Many Unpleasant Returns (21 page)

Brisbois had to smile at this acute observation. “Some people think Mr. Franklin was responsible for the little dolls.”

Mrs. Gowling shrugged. “I gather he's always been a bit of a joker but, apart from his reputation, I don't think there's any reason to suspect him above anyone else. Of course, it's easier to accuse him now that he's had that ‘incident.' I know quite a few people here thought he was a bit of a clown but, in retrospect, I think he was a decent person. Just flawed. He struck me as someone who enjoyed living so much, he couldn't contain himself. I don't think he meant any harm.”

After Mrs. Gowling left, Brisbois leaned back and sighed. He didn't feel as if he'd accomplished much. He'd hoped someone might have evidence that Franklin was responsible for the Little Santa caper. But no one offered anything beyond the notion that it seemed like something he would do. Miss Miller thought she had heard someone downstairs the night before the Little Santa was found in Rudley's desk drawer. But Frankie would have been in his cabin then and the doors to the main inn were locked at night. Besides, no one could be absolutely certain when the Little Santa was put in the drawer. Rudley was sure it wasn't there when he left the desk for the night. But Rudley thought no one but Lloyd ever violated the privacy of his drawer.

The bottom line was he had no solid suspects for the Little Santa caper and, unless Frankie was the culprit and hanged himself out of remorse, nothing held together. And Johnny had told him Frankie was not apt to feel remorseful for his stunts since he never intended to hurt anyone and didn't believe his pranks ever did. Brisbois shrugged. To hell with the Little Santas and the horses they rode in on. In the grand scheme of things, they were just that — nasty pranks. They didn't matter.

“Detective?”

He turned to see one of the auxiliary police officers. She was smiling.

“We've got news. A message from your wife. She's safe at home. She stayed overnight with a friend in town and followed the snowplow home this morning.”

He took a deep breath, inhaled slowly. “Thank God.”

“Yes.” The auxiliary officer grinned. “She wanted to know what in hell you were up to.”

“What'd you tell her?”

“Officer Vance just said to tell her ‘the usual.'”

“Hey,” he said sharply, then shrugged amicably.

“And Officer Sheffield wants you over at the Low Birches cabin right away. He has something to show you.”

 

“Somebody set a little bonfire,” Sheffield said. “I'm not one hundred per cent sure what they set it in but” — he pointed to a large glass ashtray on the coffee table — “I think that's a good bet.”

Brisbois examined the ashtray. “Looks as if they cleaned it up pretty good.”

Sheffield held up an evidence bag. “This was in the garbage.”

“A paper towel with ash residue.”

“Yes, but not your run-of-the-mill paper ash. Maybe photographic paper.”

“Could it be some kind of packaging?”

“It could be, but I don't think so.” Sheffield's eyes twinkled with triumph as he held up a second bag. Brisbois squinted at it.

“Whoever set fire to the photograph probably didn't realize one piece didn't burn. It ended up lodged between the carpet and the leg of the coffee table. I'm sure it came from the burn because the edge is singed. And if you look closely,” Sheffield continued, “in your case, given your fading middle-aged vision, using a magnifying glass” — he offered Brisbois one — “you can see…”

“A piece of a naked lady,” said Brisbois.

“After all these years, you can still identify that?”

“Go on,” Brisbois growled.

“Something else,” said Sheffield. He took out the Polaroids Brisbois had taken in the coach house and passed on to him when he arrived at the Pleasant. “Unless someone moved that bench, there's no way Franklin pulled the rope toward himself, put it around his neck, and stepped out into thin air.”

“You're sure?”

“It's simple geometry. If your measurements are correct, the rope wouldn't have stretched far enough.”

“Maybe he pushed it back when he jumped.”

Sheffield reexamined the sheet. “Seems an awful long way.”

Brisbois pondered this. “You're right,” he said finally. “He couldn't have pushed it that far. It's pretty heavy.”

“Ergo…” Sheffield prompted.

“Somebody had to move it.” Brisbois rubbed his eyes. “I must have had my brain turned off.”

“Or you're just bad at geometry,” said Sheffield.

 

Brisbois returned to the coach house and went over the scene. Sheffield was right — he was no Euclid. He went back to the inn and took a seat in the ballroom to review the evidence.

The chair was too far away from Frankie for him to have stood on it. So was the bench. No one would admit to having moved anything. He trusted Margaret and Lloyd. They would have said if they had disrupted the scene. But someone had to have moved the chair or the bench.

The leg of the chair was broken. Not cracked at the joint but broken in the middle. Shattered, really. Margaret was certain the chair was intact when she left the coach house that evening. It was a chair she had some fondness for, he remembered her telling him once. She had bought it at a rummage sale and painted it in a whimsical Black Forest motif. The chair had been used when they presented
Town Musicians of Bremen
. The chair had been on stage that night during practice. Although it was a rather dainty chair, it should have held Frankie's weight. And if it did break when he climbed up on it, how did it end up so far from his body?

Ergo: Someone moved the chair. Or someone kicked the chair out from under Frankie, breaking the leg of the chair. That made sense.

Ergo: Someone murdered Frankie.

Fingerprints. He paused, shook his head. There were fingerprints all over the place. Everybody's fingerprints were all over the place.

Someone had burned a picture of a naked lady at the Low Birches. A fragment that survived clearly showed a portion of a bare breast. A paper towel soiled with ash residue was found in the wastepaper basket. He cupped his chin in his hand. What did that mean? Was Mr. Johnson getting rid of some risqué photographs?

Something Mrs. Gowling had said teased at the edges of his mind. He frowned and flipped back through his notes. Mrs. Johnson was upset…tried to keep busy, ironing, and burnt her Icelandic sweater and her wrist. Why would she be wearing an Icelandic sweater to iron? Wasn't that one of those big heavy types you could wear outside without a jacket? Granted, it might be a little cooler than usual in the cabins, but would it be uncomfortable enough to wear one of those? He slammed his fist down in recognition, making the little centrepiece jump. Mrs. Johnson burned a photograph. Why? He needed to talk to the lady. He decided to use Rudley's office.

 

He wasn't that surprised when Carla Johnson came clean. Yes, she had been in the Pines. She was looking for photographs. Frankie had taken some compromising pictures of her. He'd teased her, saying he'd brought some with him, just a few to keep her fresh in his mind in case they couldn't get together at the Pleasant with Johnny around. Then, when she found him dead, she felt desperate to get them before someone else found them. She had found the photos, stuffed into a drawer under his underwear — how gauche — taken them back to the Low Birches and burned them.

The morning of the day Frankie was found hanging in the coach house, she'd gone looking for him. He hadn't met her for brunch as planned. She was sure he was with Sheila Nesbitt. When he didn't answer at the Pines and no one answered at the Oaks, she asked at the inn. Since no one had seen him there, she decided to try the coach house.

“So you thought he'd snuck off to the coach house with Mrs. Nesbitt.”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

She took a deep breath, then began slowly speaking, enunciating each word. “He was there. I could tell he was dead. His face was purple, his neck was bent at…” She stopped and swallowed hard. “I had to get the photographs. I saw his jacket hanging by the door. I checked the pockets for his cabin key. I found it and I took it.” She paused to moisten her lips. “I had to get those photographs.”

“Did you move anything?”

“I pulled the bench over.”

“From where?”

“It was at the back of the stage.”

“Go on.”

“It was heavy. I got it partway there, then I stopped.”

“Because it was heavy?”

“Yes, it was heavy. I could see I was leaving marks on the stage. I remember Mrs. Rudley being so proud of how the boards looked.” She swallowed hard again. “I lost my nerve. I wanted to use the bench to climb up to see, just in case…if there was any chance he might still be alive. But I couldn't get close enough. I went to look for his key, found it and left.”

“So you went to the Pines, used Mr. Franklin's key to enter and took the photographs.”

“Yes.”

“And slammed the shutter into Detective Creighton, leaving him stunned and wandering around in the snow. He would have died if Albert hadn't found him.”

“I didn't intend to hurt Detective Creighton. I didn't even know it was him. He scared me when he jiggled the door handle. I was planning on going out the window. When I unhooked the shutter from inside, it swung back really hard and hit him in the head. I think the wind caught it.”

“Did your husband know you were having an affair with Frankie?”

She shook her head.

“No suspicions?”

“I doubt it. Johnny was at the office all the time. Frankie was in and out. It wasn't as if it was hard to account for where he'd been. He was playing golf with a client, having lunch with a client. It was easy.”

“Easy?”

“Don't be so judgmental, Detective. I cared about Frankie. He was a fun guy. In his own way, he was a great guy. But I wouldn't have wanted to be married to him. For Frankie, a marriage licence was just a licence to tomcat. Johnny was reliable. We got along well. And I care about him. What was the harm? It was like being in college every day.”

Brisbois busied himself with his notes. “I wouldn't know, Mrs. Johnson.”

 

Brisbois did a slow burn.
Judgmental
? He had a right to be judgmental. He remembered something his wife said from time to time:
You're more Catholic than the Pope, Mich.
Well, Mary, he said to himself, this woman is guilty of obstructing justice, not to mention knocking my partner flat on his ass, even if it was an accident. And she's also guilty of adultery.

He pushed his chair back from the desk and put his feet up. He bet the Crown wouldn't even pursue charges against Carla Johnson. Even if convicted of obstructing justice, she'd only get a slap on the wrist. And she was cooperating. She was sure Frankie hadn't committed suicide. A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Miss Miller,” he greeted her, taking his feet off the desk and standing up.

She gestured for him to sit down. “I see you're perplexed.”

“Really?”

“You're frowning.”

“Oh.” He put on a smile. “Better?”

“Better.” She sat down opposite him. “What is your theory, Detective?”

“I shouldn't be telling you this, Miss Miller, but…”

“You're missing having Creighton to bounce things off.”

“Right.”

“And you think someone murdered Mr. Franklin.”

“Let's not talk about that.” He tented his fingers. “Let's talk about a hypothetical case — a man is found shot in the head. It looks like a suicide except the gun is found twenty feet across the room. The witnesses who discover the body swear they didn't move the gun. There is no evidence the body was moved. What do you think?”

“Let's see. The witnesses were lying about not moving the gun. An unknown person moved the gun but did not report the dead body. The gun moved itself…”

Brisbois arched his eyebrows.

“…or someone murdered him.”

Brisbois smiled. “Prove it.”

“Fingerprints?”

“No fingerprints on the gun.”

“Trace evidence?”

“Tons, but nothing that couldn't be explained away.”

“Surveillance cameras?”

“None.”

“Suspects? Was anyone seen near the scene?”

“Not exactly.”

“Do we know the identity of the last person to see the victim?”

“Yes.”

“Then, the last person to see the person must be the one who murdered him,” she said. “Does that person have a motive?”

“Unclear.”

“Would the investigating officer have sufficient evidence to bring charges?”

“Not with the facts currently known.”

Miss Miller thought for a moment. “It seems to me the answer's simple. Someone moved the gun or someone murdered the victim.” She paused. “Gunpowder residue?”

“No.”

“But you have your suspicions.”

Brisbois sighed. “It's easy to have suspicions, Miss Miller.”

 

Brisbois sacked out in Rudley's office for a second night, waking every time the auxiliary and regular officers changed watches.

“I think you'll be able to finish this up sometime tomorrow,” he told Petrie when she checked in.

She grinned. “Just when the weather's getting nice.”

“Huh?”

“I actually saw a sliver of moon tonight. The snow's stopped coming down sideways and I heard the happy hum of a chainsaw.”

“Hydro workers?”

“One of them. Then there's Lloyd and a few of the guests.”

“Civic minded,” he muttered.

“So once the tree's out of the way, they'll be able to get the plow all the way in.”

He took a long breath. “Sounds good, Petrie.”

 

It's been quiet around here since Mrs. Rudley and Lloyd found Mr. Franklin hanging in the coach house. No one is allowed to leave the jurisdiction until the police say we can, not that we can very easily anyway. The weather report is giving us a more favourable outlook for the days ahead, however.

Lloyd and some of the boys, Miss Miller and Geraldine have gone up the laneway to help the workers clear away a tree that is keeping the plow from reaching us. Gregoire is doing his best to cater to our every need, as is the rest of the staff. We're still not allowed to enter the cabins, although the rooms at the main inn have been cleared. Those who were staying at the cabins are now being put up at the inn. The Nesbitts and Phipps-Walkers remain active, going out with snowshoes and skis. Norman and Geraldine are as keen as ever to photograph whatever bird happens by. Mr. Bole has been pretty much as usual. He is of the opinion that being grave when someone dies for the sake of being grave is of no value to anyone. I think he's right. The Johnsons, of course, are subdued. Mr. Franklin was their friend and Mrs. Johnson has been interrogated at great length, much more so than the rest of us have. I imagine this means she had more to tell Detective Brisbois. I don't know.

The play has been cancelled. The coach house isn't available even if the play must go on. The idea of a games tournament also seems inappropriate, given its association with the Little Santas. So we're eating a lot and reading a lot and this evening Mr. Rudley is going to screen a travelogue. Mrs. Rudley warned us it might be a bit dated, but she says as long as we can get past the idea of travels in Transjordan we should enjoy the evening.

The young people have just returned from their tree-cutting expedition. Judging from the laughter and camaraderie, I'd say it did them the world of good. Keith Nesbitt was actually laughing. And he seemed so proud of how his wife was able to hold her own with the axe. I think they may have been going through a bit of a tense time in their marriage, but everything seems better now. I'm glad.