Many Unpleasant Returns (14 page)

Margaret gave Rudley a preemptive kick in the ankle.

“I believe what Norman means,” said Mr. Bole, “is that Mrs. Nesbitt is an ad man's dream. Her features are regular and make a pleasing composition. She doesn't have the sort of irregularities that, in my opinion, make for an interesting face.” He shrugged. “Having said that, Mrs. Nesbitt is a lovely person.”

“Whereas Mrs. Johnson is a cold fish,” said Miss Miller

“We've painted some interesting portraits,” said Mr. Bole, “but does that bring us any closer to deciding who left the Little Santa so ingloriously upside down in the water tumbler?”

“Oh,” said Tim, “I forgot — Mr. Thornton was also there.”

“Did he have opportunity?” Miss Miller asked.

Tim shrugged. “I can't say for sure. He wasn't alone in the dining room.”

“We were there when he came in,” said Margaret.

“And we were, too,” said Geraldine.

“As were we,” Simpson said. “I saw him come in. He walked through and took a place on the opposite wall.”

Mr. Bole gave Tiffany a questioning look.

“I chose not to dine with Mr. Thornton this morning,” said Tiffany. “I ate in the kitchen with Gregoire. Therefore, I cannot give him an alibi.”

“So Mr. Thornton goes on the suspect list,” Gregoire said.

“He's always been on my suspect list,” Rudley murmured.

“Be nice, Rudley,” Margaret whispered.

“And no one else sat at that centre table this morning before Mr. Franklin?” Miss Miller asked.

“No.” Tim replied.

“But the centrepiece was there.”

“Yes, as I said, I put the centrepieces on all the tables, first thing. It looks disorganized to have the waiter putting out the centrepieces at the last minute.”

“I believe,” Tiffany interjected, “that our emotions are interfering with solving the case. We assume no one among us is the culprit,” she explained as all eyes turned to her. “If the other guests got together, they might assume the same thing about us. They would remember us milling about, coming and going.”

Simpson coughed discreetly, then said, “It seems we have diverse theories. The prankster is a person who means no harm but has gone too far. Or the culprit is a prankster with a rather malicious bent — although he may not realize he's being malicious. He may be insensitive. Or the prankster's intent may be sinister. How these gestures could be seen as sinister, we don't know. They certainly feel that way.”

“We're still assuming the culprit is a man,” said Margaret.

“We are,” Simpson agreed. “We're also assuming the culprit is acting alone. In fact, there could be two people acting in concert or there may be copycats at work. The original prankster may then be too embarrassed to come forward and admit to his part.”

Miss Miller beamed. “Edward has developed a real talent for criminal detection.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth.”

“I agree with Mr. Simpson,” Mr. Bole said, “but where does that leave us?”

Miss Miller narrowed her eyes. “We need to focus on motive. If we assume malice, we'll be inclined to eliminate almost everyone as a suspect.”

Norman smiled a buck-toothed smile. “Malice — that would rule out Geraldine and myself.”

“Or someone with a perverted sense of fun,” said Tim.

Rudley crossed his eyes. “That would rule out almost no one.”

“Love, money, revenge,” Gregoire said. “I have heard those are the main reasons to commit a crime.”

“I can't see how our Little Santas would involve love or money,” said Miss Miller. “Revenge?”

“Revenge against whom?” Tiffany asked.

“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” Rudley murmured.

“The Shadow knows,” said Mr. Bole. He smiled an enigmatic smile.

 

Rudley was at the desk later that afternoon ruminating about the meeting earlier when the front door opened, bringing Detectives Brisbois and Creighton. Brisbois was well bundled up. Creighton's fedora and light topcoat suggested style mattered more than comfort.

“What in hell are you doing here?”

“And the wishes of the season to you, too.” Brisbois removed his hat and dusted off the snow, some of which landed on Rudley's desk.

Rudley glared, reaching into the closet for a chamois. He gave the desktop a pointed and vigorous rubdown.

“Sorry,” said Brisbois. “I didn't mean to drip all over the place.”

“What in hell are you doing here?” Rudley repeated.

“We would have phoned,” said Brisbois, “but it seems some of the phones out this way are out of order.”

“So it seems.”

“And since the roads are minimally passable at the moment, we decided to take a trip out.”

“Yes, yes,” Rudley said impatiently.

“We have a few questions.”

Rudley regarded Brisbois with suspicion. “If you're out here to pester Margaret about that damn fool Morton, you can leave. Margaret did nothing wrong. The silly man was asinine enough to fall onto the road and kill himself. If a tractor-trailer had been the vehicle that ran over him, you wouldn't have enough left to recognize him with. You're lucky it was Margaret. She would have been going at a snail's pace.”

“I haven't come to bother Margaret,” Brisbois responded when Rudley had finished his rant. “You're right. She was going at a snail's pace. The measurements prove that. And, as we've already told you, we're satisfied Morton was dead before Margaret struck him. That's not why we're here.”

“It isn't?”

“No, we're here because we wanted to ask you about some chocolates.”

“Chocolates?”

“We're asking around to find out the origin of some fancy chocolates Mr. Morton had in his possession.”

“What in hell do chocolates have to do with the old fool falling onto the road?”

“Maybe nothing. We're just trying to be thorough.” Brisbois pulled the photographs the pathologist had sent him from his briefcase and showed them to Rudley. “Do you have any candy like this?”

Rudley looked at the pictures and frowned. “We had some of that sort. We don't now. They've all been eaten.”

“I'm sure they were delicious. They look delicious.” Brisbois paused. “Did anyone who ate them report feeling dizzy or faint or ill in any way?”

“No. I ate several of them myself. Are you implying we poisoned Mr. Morton with our chocolates?”

“We're just asking. We don't know if the chocolates had anything to do with anything. We're just covering our bases.”

“Your asses is more like it.”

Brisbois let that go. “In any case, where any questions about the sequence of events linger, we need to try to find answers. Perhaps we'll never know the reason Mr. Morton fell but we have to do our best to find out — for the sake of his family, if nothing else.”

“The only chocolates we had of that sort were the ones Gregoire made,” said Rudley somewhat mollified.

“Would Mr. Morton have had some of those?”

“Everyone did. We had candy dishes set out all over hell's creation.”

“And the chocolates you set out looked like the ones in the photographs I showed you?”

“Yes, they looked like them.”

“With liquid centres?”

“No, jams and jellies of some sort.”

Margaret, coming out of the kitchen and seeing the detectives, stopped and cast them an apprehensive glance. “Detectives?”

“Margaret.” Brisbois gave her a nod in lieu of tipping his hat.

“They're asking about the chocolates Gregoire put out this year,” Rudley said. “They seem to think they may have done Mr. Morton in.”

Brisbois raised a hand. “That's not what I said, Margaret. We're just trying to tie up a few loose ends. We found some chocolates with Mr. Morton's things. We're looking into the remote possibility the filling may have made him sick and…”

She put a hand to her mouth. “Caused him to fall off the rise to his death.”

“Well…”

She looked stricken. “The morning he left, I gave him a few of Gregoire's bonbons in a Ziploc bag.”

He showed her the photographs. “Like this?”

She took a cautious look at the pictures. “That bag looks like the Ziploc bag I used and the chocolates do look like Gregoire's.”

“Maybe we should ask Gregoire,” Creighton said.

“Good idea.”

Margaret hurried off to the kitchen and returned with Gregoire, his face flushed from working over a steaming pot.

“Detectives,” he greeted them, removing his cap and dabbing his forehead with a corner of his apron. “Margaret says you wanted to ask me about my bonbons.”

Brisbois held up the photographs again. “Are these chocolates your work?”

Gregoire frowned. “They look like my work.” He peered at the pictures more closely. “Except for that one. As you can see, all of the other ones are perfect.”

Brisbois frowned. “What's wrong with that one?”

“The bottom of it isn't perfect. It has a little blister on it.”

“So it has a little blister.”

“I would never set out my bonbons if they had blisters. That would not be perfect.”

“How do you do that?” Brisbois asked. “I mean, how do you make your chocolates?”

Gregoire explained his process. “So after the chocolate has cooled in the the moulds, I leave just enough room to pour the jam in and seal the bottoms. My technique is impeccable and does not result in ugly little things on the bottoms.”

“Time consuming,” said Creighton.

Gregoire shrugged. “It is. But when you want perfection, that is what you do. The handmade bonbons are my gift to everyone.”

Brisbois thought for a moment. “Where do you buy your fillings?”

Gregoire looked at him, surprised. “I do not buy them, Detective. I make my own from strawberry, raspberry, kiwi, coconut, all red or green or white.”

“The only colours appropriate to Christmas,” said Rudley.

“I had a candy cane the other day that was orange and purple,” said Creighton.

The veins on Rudley's forehead stood out in high relief.

“Please, Detective,” Margaret told Creighton, “Rudley still hasn't adjusted to that thin green stripe that was added to candy canes in the sixties.”

“Candy canes are supposed to be red and white!” Rudley snapped.

Brisbois held up a hand. “On that we agree.”

Gregoire looked at the photographs again. “I would swear those were all of mine but not that one with the blister on the bottom.”

“Maybe that one just got stuck on something,” Creighton suggested.

“That I could not answer,” said Gregoire.

Brisbois returned the photographs to his briefcase and locked it. “It's probably not important,” he said. “Just a loose end.” He turned at a sound on the staircase and saw Geraldine Phipps-Walker on her way down. He also noticed, for the first time, a tiny old woman sitting on an occasional chair by the newel post. He smiled at her. She returned his smile.

“Detective,” said Geraldine as she landed in the lobby, “what brings you out here?”

“Just tying up loose ends, Mrs. Phipps-Walker. We were talking about Gregoire's chocolates.”

“Oh, yes, they were wonderful.”

“So you tried them?'

“Of course. Several.”

He smiled. “Hard to resist?”

“Very,” Geraldine said, passing into the dining room.

“Mrs. Gowling,” Margaret called to the old woman by the newel post, “I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. Were you waiting to go upstairs?”

“No, I'm waiting for Lloyd. He's got the walks clear again so we're going to take Albert for a little walk.”

“Splendid.” Margaret introduced the detectives to Mrs. Gowling.

While Creighton tipped his hat, Brisbois stepped forward and shook her hand.

Lloyd, in coat and boots, came by with Albert. He grinned at the detectives' greeting, then helped Mrs. Gowling into her boots and escorted her out the front door.

“Quiet little lady,” said Brisbois.

“Lovely and quiet,” said Rudley.

Brisbois hefted his briefcase. “I don't think this business with the chocolates is anything to worry about. We won't take up any more of your time…”

“For today,” Rudley mouthed.

“…for today,” Brisbois finished.

“Oh,” Margaret said, “there is one thing, Detective. Since you're here.” She told Brisbois the story of the Little Santas. “One of them seemed to have been poisoned, one stabbed, one shot, and the other drowned.”

“Sounds like a mean trick,” Brisbois agreed.

“I can give you the evidence to take to your laboratory,” said Margaret. She took off down the back stairs to Rudley's office.

“We could put it in our prank-evidence file,” Creighton said behind his hand.

Brisbois scowled at him.

“In case you're interested,” Rudley said, “Walter Sawchuck thinks someone tried to poison him with hot pepper flakes.”

Creighton chuckled. Brisbois raised his brows.

“Did he get sick?” Brisbois asked.

“Not really.”

“What'd they do?” Creighton asked. “Slip the stuff into his Ovaltine?”

“We think he got his spices mixed up.”

Margaret returned with the bag of Little Santas. “Miss Miller collected these and handled them with care. I can assure you any tampering was done before Miss Miller catalogued them…except for the Little Santa that looks as if he were mauled by a lion after he was knifed. That was Blanche, the cat.” Margaret gave Brisbois a detailed account of the various incidences, ending with, “everyone had legitimate occasion to handle these Santas at one time or another so I suppose trace evidence and fingerprints won't be useful.”

Brisbois winced at Margaret's ease with the expression, “trace evidence” — a reminder of past misfortunes at the Pleasant. “Margaret,” he said, “we'd be pleased to hold the evidence for now. I can start a report, but because of the time of year and the fact that no harm has occurred, we'll hold off an investigation for now. We'll tag it as mischief and secure the evidence. That way you won't have to worry about it. If things change, then we'll go with it.”

Creighton looked at the list attached to the bag and chuckled. “So one of the little elves was found in your desk drawer, Rudley.”

“I had nothing to do with it and have no idea of how it got there,” said Rudley.

“That's what they all say.” Creighton laughed.

 

Brisbois and Creighton left Margaret to settle Rudley and trudged to the end of the laneway to their car. Creighton jumped in and turned on the ignition. “These seats are damn cold.”

“Wear long underwear,” said Brisbois.

Creighton sighed with satisfaction as heat began to seep from the car's vents. “There's always something,” he remarked.

“Eh?”

“We never make a routine call out here. There's always something criminal or weird going on.”

Brisbois shrugged. “We wouldn't have any reason to come out here unless there was something criminal or weird going on.”

“Yeah, except in this case,” Creighton said, putting the car into gear, “there's no strong evidence for anything criminal but lots of evidence for something weird.”

Brisbois squirmed in his seat to stretch out a cramp in his back. “I don't know about that. Somebody somewhere tampered with at least two of those chocolates. That's criminal in my book.”

“And you think someone here did it?”

Brisbois shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe we'll get the answer when we get the fingerprints back from the Ziploc.”

“If we had anything else going on we'd probably put this on the backburner from the get-go.”

“Yup.”

Creighton gestured toward Brisbois's briefcase as he drove away from the inn. “So what are we going to do with the evidence?”

“We'll handle it in the usual manner.”

“I hope you're doing the report. I'd never finish it, I'd be laughing so hard.”

Brisbois shot him an irritated look. “There's nothing to laugh at. A citizen made a mischief complaint. We do the paperwork, log the evidence. Standard operating procedure.”

“I suppose,” Creighton responded, noting the growing number of snowflakes hitting the windshield. “It's kind of interesting. Santa's been poisoned, drowned, knifed, and shot. Maybe the guilty party is too lazy to do the real thing so he's just repeating what was done before, using the little dolls.”

“I think it's some jackass guest trying to give everyone the willies.”

“Seems to be working.”

The road had turned slick. Creighton concentrated on driving. For a while neither spoke. Finally, Creighton asked, “Are you headed home as soon as we tidy this away?”

“As long as nothing else has come up.”

“I think the weather's going to be too bad for anyone to be out randomly committing crimes.” He glanced over at Brisbois. “What time does Mary get off tonight?”

“She's at work until six most nights.”

“I guess that happens when you get into management.”

“Yup.” Brisbois turned his head to the side window. “I don't like her driving in the winter.”

“Mary's a good driver. Probably better than you.”

Brisbois sighed and tuned out while Creighton prattled on about his iniquities as a driver. His wife was an excellent driver. He just couldn't get used to worrying when she was away from home. For most of his career that had been her job.

 

I should be surprised — but I'm not — that I'm so calm in the wake of these nasty events. In fact, I feel unusually calm, as if I know I'm in a safe place, a sort of un-panic room. It's almost like being in a loge in the theatre watching some frightful Greek tragedy. Perhaps it's because Tim remains so calm, because Lloyd never seems flustered. Perhaps it's because I'm old. I'm invisible to most of the population. The monsters won't get me; they won't even notice me.