Many Unpleasant Returns (5 page)

Home for the holidays. Signed in by Mrs. Rudley, a lovely warm woman. She must have thought I looked chilled (I was) because she took me to the drawing room and brought me a cup of tea. She chatted with me for a while, then a handsome young man delivered another cup of tea and a nice strawberry scone. I'm sure Tim's gay. He's too elegant to be otherwise. Not that it matters. At my age it's enough to have something nice to look at.

While I was enjoying my snack, an older couple came into the drawing room. They introduced themselves as Geraldine and Norman Phipps-Walker. They seemed to be a cheerful, pleasant couple. It seems they're avid bird-watchers. Mrs. Phipps-Walker mentioned she was especially eager to spot some snowy owls. They talked about their amazing camera. It sounds like quite an improvement over my old Kodak. I took pictures when I was young but I wasn't much of a photographer. Mainly I wanted something to remember people and events by. I stopped taking pictures a long time ago. It got too hard to find film for my camera. I can't say I miss the photographs. I find that as I grow older I remember the people and events I want to. If I don't remember them, then they probably weren't that important or, for some reason, best not remembered.

The Phipps-Walkers seem like a lot of fun. On my first trip here almost forty-five years ago, everyone seemed so staid. Perhaps that was because I was much younger, although I tend to think it was because the previous innkeeper, Mr. MacIntyre, thought his only responsibility was to provide us with bed and board and some ordinary sort of entertainment — travelogues and the like. Mrs. Rudley seems to really care about people and not in a way that fulfills some need of her own. You see plenty of that among caregivers. Don't I know.

I think I'm going to like it here.

 

Later that afternoon, Rudley was leaning over the desk reading the newspaper. Supper was being served in the dining room. He couldn't say he was that hungry. That was the problem with Christmas. There was food all over the place at all hours. And he felt compelled to eat it, to sit down with everyone for a nosh whenever they waved him over. Not to do so would seem antisocial. “And I've been accused of that often enough already,” he murmured to himself, turning a page of the paper. The portable radio played in the background:

Massive winter storm barrelling our way from the American plains states…expected to wallop southern Ontario over the holiday week. Snow falling now from the Great Lakes to the Ottawa Valley. Five to ten centimetres expected overnight. But this is just a harbinger of things to come. Get out your woolies and shovels, folks.

Rudley snapped the radio off. All weathermen were alike, he surmised. Couldn't anyone give a straightforward reportage of the weather anymore? These idiots acted as if they were auditioning for a comedy club.

Margaret came out of the kitchen with a small tray. “Rudley, I've brought you tea and some of Gregoire's vegetable soup. You've been scarfing down all of those sweets and rich canapés. You need something plain.”

“Yes, Margaret.” He lifted the lid on the container, picked up the spoon and sampled the soup. “That hits the spot. How are things in the kitchen? The last time I looked in, Gregoire ordered me to leave. That doesn't seem right. I'm the boss, after all.”

“Gregoire's been going nonstop for days. He's running on adrenalin.”

“I told him I would be happy to get him a sous-chef for the holidays.”

“You know he loves preparing for the big day even if it does wear him to a frazzle. He couldn't tolerate another person underfoot in his kitchen.”

“Well, I'm quite happy to stay out of his kitchen.” Rudley sat down on his stool and tucked the serviette into his shirt.

Margaret pulled out the guest register and leafed through it. “Everyone's signed in,” she said with satisfaction. “That Mrs. Gowling is a nice lady.”

“Yes, quite a departure from the Benson sisters. She seems sane.” Rudley took a spoonful of soup. “Some of those other people don't seem quite right.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she asked, bewildered.

“The Nesbitts seem too glamorous.”

“They're a handsome couple, Rudley. As far as I know, that's not an indictable offence.”

“I think they would feel more at home if we had an indoor gym.”

“Rudley…”

“I would imagine they're the type who run marathons.”

She gave him a rap on the cranium. “Rudley, I hate it when you get into these moods where you become so judgmental and such a contrarian. I agree they're attractive and athletic-looking. They've expressed an interest in cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. Neither of them mentioned an indoor gym.”

He took another spoonful of soup and felt soothed. “The other couple, the Johnsons. She reminds me of a vampire.”

“Mrs. Johnson didn't strike me as particularly exotic.”

“I don't think she would look out of place wielding a whip.”

“Now, whips are rather exotic.”

“The husband seems rather mousy.”

“Rudley, you're becoming a stodgy old thing. You're just too comfortable with the old regulars. You expect everyone to be like the Phipps-Walkers and the Sawchucks.”

“Perish the thought.”

“You don't like a lot of new young people around because you feel you have to mind your manners. After all, they aren't used to you and, unlike some of our older guests, they aren't hard of hearing.”

“You're partly right, Margaret. I don't want to reinvent myself for every Tom, Dick and Harry who walks through the door.”

“No one expects you to be anything but yourself, Rudley.”

“And then there's that silly Mr. Morton. He reminds me of Doreen Sawchuck and Walter combined. Fussing around about his glasses, needing to find a washroom every time he turns around.”

“He told me he was taking a diuretic.”

“There, you see? Just like Walter. Can't these people keep their private matters to themselves?”

“Eat your soup, Rudley.” Margaret headed for the kitchen.

Gregoire was at the counter, his knife dancing across the cutting board as he diced an apple. “Did himself approve of his soup?”

“He thought it was excellent.”

“Good.” Gregoire exhaled sharply. “I could not take anyone complaining about anything now.”

“Gregoire, please sit down and take a rest. What can I help you with?”

“I was cutting up some fruit.”

“I can do that.” Margaret banished him to the corner with a cup of coffee.

What a wonderful time everyone has at Christmas, she thought. Working themselves into a frazzle. But it was only for a few weeks. Then, after New Year's, everyone would feel let down with the quiet. It was that way every year. Gregoire exhausting himself, Rudley being impossible. Dear Rudley. The main problem was he liked being in control — as if he ever was. She took a pineapple, peeled and cored it, and helped herself to a tidbit. Wonderful. Sweet and juicy.

Gregoire appeared at her elbow. “Has Mr. Rudley had a chance to meet Tiffany's latest beau?” he asked.

“No, he's managed to avoid Mr. Thornton so far. I doubt if he can too much longer.”

“Did you tell him about the Santa Clauses?”

“Yes,” she replied, selecting another piece of pineapple. “I'm afraid he's not keen on them.”

“They are a little strange, Margaret, with their long arms and legs and skinny little bodies. I have never seen Santas like that.”

“They're made so the arms can be wrapped around branches on the tree. Once they're packed with treats, they'll fill out.”

“They will look like people who have spider bodies.”

Margaret sighed. “I agree they're not very attractive. Frances's tastes are rather catholic. Occasionally she's a bit off.”

“So they will be put on the tree?”

“We'll put them around somewhere, perhaps in the ballroom. We have to put them out — or Frances will be hurt — but somewhere they don't stand out too much. You know how Rudley is about the balance of his Christmas decorations.”

“He is quite anal retentive.”

“Yes.” Margaret sighed and reached for a pear.

Gregoire eased the knife from her hand. “I am ready to go back to work and you should have your dinner so you can preside over games night.”

“Oh, I don't need to worry about that. Miss Miller has volunteered.”

 

All of the guests had gathered in the drawing room for a games tournament.

“So” — Miss Miller tallied up the points from euchre, Parcheesi and Chinese checkers — “I declare Mr. Justus the winner of our tournament.”

Harry Justus beamed.

Walter Sawchuck dismissed his brother-in-law's achievement. “First time he's won a thing in his life,” he muttered.

“Shh,” Doreen hissed.

“It's not as if he won the Nobel Prize.”

Noting Harry's smile fade, Miss Miller hastened to add: “In winning the first of our games nights, Mr. Justus has accumulated twenty points, which gives him an excellent chance of winning the grand prize.”

“What's he get?” Walter huffed. “A blue ribbon?”

“Which I happen to know,” Miss Miller continued, “will be one of several nice gifts selected by Mrs. Rudley as prizes for our various contests over the holidays. And for winning tonight, Mr. Justus receives a gift box of our local jams and jellies.”

“Mr. Sawchuck's a bit of a poop,” Dan Thornton murmured. He was sitting beside Tiffany, one arm draped over her shoulder.

“Who's a poop?” Norman Phipps-Walker asked in a stage whisper.

“Group,” Tiffany whispered to Norman. “Dan just noted we were a wonderful group.”

Norman smiled a buck-toothed smile. “Yes, we are.”

“I think you've had too much to drink, Walter,” Doreen said in a voice she thought low, but which carried halfway across the room.

“I've had one glass of punch,” Walter growled.

“Which proved to be too much,” Miss Miller murmured.

“It looks as if there's trouble in paradise,” said Norman as Doreen gave Walter a frosty look, then turned away.

“I imagine Mrs. Sawchuck wants to support her brother,” Simpson whispered. “Walter was treating him unfairly.” Aware of the others straining to hear him, he announced, “We were listening to the weather report on the way down. It seems we're in for a dilly.”

“We did come here for the snow,” said Carla Johnson.

Miss Miller shot her an irritated look.

“Quite,” said Simpson.

“It's probably exaggerated,” said Ted Franklin, yawning. “Even if it's a bummer, it'll blow over well before we have to leave.”

“I imagine they're used to handling bad weather here,” said Peter Johnson.

Thornton smiled a self-satisfied smile. “I'm sure they are. I'm not sure I'd want to be snowbound in a remote area though.” He took a sip of his drink. “Especially in a place with the reputation of the Pleasant.”

Sheila Nesbitt took a drink from the tray Tim offered, gave him a dazzling smile, then turned her attention to Thornton. “Why do you say that, Mr. Thornton?”

“There have been a number of incidents here.”

“The brochures say the inn was built by the Mob,” Johnson said.

“I've heard someone was murdered here once,” said Carla. “Shot, stabbed or something.”

Thornton cast a smug look around the room. “Actually, there have been several murders here.”

Sheila leaned toward him. “Really?”

Her husband, Keith, frowned.

“Yes.” Thornton paused, as if reluctant to pursue the subject, then said, “Throat slashing, knifing, bashing, hanging…”

“That was an accident,” Tim broke in.

Thornton gave him a look that suggested he didn't think the help should interrupt his story.

“And not on our property,” Tim added.

“A guest of the Pleasant had an accident on the ski lift,” said Miss Miller.

“There were also a couple of drownings,” Thornton said, “at least one of them not accidental, and a couple of poisonings, one of them at least not accidental.”

Franklin laughed. “Geez, sounds like that book about the ten little Indians. Weren't the guests snowed in in that one and they kept dropping off one by one?”

Mrs. Sawchuck gasped. “Do you think that could happen? Ten people?”

“We've never had more than two at once here,” Geraldine trilled. “Is that my Dubonnet, Tim? Thank you.”

“Enough of this,” said Miss Miller. “Let's have another game. Just for fun.”

“Let's do I Spy,” Simpson suggested with enthusiasm.

Franklin uttered an exaggerated groan. Miss Miller gave him a withering look.

“That sounds like fun,” said Sheila. “I haven't played I Spy since I was a kid.”

Franklin gave her an appraising look. “I can't believe you were ever a child, Sheila.”

Keith Nesbitt glowered.

“So,” said Miss Miller, “who wants to start?”

Sheila waved her hand. “I will.” She looked around. Her eyes narrowed, then brightened. “I spy something with my little eye and it's black.”

“I think she might be describing her husband's mood,” Mr. Bole murmured to Simpson, who arched his eyebrows.

Tim stopped by Mr. Morton's chair and placed the whisky neat beside him. Startled, Mr. Morton's head jerked up.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Morton, were you asleep?”

Mr. Morton rubbed his eyes. “I guess I was. Long day. And I have to get an early start tomorrow as well.”

Tim took the last drink to the corner table. “Mrs. Gowling, one gin and tonic.”

She smiled. “Lovely.”

“Would you like to move closer to the fireplace?”

“Thank you, Tim. I'm fine right here.”

 

I feel right at home with this group. Because everyone assumes I might be a little hard of hearing, I pick up things. I cultivate this impression by seeming to be a little vague at times and tilting my head to one side. It's fun.