Many Unpleasant Returns (8 page)

“Santa Claus suit?” Brisbois asked.

“Yep, middle-aged man in a Santa Claus suit. Report said he was lying in the road a mile from the Wood Lake Road turnoff. He was hit by a car headed west. According to the report, the driver said he was covered with snow. She mistook him for a snowdrift.”

Brisbois studied the corpse. “You're saying someone buried him in the snow.”

“No, I'm saying he was lying on the road and it snowed on him.”

Brisbois frowned. “So he decided to have a nap on the highway. It snowed on him and someone ran over him and killed him.”

The pathologist shook his head. “He was hit by the car. One tire ran over his right hand, crushing it.”

“And?”

“Well, he has a displaced fracture of C3, broken wrists, multiple facial fractures, skull fractures. I would say he's been dead a couple of hours.”

“What time did the driver hit him?”

“Around 4:30. But I think he was dead for an hour or so before that. He was on his way to freezing.”

Brisbois paused. “Am I missing something or are you trying to tell me he was dead before the car hit him?”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you.”

Brisbois digested this. “If the driver just ran over his hand, how did he get so bashed up?”

“I think he probably fell.”

“Fell?”

“The injuries are consistent with a fall.”

“You're telling me he sustained all of those injuries falling on the road.”

“I'm telling you he fell from a height. If I know that area, and I do fairly well, the road goes through a rock cut. It's twenty feet deep in some places.”

“So he fell from the top of the rock cut…”

“Or somebody pushed him,” the pathologist said. “But that's part of your investigation, I suppose.”

“What in hell was he doing at the edge of a rock cut, in a snow-storm, dressed like Santa?”

“I guess that's part of your investigation, too.”

“Was he dead before he fell?”

“If you mean did he have a heart attack or stroke, there's no evidence of a recent coronary, although he has had one in the past. Mild congestive failure? I suppose he could have had a weak spell while enjoying the view from the top. He could just as easily have lost his footing.” Dr. Jim shrugged. “I'll send the usual sections and liquids for analysis. Once we find out who he is, his medical records may give us a few more clues.”

“No
ID
?”

“He must have left his wallet in his other suit,” the coroner deadpanned. “Or it may have slipped out of his pocket when he fell.”

“Well, that would be a fine state of affairs if it's out there somewhere in a snowbank.”

“Can't help you there. That's…”

“Part of my investigation,” Brisbois finished.

“Correct.”

Brisbois waited but Dr. Jim seemed preoccupied. “That's it?”

“Oh…just one thing.” The pathologist drew Brisbois's attention to the corpse's face. “Neat, well-cared-for beard.”

“With some kind of yellowish residue stuck in it,” Brisbois murmured.

“Yes, I'll send samples for examination but it may be nothing.”

“Any guesses?”

“Some sort of sugary concoction. We'll find out when we get the labs.”

“Maybe something he was allergic to?”

“No evidence of that.”

“How long before you know anything?”

“It'll take a while for the whole tox screen but I'll have the routines, blood alcohol and the like, pretty soon. Can probably get some prelims on some of it. If you turn up anything suspicious, I can try to expedite things.” He paused. “You should contact that woman who hit him. She still thinks she killed him.”

“
OK
.” Brisbois started for the door. “Are you going to be around during the holidays?”

“Of course. It's my job. I'm a dedicated man…besides, my wife's family is coming.”

Brisbois left, thinking about how often people seemed to hate their in-laws. He loved Mary's mother. The old doll was a hoot. And a damn good horseshoes player. He disposed of the greens and took out his phone. Creighton answered on the fourth ring.

“Where in hell are you?” Brisbois demanded.

“Working my way into the scene.”

“What the hell. How far?”

“About a quarter of a mile.”

“Get out and walk then.”

“I would if I wanted to get run over,” Creighton said without rancour. “Some idiot tried to stop to avoid running into the cones and ran off the road after taking half of them down. Managed to sideswipe a cruiser in the process. Scared the shit out of everybody. Come on out, Boss. Join the fun.”

“I'm on my way. In the meantime start looking for the guy's wallet.”

“You think maybe it's under a tree somewhere?”

“Jim thinks he probably fell off the rock cut. If it fell out of his pocket it shouldn't be far from where he landed.” He paused. “Make sure they've got everything cordoned off.”

“Between the snow and the plow and the Holsteins and the people who can't back their cars up without running into snowbanks, the tow truck, the people who don't get the message that traffic cones and officers waving madly means they should stop, things are pretty well cordoned off.”

“Have you been able to talk to the uniforms?”

“I thought I'd surprise them,” said Creighton; then, reading the annoyance in Brisbois's exhalation, said, “I've talked to Officer Henry. She's trying to control the westbound traffic, as I described.”

“I don't know Henry.”

“Me neither but I'd like to. They've got the situation as well controlled as possible. They're trying to get a third car in to manage the zoo, but they don't have anything to send at the moment.”

Brisbois considered the situation. “We need to get in there. See if they've picked up anything they can
ID
. Find out where they found the body and see if you can get a bead on where it might have fallen from.”

Creighton sighed as Brisbois rang off, easing his car as close to the side of the road as he dared. He got out and pulled the collar of his coat over his ears. So, he mused, Brisbois was eager to turn a highway misadventure into a criminal scene. He looked down at his new boots with chagrin, thinking: I didn't buy these with the intention of tramping around in the snow.

 

Rudley urged Margaret toward a seat. “Now, Margaret, Gregoire's made you a nice bowl of chicken soup. He's even given you a packet of saltines instead of croutons. You know what it cost him to do that.”

She shivered. “Rudley, I don't think I can ever eat again. I'm a murderer.”

He slammed his fist into the table. “Margaret, you are not a murderer.”

“I killed that man.”

“How were you supposed to know the old fool was lying in the middle of the road? You should sue him for putting your front wheels out of alignment.”

She took his hand just as he was about to renew his assault on the table. “Rudley, I appreciate what you're trying to do but what's done is done.”

“The old fart was probably drunk. Causing you all this distress because he decided to tie one on. If I had him here, I'd wring his bloody neck.”

She wiped away a tear. “He didn't deserve to die because he was drunk.”

“Eat your soup. You need your strength.”

“I can't imagine it takes much strength to sit in prison.”

“You're not going to prison,” Rudley said. He put his arm around Margaret. “No one is going to put you in jail. At worst, you might lose your licence.”

“It doesn't matter.” Margaret picked up her spoon and dipped it listlessly into her soup. “I can't bear the idea of driving again.”

“We'll get you a chauffeur until you feel more confident,” said Rudley. “Lloyd can do it. Of course, he can't drive anything but the truck. But that would be all right, wouldn't it, Margaret?”

“Yes, Rudley.”

“It's that damn fusspot Frances Blount. If she hadn't delayed you, you would have been home before that old crank decided to lie down in the middle of the road.”

“Rudley,” Margaret sighed, squeezing his hand, “you're prattling.”

“Margaret…”

“You're trying to cheer me up.”

“Nonsense, when did I ever try to cheer you up?”

Margaret pushed the soup bowl away. “I can't eat right now. I'm going to get Albert into his togs and take him for a walk.”

“I'll come with you.” Rudley pushed back his chair.

“No, I need to go by myself with Albert.”

“I'll not have you going out into that storm alone.”

“We'll just go up into the woods. Don't worry, Rudley,” she added as he started to protest. “I'm not planning to do myself in by drowning in the lake.”

“Margaret!”

“If I'm not back in half an hour you can call out the brigade.”

Rudley sank back down into his chair.

She patted his arm. “Don't worry, Rudley. It's not in our blood to do ourselves in.”

“Except slowly,” he said, thinking about Aunt Pearl with her whisky addiction and brother Ralph with his beer belly.

“I'll be all right, Rudley.” She got up slowly and left.

“Margaret didn't do anything wrong,” said Gregoire, who had come out from the kitchen to see if Margaret would have some of his mince pie.

“No, she didn't. If I know Margaret, she was barely moving when she ran into that old drunk.”

“I am glad they didn't make her go into the station.”

“It was Officer Ruskay,” Rudley said. “If it had been Semple he would have shot her on the spot.”

“If they try to come and take her we will fight them with all we have.”

“With all of our spatulas and toilet paper,” said Rudley. “If I could get my hands on that old sot, I'd strangle him with my bare hands,” he said.

Gregoire didn't bother to point out the old sot was already dead.

 

The snow that day began deceptively. Oh, we had all been worried, sort of, that a storm was coming. But you know how humans are. We may know something nasty is inevitable but we assume it isn't going to happen to us. And at a place like the Pleasant Inn, with the holidays, time has a different dimension. News of an approaching storm seems remote — it could happen next week or next year. Dismissive remarks float around: “We usually miss the worst of it” — which, in retrospect, must mean, “we're quite forgetful.” Or: “A storm never seems as bad out here in the country as it does in the city. Out here, we have fireplaces and generators and pellet stoves and outdoor grills and larders stocked with enough food to last for weeks” (as long as you aren't set on greens). Or: “My joints tell me it's going to be a bad one.” But no one believes what someone else's joints have to say.

There's been a lot of confusion around here today. Mrs. Rudley's going into town or Lloyd's going into town. Mrs. Rudley would be home by 4:30 or was it just after lunch? No, that was the Nesbitts — who were going skiing? Was Mr. Morton going to get his flight today? He was hoping for a cancellation. I don't know what his chances would be. I've never taken an airplane.

In spite of all the bustle, there are moments of profound silence during this season. If you close your eyes during these silences you can inhale the scent of altar candles, the music of choirs, the taste of sugar cookies, the twinkle of lights from the stars in a Christmas tree.

If you're Mr. Morton you'll be opening your eyes to find the harsh fluorescent lights of an airway terminal, the smell of jet fuel, the hollow tone of the public address system announcing arrivals and departures — announcements that cause a flurry of activity or a collective groan.

But back at the Pleasant — lots of activity, chatter and laughter in the lobby, interspersed with Mr. Rudley's blasphemies. Albert seems to be constantly on the go with everyone eager to take him for a walk.

And I went snowshoeing. Tim suggested it as if it were normal for an eighty-something to do so.

“Tiffany's going to take you,” he said as I hesitated.

“I'd love to go into the woods,” I said. It's been a long time since I've had a chickadee take crumbs from my hand, heard a woodpecker or seen a red squirrel.

“Albert's going too,” he said. “But the animals are so used to him they won't be spooked.”

And so I went out with Tiffany and Albert. Heaven knows what I missed in the lobby while we were away. Tim was right. The snowshoes they supplied were light and not hard to manage. Tiffany was sweet and patient. I loved watching Albert in the snow. He's a happy dog. Of course, I've never known a dog that wasn't revitalized by the snow. I thought I'd be exhausted by the time we got back. Instead I was like Albert — renewed.

I was in time to join Mr. Bole and the Phipps-Walkers for bridge. Mr. Phipps-Walker seems more serious about the game than his wife. Mrs. Phipps-Walker was mainly interested in the bird photos they'd taken that day. No snowy owls yet, she said.

Tim stopped by to see if we needed anything. He's a most attentive young man. The Phipps-Walkers noted that the snow had picked up. Tim agreed. It seems he had been keeping a close eye on the weather all day. Mrs. Rudley was expected back soon. I noticed some concern in his voice. Everyone seems solicitous of Mrs. Rudley.

We took a break from our game to sit by the fire and enjoy the snacks Tim brought. Albert dozed on the hearth, bundled up in his bag. I dozed off myself. The exercise, the food, perhaps the gin and tonic. When I looked out the window, I was surprised to find it dark. The wind had picked up and the snow was gathering in the corners of the windows.

I went upstairs to freshen up. When I came down, Tiffany told me we'd be meeting in the ballroom after dinner to sort out the program for Music Hall with Mrs. Rudley. Mr. Bole was in the lobby reading a magazine. He asked if I'd like to join him for dinner. I agreed. Mr. Bole is a bit intimidating with his vast and varied knowledge. He is a gentleman so he doesn't intend to show off. I think he assumes what he knows is general knowledge. I commented on how good the food was here. Mr. Bole said that Gregoire loved to cook, especially for the holidays. Tim was back and forth between the dining room and the lobby, stopping each time he passed the front door to peer out. At one point, Mr. Rudley asked him if the clock had stopped and wasn't Mrs. Rudley supposed to be back by now? Tim tried to reassure Rudley by saying she had probably stopped to have tea with Mrs. Blount.