Many Unpleasant Returns (7 page)

“Yes, you would,” Walter muttered.

“We'll have everything back to normal by lunch,” said Rudley.

Simpson took Walter's arm and steered him gently but firmly to the head of the table.

“You'll be all right,” Doreen said. “Just don't drink so much.”

“You're not much further away,” Harry said, nodding toward the restroom.

“Easy for you to say,” Walter grumbled. He huffed about, wriggling in his seat as if it were a chore to get comfortable on the unfamiliar chair. Finally he allowed Tim to fuss over him. Tim removed the serviette from Walter's tumbler, spread it across his lap, and took his order with great concentration, although it hadn't changed in several decades.

Rudley returned to the desk, opened the piano window, and lit a furtive cigarette. Rudley, they'll drive you nuts, he recalled Mr. MacIntyre saying of the Pleasant's guests as he handed over the keys. The deal sealed, all MacIntyre's pretense of loving them had evaporated. Rudley took a deep drag from his cigarette, reached for the ashtray he kept hidden in the drawer under the desk, and tapped the ashes away. MacIntyre's problem was that he was a control freak. He wanted a staid, orderly, ordinary establishment and had a definite idea of how guests should behave and what they should be interested in. The poor devil had never heard of Music Hall. Used to bring in local bands for dances on Saturday nights instead. Showed silver screen films and travelogues on Sundays. Probably held church services in the ballroom. The old crackpot even shut down between Christmas and New Year's and went to Florida.

Rudley smiled in remembrance. That first Christmas at the Pleasant was Margaret's and his first Christmas in their first home. They'd had only a handful of guests that year. Mostly old duffers, most of them six feet under now. Their cook back then had a young family. He and Margaret had given her the day off and cooked the festive dinner themselves. Not as fancy as what Gregoire put together, but superb. Margaret and he behaved like any hosts — they cooked the dinner, served their guests, then sat down with them.

He sighed. They wouldn't have Aunt Pearl this year. Mrs. Millotte, the starchy old doll who had been a waitress at the Pleasant since Caesar was a pup, wouldn't be with them until after New Year's. She'd finally had her first grandchild and wasn't going to miss its first Christmas. Trudy, their part-time waitress, was off in college. On the plus side, they would have most of the old regulars. He paused. If that were a plus…

 

“Mrs. Rudley mentioned you're a magician,” Miss Miller said to Harry.

“He's an amateur,” Walter said before Harry could respond. “Does Rotary shows and the like.”

“Are you going to do a magic act for Music Hall?” Simpson asked.

Harry smiled. “I think I will. Mrs. Rudley asked if I would.”

Doreen scooped up her last prune and tapped Walter's bowl to indicate he wasn't keeping pace. “Eat up, Walter.”

“I'm looking forward to your act, Mr. Justus,” said Simpson. “I was always trying magic acts when I was young but was never much good at it.”

“Neither was Harry,” Walter said in a voice so loud Tiffany and Thornton at the next table turned their heads. “He would have starved if I hadn't set him up in the insurance business.”

“Well,” said Miss Miller, “it's extremely difficult to make a living in the arts.”

“Even Shakespeare had trouble,” said Simpson.

Margaret came in at that moment and joined the group.

“We were talking about how hard it is to make it in show business,” said Miss Miller.

“Oh, it is,” said Margaret. “But I imagine once you've trod the boards, it's hard to give it up.”

“Harry didn't have much to give up,” said Walter.

“Harry did the best he could,” said Doreen.

“Well, he was never any damn good,” said Walter.

Margaret gave Harry a sympathetic pat on the arm. “I am so looking forward to your performance, Mr. Justus.”

 

At eleven, Margaret appeared at the front desk, pulling on driving gloves. “Rudley, I'll be back around 4:30.”

He was hunched over the newspaper at that moment, contemplating how lovely it was to have a few minutes of quiet before the herd rumbled by for lunch. “Where are you going?”

“Rudley” — she gave him an aggrieved look — “I'm going into town to have lunch with Frances. I've mentioned that to you several times.”

He crossed his eyes. That damn Frances Blount. God knows what she would fob off on Margaret this time. Probably yards of teal and fuchsia garlands. “Do you think you should, Margaret? In this weather?”

“It's stopped snowing. The roads are quite clear.”

“What if you run into freezing rain?”

“There isn't any freezing rain projected, Rudley.”

“It could.”

“We could have a tornado, but I don't think we will.” She leaned over the desk and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Rudley, there's no need to worry. It isn't expected to start snowing again until late evening and I'll be home by then.”

“Don't let that woman talk you into anything garish.”

“Rudley, I don't intend to bring home anything but some bayberry candles. Frances called to say they just came in.”

She sailed out the front door, just as Tim came up the back steps. “I finally found the jingle bells,” he said, holding up a length of old leather studded with bronze bells.

Rudley examined them with a sigh. “They're starting to look as if they'd seen better days.”

“They'll be all right, Boss. I'm going to take some saddle soap and brass cleaner to them.”

“Good.” Rudley brightened. “Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without the sleigh bells.”

“I'll put them in the closet for now,” said Tim. “I promised the Sawchucks I'd get them downstairs in time for lunch.”

“Where's Tiffany?”

“With her beau, I imagine. She's on vacation, Boss.”

Rudley harrumphed around as Tim went upstairs to help the Sawchucks. He didn't care to have Tiffany and Thornton in the inn, on the same floor, in — as they had finally revealed to him — adjoining rooms. And when they did reveal it to him, they acted as if he should have known all along. “We couldn't very well have Tiffany staying in the bunkhouse while she's on holiday,” Margaret had said. “And the best room left happened to be the one next to Mr. Thornton's. You wouldn't want Tiffany to have anything but the best.”

“Well…”

“The only other option would have been to have Tiffany stay with me in our quarters and you could have stayed in the room adjacent Mr. Thornton.”

That comment made the veins at his temples throb.

“Nothing will happen, Rudley, that wouldn't happen if she were in the bunkhouse and he was in a room at the inn. They've been in Toronto together.”

“That's the point. They were in Toronto.”

Rudley sighed. He knew Mr. Thornton was a dud, but if Tiffany was determined to marry a dud, there was nothing he could do about it. Young women, he considered, have no taste in men. Not like Margaret. He smiled and did a little two-step behind the desk. Yes, they made men different in his day. I wasn't a bad catch. Well-mannered, reliable, with some prospects. Properly raised, the son of an old-fashioned general practitioner and a resilient mother with the patience of Job. He inherited the best from both. His father had expected him to follow in his footsteps, but from the moment he walked into the old Baltimore Hotel in Galt for his first summer job, he knew he was to become an innkeeper. In the past thirty years, in spite of a series of misadventures, he and Margaret had been a source of comfort and excellent service to a regular stream of guests. He ran the inn with a firm but gentle hand and it wasn't always easy riding herd on a spirited staff and a group of eccentric guests always eager to jump the traces and run amok. He couldn't have done it without Margaret. She'd been at his side since the day they first met at that stuffy London party, one of those arty things he usually loathed. He remembered standing in a corner, nursing his Jamieson, the other guests looking at him as if he were a bear in a bush. She was the only one there worth spit. She was pretty in a way that attracted him, bright and warm. From the minute he laid eyes on her, he knew she would never be unkind to any living thing. And she never had been. “Great girl, Margaret,” he told Albert.

 

I had a lovely breakfast — a fruit cup, eggs Benedict, and an English muffin. With tea, of course. Then I settled into a wing chair in the lobby with yesterday's
Star
. The lobby is a busy, cheerful place in the morning with everyone coming and going, leaning against the desk, lounging about as I am just now. I think people like to congregate to watch the front desk. If you made a video of what happens around that desk, it would be intriguing.

At some point, we start out with Mr. Rudley at the desk by himself. If you're sitting in front of him half-hidden in a newspaper, he seems to assume he's alone. He mutters to himself, and from his expressions and gestures seems to be involved in some rather involved soliloquies. Sometimes he talks to the dog, Albert.

The first person he interacts with in the morning is, I presume, Mrs. Rudley. Then Tim, the waiter, then Lloyd, the handyman. Mr. Rudley shouts at all of them, none of whom pay any attention — at least they don't seem offended by his carrying on. He's generally polite to the guests, although I've heard him murmur a few ungracious things to their departing backs.

Occasionally, Mr. Rudley will leave the desk unattended. I doubt if he realizes how popular his desk is when he's away. Everyone seems to feel free to slip behind the desk, rummage through the drawers for a pen or whatever they want — a piece of paper, a thumbtack. The front desk is a hub of activity. Everyone wants to talk to Mr. Rudley.

Mr. Rudley may not be aware of the drama taking place in his lobby because he seems able to block out much of what is going on around him. This may be necessary, given the hubbub, but he does miss things he might well want to pick up on.

I heard Mrs. Nesbitt comment to Tim the other morning, after our discussion in the drawing room, that it seems strange that so many murders could take place in such a small area without anyone noticing. Tim laughed and said that someone could commit murder right in front of the desk and Mr. Rudley wouldn't notice.

 

Margaret gathered up her packages of mistletoe and holly, and bayberry candles. “I'm so glad you were able to get these in, Frances. It wouldn't be Christmas without holly and bayberry.”

“You can't imagine my relief, Margaret, when the truck pulled in with the holly. There's apparently quite a rush on it this year.”

“Perhaps people are returning to a more traditional Christmas.”

“Oh, I think so.” Frances paused. “Don't let your cat get into the holly.”

“I won't. She's never had much of an appetite for plants, thankfully.”

Frances glanced out the window. “You take care now. The wind's picking up. They're predicting the storm getting worse as the afternoon progresses.”

Margaret bid Frances farewell and left her shop, holding her head high to see over the packages. She reached the car and smiled. She had borrowed Tiffany's Mini, as Lloyd had taken the truck and her own car wouldn't start. It was the vintage type, not the sleek modern version, which was, in Margaret's opinion, not really a Mini at all. She placed the packages on the floor in the back and climbed in. She felt quite at home in a Mini. She had driven one when she was a girl in England. “Makes me feel eighteen whenever I drive a Mini,” she told herself.

She reached the town limits and glanced at the marina, which was closed for the winter, its moorings frozen, its dock obscured with snow.

If it weren't for the skiing and sledding, this place would be death in the winter, she thought. The lake was closed up, white and still. She shivered. The deathly cold was one of the things that had shocked her most, coming as she did from a more hospitable British climate. After all these years, she couldn't get used to it.

She glanced at the holly she had placed on the seat beside her and felt her spirits lift. She would be home soon, in the warmth and bustle of the Pleasant. Rudley, dear Rudley, would be at the desk, grumbling and muttering, rattling around in the cupboard. Tiffany, the maid, would be in the kitchen just about now; even on vacation, Tiffany would want to see if she could help. Gregoire would invite her to have a cup of coffee and chat with him as he prepared another of his scrumptious dinners — pork tenderloin with apple and raisin sauce, chicken cordon bleu, salmon steaks with dill, stuffed peppers, cheese soufflé… They were expecting a good crowd for dinner, as was usual during the Christmas season. Tim would be checking the tables and straightening the odd serviette, as elegant as always. Lloyd would be coming up the back steps shortly with wood for the fireplaces, stopping by the kitchen to check on the progress of his dinner — liver and onions, macaroni and cheese, hamburger with mashed potatoes and peas. Lloyd had never developed a taste for Gregoire's fancier main dishes, although he loved his desserts.

Maybe it's because he's an orphan, Margaret thought. He prefers comfort foods. She smiled, thinking of the new sled they had bought Lloyd for Christmas — custom made and painted red, based on a vintage pattern by Mr. Carriere, the cabinetmaker. To make up for the one Rudley crashed into the pine tree last March.

She shivered. She was glad Aunt Pearl had got away to a warm spot for a few weeks. Thinking of Aunt Pearl was bittersweet, reminding her of Christmas back home, a light frosting of snow — a welcome respite from the drizzlies — goose and plum pudding. Who says the British have no culinary sense? Caroling. Singing in the church choir. She missed the church at times, not because she was overly religious. It was the tradition, part of her heritage. She supposed she would have attended the church in Middleton, if Rudley were keen. He wasn't. His people were United Church. Hardly a religion at all, he liked to say.

Flakes of snow danced in the headlights. She reached for her glasses.

She was glad the guests had got in before the storm began in earnest. Norman and Geraldine Phipps-Walker had arrived two days earlier. The Sawchucks were in. Mr. Bole had arrived with the Phipps-Walkers, lugging a duffle bag she knew was filled with props for his hand-puppet series. He had put on
The Philadelphia Story
during the summer. Perhaps he'd do
Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street
for Christmas. She would have clapped her hands if both hadn't been gripping the wheel. Oh, I'll bet he's doing
A Christmas Carol
, she thought. I hope he gives it an Alastair Sim edge.

As she drove on, the snow seemed to fall more heavily, driving into the windshield in a way she found mesmerizing. She adjusted the wipers, eased up on the gas and scanned the ditches anxiously. Hitting a deer was a constant fear. The wind, too, was picking up, driving the snow to the sides of the road, darting, swirling and drifting. She slowed further and hunched over the steering wheel, peering through the windshield, barely able to see the road ahead. She was about a mile from home now but she was entering the area of the rock cut. There was nowhere to pull over and stopping in the middle of the road seemed ill-advised.

She slowed for the curve ahead, but when she came out of it she saw to her horror a large snowdrift directly ahead. She applied the brakes but the car shuddered and spun, skidding sideways into the drift. She put on her four-way flashers and stumbled out of the car. She got the shovel from the trunk. The blade hit something solid. In the headlamps, she saw a flash of red. She dropped the shovel.

“Oh, my God.”

 

Rudley glanced up at the clock. “Is that thing working?”

Tim checked his watch. “It's right on, Boss.”

“What's keeping Margaret?”

“She said she was picking up some things at the Flower Company. She and Mrs. Blount probably had a cup of tea, got talking, you know how it is.”

“Frances can flap her gums with the best of them. Too bad the old coot never has anything interesting to say.”

Tim glanced toward the window. “The snow's picked up. Maybe she got stuck behind the plow.”

Norman and Geraldine Phipps-Walker came in, stamping their feet. They removed their boots and placed them on the mat by the door.

“It's getting quite bad out,” Norman said. “You can barely see the inn from the first cabin.”

“I imagine the birds have had the sense to call it a day,” Rudley remarked.

“The vines and hedges are alive with sparrows,” Geraldine enthused. “Such spunky little birds.”

“If they had any brains, they'd go south.”

“It's not in their nature, Rudley, any more than it is yours.”

“I see your point, Mrs. P.-W. Although, if I were freezing my tail feathers off in a drafty hedge, I might change my mind.”

Tim went to the window. “It's really coming down now.”

Rudley stared at the snow gathering against the bevelled panes. “Lloyd.”

Lloyd materialized, his jacket sprinkled with woodchips. “You was calling?”

“I was calling.” Rudley took the keys from the hook. “Would you take the truck down to the turnoff and see if you can see any sign of Margaret? If you don't, come up here and we'll go down together.”

“Yes'm.”

Gregoire came out of the kitchen.

“I see you have a new cap,” said Geraldine.

“It is the latest style.”

“Looks like a damn stovepipe,” said Rudley.

Gregoire drew himself up to his full height, which placed him level with Rudley's shoulder. “I came out to see if you have had any cancellations for dinner. I stepped out onto the back porch and went almost to my knees in the snow.”

“I checked with the county. The plow is expected through before the first sitting. I've conveyed that information to everyone who's called.”

Tiffany's voice suddenly rang out from the back steps. “Wait, Albert!”

But Albert disobeyed, rushing down the hall to land beside Rudley, panting, his tail wagging.

“I guess Albert's enjoying the snow,” said Norman. “I don't recall ever seeing him so animated.”

“I've been thinking of hooking him up to a sled.”

“In some places, that might be considered inhumane, Rudley.”

Rudely frowned. “They do it in Flanders all the time.”

Tiffany came in, unwrapping her scarf and brushing drops of water from her hair. “Is Mrs. Rudley home yet?”

“I've sent Lloyd out to have a look,” Rudley said.

“She was in town to see Mrs. Blount,” Gregoire pointed out. “Did she say what time Margaret left?”

“I haven't called Mrs. Fusspot.”

“If you would stop insulting the woman, perhaps you would not have these problems,” said Gregoire. He took the phone and dialled the Flower Company's number, giving Rudley an aggrieved look.

“What did she say?” Rudley asked when Gregoire replaced the receiver.

“She said that Margaret left her shop at 4:30 — forty-five minutes ago.”

Rudley's eyes went to the clock. “She should have been here half an hour ago.”

Dan Thornton came down the stairs at that moment and addressed Tiffany. “Sorry, did I miss the walk?”

“I tried to wake you,” Tiffany replied with a hurt look.

“Sorry. This country air does me in.” Thornton smiled, then recoiled as Albert jumped on him.

“Damn dog.” Thornton brushed at his jacket.

“It's just water,” said Tiffany, taking the dog by the collar and edging him toward the drawing room. “Come, Albert, I'll put you into your bundle bag by the fire.”

Thornton shrugged and followed.

“Apparently, he doesn't care for dogs,” said Tim.

“I would think he should learn to,” Gregoire said, turning toward the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, the door opened and nearly slammed against the wall. Lloyd stepped through in a gust of wind.

“Did you find Margaret?” Rudley asked.

“Did do.”

“Where is she?”

“Back up the road, maybe a mile.”

“What's she doing back up the road, maybe a mile?”

Lloyd unzipped his coat. “I got up the road, past that big oak and there was Tiffany's car.”

“Yes?”

“And the snowplow.”

“Well, hell,” Rudley said. “She got stuck behind the plow.”

“Then the police car with all its lights flashing.”

“And a police car?”

“Sounds like the usual so far,” said Tim who had come out of the dining room when he heard Lloyd's voice, anxious for news of Margaret.

“And then a line of cars all waiting behind.”

“Probably our first sitting for dinner.” Rudley took a long breath. “Lloyd, did Margaret come back with you or not?”

“Couldn't do.”

Rudley gave him a murderous look.

“Officer Ruskay was talking to her on account she ran into Santa Claus.”

 

Officer Ruskay sat in the cruiser with Margaret, his notebook balanced on his knee. “So you came around the corner. How fast were you going?”

Margaret's hands trembled. “I don't think it was more than twenty kilometres per hour. The visibility was very poor.”

“
OK
.”

“I thought he was just a snowdrift.” She shuddered. “I tried to miss him. I turned my wheel — I didn't want to plow through a snowdrift — but I couldn't miss him entirely. The steering wheel jerked. I put on my flashers and got out to shovel. And there he was.”

“He was lying on the road, covered with snow.”

“Yes.”

He reviewed her driving licence. “Were you wearing your glasses?”

“Yes.”

He paused as the coroner rapped on the window. Motioning Margaret to stay put, Ruskay stepped from the car and closed the door behind him.

“He's dead,” the coroner said. “I can't tell you exactly when. Sometime in the last couple of hours, I suspect.”

“So it's death by motor vehicle.” Ruskay stuffed his notebook into his pocket.

“We can't say anything for sure until he's been autopsied.” The coroner shrugged. “But it looks as if Mrs. Rudley's front tire ran over his hand at least. It's a little flat.”

Ruskay wrinkled his nose, then put a hand over his ear as someone blasted a car horn.

“I think you're keeping a lot of people from their dinners,” the coroner said.

Ruskay turned to the officer standing in front of the snowplow. “
OK
, back up the traffic.”

 

“This had better be good.” Brisbois stood in the office at the morgue, snow melting and dripping from his porkpie hat. “I was scheduled to play Santa Claus at my wife's charity gala. She's skinny and hates wearing a beard.”

The morgue attendant poked him in the midsection. “I can see you're perfect for the role, Detective. Now, if you'll come with me we'll get you into your proper attire.”

Brisbois removed his coat and hat, hung them on the coat tree, and followed the attendant down the hall.

“When did the body come in?”

“A couple of hours ago. Dr. Jim got right on it.”

“He must think it's pretty important.”

The attendant smiled. “Naw, he's like everybody else. He wants to get this over and get to the party. They have a big whoop-de-doo in the endoscopy lab every year. They set up their own still and everything.” He stopped at a cupboard, took out a package, and handed it to Brisbois. “Get into these and we'll see what's cooking.”

Brisbois disappeared into the change room, then came out swathed in green. To avoid laughing, the morgue attendant suppressed an image of the Michelin man crossed with a tomato worm. Together the two headed to the autopsy suite. “Where's your partner?” the attendant asked.

“He's trying to get to the scene.”

“Good luck with that. I heard they had to back up traffic a mile to get the morgue truck in.”

“Great.”

In the autopsy suite, the pathologist, Dr. Jim, acknowledged him with a nod. Brisbois cast an eye toward the adjacent table where the victim's belongings were spread out.