up on his beard and on a Kleenex found in his car. So he took a chocolate, bit into it, expecting a pleasant experience. It was not. Surprised, he spit it out. He tossed the bag with the remaining chocolates into the back seat of the car. The chocolates had nothing to do with his death.”

Creighton considered this. “So why are we going out to Murder Central in a snowstorm?”

Brisbois pointed to a note on the desk. “Because of those Santa dolls.”

“We're going out there because some clown is murdering Christmas decorations?”

Brisbois turned his chair back and folded his arms over his chest. “Here's the deal. It starts out pretty generic. The Santas represent people getting shot, stabbed, poisoned — that kind of thing. But then came the little Santa stuck upside down in the tumbler of water.” He arched a brow at Creighton. “Remember?”

“The poor bugger in the lake.”

“And if that wasn't bad enough, last night a little tree ornament shaped like a fisherman ended up frozen in a glass of water in the freezer in the pantry. Margaret explained to me on the phone that was all too reminiscent of Geraldine's late paramour, a lake guide who fell through the ice in front of the Pleasant many years ago and drowned. His body wasn't found until spring.”

“Before Geraldine met Norman.”

“Yes. The staff all know about it. A couple of the old regulars know about it but it's not something they talk about around strangers. They certainly don't talk about it in front of Geraldine and Norman.”

“Does Norman know about it?”

“Margaret isn't sure.”

Creighton shrugged. “I was just thinking if Geraldine and Norman had a spat, maybe he did it to get back at her.”

“Come on, Creighton, you know the Phipps-Walkers. They're as tight as ticks. Geraldine could have had a stable of lovers and Norman wouldn't do anything nasty. Anyway, what's really alarmed Margaret is something they found this morning.” He glanced at the notes on his desk. “Albert got a little stuffed dog for Christmas. They found it this morning with the eyes gouged out, and just in case someone thought Albert might have pulled them out, the perpetrator inked crosses through the empty sockets.”

“Now that's just plain mean.”

“It is. As Margaret said, this is the first time the representation is of someone still living. She's taking it as a threat.”

“I can see how she'd feel that way, Boss, but I can't see that someone would kill a dog. What would they get out of that?”

“Maybe the culprit is just some sadistic jerk. Maybe he doesn't have any intention of harming Albert. Maybe he's just ramping up the game. Something to really send chills down the spine.”

“Right.” Creighton smoothed the brim of his hat and wiped off a few droplets of water. “Granted, it may give people a bad feeling, but what's the urgency? They can protect Albert, fasten him to a leash around Rudley's waist if they have to.”

“I don't like it. There's too much going on out there.”

“There always is.”

“In some ways this is weirder.” Brisbois cranked his chair around. “I think we should get out there as soon as we can get a Jeep and check things out. I hate to leave them out there with a big storm and a maniac running around.”

“Are you suggesting someone has set the whole thing up, just to create the grand finale with a murder?”

“I don't know,” Brisbois said, picking up the phone and punching in a number, “and I don't want to find out.

“Hi,” he said into the receiver, “this is Michel Brisbois. Has Mrs. Brisbois left yet?” He frowned. “Tell her please that she should get underway before too long. She's only got a couple of hours before the storm hits.”

“What's wrong?” Creighton asked after Brisbois had hung up.

“Mary insisted on going in to work today. They had some things to do before the end of the month.”

“Aren't there any employees who live closer?”

“There's the young guy, the rookie. She was just supposed to get him set up, sign off on whatever she had to sign off on, then leave,
ASAP
.”

“If she can't get home, she'll just stay at the bank. They usually have a few couches around.”

“I guess you're right.”

“You don't like Mary working, do you?”

“I don't have any problem with her working. I have a problem with her being out on the road in a blizzard.”

Creighton stared past Brisbois out the window. “You know, if we get out there, we might not get back.”

Brisbois grabbed his coat. “We'll get a warrant, just in case we need to do a search.”

“Are we taking the crime scene van?”

“No.” Brisbois rummaged through his pockets. He found his cigarettes and stuck one in his mouth. “We'll just grab some evidence kits and a Polaroid.”

“
OK
, Boss.”

 

Carla entered the lobby, her coat pulled tightly around her. Her eyes travelled to the dining room, where Tim was setting up for lunch.

“Tim?”

He turned and smiled. “Yes?”

“Have you seen Mr. Franklin?”

“Not recently.”

She prompted him with a terse nod. “Recently?”

“I don't recall seeing him at breakfast.” Tim paused in thought. “I saw your husband, though. I'm sure Mr. Franklin wasn't with him this morning.”

“No.” She looked past him as if she thought he was hiding Frankie in a corner, then said, “My husband came down early because he wanted to get in some cross-country skiing before the storm breaks. I was supposed to meet Mr. Franklin for brunch,” she said. She looked over her shoulder. “He wouldn't be in the drawing room?”

“Have you checked his cabin?”

“Of course,” she said in a tone that suggested she thought him obtuse. “I didn't get an answer.”

“I'm sorry but I haven't seen him this morning. Have you asked Mr. Rudley?”

“No” — she glanced toward the lobby — “He's always buried in papers. I assumed he wouldn't notice.”

Tim imagined there were days a T-rex could lumber through the lobby and Rudley wouldn't notice. “If you'll wait a minute,” he said, “I'll check with Gregoire.”

In the kitchen Gregoire was chopping a melon while Tiffany and Margaret were having tea and a scone in the corner.

“Any sign of the detectives?” Margaret asked Tim.

Tim shook his head. “I imagine they're having trouble getting around like everybody else.”

Margaret sighed. “At least Albert's safe. Elizabeth and Edward have him. They won't let him leave their side unless they're turning him over to one of us.”

“Good.” Tim paused. “Mrs. Johnson's in the dining room. She wonders if anyone has seen Mr. Franklin. Apparently, he was supposed to join her for brunch.”

“Wasn't he in earlier with Mr. Johnson?” Tiffany asked. “They're usually together.”

“She says no.”

“I did see Mr. Johnson,” Margaret said. “He was in briefly for coffee and a muffin before he went out skiing. I'm sure Mr. Franklin wasn't with him.”

“He probably just slept in,” said Tim. “He was pretty busy all day yesterday in the coach house.”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “he was very helpful. Perhaps we misjudged him. Perhaps he's just one of these people who needs something productive to do to stay out of trouble.”

“Like those hyperactive children who are nuisances unless they are kept busy all the time,” said Gregoire.

“Exactly,” said Margaret.

“I'll let Mrs. Johnson know,” said Tim.

Tim returned to the dining room where Carla was staring out the window, her facial muscles taut. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I spoke to the staff. No one has seen Mr. Franklin today.” He gestured toward the lobby. “Let's ask Mr. Rudley. He may have heard something.”