Many Unpleasant Returns (17 page)

Rudley was at the main desk, doodling with pen and paper, trying to figure out how long the propane tanks would hold out before the delivery truck was able to get in. What would happen if the electricity went out in the cabins? How long would the generators hold out? They did have the pellet stoves he had had installed a few years ago on the advice of the co-op manager. The man was a bit of a survivalist, but perhaps not entirely off the mark. However, the supply of pellets they kept on hand was not meant to last more than two or three days, depending on how warm the guests insisted on being — and they usually were not prepared for much discomfort. What if they had a catastrophe like an ice storm where people were without power for two or three weeks? He looked at the paper in front of him entitled
PLANS
and scribbled a note that said essentially “what the hell.” If worse came to worse, they'd simply bring everyone into the main inn, sit them down in front of the fireplace in the main lobby and feed in the supply of cured logs, which was reasonably substantial. If necessary, they could start tearing the furniture apart. He was considering which items he could bear to part with — and had tentatively decided on the beds in the bunkhouse — when Tim delivered Carla to him.

Carla, Rudley thought, looked her usual self — imperious. He was glad he hadn't married a woman like that and couldn't imagine why anyone else would, although he had to admit she was striking in a Garbo sort of way and was probably considered intriguing in certain quarters. She made him nervous, the way Sharon Osborne and Morticia made him nervous. Not that she intimidated him. No one had ever intimidated him by mere presence, except perhaps Margaret — but for different reasons. Mrs. Johnson was the sort of woman who would stick pins in him, all the time, fixing him with her enigmatic smile.

“Mr. Rudley?” Tim said. “Mrs. Johnson was wondering if you'd seen Mr. Franklin this morning.”

Rudley leaned forward to cover the notes he had scribbled, not wanting the guests to know he was planning for an Armageddon that might involve half of them freezing to death and the other half resorting to cannibalism. “No,” he replied, glancing away from Carla, whose gaze seemed especially intense. “Perhaps Lloyd has seen him.”

“Where's Lloyd?” Carla asked

“He could be anywhere.” Rudley launched himself halfway over the desk and shouted, “Lloyd!”

No response.

“He must be outside,” Rudley concluded.

“When will he be back in?” Carla asked. Though her voice was low it had the effect of a foot stomping hardwood.

“I have no idea.”

“He'll be back no later than the next meal,” said Tim.

“Is there a problem?” Rudley ventured.

Carla had turned to look out the windows. “What did you say?” She turned back to him.

“I wondered if there was a problem with Mr. Franklin.”

Carla fixed Rudley with an icy stare. “No, I'd just expected him for brunch. I hope he hasn't gone off by himself with a storm coming on.” Her eyes went again to the window.

Rudley followed her gaze. “I wouldn't imagine he'd go very far.”

“Damn him,” she said, turning and marching out the door.

“That was odd,” said Rudley.

Tim looked at him quizzically.

“I can't see why she'd be so concerned.”

Tim shrugged. “Well, he is an old friend. He seems almost like a brother to the Johnsons.”

“I presume she went around to his cabin,” said Rudley.

“She did,” Tim said. “She didn't get an answer. She assumed he'd come on ahead.” He gave a discreet cough. “Both of the Nesbitts are out on the trail. So…”

Rudley rolled his eyes. “And all the other women are accounted for?”

“Yes.”

“Then he's probably just slept in and couldn't be bothered to answer his door.”

“Should we check his cabin?”

Rudley smoothed his papers out on the desk. “I don't think we need to worry just yet. He'll turn up.”

 

Creighton brought the Jeep to a stop and peered at the road ahead through windshield wipers furiously swiping away snow. He turned off the ignition and set the emergency brake.

Brisbois, who had dozed off, woke and stared out into the snow. “What are we stopping here for?”

Creighton gestured to the road ahead. “Because this is as far as the snowplow got last trip.”

“We're half a mile from the Pleasant.”

“This is as far as we're going to get.” He shrugged and added, “It was your idea to come out here, Boss.”

“Well, we can't sit here in the middle of the road.”

“I'm not keen on pulling over here.” Creighton looked to where the shoulder should have been.

“You can pull over a bit. That's why I took the four-by-four.”

Creighton opened his mouth to object, then shrugged and said, “If you say so.” He restarted the engine, released the emergency brake and eased the vehicle over.

“A little more.”

Creighton winced as the wheels sank into the snow, leaving the Jeep at a thirty-degree angle.

“I guess that's enough,” said Brisbois.

Creighton opened his door and glanced at the volume of snow. “This is going to be four feet deep by the time we leave,” he said.

Brisbois zippered his coat, reached into the back seat and pulled out a parka and a pair of overshoes. “Put these on.”

Creighton gave the clumsy-looking overshoes and lime-green jacket a disparaging look. “I wouldn't be caught dead in that coat. Where in hell did you find that?”

“I found it on a hook beside the back door. I think it's the one the janitor throws on to run out to the garbage bin.”

“And you thought I would like it.”

“The janitor isn't in today. He won't miss it.” Brisbois pushed the boots toward his partner. “Take these at least,” he said. As Creighton hesitated, he added, “You don't want to ruin those snazzy leather boots.”

Creighton took the boots reluctantly and shoved his feet into them. “You could cross the Atlantic in these things,” he grumbled. He climbed out.

Brisbois opened his door, looked at the snow, then scooted across the seat and out the driver's side door. He pulled his ear flaps down against the wind. “Boy, it's really starting to whip up out here.”

“That's what I told you. We'll never get out of here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Brisbois muttered. He opened the back door and took out a forensics kit. “Grab that other kit, will you?”

 

Rudley looked up from his desk to see two snow-covered men stumble through the door. “Oh, it's you.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Brisbois said.

“You can leave your boots on that tray by the door,” Rudley said, adding with a frown, “How long are you going to be here?”

“Not long if we can help it. We're here to check out those mutilated Santa dolls, that fisherman thing, and the stuffed dog.”

“Oh, yes,” Rudley said in a more conciliatory tone. “The dog toy really upset Margaret. She's willing to let the others go as a matter of bad taste but she considers the attack on Albert's toy beyond the pale.”

“And what about you, Rudley, do you consider it beyond the pale?”

“I consider it an abomination.” He stared at Brisbois. “Still, I find it odd the two of you would come out here in a blizzard over it.”

Brisbois stole a glance at Creighton, whose faraway look suggested he wasn't paying attention. Making sure no one was within earshot, Brisbois said, “If it were just a matter of the toys, we probably wouldn't have come out, not even if it were a sunny day in May. The matter wouldn't have crossed our desks. They would have sent an officer to ask a few questions and write a report. The report would have been filed and only resurrected if and when something else happened that warranted a closer look.”

“Do I really need to know all of that?”

“Yes. I don't want to listen to you going on about us wasting the taxpayers' money, investigating toy murders.”

“There's something else then.”

“Gregoire's chocolates were doctored,” Brisbois said abruptly, removing his notebook from his pocket.

Rudley gave him a suspicious look. “Are you sure those chocolates came from here?”

“I just got the report, Rudley,” Brisbois said. “The only fingerprints on the bag they were in were Mr. Morton's and Margaret's.”

Rudley glared at Brisbois. “You're accusing Margaret of tampering with the chocolates?”

Brisbois counted to ten to control his annoyance. “No, I'm not accusing Margaret. But someone apparently removed part of the filling and replaced it with a foreign substance.”

“A foreign substance,” Rudley echoed.

“Yes,” Brisbois said. “Cough syrup.”

“And you think that killed Mr. Morton.”

“No,” said Brisbois patiently. “The evidence suggests he probably spit it out. It's unlikely it had anything to do with his death.”

“So?”

“The point is, Rudley, I'm a little concerned that an adult would find that funny. And I don't like that in combination with all the other little things that have been going on around here. I especially don't like the mindset of someone who thinks it's funny to kill an animal, even if it's only by proxy.”

“Oh,” Rudley said, deflated.

“So we're interested in finding out who tampered with the chocolates. The first question is, do you keep cough syrup around here?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Well, we have some in our quarters but we also have some in the dispensary behind my desk.”

“Is it locked?”

“It wouldn't make any sense to keep it locked. What if someone needed the EpiPen and there was no one around to let them in?”

“Good point. What else do you keep in there?”

“A few Tylenol tablets, not enough for anyone to do themselves in with, a few Band-Aids, a few Gravol tablets, and a bottle of no-name cough syrup.”

“Do the guests know this?”

“We have little stickers on the bathroom mirrors. Mainly to inform everyone about the location of the EpiPen.”

Brisbois wrote a note. “What about needles?”

“There's a needle on the EpiPen but I don't think it comes off.”

“No, I mean large bore needles, the kind they might put on a syringe to draw off some fluid or something like that.”

Rudley paused in thought. “The only ones we have like that are those blunt-tipped ones.”

Brisbois frowned. “What do you use them for?”

“To apply a small amount of glue, usually.”

“Where do you keep them?”

“There are some in Lloyd's work basket, a few in my desk drawer, and there's usually a card of them in the drawing room in case someone wants them for crafts.”

Brisbois turned to Creighton, triumphant. “Now, that fits.” He turned back to Rudley. “Where's Lloyd?”

“He and Margaret went down to the coach house a few minutes ago. They're…”

Before he could finish, Margaret came up the back step, her hair wet with melting snow, her coat unbuttoned, her face pale.

“Margaret?” Rudley stared at his wife.

“We need to call the police.”

“They're here, Margaret.” He pointed to the detectives.

“Thank God.” She took a deep breath. “You need to come with me.” She turned back toward the stairs and led them quickly through the snow to the coach house. Inside, they found Lloyd standing to one side of the stage, a large stuffed Santa at the centre. Brisbois's eyes widened as he saw, a few feet back from the apron of the stage, a man hanging by a rope from a hook. A chair with a broken leg lay on its side several feet to his right. A bench sat at an angle a few feet to his left.

“Jesus,” said Creighton.

“It's Mr. Franklin,” said Margaret. “He's dead. He's blue. I touched his hand.” She swallowed hard. “It was very cold.”

“He was like this when you came in?”

Margaret turned to Brisbois, as if surprised to find him there. “Yes, but we didn't see him at first. The curtain was drawn. And then we opened the curtains. We wanted to check the stage lights…” She stopped and took a deep breath.

“Lloyd?” Brisbois asked as he and Creighton approached the stage. “Have you moved anything?”

“Nope. Mrs. Rudley told me to stand here and not touch anything and not let anybody else touch anything.”

“This is the way you found Mr. Franklin?”

“Just so.”

“Did you move the chair or the bench?”

“Didn't move anything.”

“That bag” — Brisbois pointed to a backpack on a chair in the first row of seats — “is that yours?”

“No,” Margaret replied in Lloyd's stead, “that was here when we arrived.”

“Could be his,” said Lloyd, pointing to Franklin. “He had one the same.”

Brisbois looked around the coach house, then returned his attention to the hanging body. “What's that hook for?”

Lloyd pointed to a pulley apparatus. “Part of the gear so we can scoot something across the stage, hang things on,” he said with apparent unawareness of the irony.

“We can see that,” Creighton said dryly.

Brisbois motioned to Lloyd. “
OK
, you can step down, Lloyd.” He and Creighton pulled booties and gloves from the evidence kit and climbed to the stage. Brisbois slowly circled the dangling body and examined the pulley system. “So the rope goes up and across here,” he said to Creighton, “and is anchored to the wheel on the wall there.”

“So he just pulled the rope through, wrapped it around that hook, made a noose, and kicked the chair away,” said Creighton.

“Must have given it quite a kick,” said Brisbois. “It's halfway across the stage and the leg's broken.”

“Maybe he used the bench.”

Brisbois checked the bench. “It's pretty heavy.”

“He could have pulled the bench over, put the rope around his neck, and stepped off into thin air.”

“I suppose he could have,” said Brisbois. “You'd think it would be easier to use the chair.”

Creighton examined the chair. “He plans to use the chair,” he said, “but he notices the leg is broken. He thinks it won't hold his weight. He shoves it aside and gets the bench.”

Brisbois frowned. “Maybe.”

“The leg wasn't broken yesterday,” Margaret said.

“For one reason or another, he chose not to use the chair,” Creighton said. “So he went for the bench. He knew he couldn't kick it over very easily, so he sets it at an angle and jumps off.”

Brisbois frowned again. “Maybe.” He turned to Lloyd, who lingered at the base of the stage. “Was this Santa here?”

“Was here.”

“Normally, it's just left lying on the stage?”

“Was,” said Lloyd. “Got moved back there” — he pointed to the wings — “when we was getting ready last night.”

“So it wasn't on the stage last night?”

Lloyd pointed again to stage right. “In there behind. Was supposed to come to the ballroom at Christmas but Mrs. Rudley saw it was chewed up by the mice. Then we was going to put it at the door but it didn't look so good so it got put in the wings.”

“Maybe he was planning to hang Santa,” said Creighton.

Brisbois gave him a questioning look.

“He gets up on the bench with Santa,” Creighton explained. “Maybe he got his head through the noose as he was hauling Santa up. He lost his balance and that was that.”

“Why wouldn't he secure the rope around Santa's neck, climb up on the bench with the other end of the rope, loop the rope over the hook, pull Santa up, tie the rope off, jump down and tip the chair over to add authenticity?”

“Faster to do it my way.”

“I get your point.” Brisbois scratched his chin. “Well, I'll get some photographs and do some measurements, and take an inventory of his possessions.” He took a roll of yellow tape from his pocket. “Go down and secure his quarters, will you?” He turned to Lloyd. “Where was he?”

“The Pines.”

“
OK
, if you can cordon that off, I'll get underway here.”

“Do you think the coroner will be able to get out here?”

Brisbois shrugged. “I guess we'll find out.”

 

Creighton stepped out into the storm. The snow had picked up, driving sideways in sheets. He stumbled through, surprised at the strength of the wind. Then a gust dumped snow from a flailing spruce down his neck. He shivered and wished for a moment that he'd accepted the ugly green parka. But only for a moment. He pulled his fedora low over his eyes and plunged ahead, stopping periodically to get his bearings. Finally, he arrived at the Pines and reached into his pocket for the roll of yellow tape. He tried the door. Satisfied it was locked, he started to string the tape, but stopped suddenly as his eyes caught a shadow crossing the narrow opening between the curtains in the front door. He pressed closer. Was that a beam of light moving toward the west window? He skirted the cabin and eased along the wall toward the window, his right hand snaking toward his holster.

He reached the window.

 

Creighton came to consciousness in the snow, a swarm of angry hornets buzzing inside his skull. He groped for his gun but the holster was empty. Fumbling, he located the gun under his knee and staggered to his feet. His hat was gone, no sign of it anywhere. Sensing the temperature dropping, he pulled the scarf from around his neck and tied it around his head, thinking that if he froze to death he'd be found looking like a babushka. He peered into the undulating white world, noting short narrow slashes in the snow fading into the west. Tracks. He decided to follow them.

 

Brisbois completed his walk-through of the death scene and returned to Margaret, Rudley and Lloyd.