Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders (12 page)

“She’s teaching him to paint.”

Creighton stole a look at Brisbois. “Almost everybody takes a liking to Margaret.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

Creighton smiled. “No reason they wouldn’t.” When Brisbois didn’t respond, he said. “That was good news about Harvey anyway. I think he thought he was a goner when they were loading him into the ambulance.”

“Poor devil,” Brisbois said. “I think he started to have the chest pains when he finally got it that the boat was gone for good. He started talking about how he and his wife had worked on it for years. It was a pile of junk when they got it. They were planning to retire to a cottage near their home in Michigan.”

“Then she died?”

“Then she was killed in a car accident. He was driving. He was exonerated, but her family blamed him. Harassed him so much he left.”

“Nice people.”

“Yeah.” Brisbois took a deep breath, exhaled sharply. “Yeah, he really thought he was going to die. Maybe he wanted the people with him to know his story.”

The flashing lights of a cruiser told them they had arrived at Devlin’s. Creighton pulled in behind a black and white and got out. Brisbois struggled out after him.

“The Inspector says you found some stuff,” Brisbois said by way of greeting.

The officer took a look at Brisbois’ outfit, then ducked his head to hide a smirk. “This way.” He led him to the back of the house and pointed to the metal garbage can. “Somebody tried to burn the stuff up, but they were dense enough to put the lid on.”

Brisbois peeked into the can. “Stuff got singed, then the oxygen gave out.” He turned to the officer. “Anything else?”

“No. No sign of the fugitives.” He gestured into the woods. “We’ve got three units looking around up there. So far, nothing. They probably had somebody waiting for them up by the road. They could be anywhere by now.”

A cruiser pulled up. A patrolman got out and handed Brisbois a paper. “Here’s your search warrant.”

Brisbois and Creighton dragged themselves into the inn after nine. Margaret was at the desk.

“Detectives, you look worn out.”

“It’s been that kind of day, Margaret.”

“We saved you some roast beef and Gregoire has a wonderful raspberry bombe.”

“As long as it doesn’t explode.” Brisbois reached up to remove his hat, then realized he didn’t have one. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

“Go ahead into the dining room. Tim will get you whatever you want.”

“Thanks.” Brisbois paused. “This workshop Jim Devlin was going to, was it something spontaneous?”

“Oh, no. He registered for the workshop months ago. Signed up for several sessions in watercolours.”

“Did he say he’d planned to leave this morning?”

“Yes, there was a watercolorist from New York giving an afternoon session. He was particularly interested in his technique.”

“I thought you were giving him lessons.”

“I’ve given him some pointers, but I think it’s wise of him to broaden his perspective. Otherwise his stuff would look much like mine.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

“Thank you, Detective, but let me put it this way — how many Picassos would you want?”

“None would be enough for me. I find watercolours easy on the eye.” He paused. “Do you have the phone number for that workshop?”

“I’ll get you the brochure.” She waved at Tim as he passed the doorway of the dining room. “Tim, would you get something nice for these gentlemen?” She called to Rudley, who had just come across from the kitchen. “Rudley, would you mind the desk? I won’t be but a minute.”

“Of course, Margaret.” Rudley slipped behind the desk. “Brisbois, I hear you’re after Devlin now.”

Brisbois gave him a bemused smile. “Where did you hear that rumour?”

“Officer Owens dropped by. He admitted, after some casual interrogation, that you were over there ransacking the place.”

“Just being thorough.” Brisbois gave Rudley a salute and nudged Creighton toward the dining room.

Rudley did a quick shuffle and beat out a tune on the desktop. I knew that young pup Devlin was up to no good, he thought. Imagine, befriending Margaret to get a toehold into the affairs of the inn. To monitor our situation. And everyone chasing after poor old Harvey. Chalk one up for the old guys!

“You seem to have recovered,” he said to Miss Miller, who had come down the stairs, followed by Simpson.

“I pride myself on my resilience, Mr. Rudley.”

Rudley cast a quizzical glance toward Simpson.

He blushed. “Elizabeth is definitely resilient.”

Gregoire came out of the kitchen with a bottle of wine, followed by Tim, rolling covered dishes on a trolley.

“For you, detectives,” said Gregoire, “because of your trauma today. A bottle of our finest red. On the house.”

“Oh, we couldn’t.”

“We’ll send the bill to your department. Surely you are entitled to a decent meal for practically drowning. You get a meal allowance when you are on location.”

“Yes, for Joe’s Diner.”

“The dinner prices are much lower after ten. Mostly the same as Joe’s Diner.”

Tim placed the chafing dishes on the sideboard. “Prime rib, salad with a mustard dressing, baked potato, carrots glazed with lemon and a secret ingredient I am not at liberty to divulge. And the coup de grâce, raspberry bombe.”

Creighton flicked out his napkin and settled it in his lap. “Dig in, boss, it’s on the account.”

Brisbois hesitated, then acquiesced. “Sit down for a minute, gentlemen.” He pointed to the carafe. “It’s the end of the day. Have a cup of coffee.”

They sat down. Gregoire removed his cap.

“What do you know about Jim Devlin?”

Gregoire sniffed. “He’s a glamour puss. He runs a guest house with Laura Ashley as his inspiration and thinks he has a much better kitchen than he does.”

“I hear it’s being renovated,” said Creighton.

“I’m not talking about the appliances at his disposal. I’m talking about the quality of his menu.” He shrugged. “I can cook circles around him on a campfire.”

Brisbois took out his notebook. “Apart from the fact that you don’t like his décor and think his menu is overrated, what do you think of him?”

“He is one of these good-looking men with air between his ears.”

“He’s an artist. He must have soul.”

Gregoire glowered. “He’s an artist because he wants to get in good with Margaret to establish himself in the area for business reasons. After all, everybody loves Mrs. Rudley. A recommendation from her is like gold.”

Brisbois looked to Tim. “What do you think?”

“Of course everyone loves Mrs. Rudley. Jim Devlin is very fond of himself, very fond of the reaction he gets from the ladies. Fonder of the reaction than the ladies.”

“Are you implying he’s gay?”

Tim laughed. “Perish the thought. He’s narcissistic. He can’t pass a mirror without stopping.”

“Criminal?”

“He’s too dumb to be criminal.”

“Not the sharpest knife in the drawer?”

Gregoire folded his arms. “He is as dull as a bag of hammers, Detective.”

Brisbois scribbled a note. “Most of the criminals I’ve met wouldn’t break a hundred on the IQ test.”

Tim chuckled. “I think they have what’s called peasant cunning. This guy’s just a good-looking goof who knows how to dress to bring out the colour in his eyes.”

“Maybe it’s an act.”

“If it is, he should be on Broadway.”

Brisbois glanced up. “Miss Miller, Simpson. How are you doing?”

“Exhilarated.”

Simpson winced. “I must say, Detective, I shudder to think how close we came to ending up at the bottom of the lake.”

Miss Miller took a chair to Brisbois’ left. “We would have surfaced eventually, Edward.”

Gregoire stood. “Are you ready to have dinner? Perhaps what the detectives are having.”

“A slice of that nice roast beef on a bun would hit the spot.”

“Coming right up.” Tim jumped up and disappeared into the kitchen.

Brisbois leaned over the table as Gregoire and Tim exited the dining room. “Now that you’ve recovered, Miss Miller, would you clarify for me what you were investigating?”

“Mr. Harvey.”

“Because of what he said about the professor?” He shook his head. “I mean, about Adolph?”

“Among other things. Living over there in that secluded cottage. Lurking about here, positioning himself like a large fly on the wall. That strange smile. Those busy eyes.”

“I take it you’ve had him under surveillance.”

“You never know what may turn up.”

Brisbois picked up a spoon and stirred his coffee. “What turned up was that he was trussed up like a Christmas turkey and tossed into the hold with the rest of you.”

“I think that was part of the plan,” said Miss Miller.

“So,” said Brisbois, tapping the spoon against his cup and replacing it on the saucer, “you thought he was putting on an act. To throw you off balance. To divert suspicion.”

“Yes. And who else would have had the opportunity to find out where Adolph was staying?”

Creighton chuckled. “How about every Tom, Dick, and Harry who walks through the door?”

Miss Miller did not chuckle. “Wouldn’t you say it’s true, Detective, that everyone who deals with the Pleasant has been doing so for years?”

“For the most part.”

“So Mr. Harvey and Mr. Devlin are the only regular visitors without a history at the Pleasant, but with ample opportunity.”

Brisbois shook his head. “I think your deductions are strongly influenced by your bias, Miss Miller. There are dozens of people in and out of here every day. It wouldn’t have been that hard to find out where Adolph was staying. Maybe our kidnappers stopped in for a drink.”

She ignored him. “What do you know about Mr. Harvey anyway?”

“He’s a retired teacher from Michigan with an impeccable past.”

Simpson frowned. “If I may ask, why would someone from Michigan retire to a lake here. Doesn’t Michigan have a surplus of lakes?”

“Trust me on this one,” said Brisbois. “Mr. Harvey’s reasons for coming here were personal, not criminal.”

“But what about that boat?” Miss Miller demanded. “On a teacher’s salary?”

“He told me it was a wreck when he bought it. He rebuilt it himself.”

Miss Miller was not swayed. “I’m sure there’s something sinister in his background.”

“Not a thing.”

“But what about the comment he made about the professor being shot?”

“A reasonable explanation,” Brisbois said, “is that he overheard Rudley ask Lloyd to take a meal to the professor at the Oaks. When he heard the person at the Oaks had been shot, he assumed it was the professor. Or Adolph, as it turns out.”

Miss Miller looked peeved. “Why would they take Adolph to Harvey’s cottage?”

Brisbois paused over a baby carrot. “Maybe because he lives in a secluded location and has a nice big boat.”

“How would they know that?”

“Small-town people talk.” Creighton scooped up a mound of mashed potatoes and winked at Brisbois. “Or maybe they saw you out there, Miss Miller, and decided to hightail it to the nearest safe harbour.”

“Mr. Harvey got the impression they were trying to set things up to look like an accident,” Brisbois said. “They wanted a secluded location and they wanted a big boat. He had both.”

“Still, it seems suspicious.”

Brisbois traced a line along his jaw with his thumb. “You’re missing one critical element, Miss Miller.”

She raised her brows.

“Motive.”

“I don’t know that. Yet.”

Creighton picked up a roll, severed it neatly with a table knife, and reached for the butter. “And don’t forget. They tried to kill him, too.”

“There is no honour among thieves,” said Miss Miller. “Besides, as we’ve discussed, that might have been a ruse. They planned to spare him in the end.”

Brisbois shook his head. “I’m afraid your imagination has gotten away on you, Miss Miller.” He paused as Tim brought out the roast beef sandwiches.

“Anything else for you, Detectives?”

“No, thanks, Tim. Our compliments to the chef.” Brisbois turned to Miss Miller. “Enough shop talk. Tell us more about your trip to Outer Mongolia.”

Brisbois and Creighton left the inn at eleven, leaving Owens and Semple to patrol the grounds.

“I don’t know if Owens is the right guy for this detail,” Creighton said. “He’ll be so distracted mooning over Tiffany that someone could walk right in and gun the folks down.”

Brisbois shrugged. “Or he’ll be even more motivated.” He paused. “Do you think he has a chance?”

“I don’t think he’s her type. Christopher Watkins seems to be her type. He doesn’t have a lot in common with Owens.”

“He’s a good kid. She’s a nice young woman. She’s been going out with guys like Christopher. Nothing’s ever come of it. Maybe those guys aren’t her type after all. Maybe she just thinks they should be.” He paused. “You dated an English major once, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you her type?”

Creighton opened the car door, slid in, and waited for Brisbois. “I’m every girl’s type.”

Brisbois gave him a sour look. “Maybe that’s why you’re not married.”

“Naw. It’s the hours we keep.” He started the engine. “So, what’s next? Besides six hours of uninterrupted sleep?”

Brisbois adjusted his seatbelt. “We’ll have to go over the backgrounds again. Then one of us needs to go down to Montreal and check out the sleazy film studios.”

“It’s hard to believe Adolph doesn’t have some idea of where Gerald was doing his thing.”

Brisbois made to push back his hat, realized he’d lost it in the lake. He smoothed his hair instead. “I don’t think Gerald was too proud of what he was doing. He probably didn’t tell Adolph anything. Didn’t want him coming down to his workplace because he’d forgot his lunch.” He rubbed his forehead, then forced himself to stop fidgeting. He needed a new hat. “Adolph says it was about drugs and it was about a guy who hired Gerald to make porno films. At least it’s a lead.”

Creighton chuckled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Miss Miller invited herself to go to Montreal .”

“I don’t think she’s ready to give up on Mr. Harvey yet.” Brisbois yawned. “We’ve got every detachment in the province alerted. We’ve got the composites out to every jurisdiction.”

“We’re going to have to move Adolph soon,” Creighton said after a few minutes of silence. We can’t leave him in that cell forever.”

“I think he’d like us to.”

“Are you going to tell your wife you went swimming today?”

“She’ll probably be asleep when I get home.” Brisbois’ voice was without emotion. “Now that she has that full-time job, she can’t wait up for me all night.” The way she used to, he added to himself.

“One thing about being single, I don’t have to worry about anybody worrying about me.”

Brisbois nodded. He stared out the window, watching the moon play hide-and-seek among the drifting clouds. His wife had worried herself sick many nights, when he was delayed, or away from home for weeks. During this past year, he figured, she had worried herself out. Maybe his last escapade at the Pleasant had done that. He winced as his lower back cramped. He’d heard of such things: People removing themselves emotionally because they’d worn themselves out courting loss. Maybe it was better to live like Creighton.

He straightened and shoved his back hard against the seat. No, it wasn’t. Going home to an apartment with stale air — cold in the winter because he’d left the heat down, hot in the summer because he’d left the air conditioner off — held no appeal. Creighton didn’t even have dog to jump off the couch and run to him. The image reminded him of something, and he laughed.

“Something funny?” Creighton asked.

“I was just thinking about Albert. If he didn’t pass gas every ten minutes, you’d think he was stuffed.”

“The only time he lifts his head is when Simpson comes around. I’ve even seen him wag his tail for him.”

“Well, Simpson’s a likeable guy.” Brisbois turned serious. “I believe Adolph when he says he doesn’t know anything. I don’t think he ever saw those two guys before.”