Many Unpleasant Returns (6 page)

Tiffany, I've heard, is the housekeeper here, but on vacation at present. It seems Mr. Thornton is her beau. She seems a gentle, rather fanciful young woman.

I love to watch people. People are fascinating, even the ones most people don't find very interesting. Even boring people are interesting to watch if only to try to figure out how they manage to amuse themselves, how they make the beautiful commonplace, how they manage to avoid even a hint of intellectual curiosity.

So far, I find the Sawchucks fit the bill. They seem to have much money and little charm. He's especially banal. She's at least amusing with her little concerns and fears. I was told we couldn't play Snakes and Ladders because she's afraid of snakes. She also raised the alarm when Lloyd brought in some kindling for the fireplace. She assumed there might be some sort of creature in the sticks. I pity her brother, Mr. Justus. He's a quiet man, seems afraid to open his mouth. I'm not surprised. Every time he does, Mr. Sawchuck puts him down.

Mr. Franklin and Mr. Johnson have been friends since university, I've heard. They refer to themselves as Frankie and Johnny. Frankie invited us to do the same. Frankie is lanky and seems to have a low tolerance for boredom. He appears to like his drink but holds it well. I imagine he's the life of the party once he gets going. Johnny is a small man, quiet and serious. Johnny's wife, Carla, I think her name is, is an attractive woman in an old-fashioned way. About five-five, I would say, and slender. She was friends with the boys in university. I suppose that's where Johnny met her. She has a certain jaded serenity about her.

Mr. Bole — now there is a truly charming older man. Courtly. The sort of man not often available to women of my age. Elegant in manner and appearance. Independent, intellectual. Most of the men interested in women of my age are looking to replace the wife who kowtowed to them for fifty or sixty years. They expect that any woman would leap at the chance to fix their meals, do their laundry, and clean up after them simply by virtue of being an available male. Mr. Bole is not that kind of man. He's been looking after himself all his life, it seems. I hear he's going to be putting on a show with finger puppets. Tim told me he actually did
War and Peace
and
Lady Chatterley's Lover
. How he did the first, I do not know. How he did the latter I'm not sure I want to.

Then there are the Nesbitts. Sheila and Keith are a handsome couple. He is tall and well built and reserved to the point of being rude. She is also tall and well built, in a different sort of way. Flaming red hair, skin as delicate as fine porcelain, emerald-green eyes. She is the sort of woman one would call voluptuous. She comes across as flirtatious, as being a bit of a coquette, although I'm sure she's not aware she does. I suppose that speaks to the desires of those who put the label on her. The men, generally, seem quite taken with her. I've noticed Carla Johnson giving a subtle eye roll as if to say, what fools men are.

Then there's Mr. Simpson and Miss Miller. I think I will like them. She's not particularly good-looking but she has a sassy side I find quite appealing. I wish I could have had the confidence she has when I was her age. I understand she's been coming here for some time and has played a significant role in solving some of the incidents that have happened. Her husband, Mr. Simpson, is a doll. He dotes on Miss Miller. I suppose some might call him henpecked. I think, with him, it's more a matter of knowing what's important. Of all the men here, I think he's the one least affected by Sheila Nesbitt's sexual aura.

The Phipps-Walkers are a nice couple. They seem to like each other, something not often seen in people who have been together for a long time. Perhaps their mutual interests hold them together. Most long-standing marriages I know are held together by lies and inertia. People are indeed strange.

Dan Thornton is one of the men most taken with Sheila Nesbitt, I would say. Not that he would flirt with her, not like Mr. Franklin. Mr. Thornton is terribly fond of himself. I'm sure he believes that he could have her if he really wanted to. Thornton is a writer. He mentions his books every chance he gets. Is that what you call promotion? In his case, I would call it bragging. He writes local histories and such, the sort of book people admire but seldom read. I can't remember the last time I read something called
Mica Mines in Ontario
or
Sweet Quebec: A History of Maple Syrup
. At my age you don't read anything you're not sure you're going to like. If I had to define Mr. Thornton in one word it would be
smug
. I feel sorry for Tiffany, who is clearly smitten with him. He is mostly smitten with himself. His main interest in her, I imagine, is that she is smitten with him. If Sheila Nesbitt were to give him as much as a wink, he'd desert Tiffany in a flash.

 

Lloyd walked up from the basement in his sock feet, snow clinging to his toque and parka. He took off his mitts and waved them about to knock the snow off.

“Are you planning to stand there and drip-dry over Albert?” Rudley asked.

Lloyd grinned. “No, just came to tell you I got the pathways done and took a pass down the driveway.”

“Six inches?”

“About.”

“About what was expected,” said Rudley. He glanced toward the window. “It's still snowing.”

“Not much right now.” Lloyd took off his toque and shook it, sending melting snow across Rudley's newspaper.

“How are the roads?”

“Half and half. The plow came through last night but the road filled in again halfway.”

“Passable then?”

Lloyd nodded. “For now. It's supposed to start snowing hard later.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“Mrs. Sawchuck.”

“Since when did Mrs. Sawchuck become an expert on the weather?”

“She says her joints tell her. And she heard it on the radio.”

“One's as good as the other, I suppose.” Rudley waited as Lloyd tarried. “What do you have on your agenda for today?”

“Breakfast.”

“I mean after that.”

“Bring in some wood, do some more shovelling, dust.”

“Dust?”

“I'm helping Mrs. Rudley, since Tiffany's on vacation.”

“You won't be wearing her apron, will you?”

“Mrs. Rudley didn't say.”

Rudley crossed his eyes. “Go have your breakfast, Lloyd.”

Rudley was shaking droplets of melted snow from his newspaper when Margaret came out of the dining room with a tray full of candy dishes. She placed one of fudge and one of bonbons on the desk.

“I don't know if you should put those out so early in the morning, Margaret. It'll spoil everyone's breakfast.”

“It's Christmas, Rudley. The guests expect candy everywhere.”

He took a piece of fudge.

“Rudley, have some breakfast before you start eating fudge.”

“I've had coffee, Margaret. I'll have something once things settle down in the dining room.”

The grandfather clock struck nine. The guests dribbled out of the dining room. Frankie plunked down on a sofa in the lobby and began flipping though magazines. Johnny and Carla wandered on into the drawing room. Mrs. Gowling took a wing chair near the desk and brought out a book. Norman and Geraldine passed by the desk, dressed for an excursion.

“Going out to bother the birds?” Rudley asked.

“We're hoping to catch some snowy owls.” Geraldine showed Rudley her camera. “We're devoting ourselves to owls this trip.”

“I'm sure they'll be glad to hear that.”

Norman smiled a buck-toothed smile. “Often they're asleep, Rudley.”

“Would you believe, Rudley,” said Geraldine, “we have thousands of pictures at home?”

“I would, Mrs. P-W.”

“We've been so busy snapping shots we haven't had time to catalogue most of them,” Norman added.

“And we were completely up to date at one time,” Geraldine added.

“Then we got these wonderful cameras with memory cards,” said Norman.

“No bird has had an iota of privacy since,” Rudley murmured. “The birds must feel about you the way celebrities feel about the paparazzi.”

“We're more discreet,” Norman said.

Mr. Morton flew by carrying a suitcase. He squeezed in between Norman and Geraldine. “I'm off, Mrs. Rudley.”

“Did you ring Ottawa about an earlier flight?”

“I did. They don't have anything yet but they suggested I take a chance on standby. It seems things are in a bit of flux. So I may catch a break and get to London early.”

Margaret smiled. “I hope you can, Mr. Morton. It would be nice to be home early with Christmas and everything.” She shook her head regretfully. “It's been years since I've spent Christmas in England.”

“Ah, yes, there's nothing like an English Christmas.”

“Greasy goose,” Rudley muttered, “soggy trifle and plum puddings — last used by Nelson at Trafalgar.”

Margaret nudged him with her elbow.

“I'm going to stop at my father's retirement home on the way in,” Mr. Morton went on. “I want to drop off some things for the staff. You'll be keeping my room in case I don't get a flight today?”

“As promised.”

“I don't like to leave things so up in the air,” he went on. “But there is a chance the snow forecast may cause some cancellations tomorrow. I don't want to risk that.” He took a deep breath. “If this is it, if I don't see you again, I hope you and everyone here has a wonderful Christmas.”

“Our best wishes for you too, Mr. Morton.” Margaret pushed the candy dishes toward him. “Have a piece of candy before you go. Gregoire's bonbons are to die for.”

“Oh,” — his eyes feasted on the candy — “I just brushed my teeth.”

“Wait right here.” Margaret disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a Ziploc bag. She filled it with bonbons and handed it to Mr. Morton. “A little something for you to nibble on later.”

“Just before you have a chance to brush your teeth again,” said Rudley.

Margaret gave him a frosty look.

“Thank you, Mrs. Rudley.” Morton paused. “Oh, drat, I'm going to have to use the loo again. Those cursed pills.” He dropped his suitcase and trotted off down the hall.

“That man can be quite irritating,” Rudley said.

“He's fussing because he's concerned about his flight,” said Margaret. “And he did just settle his father's estate.”

“I don't recall any fuss settling my father's estate.”

“That's because your father was so organized.”

“He didn't like to leave messes for…” Rudley stopped as Lloyd reached around Geraldine, took a piece of fudge, then reconsidered and took several. “Why don't you take the whole plate?”

“It's for the deer.”

“Of course.”

Mr. Morton returned and picked up his suitcase.

“Are you sure you got everything?” Margaret asked him.

“I'm sure, Mrs. Rudley.” He took a step away from the desk, then turned back and set the suitcase down. He seized her hand and held it tenderly. “And thank you, Mrs. Rudley. You've been so kind.”

She smiled. “It's been a pleasure to have you, Mr. Morton.”

Mr. Morton disappeared out the front door, leaving it ajar.

Rudley sprang out from behind the desk and slammed the door shut. “Damn man, doesn't he realize it costs money to heat this place?”

“Sometimes the door doesn't catch, Rudley. You know that.”

“If someone paid as much attention to fixing the door as feeding the deer, it might.”

Lloyd grinned.

“Could you see to that?”

Lloyd finished a piece of fudge before responding. “Yes'm.”

Lloyd went off down the back stairs. The Phipps-Walkers adjusted their cameras.

“Ta ta,” Geraldine called over her shoulder, Norman in tow. He paused to take extra pains to make sure the latch caught.

Thornton came down the stairs at that moment and winked at Margaret as he passed into the dining room. Margaret interpreted the wink as saying Tiffany would follow shortly.

“That man is an ass,” Rudley murmured.

“Yes, dear.”

“A smug, self-satisfied nincompoop.”

“Yes, dear.”

He stopped, surprised at her agreement, not sure what to say next. “So we agree?”

“We agree he's a bit smug. I don't agree he's an ass or a nincompoop. And he's a rather talented writer.”

“If you say so.”

“His book on abandoned barns was soulful and thought-provoking.”

“Yes, Margaret. It just proves you can't judge the character of a writer by his books.”

 

Rudley looked up as Keith and Sheila Nesbitt came down the stairs, decked out in sunflower yellow and robin's-egg blue.

“Headed for the slopes?” he asked as Sheila smiled at him.

“Just for a couple of hours.”

“We're expecting a lot of snow later, apparently.”

“That tends to be a good thing for skiing,” Keith said.

Rudley crossed his eyes. “Provided the visibility is sufficient to see the trees.”

Sheila laughed. “We'll be back after lunch.”

“Let's go, Sheila.” Keith turned and headed for the door.

“Mr. Nesbitt is a rather sour man,” said Gregoire, who had come out of the kitchen with Tim in time to witness the exchange.

“Idiot,” Rudley grumbled. “Going to that pedestrian ski hill decked out like Olympians.” He huffed. “When I was young, it was a felt ski jacket and pants and a toque and wooden skis — none of this spandex and helmets and skis of unnatural materials.”

“I think it has to do with wind resistance,” said Gregoire, “and protecting their heads.”

“When I skied, we didn't worry about our heads.”

“Sometimes, I can tell that,” said Gregoire, sauntering toward the kitchen.

Rudley turned on Tim, who shrugged. “Mrs. Nesbitt does look very good in a ski suit.”

“Mrs. Nesbitt is what some might call a temptress. I don't believe we've ever had a woman like her here before.”

“She does turn heads,” said Tim, following after Gregoire.

Rudley rolled his eyes. He'd never had his head turned in his life. Except by Margaret, of course. And it wasn't because she was glamorous. As he told his father, he knew she was a keeper from the moment he saw her. “That's because she stayed around after the introduction,” his father said. Rudley smiled a lopsided smile. True, he had sent a number of women scurrying after the first date, but who would want a wife who got turned off the first time he shouted at her? It wasn't personal. He shouted at everybody. The first time he shouted at Margaret, she just said, “Don't be a grouch, Rudley.”

Why did people think he was a grouch? He was just being direct, communicating clearly. Why did people want conversation gift-wrapped? He supposed he did get out of hand occasionally, mostly with the laundryman, who baited him with his bland exterior and smug sarcasm. And Mrs. Blount. He couldn't understand why Margaret valued her so highly as a friend. Thin-skinned little twit, he thought, always trying to foist those unconventional colour schemes on him. And those damn little Santas. What an abomination.

Santa, he believed, should be fat and jolly. These were skinny and sinister looking. The anti-Santas. The damn woman is probably edging toward devil worship. He shook his head, feeling a little silly for that thought. The woman didn't have the imagination to be a Satanist.

“Mr. Rudley” — Mrs. Sawchuck landed at the bottom of the stairs, accompanied by Walter and aided by Harry Justus. While Harry and Walter went on into the dining room, Doreen made her way to the desk.

Rudley gritted his teeth. Doreen had that petulant edge to her voice that always spelled endless aggravation. “Yes, Mrs. Sawchuck?”

“It's snowed.”

“Yes, it has.”

“Harry was going to take us for a little walk around the property. I need the exercise for my arthritis. And I think it might be too slippery with all that snow and if I fall, I don't know what might happen.”

You'd probably break the damn flagstones, Rudley thought. To Mrs. Sawchuck, he said, “Lloyd has attended to the walks and smoothed everything clear to the road. You should be fine.”

“I hope it isn't too cold.”

“It's hovering around zero.”

She put a hand to her mouth. “Zero?”

“In Rochester, that would be thirty-two degrees.”

She sighed with relief. “I'll tell Walter,” she said and hobbled off to the dining room, where Walter was gazing myopically toward the window, satisfied that the outdoors was still there. He turned toward his usual table in the corner, then waved imperiously to Tim, who was coming out of the kitchen with a tray, which he deposited at Miss Miller and Simpson's table.

“Where's our table?” Walter demanded.

“Lloyd took it downstairs,” Tim replied. “With the tables moved around, it was a bit in the way. Besides” — he lowered his voice — “with Mr. Justus with your party it seemed like too tight a fit in the corner. He was really squeezed last night.” He gave Doreen and Walter an apologetic shrug. “As you see, there's a Christmas tree there now.”

“Well, if he's squeezed, he should lose a few pounds.” Walter's voice carried across the dining room. He gave Tim a sharp look. “You'll have to move a table, I guess. And get rid of the tree.”

Mr. Simpson jumped to his feet. “Please join us, Mr. Sawchuck.”

“I've got to sit down, Walter.” Doreen leaned heavily on her cane, grabbing onto Harry, who looked embarrassed.

“Yes, we'd love to have you join us,” said Miss Miller. “Our table's set for six.”

“I want to see Rudley,” Walter bawled.

“I have to sit down,” said Doreen, taking a step forward. Walter turned, got tangled in her cane, and would have toppled into her if Tim hadn't grabbed him.

Harry took his sister's arm, steered her to Miss Miller's table, and helped her into a chair.

Tim beckoned to Rudley, who galloped in from the desk. “What's the matter?” he asked Walter.

“You took my table away and moved that tree into my corner.”

“We'll have it back for you at supper,” Rudley said. “We had a rather raucous group at the last sitting last night. Everyone kept bumping into your table. Then someone backed up into the Christmas tree and knocked it askew. It wasn't in the ideal location.”

“That's your problem,” Walter said to a glowering Rudley. “I don't know why MacIntyre sold this place.”

“Please have breakfast with us, Mr. Sawchuck,” Mr. Simpson interjected. “We'd be honoured.”