Many Unpleasant Returns (12 page)

 

Boxing Day dawned with only a few stray flakes but with a low pewter sky. Lloyd and Rudley were out early with shovel and snowblower, clearing paths to the cabins and outbuildings. In the kitchen Gregoire was busy preparing breakfast.

“The way everyone ate yesterday, you should probably steer the guests away from too much sausage and bacon,” he told Tim, who lounged against the counter with a muffin and coffee. “But they will all be wanting them, I suppose.”

“They can pack it away,” Tim agreed.

“I hope Walter is in a better mood today.”

“I promised I would personally test anything before he eats it.”

Gregoire checked the oven. “That is brave of you. With the stewed prunes.”

“I tried the pepper flakes. They weren't that hot.”

“To his dull palate they were probably a shock.”

“I suppose,” said Tim. “I think things should settle down. What else could happen to him?”

“I would not want to know,” said Gregoire. He took a pan of muffins from the oven and paused to look out the window. The snow weighed the spruce trees to the ground. The benches around the backyard had disappeared. “It's a winter wonderland,” he said.

“If you like that sort of thing.”

 

“When I was a little kid, I really liked it,” said Gregoire, a wistful expression on his face. “Now I don't like it so much. Mostly it is a big nuisance.”

A deer came out of the trees and pawed the ground around the birdfeeder.

“Bambi is hoping Lloyd will be coming around with some sugar cubes,” Gregoire said.

“He put some hay out for her earlier,” Tim said. “Sugar isn't good for her teeth.”

Gregoire poured himself a cup of coffee, then returned his gaze to the window. “At least, it is not so cold.”

“Not yet,” said Tim.

The deer froze in position, then darted away into the trees.

“Ah,” said Gregoire, “the young people scared her.”

Tim looked to see Frankie, Johnny, Carla, and the Nesbitts come into view. The first three were on snowshoes. The Nesbitts wore cross-country skis.

“Mr. Nesbitt always looks serious,” said Tim.

“I think he is a serious man,” said Gregoire, adding, “I think Mr. Johnson is a serious man, too, but because he is not so tall and not so good-looking everybody thinks he is just depressed all the time.”

“I'm surprised Mr. Franklin's up so early,” said Tim. “He was quite the party animal last night.”

“Mr. Franklin is a go-go-go person,” said Gregoire. “And kind of a kid,” he added, as Frankie began to pack snowballs and lob them at Sheila Nesbitt.

Sheila giggled and ducked. Frankie charged toward her and got his snowshoes caught in Carla's. They both tumbled to the ground, falling side by side, Frankie trying to make snow angels. Sheila Nesbitt kicked off her skis and joined in. Johnny stood by uncertainly. Frankie clambered up and stuffed snow down his back. Keith Nesbitt, who had skied on ahead, stopped and pretended to adjust his bindings.

“Mr. Franklin is very hands-on around the ladies,” Tim observed.

“He is like a thirteen-year-old boy.”

“Oh, well, here come the adults,” Tim said as Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson came into view.

Frankie packed a snowball and lobbed it in Sheila's direction. It missed its target and hit Miss Miller in the back of the head.

Miss Miller packed a snowball in response and hurled it toward Frankie.

“She got him in the derrière,” said Gregoire, “which is where his brains must be.”

Miss Miller turned to Simpson, triumphant. He gave her an approving nod and they snowshoed off around the corner of the inn. Keith Nesbitt gave a half-smile and headed toward the woods. Sheila followed. Frankie dusted himself off, gave an apologetic shrug, and set off toward the cabins in a Chaplinesque walk. Johnny and Sheila followed.

“That was fun,” said Tim.

 

Everyone was quite relaxed after supper that evening, the hot-pepper caper and the poisoned Santa behind them. From what I can gather, a number of people think Mr. Justus was the prankster. No one blames him a bit.

Walter Sawchuck has settled down a bit. I think placing the call to the police made him feel vindicated, perhaps less defensive. Who knows why people behave as they do? Most people aren't perfect. In fact, we tend to dislike perfect people. They get on your nerves after a while. Walter is, like me, elderly. Perhaps it's his health. Perhaps he hears the footsteps of death growing a little louder each day. He may resent his brother-in-law, who is comparatively youthful and robust. Harry's at least fifteen years younger than Walter. Doreen says he's the baby of the family. Walter takes prescription medication. Sometimes it's not the disease but the pills that cause the problems. Or perhaps Walter is merely a narcissistic crab who's been feeling neglected with all of the excitement of the season. I hear he likes to come here at Christmas to avoid the in-laws. And then one of them comes with him. I have some sympathy for Walter then. Older people have trouble engaging with the world sometimes, unless they're prepared to be perpetually nice. Therefore, I always try to be nice.

Now, Lloyd is an interesting one. I've heard Frankie making jokes about him. Johnny, who is quiet and much kinder, I think, told Frankie that Lloyd was just a little slow. Carla seems to be always holding her nose around Lloyd — literally as well as figuratively. I think Lloyd is a sweet young man.

Keith Nesbitt doesn't like Frankie. He thinks Frankie is after his girl. I think Frankie is after all the girls. I once heard that the way a person is behaving is the best they can manage at that moment. I find that a useful thing to keep in mind.

The young people spent the entire day in the snow, at one point helping Lloyd clear the paths. Mr. Rudley ran the snowblower into a decorative urn and destroyed the blade. From what I could see from the window, he wasn't very happy about it. He came in grumbling about who put that damn thing there and Mrs. Rudley tried to calm him down. However, her pointing out that he was the one who decided to put the urn there didn't do the trick. She finally took a pack of cigarettes from the drawer and sent him off downstairs. When he returned, he had settled down.

So with supper over and most of the edginess out of the way, everyone was in good spirits and up for board games in the drawing room. We had a Parcheesi tournament, then a Clue tournament. I won the Parcheesi tournament and received a nice tin of assorted teas. Mr. Bole won the Clue tournament. The old-timers teased him, saying he had become the new Miss Miller for solving murder cases. He replied he found it much easier to be an armchair detective. I haven't had so much fun in ages. I've heard that board games are making a comeback. I like the old ones best. They're often games designed for children, but they're really just an excuse for sociability, which is the main thing.

Mr. and Mrs. Rudley looked after refreshments to give the staff the evening off. Tim and Lloyd joined the games. Gregoire stayed in the kitchen most of the evening but came out later for a glass of wine. Tim says the kitchen is Gregoire's favourite place even when he isn't working.

We broke up around midnight. Everyone agreed it had been a good day. We were looking forward to an even better one tomorrow.

 

Blanche, Margaret's cat, did not normally spend the night on the lower floor, or anywhere outside the Rudleys' quarters, for that matter. Margaret liked her close by, usually cuddled behind her knees. When Blanche left the bed, usually because Rudley inadvertently rolled onto her, she would exit in a state of high dudgeon and move into Albert's bed. She would cuddle up next to Albert and demonstrate her affection by flexing her unsheathed claws against his back. Albert would move to the rug, leaving the bed to Blanche.

This night, however, Blanche ended up in the hallway outside the Rudleys' quarters. Margaret had gone to bed and fallen asleep quickly. Rudley came up a few minutes later, leaving the door open just long enough for Blanche to nip out. She wandered the halls for a while, checking out each door. She picked up familiar scents at several and would have scratched at the Phipps-Walkers' door if she had not been distracted by a soft shuffling in the lobby. She undulated down the stairs, pausing occasionally to reconnoitre between the posts. Normally, she would have whisked down the stairs and planted herself at the bottom, causing anyone following her to perform a series of acrobatic gyrations to avoid squashing her. On those occasions when the person was not sufficiently agile and managed to step on her tail, she would screech loudly, prompting an outflow of sympathy and remorse.

But tonight, there was no one behind her on the stairs, so there was no reason for her to go into her routine. She wafted down the remaining steps to the lobby. Although Blanche was a full-figured Persian, she retained a feline grace.

A scratching noise led her to the dining room and to a window overlooking the front lawn. As she listened, the scratching grew louder but her gaze yielded no rodentia. She stared, her neck craned up at the window, fascinated by the motion of shadows across the panes.

She turned when she heard footsteps. They were soft and unhurried, but they didn't worry her. She faded into the folds of the curtains and waited.

The footsteps proceeded into the dining room. Blanche waited, expecting someone to approach. In her experience, humans always approached her, holding out a hand to pat her. Sometimes, she bit it. But this person made no such overtures. She waited, poised, anticipating the steps turning toward the kitchen. And if they did, to dash after them, reach the kitchen in advance, and twirl in front of the refrigerator, mewling.

The footsteps left the dining room and disappeared.

She waited for the scrape of the coffee carafe, the sucking sound of the refrigerator door cuing her to the possibility of a dram of milk. She seldom got milk, partly because of her middle-aged spread and partly because she had the disconcerting tendency of using it to induce a hairball. But Gregoire would occasionally give her a drop.

She waited but didn't hear any of the familiar encouraging sounds.

She made her way back through the dining room, weaving her way through the furniture. Occasionally, she would jump onto a chair and inspect a table, disappointed to find it bare.

And then she found the toy. She snared it with one paw, knocked it to the floor and stick-handled it around the table legs and into the adjoining open space. The toy slid well on the hardwood, allowing her the pleasure of batting it ahead, pursuing it, pouncing on it, holding it in her claws, releasing it, catching it again, rolling on her back and juggling it on all four paws. She gave it a good whack and it ended up against the far wall, under the table customarily occupied by the Phipps-Walkers. She dove under the table after her prize, bumping her nose on a leg. She paused, shook her head, grabbed the toy again and bit down hard. The toy didn't squeak. She scrambled up, switching her tail.

Blanche tore back up the stairs, adrenalin pumping, galloping up and down the hallway. Finally, she settled down and began to search for an open door. She went from room to room without success, then returned to the lobby. She hesitated at the front door before turning and trotting past the front desk and down the back stairs to the basement.

One door was open, emitting a sliver of light. She eased in, fixing on a heat-radiating lump on the couch. She jumped up onto the couch and peered into the face of the sleeping human. This one smelled like the woodpile with a whiff of 3-In-One Oil and had a hint of chocolate with marshmallow on his breath. She crept up and nuzzled the corner of his mouth. Satisfied, she settled on the pillow above his head. This one she knew. He was safe.

 

“Oh, there you are.” Margaret reached to pick up Blanche as she weaved around her ankles, purring. “I was worried when I didn't find you on my pillow this morning. Did that naughty Rudley shut you out?”

“She slept with me last night,” Lloyd said.

“She knows where to find safe harbour. Come on, sweetie, I'll take you up and get your breakfast.”

She passed the Phipps-Walkers on the stairs.

“Nice to see you, Blanche,” said Geraldine.

The Phipps-Walkers did not like free-roaming cats. One free-roaming cat, Norman would point out, could kill hundreds of birds each month. They liked Blanche because Blanche stayed mainly indoors or outdoors in a run Lloyd had built for her. On warm days, Blanche could lie on her hammock in the tower of the run and enjoy the outdoors without being a threat to any living thing.

Norman and Geraldine went into the dining room and took their favourite spot by the window overlooking the lake. Rudley came out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a plate of waffles. Geraldine waved him over.

“Why don't you join us, Rudley?”

“I should be at the desk, Mrs. P.-W.”

Norman smiled a buck-toothed smile. “We're snowed in, Rudley. I don't think you're going to have to deal with too many walk-ups. Besides,” he added, “the phones are out.”

Rudley stopped, coffee cup poised an inch from his lips. “The phones are out?”

“Ours is,” said Geraldine.

“Not that it matters,” said Norman.

“It matters, Norman. What if we have an emergency?”

“Even if we have an emergency, Rudley, we can't get out and no one can get in, at least not in time to salvage the situation.” He smiled. “At least you won't have to answer the phone for wrong numbers.”

“Damn.”

Tim emerged from the kitchen at that moment and greeted the Phipps-Walkers.

“Good morning, Tim.”

“Norman's phone is out,” said Rudley. “Is the phone out in the bunkhouse?”

“I don't know. I haven't tried to use it.”

“I'll have the pancakes with stewed fruit,” said Geraldine, “and coffee, please.”

“Same for me,” said Norman, “but with fresh fruit.”

“Bacon, sausage, ham?”

“Too much cholesterol,” said Geraldine.

“Should I hold the butter for the pancakes?”

Geraldine gave Tim a playful swat on the wrist. “Let's not go overboard.”

As Tim departed, Geraldine and Norman commenced a spirited discussion about cholesterol while Rudley fumed about the phones. Damn things, he thought. He hated having anything around that wasn't working. He didn't mind being out of touch with the world, but having something around the inn malfunction made him worry that perhaps something else might not be working. What if the power went out and the generators failed to kick in? The inn might drop below freezing. The pipes would freeze. They'd be forced to use camp toilets. The fireplaces would keep them from perishing but would heat only the main floor.

Tim, returned to the dining room, was manoeuvring around Geraldine's table to place her coffee beside her when he stepped on something. His ankle rolled. Grabbing the back of the chair, he managed to land Geraldine's coffee without spilling a drop, then reached under the table and retrieved a battered Little Santa.

“It looks as if Blanche got hold of that,” said Norman, noting the shredded cap.

“She got out of our quarters last night,” said Rudley.

“Did you let her out?” Norman asked.

“I would never do that, Norman. If she managed to get out the front door and was eaten by a fisher, I'd never hear the end of it.”

“She must have had quite the adventure,” Geraldine said. “Downstairs by herself all night.”

“I understand she ended up with Lloyd,” said Tim.

“Cats like a warm spot,” said Geraldine.

“Even a smelly warm spot,” Tim murmured. He took a closer look at the Little Santa. “My, my, what's this?”

“What's what?” asked Rudley, who was still thinking about the frozen septic system.

Geraldine took the Santa from Tim and adjusted her glasses. “His little eyes are X'ed out,” she said.

“That means he's dead,” said Norman.

“He's got a tiny knife stuck in him,” said Geraldine.

Norman peered at the little weapon. “It looks like a piece from one of the Clue sets.”

“What the hell?” said Rudley.

“Someone murdered him,” said Tim.

“Who would do a thing like that?” Rudley fumed.

 

“Perhaps it was an accident,” said Margaret. She straightened a stack of brochures on the front desk. “Perhaps Blanche got hold of one of the Santas we hung in the ballroom.”

“Then desecrated his eyes and stuck a little knife through his heart?” Rudley asked, incredulous.

“I suppose not.” Margaret took him by the arm. “Rudley, the perpetrator may simply be playing an elaborate prank. He may not think of what he's doing as malicious.”

“Why do you say
he
, Margaret?”

She gave a little shrug. “Well, Rudley, men are more likely to do these things than women are.”

“What was that story Pearl used to tell about the prank you played on the headmistress in school?”

A groan sounded from somewhere near the ceiling. Margaret looked up apprehensively. “Rudley, are you sure the roof isn't going to cave in?”

“Of course, Margaret.”

“These noises are a bit unnerving.”

“Just the usual expansion and contraction.” Rudley balled up the paper he had been writing on and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. “The roof won't cave in, Margaret. Its pitch is too steep. Besides, with the wind howling like a banshee, the snow doesn't have much of a chance to settle.”

“Are you sure?”

“Lloyd and I checked it this morning. It's fine.”

“If you were so sure it would be fine, why did you and Lloyd check it?”

He crossed his eyes. “To be complete, Margaret. In the unusual event that the snow might pile up on a steeply pitched roof and that that roof might cave in and kill several guests. You can imagine what a falderal there would be if I wasn't prudent.”

“The coach house roof doesn't have a steep pitch.”

“No, but it has a very solid construction. It has enough beams to hold up the roof of Westminster Cathedral. Besides, it's survived many storms.”

“I'm not sure if it's ever seen this much snow.”

“I'm sure it has.”

“Possibly when the mastodons were roaming around.”

“Margaret, no one's living in the coach house.”

“Herb stops there from time to time,” she said, referring to the local hobo.

Rudley smiled. “The whole place could come down around his ears and he wouldn't notice.” He bent over a paper and scribbled his signature. “There's nothing to worry about. The inn and its outbuildings are in no danger.”

Margaret's gaze wandered to the mantel. “I don't like what's happening, Rudley.”

“We've had worse, Margaret.”

“I don't like the idea of guests playing pranks on one another.”

“At least they're not murdering one another. Mr. Morton fell onto the road looking for a suitable tree, according to Creighton. I don't know why he couldn't have relieved himself beside the car.”

She looked horrified. “Right there on the roadside?”

“Why not?”

“He's a proper English gentleman, Rudley.”

“I know, Margaret, an English gentleman would rather die than appear improper. However, I would rather catch someone relieving himself as I passed him on the road than have him soak me as I passed beneath him.”

“Poor man.”

“It was tragic, Margaret.” He set down his pen and put his arm around her. “But it was an accident. And now it's over. The pranks are pranks. Just that. Whoever's behind them is a bit of a dud, but no one's been hurt and they're certainly keeping the guests occupied.”

“Some of the guests are getting nervous.”

“Well, that's the purpose of a drawn-out practical joke, isn't it, Margaret? To keep people on edge?”

“I don't think it's very nice.”

“But rather interesting to watch.”

Margaret cast him a searching look. “I'm beginning to have my suspicions about you, Rudley.”

“Me, Margaret?”

“You are taking this rather well. You don't usually take these things well.”

“Margaret, this person is probably getting a lot of fun out of upsetting everyone. I refuse to be caught in his web.”

“You said
he
, Rudley. You suspect the miscreant is a man.”

He sniffed. “Of course, Margaret. Women don't do silly things like that.”

“Are you suggesting that women don't have the spirit, the devil-may-care attitude, to pull off elaborate pranks?”

“No, Margaret, I'm suggesting women are too busy doing productive things to engage in such silliness.”

“Women are accustomed to multitasking, Rudley.” Margaret smiled and took off into the ballroom.

Rudley leaned over the desk and addressed Albert who lay asleep on the rug: “It's an evolutionary thing.” Men, he decided, developed a talent for practical jokes because they had time to kill sitting around getting high on fermented fruit while their wives cleaned, dressed, and cooked whatever they had brought home after a week in the wilderness. This also explained the origins of hunting and fishing jaunts to isolated camps with cases of beer but no indoor plumbing.

He had never had a taste for pranks himself, considered them the hallmark of immaturity. His father had no patience for tomfoolery. His father worked all day, went out on calls at all hours, and when at home, engaged in purposeful activity — reading the newspaper, ensuring his children weren't wasting their time and, if his eyes were tired and he still felt the urge to do something, help carry dinner to the table or dry the dishes. If his father were around when he and Squiggy Ross were taking off on some adventure, he would be sure to admonish them: “No nonsense, boys.” And he and Squiggy would solemnly pledge: “No nonsense.” Maybe, Rudley considered, if Squiggy had indulged in a few hare-brained schemes as a boy, he wouldn't have ended up a bald, toothless rummy begging on the streets of Galt for enough money for a bottle of cheap wine.

Rudley thought back to his childhood. If his father was serious, his mother had a great sense of fun. Always laughing about something. Margaret was a bit like his mother that way. Great sense of fun… But then his mind turned to the Little Santas. He frowned. Margaret?

“A penny for your thoughts.” Tiffany's voice was suddenly in his ear.

“What?” Rudley jerked from his reverie. “What did you say?”

“I offered you a penny for your thoughts because you seemed to be in a brown study.”

“Nothing in particular. Just thinking about this business with the Santas.”

“Do you have a theory?”

“No…do you?”

She glanced around the lobby then whispered behind her hand. “I wonder if it's Mr. Bole.”

“James Bole?”

“Perhaps he's setting us up for his puppet performance.”

“I can't see Mr. Bole doing these things.”

“Some people will do anything for the sake of their art,” she said. “Suppose he's planning to do Agatha Christie's
And Then There Were None
?”

“Surely he wouldn't. That business with Walter…”

“I'm not suggesting he had anything to do with that. But the Little Santas…no one is above suspicion.”

He gave her a long look. “No one, Tiffany?”

She shook her head solemnly. “No one, Mr. Rudley.”

As he watched her walk away, Margaret returned from the ballroom.

“Margaret,” he began, “while you were in school, did you have anything to do with burning the headmistress's desk?”

“Oh, Rudley, you know how I love antiques.”

 

Brisbois was at home when the pathologist telephoned.

“I thought you might be interested in something,” Dr. Jim began.

“Shoot.”

“You remember that Ziploc bag of chocolates found in Mr. Morton's car?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they didn't look like much to be concerned with on the surface. All the chocolates looked as if they were from the same batch. They all had nice smooth bottoms — except for one. It had kind of a rough blob on the bottom.”

“Maybe it was from a different batch,” Brisbois suggested, puzzled.

“Maybe, maybe not,” the pathologist continued. “The smooth-bottomed ones were filled with a jam-jelly substance. But the one with the blob was filled with something else.”

“What something else?”

“A yellowish material. Same thing that was on Mr. Morton's beard. That stuff on his beard contained substances consistent with an over-the-counter cough syrup.”

“So,” Brisbois mused, “he bites into the chocolate. It doesn't taste good. He splutters and spits some of it onto his beard.”

“That would make sense.”

“Any idea where the chocolates might have come from?”

“Can't tell.”

“So they were identical except for the bottoms.”

“Yes.”

“Any pattern on the top?”

“Nothing unusual. All had little curlicues. We took some good photographs of them before they were sent off. We've sent a set to your office.”

“Thanks,” Brisbois murmured. “Anything written on the bag?”

“Not a thing.” Dr. Jim paused. “The bag's gone for fingerprinting.”

“
OK
.” Brisbois thanked the pathologist and asked him for an update when he had a more detailed analysis of the substances. Then he sat back, brow furrowed. How many places could Mr. Morton have got candy from?