Many Unpleasant Returns (22 page)

 

Brisbois was in the dining room having a cup of coffee. Although it was barely eight, all of the guests had gathered for breakfast. He imagined they were bored with their rooms, unnerved by the events of the past few days and unsettled with the disruption in their planned schedule of activities. He noted Tim going table to table trying to drum up interest in decorating the ballroom for New Year's Eve. He was having mixed results.

“We'd love to help,” Geraldine trilled. “This afternoon? We'll be there.”

“I don't give a damn about New Year's,” Walter barked. “All I want to do is get back to Rochester.”

“And that is where we'd all be delighted to have you,” Mr. Bole murmured.

Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson entered the dining room at that moment with Mrs. Gowling.

“Detective,” Miss Miller greeted him, “could we join you?”

“I'd be delighted. The company might help keep me awake.”

“Were you up late, tying up the investigation?” Mrs. Gowling asked.

“No, I was up late because the officers kept waking me, coming and going from their watches.”

“I gather you're not ready to let us into the other buildings,” Miss Miller said.

“Not quite.” Brisbois turned to Simpson. “Did you get the rest of that tree cleared away?”

“Yes, it wasn't that difficult. The main trunk was off the road. Once Lloyd severed the three largest branches with the chainsaw, we were able to get together and move them well off to the side. Surprisingly easy, actually, with a dozen people working on it.”

“That's how the pyramids got built.”

“Quite.”

The sound of a motor caused everyone to turn.

“Now there's a sight we don't often welcome,” said Mr. Bole as a black-and-white pulled up in front of the Pleasant. “I guess one could say the cavalry has arrived.”

Officer Ruskay got out of the cruiser and opened the passenger-side door. He helped a lanky man in a fur-lined trench coat and fedora out and onto crutches.

“Creighton,” Brisbois said with a smile. “Well, I'll be damned.”

Creighton stumped up the steps with Ruskay's help. Margaret was at the front door to greet him and escort him into the dining room. He approached Brisbois, pausing to acknowledge the good wishes of everyone.

“How do you like the new hat?” Creighton asked.

“Pretty snazzy,” said Brisbois. He rose and grabbed Creighton's shoulder, choking back an unexpected burst of emotion.

“Miss me?” Creighton sat down in the chair Brisbois pulled over. “Thanks, Tim,” he said as Tim brought another chair to prop his leg on.

“I did get tired of talking to myself.” Brisbois paused. “How are things on the roads?”

“Pretty clear now. The main roads are good. The secondary roads are getting plowed out.” He glanced around. “Why is everyone staring at us?”

“They think you've come to solve the case,” said Miss Miller. “Why, I wouldn't know.”

“She's always teasing us like that,” Creighton told Mrs. Gowling.

“Since you're here, I wouldn't mind going over a few things,” Brisbois said. “Why don't we adjourn to Rudley's office?”

“Why don't we have a croissant and coffee first?” Creighton countered.

Brisbois acceded. The conversation turned to Creighton's broken leg and his harrowing ordeal in the storm before being saved by Albert.

“I'm sending Albert a big bag of biscuits as soon as I get the chance,” Creighton said. He finished his coffee and, assisted by Brisbois, stood. They headed together toward Rudley's basement office.

“I'm glad Detective Creighton has arrived,” said Mrs. Gowling. “I think Detective Brisbois was about to drop.”

“He's had to work under difficult circumstances,” Simpson agreed.

Tim arrived at the table with a pot of coffee. “Still up for decorating the ballroom?”

“We wouldn't miss it, Tim,” said Miss Miller. “Has Mrs. Rudley decided who will play the Old Year and the New Year?”

“I think it will be Mr. Bole and Lloyd.”

“Lloyd's going to make a skinny baby,” said Miss Miller.

Tim shrugged. “Gregoire put his foot down. He's tired of being the New Year.”

“I suppose the New Year shouldn't have a moustache,” said Simpson.

“Hardly ever,” said Tim.

Miss Miller was about to give her opinion when Mrs. Gowling clutched her sleeve.

“Mr. Johnson has Mr. Franklin's camera,” Mrs. Gowling whispered.

Miss Miller forced herself not to look toward the corner where Johnny sat with Carla. Carla was picking unenthusiastically at her breakfast. Johnny sat at the table, his breakfast mainly untouched. “Are you sure?”

Mrs. Gowling took a surreptitious look at Johnny. “I just noticed,” she replied in a low voice. “Mr. Johnson went into his backpack for something. I think he took out a Chapstick. He zippered the bag but the lanyard was hanging out. It's green.”

“Green?”

“The lanyard on Mr. Johnson's camera is blue. Mr. Franklin's was green.”

Miss Miller frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Very. I saw Mr. Franklin and Mr. Johnson at the desk one day. Mr. Johnson got their cameras mixed up. Mr. Franklin commented that Mr. Johnson is colour-blind. Maybe he doesn't even know he has the wrong one.”

“Or he does and can't let on.” Miss Miller avoided looking toward Johnny. She took a notebook from her pocket, tore off a page and began to write.

Simpson looked at her, perplexed. “What are you up to, Elizabeth?”

“You'll see.” She waited until Tim re-entered the dining room and held up her cup. He came over.

“Coffee?”

“Read this.” She slipped the note into his hand.

He took a quick look and raised his brows.

“We need a little help from our friends,” she said.

 

“So, you don't think you have enough to make a case,” Creighton concluded. He was stretched out on the couch in Rudley's office.

Brisbois fiddled with his notes. “Not yet. Everyone has a plausible story. So far, there isn't enough evidence to hang anyone, if you'll pardon my choice of words.”

Creighton laughed. “And I thought Miss Miller would have had everything solved by now.”

“Not this time, I'm afraid.”

 

Norman and Geraldine had finished breakfast and taken out their cameras to show Tim their pictures of the snowy owls.

“Nice,” said Tim. “Crisp.”

“Yes,” said Geraldine, “magnificent contrast. Of course, Norman's camera is the latest of its type on the market.”

“Oh,” said Norman, “I'm not sure it is, Geraldine.”

“Would I ever give you something that wasn't top-of-the-line?” Geraldine said, her voice rising.

“Of course not, dear,” Norman said.

“It looks like a very nice camera to me,” Tim said.

“Excuse me,” said Geraldine huffily, getting up and walking away.

Norman looked around, his gaze finally settling on Johnny. He grinned, rose and approached the table. “Mr. Johnson, could I have a look at your camera?”

Johnny looked at him blankly while Carla returned her gaze to the window.

“I wanted to see if yours or mine was the earlier version of this line of camera.”

Johnny shrugged. “I don't see how mine could be an older version. I just got it.”

Norman shook his head. “That's what I told Geraldine, but she insists the one she gave me for my birthday in November is the very latest.” He smiled. “Could I just take a peek? I'd love to prove her wrong, just this once.”

Johnny hesitated, then removed the camera from his backpack and handed it to Norman, who emitted a triumphant crow. “I knew it. Just let me show Geraldine. She always thinks she's right.” He scurried off toward the lobby, calling after his wife.

Johnny strained to follow Norman's progress, but his line of sight was blocked by Tim who chose to dally in the doorway at that moment to speak to Mr. Bole. He was about to get up when Margaret descended upon him with a pot of tea.

“Mr. Johnson, I have a lovely new tea I'm sure you'll like. It's for the nerves.” As Johnny stared at her, she added, “You look exhausted.”

“This place is a madhouse.”

Margaret smiled. “Oh, it is. That's why you need the tea.”

 

Norman circled around to the kitchen where Miss Miller was waiting with Gregoire and Lloyd. Norman showed Miss Miller the camera.

“Good work,” she said.

Norman began to scroll through, his triumph turning to disappointment. “There's nothing much in here, Miss Miller. Just a few pictures of redpolls.”

Miss Miller looked over his shoulder as he continued to scroll through. She squinted. “What's that?”

Norman chuckled. “I think it's a picture of Mr. Johnson's feet.” He moved the film along. “And there's another.” He shook his head. “Mr. Johnson has had some problems with his camera. It's new, you know.”

“That's it!” said Miss Miller. “Stay right here, Norman, I'll be right back.”

 

“So Carla burned the photos so they wouldn't get back to her husband,” Creighton said.

“I'm not sure if that was the immediate concern,” Brisbois responded. “I don't think she wanted anybody to see them.”

“No other evidence against her?”

“Not yet.” Brisbois paused as a knock sounded at the door.

Before he could say “come in,” Miss Miller entered.

“Detective,” she said, “there's something you have to see.”

 

“And this particular tea is renowned for its mellow, yet rich, flavour,” Margaret was saying.

Johnny slumped forward in his chair, his eyes glazing over. “Mrs. Rudley,” he said finally, “I really don't like tea that much.”

Margaret patted his wrist. “With tea, Mr. Johnson, you really can't tell until you find the one that is you. Mr. Rudley never cared for tea until I introduced him to English Breakfast. I myself prefer Earl Grey. Of course, if I'm feeling a bit of the flibbertigibbet, I might decide on jasmine.”

Carla smiled slightly, but kept her attention focused on a pair of sparrows on the porch railing.

“This is fine,” said Johnny. He picked up the cup of tea and took a sip. “I don't want to try anything else.”

Geraldine entered the dining room at that moment, followed by Norman. “Mr. Johnson,” she said, striding to his table, “I must apologize. Your camera is indeed more advanced than Norman's.”

Brisbois entered the dining room and stopped in the doorway.

“I didn't know you'd got any shots of the redpolls,” Norman said to Johnny.

“Please.” Johnny reached to take the camera.

Brisbois stepped forward. “That's not your camera, Mr. Johnson. That's Norman's camera.” He held up an evidence bag. “This is your camera, Mr. Johnson — the one Norman borrowed a few minutes ago. Except it isn't really your camera. It's Mr. Franklin's camera.” He beckoned to Officer Ruskay who had just stepped into the lobby. “Peter Johnson, I'm arresting you for the murder of Ted Franklin.”

Johnny blanched. Carla turned to him, eyes blazing.

“What?” Johnny stammered.

“The camera never lies, Mr. Johnson.”

 

A few days later, Brisbois and Creighton sat with Miss Miller and Simpson in the dining room at the Pleasant.

“Edward doesn't have to be back to class for another few days,” Elizabeth said. “We thought we'd stay on a couple of days and enjoy the nice weather.”

“I don't blame you.”

“Tell me about Johnson,” she said.

“Johnson suspected Carla was having an affair with Frankie. He didn't know for sure until he picked up the wrong camera. Frankie thought he had deleted the incriminating pictures but he left one by mistake. Johnny saw it when he picked up Frankie's camera by mistake a few days ago.”

“That was his motive?”

“Not entirely. He wasn't happy to see the picture but he had pretty much decided to pretend he hadn't and try to go on as before. That night in the coach house, Frankie wanted Johnny to help him pull off a big prank. He was going to hang Santa on stage. He wanted Johnny to give him a hand. Johnny wasn't keen on helping but Frankie talked him into it. Frankie was up on the chair, horsing around, waiting for Johnny to hand up the big Santa. Then, being Frankie, he stuck his head through the noose, and said: ‘Hey, Johnny, get a picture of this.'

“Johnny put the Santa down and got the camera from the backpack Frankie had left on the lip of the stage. Johnny was fumbling with the camera. Frankie said, ‘Come on, just push that button.' When Johnny kept fumbling with it, Frankie said, ‘come on Pudd'nhead, this isn't rocket science.' So Johnny kicked the chair under Frankie so hard he broke its leg and sent it a few feet across the stage. Those boots he was wearing had a steel toe. Otherwise, he would have probably broken his toe as well. He stuffed the camera into the bag and ran. He didn't realize until later he had taken Frankie's camera.”

“You mean, Johnny killed his best friend because he called him Pudd'nhead?” Miss Miller exclaimed, incredulous.

“Well, he worshipped Frankie in school. He'd come to university as poor as a church mouse. Frankie invited him into the chosen circle. It was big stuff for Johnny. He did everything for Frankie, wrote his papers, took the blame for his mistakes. And after they went into business together, he did all the hard unglamorous work while Frankie played golf, schmoozed the clients, slept with his wife and took pictures. The one thing he thought he had was Frankie's respect for his intellect. And then Frankie called him Pudd'nhead. That, with the fact he was fooling around with his wife, was the straw that broke the camel's back.”