Many Unpleasant Returns (13 page)

 

Carla Johnson came by the front desk, togged out in an Icelandic sweater, toque and ski pants.

“Off to enjoy the great out-of-doors?” Rudley asked.

She gave him an enigmatic smile. “You have such a good chef, Mr. Rudley, daily exercise is mandatory.”

Around here, Mrs. Johnson, Rudley thought as she passed out the door, we consider exercise mandatory only if you're under five feet and are encroaching on three hundred pounds. I imagine it would take three of you to manage that. Weight was a case of mind over matter. He had been eating Gregoire's wonderful cooking for seven years and hadn't gained an ounce. Standing thinking all day — that was the ticket.

“Have you seen my new camera, Rudley?”

“What?” He looked up to see Norman with Geraldine hovering at his shoulder.

“I was asking if you'd seen my new camera. It's top of the line.”

“I imagine it is,” said Rudley, who still thought of photography as a man with a tripod and a drape over his head.

Norman was waxing poetic about his latest acquisition when Frankie and Johnny came out of the dining room.

“If you push that button,” Norman was telling Rudley, “you can see our first sighting of a snowy owl. On this trip, I should say.”

Rudley fumbled unsuccessfully with the buttons on Norman's camera. He saw nothing. “Wonderful specimen, Norman.”

Frankie dropped his backpack by the desk and went to look out the window.

“I got a shot of those, too,” said Johnny. He removed his camera from his backpack and began scrolling through the pictures. His brow furrowed. “This isn't my camera.”

“No, it isn't,” said Frankie, who had returned to the desk. “Your camera is the one with the blue strap. Mine is the one with the green strap.” He unzipped the other backpack and took out a camera. “This one is yours.” He pointed to the blue strap and chuckled. “You must have scooped up my backpack at breakfast, partner. They're both black, after all.”

Johnny fingered the blue strap. “You know I'm colour-blind.”

Frankie shrugged. “I know you have trouble with green and blue but I thought with neon blue and neon green it wouldn't be a problem. Maybe I should have got you a different backpack too, buddy. Colour-blind and short-sighted,” he murmured to Norman. He strapped on his backpack and took off, leaving Johnny staring at his camera.

“Were you going up into the woods?” Geraldine asked. Getting no answer, she repeated, “Mr. Johnson, did you want to come with us?”

“Oh, sorry. I was just thinking…this colour-blindness thing…”

Geraldine smiled. “It was an easy mistake to make, Mr. Johnson. The backpacks are identical.”

“And the cameras, too,” said Norman. “Except for the straps. That's why I put my initials on mine in large red letters.”

“You're welcome to join us,” Geraldine repeated.

“Thank you, but I think I'll catch up to Frankie.”

“Ta ta,” said Geraldine.

“It must be hard,” said Norman after Johnny left, “being short and short-sighted and colour-blind.”

“I wouldn't know, Norman,” Rudley said. “I'm tall and have eyes like a hawk.”

“Norman used to be shorter and short-sighted,” said Geraldine. “Both situations have improved since we met. I have him on an exercise regime.”

“And he got taller?” Rudley asked.

“Not really, but he stopped slouching.”

“And got new glasses,” added Norman.

“Whatever does the trick,” said Rudley. He bid the P.-W.s adieu and returned to his ruminations. I thought she was going to say she had him stretched on the rack, Rudley thought. Whatever — she still has six inches on him.

Margaret came in from the kitchen and placed a cup of hot chocolate in front of him. “Drink up, Rudley. You'll need something warm before you go out to tackle the paths again.” She glanced out the window. Johnny stood halfway down the lawn, leaning over his ski poles. “Mr. Johnson always looks so morose.”

“Unfortunate.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps that's his comfort zone. Some people seem content in that state.”

“Hard to believe.”

“You're happy being a grouch, Rudley.”

“If you say so, Margaret.”

 

I'm waiting in the little alcove by the back porch. Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson are getting a sled. They're going to give me a ride up into the woods, so I can see more of the birds and perhaps get a glimpse at the deer. Lloyd has taken some hay back to the woods for them because the snow's so deep. I'm worried about being a burden but Miss Miller says that Edward needs the exercise. She asked me to call them by their first names. They're such a nice pair.

As I was waiting, Mrs. Johnson skied by and paused. Mr. Franklin came up behind her and stuffed snow down her back. She turned, hands on hips, and gave him a tongue-lashing. He approached her. By his gestures, I think he was offering to dig the snow out. She glanced toward the inn, then gestured to him to get lost and skied away. He yelled something after her. She turned and gave him a look. He doubled over laughing. I would love to know what was so funny.

I was observing the young people so intently I didn't notice Miss Miller had come into the room beside me.

“Interesting,” Miss Miller said.

I feigned innocence, not wanting to look like a voyeur.

“The Johnsons and Mr. Franklin.”

“They're an odd threesome,” I agreed. “A couple with a tag-along friend,” I said. “I hear he's divorced.”

“Not surprising,” said Miss Miller. “I don't know why anyone would marry him in the first place.”

I told Miss Miller about Mr. Franklin stuffing snow down Mrs. Johnson's back.

“She has a harem,” she said.

“A harem?”

“Yes,” Miss Miller said. “She controls them both. She keeps them in their place.”

Mr. Simpson came around the corner of the inn with a very nice old-fashioned sled with a cushion.

“I hate you having to pull me around,” I said as Mr. Simpson got me situated.

“It's our pleasure, Mrs. Gowling,” he said. “We can't have you lounging about, sipping sherry all afternoon.”

I laughed because I don't drink sherry and he knows it. I could tell he does by the twinkle in his eye. Miss Miller is very lucky to have Mr. Simpson.

“It's good exercise for Edward,” said Miss Miller. “It strengthens his calf muscles for croquet.”

“I didn't know you needed strong calf muscles for croquet,” I said.

“You do the way Elizabeth plays it,” said Edward.

Miss Miller smiled demurely. They got me strapped into the sled and we set off.

 

That night, Miss Miller woke to a sound she didn't recognize as one of the usual creaks and groans she had become accustomed to from the inn over the course of her many visits. It wasn't consistent with the wind across the shingles or sleet glancing off the windows or the creaking old limbs of the venerable maples.

She crept down the stairs and into the lobby, where the night lights cast her shadow across the opposite wall. She took a step back and hung close to the wall behind her.

There was a moment of silence, then a creak. Before she could decipher its meaning, the wind picked up and she heard a thunk and clatter on the porch roof. She stared as a long, thin branch fell into view and rode the wind, drifting out of sight to the west.

She pulled her robe around her, tightening the sash. She glanced toward the drawing room, then turned to the dining room, took a penlight from her pocket and searched the room with the beam. Nothing seemed amiss. She paused, listening. She was considering that the sound she had heard had been nothing more than fallen debris kicked up by the wind when she thought she heard a thud from the opposite side of the inn.

She crossed the lobby and entered the drawing room, playing the flashlight beam over the homey room. Bookcases lined the walls, packed with books of mismatched heights, the classics slummed with the hard-boileds and the romances. Board games lay stacked in a cupboard on the far wall. She noted a Clue game on the coffee table in front of the sofa. She stared at the game, trying to remember if it had been left out when the guests left the room that evening. The second Little Santa had been stabbed with a knife from a Clue set. Perhaps, she thought, the noises she had heard had been the prankster searching for his next weapon.

She opened the box and proceeded to sort through the contents.

The sound of footsteps approaching from the lobby jolted her from her concentration. Killing the penlight, she crept toward the open door and flattened herself against the wall. Then she heard the light switch flick. Peering through the slit between the door and the jamb, Miss Miller could see Tiffany clearly illuminated, staring at the coffee table where the pieces of the Clue game were spread out.

“Tiffany?”

She gasped. “Miss Miller, you gave me a fright.”

“I'm sorry.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I heard a sound downstairs.”

“I did as well.”

“Perhaps you heard me.”

Tiffany frowned. “Perhaps.” She looked toward the game on the coffee table. “What are you looking for?”

“I thought I heard a sound from this room. I saw the Clue game. I wondered if someone had been in here and had taken some of the pieces. The knife in the Little Santa was from the Clue game. I couldn't remember if this one had been left out last evening.”

“I don't know if it was or not,” Tiffany said. “And I don't know if you could tell for sure if any of the pieces had been taken.” When Miss Miller shot her a quizzical glance, she added, “We've had a lot of different Clue games. We've bought new sets. Pieces have got lost. We've bought new pieces. You'll most likely find we have extra pieces in each set. No one really notices how many there are unless they're short one.”

Miss Miller sighed. “So there's no way of narrowing down what could be missing and who might have been using the Clue games.”

“I don't think so, Miss Miller. Most of the guests were playing Clue last night. People use the games all the time. The games have extra pieces in them sometimes. And we have some extra bags of pieces.”

“You're right. There's no way of knowing who had opportunity to take the little knife. Anyone could have.”

Tiffany sighed. “I suppose we might as well go back to bed.” She reached for the light switch, but before she could turn the lights off, they flickered and died.

“Damn,” said Miss Miller flicking on her penlight and casting a pale circle between them.

“The generator should kick in in a few minutes,” Tiffany said as they crossed the lobby. “There's a better flashlight in Mr. Rudley's desk,” she added, as Miss Miller's penlight dimmed. She eased behind the desk.

Miss Miller flicked the switch on the floor lamp in the corner but the power was indeed out. She turned to look out the window.

“That was silly,” she said. “I was looking to see if all the lights in the neighbourhood were off. I forgot this isn't downtown Toronto.”

“The drawer's fallen off one of its runners and spilled things all over the floor,” Tiffany whispered. “It's dangling rather precariously from the other runner. Mr. Rudley abuses it so much the runners are always giving out.” She went down on her knees and began picking up things that had fallen to the floor. Then the lights came on. Tiffany gasped.

“What's the matter?”

Tiffany stood up and pointed to something on the floor.

A Little Santa, eyes X'ed out, lay at her feet. His hand clutched a pistol.

“That's a piece from one of the Clue sets,” Tiffany said.

“Santa in the desk drawer with a gun,” Miss Miller murmured. She examined the object. “He has a bullet mark through his heart.” She pointed to a dot inked on Santa's chest.

“Someone shot him,” said Tiffany. “How dreadful.”

Miss Miller glanced toward the drawer. “Is there anything else of interest in there?”

Tiffany jiggled the drawer the rest of the way out, placed it on the desk and sorted through. “Memo pads, pens, pencils, tape, Band-Aids, a cigarette lighter, a compass, car keys, a calendar from Mr. MacAvoy's Laundry and Dry Cleaning, loose change, a few dog biscuits, a snap-on bow tie, a ball of string, a few elastics, a dead ant.” She turned to Miss Miller. “That's shocking.”

“The dead ant?”

“I wonder how long it's been in there? Mr. Rudley won't let me clean this drawer. He's afraid I might throw away something important.”

“Is the drawer ever locked?”

“No. Mr. Rudley lost the key and didn't bother having it replaced. I don't think he ever keeps anything valuable in it.”

“I suppose we need to package up our latest casualty,” said Miss Miller.

Tiffany got a paper bag from the hall closet. Miss Miller took the Santa by one foot and dropped him head first into the bag.

“We'll put him with the others,” Miss Miller said.

“He's evidence.”

“Yes.” Miss Miller frowned. “Of what I do not know.”

 

Rudley peered out the window and reached for his coat. “All of that shovelling yesterday and there must be a good six inches of new snow.”

“We're going to get more later, Rudley,” Margaret said. “The radio says so. They're hoping to get some of the secondary roads cleared. We have people wanting to know if they should keep their dinner reservations. I don't know what to tell them. I don't know what to tell Gregoire.”

“Let them eat cake,” he muttered.

“Rudley” — Margaret hurried to the door, took the coat from him — “have your breakfast. The shovelling can wait. You know how you are before you have your coffee.”

“I should at least clear the paths for the guests coming up for breakfast.”

“Lloyd's already done most of that.” She hung up his coat and led him away. “Come, come,” she urged as he strained toward the desk. She steered him into the dining room and plunked him down at a table near the kitchen. “You've been working far too hard. All of this shovelling. We don't want you to have a coronary incident.”

“I suppose we don't.”

“I'll get you a lovely fruit cup and whole-grained toast.”

“As long as I'm here, Margaret, make that French toast dripping with syrup, a half-rasher of bacon and coffee with double cream.” Rudley paused. “I didn't kill that wretched little Santa, Margaret. I have no idea how it got in my desk drawer.”

“I don't know either, Rudley.”

“Who would have the nerve to go into my drawer?”

Margaret bit her lip.

“I have to get that lock fixed.”

“Yes, Rudley.” She went to the lobby and returned with a magazine.

“What's this?”

“Something to help you relax. You always relax more when you're reading something.”

He opened the magazine as Margaret turned into the kitchen. Why was everyone so keen on him relaxing, he wondered. Where was the fun in relaxing? He father lived to be eighty-six and never relaxed a day in his life. Relaxing was boring. So much better to rant and rave and watch everyone else get upset. Rudley's feet tapped out a little rhythm on the hardwood floor. They were itching to dance. He stopped. Why did Margaret want him to relax? What did she have in mind? Worse, what did she know that he didn't know? She had a habit of keeping certain things from him and counselled the staff to do the same.

The Phipps-Walkers entered and took their usual window seat. Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson followed them. Miss Miller waved at him.

“May we join you, Mr. Rudley?”

“Of course.”

“I'm surprised to find you in the dining room so early,” said Miss Miller. “You're usually standing at the front desk.”

“Margaret wants me to relax,” he told her. “She seems to think I'm going to have a heart attack if I go out in the snow without my breakfast.”

Tim came in from the kitchen, deposited Rudley's breakfast, and cheerfully greeted Miss Miller and Simpson.

“Why are you in such a good mood?” Rudley demanded.

“I'm always in a good mood.” Tim turned to Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson. “I'll just check on the P.-W.s and be right back.”

Tiffany entered the dining room next and marched straight through to the kitchen. Thornton followed a minute later, looked around and took a table at the far wall.

“I think Tiffany is a bit disappointed in her holiday with Mr. Thornton,” Miss Miller said in a low voice.

Rudley cut into his French toast with more vigour than necessary. “The man's a cad.”

“He is a bit full of himself. I suppose, as a teacher, he's accustomed to having everyone hanging on his every word.”

Edward raised his brows. “Elizabeth…”

She smiled. “I'm not talking about you, Edward. You're not accustomed to everyone hanging on your every word. Not that they shouldn't.” She turned to Rudley. “It's just that Edward doesn't expect adulation and Mr. Thornton does.”

Tim took the breakfast orders, then whipped into the kitchen to give them to Gregoire. Tiffany was sitting at the island, staring into her coffee.

“Mr. Thornton's in the dining room,” Tim announced.

“How nice for him,” she said without looking up.

Gregoire gave Tim a pointed look. Tim gave a small cough, then proceeded cautiously. “Will you be having breakfast with Mr. Thornton?”

Tiffany lifted her chin. “I'm not sure.”

“Then I suppose I should take his order,” said Tim. “Should I take yours?”

“I'll have whatever Gregoire has left over,” Tiffany said. “And I'll have it here.”

“This is her order I am cooking now,” Gregoire whispered.

“Oh.” Tim lowered his voice. “What's wrong?”

“Mr. Thornton has shown his true colours.”

Tim shot him a questioning look, then glanced at Tiffany, who had returned to studying her coffee.

“Mr. Thornton has flirted outrageously with Mrs. Nesbitt,” Gregoire continued, opening the oven and taking out a tray of croissants. “And he flirted with Mrs. Johnson, which,” he added, “would be like flirting with a department store mannequin.”

“If there was a mannequin available, he would probably be flirting with that too,” Tiffany interjected.

Gregoire put a croissant, a fruit cup and a cup of tea on a tray and hurried it over to her. “Try the croissants with my peach preserves. You will forget all about Mr. Thornton and his misbehaviours.”

“I think the only reason Mr. Thornton came here was to get free room and board for the holidays.” A tear glistened in the corner of her eye.

“Perhaps he's just a friendly guy,” said Tim.

“Too friendly.” She broke off a piece of her croissant and layered it with preserves, then put it down. “When I visited him in Toronto, he was so attentive, so affirming. Now he's taking me for granted.” She paused, fighting back tears. “The worst part was I asked him to review my latest novella. He seemed so keen on my work in Toronto. Do you know what he said?”

They shook their heads.

“He said ‘later' with a dismissive gesture of the hand.” She burst out crying.

“Does this mean he'll be dining alone?” Tim asked.

“I don't know. I suppose someone might deign to eat with him.”

Tim sighed. “What should I tell him if he asks after you when I eventually go out to take his order?”

“Tell him I came into the kitchen and found it so busy I felt compelled to pitch in.”

Tim shook his head but ducked out into the dining room to see Thornton sitting at his table gazing out the window.

“Mr. Thornton, may I take your order?”

“Yes, I'll have a mushroom omelet, with a fruit cup and coffee,” Thornton said briskly. He hesitated. “Did Tiffany happen to come in?”

“She did.” Tim gave him a cheerful smile. “She said if I were to see you I should let you know she's helping out. She went into the kitchen to say good morning to Gregoire and found him so busy she felt compelled to pitch in.”

“Oh.” Thornton gave Tim a tight smile. “Perhaps I'll see her later.”

“Yes.” Tim returned to the kitchen.

The Sawchucks came in and ordered their usual. The Johnsons arrived, followed by the Nesbitts. Tim was busy for the next hour, trotting in and out of the kitchen, clearing tables. Frankie wandered in around nine and took a seat at a centre table.

Tim approached. “What can I get for you, Mr. Franklin?”

“What's good?”

“Everything. The croissants are fresh out of the oven. I would recommend them with a fruit cup. Or if you would like something more substantial…”

“How about bacon and eggs, fried, easy over, hashbrowns, coffee, and for my health, a glass of orange juice.” He glanced down the table. “What's that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is that some funky part of the centrepiece?” Frankie gestured to a water glass partially hidden by the greenery of the floral centrepiece.

Tim looked to see two skinny red legs sticking out of the water, trunk bent, head immersed.

“Looks as if Santa drowned,” said Frankie, shrugging.

 

Miss Miller huddled with the Rudleys, Mr. Bole, the staff, and the Phipps-Walkers.

“Someone has a nasty sense of humour,” Simpson said.

“I think it's worse than that,” Miss Miller said.

Rudley broke the silence that followed her remark. “I'll bite.”

“The first Little Santa was poisoned,” said Miss Miller. “The second was stabbed. The third was shot. In the past, guests at the Pleasant were murdered by those means.”

“But those are fairly usual ways to commit murder,” said Margaret. “They may not reflect what has happened here in the past.”

“But this Santa was drowned,” Miss Miller said, “and not in a normal way. He was positioned over the tumbler with his head in the water.”

“But that may be coincidental,” said Mr. Bole. “The perpetrator of this latest Santa prank may not be aware that someone was found dead here three summers ago with his head and shoulders in the water and his legs on the bank. It may simply be that this Little Santa was too tall to fit all of him in and his head would have to be in to simulate drowning. Perhaps we're interpreting this based on our own particular experience.”

Miss Miller disagreed. “But then he would have just stuck him in head first and not cared if the legs were bent over the side or not. If the perpetrator had been innocent of this particular past history, why didn't he just stick him into something more convenient?”

“Like the water pitcher on the sideboard,” said Mr. Bole.

“Or the water plant terrarium by the door,” said Norman.

“That would have been more interesting visually,” Mr. Bole agreed.

“And more shocking,” said Margaret.

“Therefore, it's a good possibility our prankster is trying to conjure up memories of what happened here before.”

“It's not very nice,” said Geraldine.

They sat in silence.

“I remember that morning as if it were yesterday,” said Norman. “Rowing to the shore in that fog to find that. That body draped over the bank, head and shoulders in the water, wearing nothing but red jockey shorts.”

Gregoire nodded sadly. “Red silk jockey shorts.”

“The other Little Santas could be a game,” said Tim, “but this one was nasty.”

“Tim, was the glass on the table when you set up things?” Margaret asked.

Tim thought for a moment. “There was nothing on any of the tables when I arrived at a quarter to seven. I set up the tables as usual with the cutlery, serviettes, and water tumblers.”

“All of the tables?” Miss Miller asked.

“No, just certain ones. I always set up the one by the bathroom for the Sawchucks, the ones by the windows, especially” — he nodded toward the Phipps-Walkers — “the table Mr. and Mrs. P.-W. like. And I set up one in the middle. That way, I'm prepared for the first six groups. If someone sits at a table not set up, I just scoop the stuff from one I have set up.”

“Because if you set up all the tables, you could end up taking clean dishes back to the kitchen to be washed,” Miss Miller concluded.

“Right.”

“And it saves time when things get hectic,” said Mr. Bole.

“Right again,” Tim said. “It gives me a head start and makes everything look more organized.”

“That's why he's such a super waiter,” said Geraldine.

Tim smiled.

Miss Miller considered this information. “Was the table where the Little Santa was found one of the ones you had set up?”

“No. There was another table set up, but when Mr. Franklin came in, he happened to sit at one in the middle that I hadn't set up.”

“Did you notice if Little Santa was on the table before Frankie sat down?”

“No, Miss Miller, but I might not have. The tumbler and the Santa were half-hidden by the spray of greenery from the centrepiece.” Anticipating her next question, he added. “I put the centrepieces on the table first thing. On all of the tables. They stay there all day…so I have no idea if the Santa was there before Mr. Franklin sat down. I didn't notice it as I approached the table. Mr. Franklin pointed it out to me. And he didn't see it right away. He gave me his order, then pointed to the Santa and said, ‘what's that?'”

“How did he react?”

“He was pretty blasé about it.”

“Mr. Franklin has treated the Little Santa caper as nothing more than a joke,” said Mr. Simpson.

“So Mr. Franklin would be a good suspect,” said Mr. Bole.

Tim nodded. “I'd suspect him of almost anything but I have to say he seemed a little puzzled when he pointed the Little Santa out. As if he didn't register it at first.”

“Who else had opportunity?” Miss Miller wondered. “Did anyone notice anyone else lingering near that table?”

Tim pondered this. “Mr. Rudley came in first. Then Mr. and Mrs. P.-W., but the P.-W.s never came near the centre tables. I didn't see the Sawchucks and Mr. Justus come in, so I can't swear whether they went near that table or not.”

“Mr. Justus is a magician,” Norman pointed out.

“The Nesbitts and Johnsons came in about the same time,” Geraldine reported. “I remember them milling about. I had the feeling they were trying to pretend not to notice each other. Perhaps they didn't want to sit together.”

“My,” said Margaret, “I don't think we've ever had so many guests who disliked each other.”

“True,” said Rudley. “We usually just have guests murdering each other.”

“Mr. Nesbitt thinks every man here is after his wife,” said Miss Miller.

“And Mrs. Johnson thinks every man is attracted to Mrs. Nesbitt,” said Tim.

“Mrs. Nesbitt is an extraordinarily attractive woman,” said Norman. “If one is inclined to be seduced by exterior beauty.”