Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders (15 page)

“If you need the ballroom to rehearse, feel free,” Margaret said.

Mr. Bole indicated a sheaf of music. “I’d like to run through my pieces on the piano.”

“Go ahead. Melba won’t be setting up her harp for an hour, so you’re good for at least that long.”

“Doreen and I were going to run through our number,” said Walter, “but Albert seems to be missing.”

Rudley snapped his newspaper. “Can’t you use the cat?”

Margaret gave Rudley an exasperated look. “You know she won’t perform on demand.” She turned to the Sawchucks. “Why don’t you have Lloyd stand in until Albert returns?”

“Ditto,” Rudley muttered.

Pearl came into the lobby with Roy in tow and glanced into the ballroom. “I guess we’ll have to practice in the drawing room.”

Margaret smiled. “I didn’t know you were going to participate in Music Hall, Roy.”

He gave Pearl a fond look. “Your aunt talked me into it, Margaret. Who can say no to this fine lady?”

“The more ethical bars in town.”

Margaret gave Rudley a kick in the ankle.

“Roy has a fascinating voice,” said Pearl. “Reminds me of Jimmy Durante. We’re doing a routine called Jimmy Durante meets Sophie Tucker in the Ziegfeld Follies.”

“That I’m looking forward to,” said Rudley without a hint of sarcasm.

“Inka dinka doo,” said Roy.

Pearl took him by the arm. “Come on, we have to get our comedic timing down.”

Rudley watched them walk away. “I must say, Margaret, that does improve my opinion of him. Great vaudevillian, Jimmy Durante.”

Margaret squeezed his arm. “It’s such a wonderful tradition in our family. My parents. Uncle Winnie and Pearl. You and I. Now Pearl and Roy.”

Rudley shrugged. “It’s hard to dismiss a man with a feel for the boards.” He paused. “What were the Sawchucks planning to do with Albert anyway?”

“I think he’s to be Mary’s little lamb.”

“Appropriate.”

“I’ve talked Mr. Harvey into coming for the night, although I don’t know if he’ll do a number.”

“No talent?”

“He says he plays the flute, but I gather he does mostly classical pieces.”

“I can see he’d be reluctant to do Bach in front of this crowd. They’d probably pitch tomatoes at him.”

“Music is music, Rudley. We should consider extending our repertoire of the masters.”

“Or not.” Rudley couldn’t contain his feet and did a quick soft shoe to the cupboard, took out a batch of invoices, and pirouetted back to the desk. “There’s nothing like ‘The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze’ to get my feet moving.”

Margaret beamed. “I’m glad you’ve cheered up.”

“You were right. The promise of Music Hall is a tonic to the soul. And” — he smiled — “Brisbois is in Montreal. Creighton hasn’t left the office all morning. He’s probably sacked out on the couch. If it weren’t for those two flatfoots messing around the property, we could imagine we were almost normal.”

“What a boring thought, Rudley.”

“Quite right. Although a little boredom wouldn’t be unwelcome from time to time.”

Brisbois got a cup of coffee and joined his host in his cubicle. “We’ve harassed eleven low-budget film enterprises. How many more?”

The officer consulted his list. “Another dozen we know about.”

“I think our victim got mixed up in the drug and prostitution end of it. Maybe got a little deeper into kiddie porn than was good for him.”

“Which is why he never took his buddy on a take-your-kid-to-work day.” The officer paused. “Do you think your guy knows more than he’s telling?”

Brisbois scratched his chin. “I think Adolph’s being truthful. He gave his buddy a place to stay because he felt sorry for him. I think our victim repaid him by keeping him out of the loop about what he was really up to. I gather Gerald Murphy would have done anything for money. I don’t think he was a bad guy. He just liked to live beyond his means. Probably rationalized a lot.”

“Lived pretty high?”

“Twenty pairs of silk jockeys.”

“Sweet.”

“Yeah.” Brisbois flipped through the folder the officer had given him. “Snuff films.” He grimaced. “I can’t imagine the kind of people who want to see that stuff.”

The officer sat back. “Oh, I don’t know. I had a neighbour…in their family it apparently was the custom to take pictures of the deceased in their coffins. One of his boys, I swear, really got off on those pictures. Practically drooled.”

“You wouldn’t think a picture of grandpa full of embalming fluid would be that exciting.”

The officer shrugged. “My dad said when they were kids they used to look at the full-figured ladies modelling girdles in the Sears catalogue. There are people who get off on shoes. What do I know?”

Brisbois thought for a moment. “So the people who get off on pictures of dead bodies — same types who go for the snuff films?”

The officer shook his head. “Not much. It’s mostly a different demographic. The snuff-film types are evil. The other type’s just kinky.”

“Hmm.” Brisbois nodded and checked his watch. “I’ve got to make a phone call.”

Simpson checked his watch. “It’s nearly four, Elizabeth. I doubt if we’ll be seeing the truck today.”

She gave him an aggrieved look.

“And it is getting dark.” He smiled. “I propose we return to the Pleasant and come back another day.” He glanced up the street. The windows, save for one, were dark. The lights in the funeral home glowed against the damp pavement. No one had stopped since the woman and her son. The man with the cigarette had come out twice more to have a smoke. Apart from that, they had detected no activity at the funeral home. He imagined most of the business was taking place in the basement and shuddered. “I ought to take Albert for a stroll before we head back.”

A dusty white cube truck turned the corner and pulled into the parking lot at Lawson’s. Miss Miller sat forward.

“Edward, look at that.”

“Yes?”

“That truck.”

“Indeed.”

Two men got out, went to the back of the truck, and unlocked the padlock. One hopped up into the truck and released a ramp. The other went into the funeral home and returned with a trolley. Together, they rolled a coffin down, engaged the padlock, and disappeared into the back door of the funeral home.

“It’s a truck delivering caskets.”

“It is, Elizabeth, but I’m afraid it refutes your theory. It’s not a Tranquillity.”

“Where is it from?”

He squinted through the side window. “I can’t tell, Elizabeth, the licence plate is rather mucked up.”

Albert whimpered and scratched at the door.

Five minutes passed. The men returned with a trolley and removed a large casket and one small one. They pushed them up the ramp, closed the truck’s door, and went back into the funeral home.

Simpson dipped his head. “That’s a child’s casket, Elizabeth. Rather sad.”

She touched his arm. “You’re such a sweet, sensitive man, Edward.” She stared at the truck. “It may be more intriguing that Lawson doesn’t use Tranquillity. Why would he use another carrier when it seems every other place uses Tranquillity?”

“Perhaps he gets a better price. Family connections. Long-standing relationship. Other preferences.”

Albert whimpered again, put a leg over the seat, and pawed Simpson’s shoulder.

“Elizabeth, I’d better take Albert.”

“Go ahead.” Her eyes were fixed on the truck. “I’ll continue the surveillance.”

He caught her expression. “Don’t do anything risky.”

She smiled. “Edward, would I ever do anything risky?”

He gave her a stern look. “Please, lock the car doors, Elizabeth.” He got Albert out. Albert pushed against him, herding him toward the sidewalk. “She’s reckless, impulsive, you know,” he told the dog.

Albert set a brisk pace, stopping occasionally to check the foliage. A cat on a gatepost several houses up the street bristled. Albert wagged his tail and went on. Finally, he came to a utility pole, checked it out, and urinated triumphantly.

“You really are a good dog,” Simpson said. “Calm, tolerant of cats. You walk well on a leash, too.” Albert nuzzled his hand. “I wouldn’t take it too badly that Rudley talks about you as if you were a lobby decoration, you know. I’m sure he’s fond of you. If he had wanted a guard dog he would have chosen an Alsatian.”

Simpson glanced at the windows as they passed. A light winked on, one he assumed had been set on a timer since he hadn’t noticed any activity around the house. A heavy mist muffled and distorted the sounds, accentuating the ping of a raindrop off a downspout. He was reminded of the street he lived on in London when he was a child, which seemed civilized and ordinary. He felt homesick. He’d come to Toronto to study and wouldn’t have stayed if he hadn’t met Elizabeth at the Pleasant. If he’d gone home, he figured he would have met a perfectly nice young woman and be having a perfectly ordinary life, which probably would be hideously boring.

They had gone three blocks. “We’d better get back, Albert.” He turned, tried to urge Albert on, then realized to his embarrassment that Albert had hunched for a bowel movement. Rummaging through his pockets to find something to retrieve the result, he looked up to see Elizabeth inspecting the licence plate of the truck. To his horror, she then opened the rear door and hoisted herself into the truck, closing the door behind her. “Damn.” He strained toward the truck.

The back door of Lawson’s opened. The men came out. One secured the padlock. The other climbed into the driver’s seat. The man at the rear of the truck gave the door a bang with his fist, then got into the cab. The taillights pierced the gloom. Simpson took off down the street, with Albert galloping beside him.

The truck bumped over the sidewalk and backed out onto the street. As Simpson reached the car, the truck was signalling to turn right.

“I pray she disobeyed me about locking the car doors,” he said to Albert, his voice shaking.

To his relief, the car door opened. The keys were in the ignition. He hurried Albert into the back seat and set out after the truck.

Margaret answered the phone on the third ring. “Why, Detective, it’s nice to hear from you.”

“I can’t raise Creighton. Do you know if he’s around?”

“He said he was going to Central to look at some files and that you could reach him there. He’s coming back later.”

“Did he forget to charge his cellphone?”

“I believe he said something about the charger not being plugged in properly.”

“Okay, I’ll try him at the station. If he comes back in the meantime, tell him I’m trying to reach him.” He paused. “Is Owens there?”

“I think he just came up onto the veranda. Just a moment.” She placed the receiver on the desk and hurried out to the veranda. Owens was standing against the wall, staring over the lake. “Officer, Detective Brisbois is on the phone for you.”

“Oh.”

“In the lobby.”

Owens followed her in and picked up the phone gingerly. “Owens here.” He listened, brow furrowed. “Yes, I read you. Will do. Yes.” He took out his notebook and jotted a number. “Got it. Two hours? All right.” He hung up. “Thank you, Mrs. Rudley.”

Tiffany came past the desk. Margaret pulled her aside. “Tiffany, would you get the officer a flask of coffee? It’s getting a bit cold and damp out there. I would do it myself” — she glanced around furtively — “But I have something to do.”

“Of course, Mrs. Rudley.” Tiffany went off to the kitchen.

Margaret went to the cupboard and rummaged about. “Don’t go away,” she called to Owens. “Tiffany has gone to get you and your partner some coffee.”

“That’s very thoughtful, Mrs. Rudley.”

Margaret hauled out a box, plunked it down on the desk, and began to sort through it. “She’s a thoughtful young woman, our Tiffany.”

Tiffany returned with a thermos of coffee and a paper bag. “Cream and sugar and two Styrofoam cups.”

He flushed. “Thank you, Tiffany.” He backed away, sidestepped the space normally occupied by Albert, and bumped into the door, apologizing as he squeezed out.

“Officer Owens is such a charming young man,” Margaret said. “Ever so much more handsome than any of the others, don’t you think?” She buried herself in a file folder, dragged out some papers, crumpled them, and tossed them into the wastepaper basket. “That sweet, open face, those soft eyes. He hasn’t developed that suspicious look so many of them have.”

Tiffany gave her a strange look. “Yes, Mrs. Rudley.”

“Why don’t you go and have your dinner, dear? Perhaps when you’re finished, you could take the officers some of Gregoire’s wonderful pecan pie. I’m sure they use a lot of energy, patrolling up and down, protecting us from all manner of criminal activity.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rudley.”

“But take your time.”

Tiffany left, befuddled. Rudley came up the hallway with a cup of coffee and a club sandwich.

“Were you planning on sitting down, or should I bring you something?”

“Oh.” She looked up, startled. “I’ll get something later, Rudley.”

He paused, watched her for a moment. “What are you doing with the files, Margaret?”

“I’m sorting them. I never imagined you had such a rat’s nest in here. You should be ashamed of yourself for creating such a mess.”

He put his plate on the desk, went in behind it, and retrieved one of the papers that had missed the wastepaper basket. “Margaret, this invoice just came in yesterday.” He sorted through the wastepaper basket, smoothed the remaining papers, and brought them to the desk. “These are all rather recent, Margaret. If you want a rat’s nest you need to dig deeper into the cupboard.” He stared at the lobby rug, perplexed. “Isn’t Albert back yet?”

Margaret raised her head from the folders and looked at the clock. “Oh, my, they are late. I hope they haven’t had car trouble.”

“They’ll find a phone and call us if they’re stuck. They know we’d go to get them.” He patted her on the shoulder. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

She sighed. “Oh, you’re probably right, Rudley. They’re probably having such a good time they just forgot the time.”

Tim leaned against the counter, waiting while Gregoire ladled marinara sauce over a serving of pasta. Tiffany stood adjacent, putting a plate together for herself, smiling.

“That’s a rather provocative smile,” Tim said.

Gregoire glanced at her. “Much like the cat who swallowed the mouse.”

“Mrs. Rudley has a crush on Officer Owens,” she said.

“No, she doesn’t,” said Tim. “She has a crush on Detective Brisbois.”

Gregoire reached for a tea towel, ran it around the bottom of the plate, and placed it on the tray. “You are both wrong. Detective Brisbois has a crush on Margaret. Margaret does not have a crush on anyone.”

“Everybody has a crush on Margaret,” Tim said.

“She sent me to get him a thermos of coffee. Then she suggested he might want a piece of pie. Then she flushed and started tearing up the invoices.”

Gregoire looked at Tim. Tim tittered. “I can tell you for sure, Tiffany, that Margaret does not have a crush on Officer Owens.”

“I’ll have you know I’m quite astute concerning affairs of the heart.”

Gregoire rolled his eyes. Tim picked up the tray and waltzed off into the dining room, whistling.

Simpson panicked as he lost sight of the truck on a downtown street, then let out a sigh of relief as he caught sight of it at the corner. The car ahead of him peeled off to the right, and he found himself stopped directly behind the truck. Its signal light blinked left. He hastily engaged his turn signal. What to do? Should he jump out, grab onto the truck, hoping to get the attention of passersby? They’d probably just think he was insane and run in the opposite direction. Not that it mattered now. His chance was lost. The truck began moving again. He squeezed left behind it, sweating as the light turned red and a driver leaned on his horn. He steeled himself. Now was not the time to worry about the feelings of other motorists.

He had hoped to get a glimpse of the licence plate, planning to call the police and ask them to intercept the vehicle. But the plate was so dirty he couldn’t be certain of a single number. He was sure, however, that he could make out a fleur-de-lis. That was bad news. They could be taking Elizabeth all the way to Quebec.

The truck bore no identification apart from a streak of mud he thought might conceal a registration number. He assumed it was necessary for a commercial vehicle to display such identification, although he wasn’t sure. He wondered if he should try to get the attention of the truck driver. But what if Elizabeth were right? If the men were involved in criminal activity he might put her in further jeopardy by alerting them to his presence.

“I think we should stay close,” he said to Albert. “If the truck stops, we’ll jump out and try to get a better look at the licence plate.”

Albert panted his approval, one paw on Simpson’s shoulder.

The business district faded into blocks of housing. Then the truck took a left-hand turn into a narrow two-way street festooned with strip malls and down-at-the-heel storefronts. He girded himself as it passed through a yellow light. He followed, thankful no cars were bearing down on him.

It was dark now. The mist had turned to a fine rain. He turned on his windshield wipers. The strip malls fell away to scattered gas stations and coffee shops, then long stretches of low-density housing. Then a farm. He eased his foot off the accelerator as the pavement shone slick before him.

“We need a plan, Albert.” He was dismayed to hear his voice quaver. He checked the side-view mirror. A thin line of cars was visible some distance behind him. Occasionally a car passed in the opposite direction, then a lumbering eighteen-wheeler that wandered close enough to the centre line to make him tremble. He’d never liked driving on the highway. He longed for the sight of a police car. He paused, brightened. That was it. As soon as he spotted a patrol car, he’d do something flagrantly illegal. Flash his high beams. Swerve as if he were drunk. That would get their attention. He would then set the officer on the truck. The plan gave him heart.