Many Unpleasant Returns (20 page)

Brisbois got up and started to pace. His thoughts turned to James Morton. His death was the result of an accident, a fall to the road from the top of a rock cut. History and evidence suggested he may have left his car and gone into the bushes to relieve himself. Mr. Morton had a small Ziploc bag in his possession containing bonbons. At least two of them had been doctored with cough medicine — the one Mr. Morton apparently took a bite from and spit out — and a second, intact piece that had undergone testing. There was no evidence that the cough medicine had contributed in any way to his accident although, Brisbois thought, it may have occasioned Mr. Morton to drink more water from the bottle of Evian found on the passenger seat, which, in turn, might have contributed to his need to go to the bathroom. That Mr. Morton wasn't wearing his glasses was probably the critical factor, because if he had seen the edge of the rock cut clearly, he wouldn't have fallen. Therefore, doctoring the candy was merely a mean trick that didn't contribute in any legal way to Mr. Morton's death. Still, Brisbois mused, could the doctored candy be construed as a reckless disregard for the well-being of others, even if the effects were minor and temporary? He'd run that by the Crown when he had the opportunity.

What about Walter Sawchuck's “poisoning”? That, Brisbois decided, was because Walter didn't bother to read a label that clearly said “jalapeño flakes.” Although Mr. Justus was not terribly sorry about his brother-in-law's plight, he seemed to be an intelligent man who could have come up with a much nastier way to give Walter his comeuppance.

He sat back down again and thought about the Little Santas. There was something really nasty about their defacements. Could the Crown make a case stronger than mischief? Maybe uttering threats? He decided the spoiled toys spoke to the same mentality as doctoring the candy. Logic suggested the prankster in each case was one and the same. Once he got an ounce of energy he planned to grill everyone again.

And what about the unfortunate Mr. Franklin hanging by his neck in an apparent suicide? There was nothing to suggest foul play, except — he paused, nodding his head — that shadow in the Pines.

“Detective?”

He turned to see Margaret peeking at him through the slit in the curtain. He stumbled to his feet.

“Sit down,” she urged. “You must be exhausted.”

He smiled. There was only one woman besides Mary who could make him feel so cared for.

“Lloyd and I just came up from the coach house,” she said. “We took some soup to the officers.”

“That was very kind of you.”

“It's the least we can do.” She put a bowl of soup on the table beside him. “This is for you.”

“Thank you.”

“There's a message. They're getting a plow through in the next hour. The ambulance will be right behind it. They'll bring your forensics officer and they've located a couple of auxiliary constables who can spell the officers here for a while. That's the best they can manage. All of the regular officers are struggling to deal with the storm.”

“Even that will be a big help.” Brisbois paused. “How are they going to get past that tree in the road?”

“They're going to use some kind of sledge.” She looked at Creighton, who was making faces in his sleep. “Poor Detective Creighton. We'll have to make sure he's well bundled up.”

“Is it still snowing?”

“It's let up a bit,” she said. “We're supposed to get another big wallop overnight. Then it's supposed to taper off.”

He sighed. “How are you folks doing?”

“We'll be all right for another few days. Gregoire has one oven on propane. That should last a bit. If necessary, we can use the grill on the porch and stand around it with tarpaulins.”

“I'd say you've done pretty well.”

“The show must go on.”

“You're right. The show must go on.” But not until I've had my soup, he said to himself.

 

It was late. Detective Creighton had been taken to hospital by sledge. The guests were gathered in the drawing room as Detective Brisbois had directed that they, along with staff, remain in the inn proper, on the main floor, while the forensics officers checked each cabin and each room.

“They shouldn't waste their time on my room,” Mrs. Gowling said.

“I imagine searching your room is merely pro forma,” said Mr. Bole.

“You speak from experience,” said Thornton.

“Oh, yes.”

“Mr. Bole's sock drawer has been investigated more times than Al Capone's tax returns,” said Norman with a grin.

“No piece of underwear will be left unturned,” Miss Miller murmured.

Tim set down a tray of canapés. “I think you're safe. Officer Semple isn't here.”

“Officer Semple is exceptionally thorough,” Geraldine agreed.

“Officer Semple is a doofus,” said Tiffany. “Of course, all men are.”

Simpson looked up in surprise. Thornton didn't seem to notice.

“I don't know that there's much to find,” Geraldine said.

“They seem to believe it was a suicide,” said Keith in a low voice.

Norman cast what he thought was a discreet glance toward the Johnsons, who were huddled in the far corner. As if on cue, the Johnsons rose and and walked out into the lobby.

“This must be very hard for them,” said Geraldine. “Mr. Franklin was like family to them.”

Keith shrugged.

“Mrs. Johnson seems almost in shock,” said Mr. Bole. “Perhaps we should have had the paramedics see to her.”

“They should have at least attended to that burn,” said Mrs. Gowling.

“People are odd, aren't they?” Mr. Bole observed. “Faced with an emerging crisis, they choose to iron their clothes.”

“Mrs. Johnson is impeccably groomed,” said Geraldine. “She probably sees ironing as a necessity.”

Mr. Bole nodded. “Yes, as I've said, people are odd. I recall on a trip up the Amazon our boat developed a leak and one chap was mostly concerned that he'd misplaced his nose hair trimmer.”

“I suppose trying to achieve normal order is a way of coping with stress,” said Simpson.

“Did he ever find it?” Norman asked Mr. Bole.

“I'm not sure,” said Mr. Bole. “The boat sank. An alligator missed his foot by an inch. He never mentioned his nose hairs again.”

 

Brisbois had chosen a quiet corner of the ballroom to conduct the interviews the next morning. He had asked Margaret for a single table with coffee and tea available. He wanted to create a non-threatening environment. He realized the guests had been under a lot of pressure for a long time, although he had to admit that the regulars had always managed these events with aplomb.

He opened his notebook and set the tape recorder. He had advised the guests that he would be taping all of their conversations. No one seemed to worry about that. He had also advised them that they were free to consult with their lawyers.

Carla Johnson was a trim, well-kept woman, impeccably dressed in grey slacks and a coral-pink sweater. Her haircut was simple but, he guessed, expensive.

“Would you care for a cup of tea?” he asked, lifting the teapot.

Carla hesitated, then said, “Please, half a cup.”

“First, I'd like to offer my condolences. I understand Mr. Franklin was a close family friend.”

“Yes.” Carla stared past him, looking lost. “Frankie's been a friend of ours for over twenty years, since university.”

Brisbois scribbled a note. “And you've kept in touch since?”

She uttered a short, mirthless laugh. “We never got out of touch. I married Johnny right after university. Frankie married Liz Hall. Johnny and Frankie went into business together.”

“What kind of business?”

“Financial services. Johnny was the inside man, Frankie was the outside man.”

Brisbois arched his brows. “How so?”

“Johnny is brilliant at what he does. He's precise, a detail man. Frankie is…was…more gregarious. He wooed the clients. They were his crowd.”

“His crowd?”

“Frankie's parents were well off. He was used to hobnobbing with people with money.”

“And Johnny?”

Carla hesitated. “Johnny came to university on scholarship. He couldn't have come otherwise.” She smiled. “When I first met Johnny, he had no idea what a salad fork was. He was awkward, uncomfortable around people. But he was very bright.”

“Sounds like me except for the very bright part.”

Carla flushed. “I didn't mean…”

“It's all right.” He checked his notes. “Liz Hall. What about her?”

“She and Frankie married right out of university, not long after Johnny and me. They divorced three years later.”

“Did he ever remarry?”

“No. It was ‘been there, done that' with Frankie.”

“You sound as if you were very fond of him.”

She gave a quick nod, then laughed. “Everybody was fond of Frankie. He was like a big kid.”

He waited. She did not elaborate. “I guess the news of his death must have come as a shock.”

She lowered her head. “Yes.”

“Did he seem depressed?”

“Never.”

“Never?”

“He was occasionally a little less Frankie but, no, not depressed. Not ever.”

“Did he ever express any suicidal ideation?”

“Never.”

“Yesterday morning, when they discovered his body in the coach house, I understand you'd been looking for him.”

“He was supposed to have brunch with me. Frankie was a goof in a lot of ways but he always showed up when he said he would.”

“Tim said you seemed quite concerned. Why didn't you ask Mr. Rudley to check his cabin?”

Carla shrugged. “I never imagined anything bad could have happened to him. Frankie was in good shape. He played all the racquet sports, golfed.” She paused. “I didn't want Mr. Rudley to walk into his cabin because I was worried he might not be alone. And that would have been embarrassing for everyone.”

“I believe most of the women here are married.”

She smiled. “That wouldn't stop Frankie. He's done that sort of thing before. And caused a lot of trouble. Mostly for himself. ”

“
OK
.”

Carla blinked back a tear. “If I hadn't put it off to that…if I'd asked them to check his cabin earlier…”

Brisbois gave her a sympathetic look. “It wouldn't have made any difference, Mrs. Johnson.” He jotted in his notebook. “One other thing…did Mr. Franklin have anything in his cabin someone might want?”

She gave him a startled look. “I don't think so. He had an expensive watch but he always wore that. Perhaps an iPod? “ She paused, looked away. “I can't think of anything else.”

 

Johnson was a quiet man, Brisbois thought, handsome in a rather austere way. Serious to the point of being morose. Brisbois extended his sympathies. Johnny nodded.

“You were with Mr. Franklin in the coach house last night,” Brisbois began.

“Yes. Everyone was down there. We were helping Mrs. Rudley get ready for her play.” He paused. “I think it was a bit of a diversion, just to give everyone something to do. I don't think she was expecting much of a crowd beyond the people who were already there.”

“That sounds like Mrs. Rudley.”

“Yes, she's a thoughtful person.”

Brisbois made a pretense of checking his notes. “Several people I spoke to believed you and Mr. Franklin were the last people to remain in the coach house.”

“Yes.” Johnny paused. “I guess Frankie was the last to leave.”

Brisbois looked up. “He didn't leave with you?”

“No.”

“Go on,” Brisbois prompted.

Johnny swallowed hard. “Look, it probably doesn't matter. I don't want to hurt his reputation…”

“Yes?”

“Everybody was leaving. I started to go, but Frankie yelled out, ‘Johnny, can you help me move the projector?' It was one of those big, old-fashioned things. Then he whispered, ‘I've got this great idea for a prank.' I said, ‘Count me out.' Then he said I was a killjoy. He's been saying that as long as I can remember. So he said, ‘At least help me with that big Santa.'”

“And?”

“I asked him what he was going to do with it. He grinned and said, ‘If they think they've seen pranks, this one will really knock their socks off.' When he said that, I said, ‘Oh, no. I don't want anything to do with this.' He said, ‘You really are a killjoy.'” Johnny took a deep breath. “I said, ‘Good night, Frankie.' And I left.”

“So you didn't help him with the Santa.”

“No.”

“Didn't even help him carry it onto the stage?”

“No.” He paused. “I helped him put it backstage. That was earlier.”

“Did he say what he was planning to do with it?”

Johnny shook his head. “No. I didn't want to know.”

“So Frankie was a prankster.”

Johnny nodded. “Yes, when we were in college I was always getting sucked into one hare-brained scheme or another. Half the time I ended up holding the bag. But that was college. We're adults now, responsible for other people's money. We have to project a certain image.”

“So was he behind all the pranks?”

Johnny frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The doctored chocolates, the murdered toys?”

Johnny paused, then said reluctantly, “The chocolates, yes. The other stuff, no. At least I don't think so. He would have told me.”

Brisbois looked at him sharply. “So he doctored the chocolates.”

“Yes, that was Frankie. It was something he liked to do in college. He'd get a box of those chocolate-covered cherries, drain off the liquid with a needle he got from his nursing school friend. Then he'd inject some castor oil or something awful tasting and seal up the hole with a dab of melted chocolate.”

“And wait for the repercussions.”

“Yes. This time he borrowed a bit of cough syrup from that little dispensary behind the front desk and doctored a couple of chocolates. He snuck them back into the candy dish at the desk, then sat back to see the reaction.”

“But instead the chocolates ended up in the bag Mrs. Rudley gave Mr. Morton.”

“I guess so.”

“Did it bother him when he heard Mr. Morton had died?”

“It bothered him the same way hearing a stranger had died might have bothered him. You know, a moment of regret, then on with the show. Frankie never thought much about the consequences of his pranks. He didn't mean to hurt anyone and I don't think he ever did.” He looked to Brisbois. “I understood the candy didn't have anything to do with Mr. Morton's accident.”

“Probably not.”

“If you're thinking he was depressed about that…I don't think so. Frankie was a guy who didn't have time for negative emotions.” He paused. “I have to say with Frankie it was hard to tell sometimes…what he felt. I don't think he liked the idea that anything could get him down. You know a guy for a long time…” he stopped, shaking his head.

“What did you think when he didn't show up the next morning?”

“I didn't think anything about it. I went out early. He hadn't planned on coming with me. I thought he would probably sleep in, then join Carla for breakfast later on.”

Brisbois drew a finger down his notes. “
OK
, did Mr. Franklin have anything in his cabin that somebody might be interested in?”

Johnny's eyes narrowed. “I don't think so. Why would you ask that?”

“Standard operating procedure, Mr. Johnson. When someone dies unexpectedly, we have to consider all the angles. Accident, suicide, maybe even murder. We have to consider if anyone had motive. Theft is a motive.”

Johnny nodded. “Oh, I see.” He thought for a moment and reiterated the items his wife had mentioned in her interview with Brisbois, adding in a whisper, “I shouldn't have left him alone.”

“What did you think when it got later and he didn't show up?”

Johnny raised his head. Tears were running down his cheeks. “I thought maybe he'd been arrested. I thought his big prank might have gone wrong and someone was hurt or property had been damaged. I didn't want to say anything in case he was just shacked up with someone.”

“Everyone around here is married,” Brisbois murmured.

“There's Tiffany. That would be Frankie's style.”

But not hers, Brisbois said to himself.

 

Mrs. Gowling seemed anxious as she faced Brisbois across the table. She had accepted his offer of tea. The cup kept clattering into the saucer in her nervousness. “Well, Detective,” she said, “I really don't know much about what he might have had. I was never in his cabin.”

He smiled. “That's all right, Mrs. Gowling. Whatever you can remember.”

“He had a nice watch. I think it was one of those they call a museum watch, whatever that means. It looked expensive. You can always tell that. I think his clothes were expensive. I don't think he wore any rings. I don't remember seeing one.” She paused. “Oh, yes, and he had that camera. I imagine it was expensive although I'm not sure. I haven't bought a camera in a long time.”

“Did Mr. Franklin seem depressed to you at all?”

“I saw him at the coach house. We were all there, except Mr. Rudley. He seemed very chipper. He was helping Mr. Bole get ready for his performance.”

“Did he seem to be getting along with everybody?”

“I think so. I didn't notice anything was wrong. Everyone seemed upset when they heard what had happened to him. The Johnsons especially. Mr. Johnson seems very sad. Mrs. Johnson, the poor woman, was upset but didn't want to let on. She'd tried to keep herself busy ironing and burnt her Icelandic sweater and her wrist. She didn't even know she'd done it. She acted as if the burn was nothing, but it looked quite nasty. I guess she was trying to take her mind off the fact that Mr. Franklin was missing. Perhaps she thought he'd got lost in the storm or fallen through a hole in the ice. They'd been together since college. I never went to college but it must be special, having friends that long.”

He smiled, jotted a few notes. “Do you have any thoughts about anything that went on around here before the…incident with Mr. Franklin?”

She pursed her lips. “Incident? Is that what you call it? The doctor called my father's heart attack an incident — a coronary incident. It makes it sound…trivial.”

“Sorry. It seems nicer than
dead
.”

“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “Well, the Little Santas. I don't have an opinion on who was at fault for those. Some people thought it was Mr. Bole. They thought he was creating atmosphere for his upcoming puppet show. But I didn't think that. Not seriously. Oh, I could see him doing it once, but as soon as he realized how upset people were getting he would have revealed himself and apologized. I think almost anyone could have done it. Those little dolls were everywhere. The weapons were in the Clue sets. The felt-tipped pens were readily available.”

“Who do you think had opportunity?”

“Everyone had opportunity,” she said. “You know, Detective, the staff here believe they have a better handle on things than they do. That isn't a criticism. I've never met kinder people, every one of them. But the guests have carte blanche around here — access to pretty much everything. It's informal in the nicest meaning of the word. That's why the guests like it so much. But the staff don't see as much as they think they do. They're always busy and often distracted.”

“Someone sitting quietly and paying attention sees more.”

She gave him an impish smile. “That's right. If you're quiet and still like a rabbit, people don't really see you. Take Mr. Rudley. He was horrified to find out someone had put a deceased Santa in his drawer. But people are in his drawer all the time. I think he believes that because it's his, people will have the good manners to stay out of it. But everyone either sees it as common property, like the magazine rack, or they don't want to disturb Mr. Rudley if all they're looking for is a piece of paper.”