One shoe fell off as the paramedics lifted Tiffany to the stretcher. Rudley picked it up, stared at it for a moment, then slid it onto her foot.
“She’s going to be all right,” the paramedic said.
“I’m going with her,” Rudley said.
Ruskay’s voice boomed from the bathroom. “What in hell is going on around here?”
“It’s Peter Leslie,” said Rudley.
“And this was his cottage?”
“Well, what in hell would he be doing in the bathtub in someone else’s cottage?”
Brisbois stared at him. “Anything seems possible around this damned place.” He looked around the bathroom, grimaced.
Leslie lay, head tilted back, in a tub of bloody water.
“When did you see him last?”
“Around seven. He was out for his run.”
“Does he do that every morning?”
“Every morning he’s been here.”
Brisbois eyed the clothing discarded by the bathroom door — a soggy singlet, running shorts, and socks. An athletic supporter perched on top of a pair of red and white Saucony trainers.
“Looks like he just dropped his clothes and climbed into the tub,” Creighton said.
“Partially shaven,” Brisbois noted. He turned to Rudley. “Does that door have a lock?”
“All the doors at the Pleasant have locks.”
“Keys?”
“Margaret and I. Tiffany has keys to the cottages and guest rooms.”
“Does she normally walk in on people in the bathroom?”
“If she does, no one’s ever complained about it.”
“What would she be doing here?”
“Dropping off fresh linen, making up the bed, tidying the bathroom.”
“Looks as if he already had fresh towels.”
“Guess he didn’t get to use the ones she left yesterday,” Lloyd said.
Brisbois pointed to the door. “Would you mind waiting outside until I’m ready for you?”
Lloyd grinned. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“You might as well go too, Rudley.”
Rudley stormed off.
Brisbois shrugged and turned his attention back to the scene. “Looks as if he was in the middle of shaving.” He looked around, frowned. “No razor. No electric shaver.”
“There’s whiskers on the facecloth,” the forensics officer said.
Brisbois’ gaze fell on an elegant slender case on the vanity. “Crikey.” He turned to Creighton and whispered, “He should have switched to an electric.”
The officer drained the tub. Bloody water swirled down the drain, leaving a gelatinous ring. “Look at this, Brisbois.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“My grandpa always said using a straight razor could be tricky.” The officer dangled the evil-looking instrument between a gloved thumb and index finger.
Brisbois eyed the ivory handle inset with mother-of-pearl. “Looks as if it might have been his grandpa’s.” He turned away.
“Weird,” said Creighton. “He goes for a run, comes back, gets in the tub, starts to shave, then for some strange reason, decides to slash his wrists.”
“You’re thinking suicide?”
“Why not?”
“He’s got a lump the size of an egg on the side of his head.”
Creighton shrugged. “Maybe he got it thrashing around. Death throes.”
Brisbois pointed to the floor. “That water beside the tub? Clear. Not a spot of blood on the bathmat. I bet that lump on his head happened before he got cut.”
“So someone came in. He tried to put up a struggle and slopped water.”
“Yeah. But it’s hard to struggle if you’re lying in a tub. He couldn’t get any purchase. So the guy belts him on the head. Then, to make sure he’s dead, he holds his arms under the water and slashes his wrists. Neat. No blood splatter.”
“Could be.”
“Had to be. He couldn’t have done it himself.”
Creighton thought for a moment. “You’re right. The cuts are pretty deep.” He looked around. “With what’s been going on around here, wouldn’t you think he would have locked his door?”
Brisbois considered this. “Maybe he did. Rudley said the maid had a key. She knocks. Doesn’t get an answer. So she unlocks the door and enters. Maybe the killer followed her in.” He nodded. “That makes sense. He hid in the bushes until the maid came down. She unlocks the door and goes in. He follows her, whacks her on the head, and goes on into the bathroom.”
Creighton nodded. “Yeah, he sure wouldn’t have any trouble finding cover outside. This place is like a rain forest. Probably was skulking behind that spruce at the corner. The skirt goes right to the ground.”
“Why in hell do they call this place the Birches? Most of the birch trees are around the Oaks.”
“Guess they didn’t know their trees.” Creighton guffawed, then fell silent as Brisbois frowned.
“That works.” Brisbois repeated. “The maid doesn’t see a DND sign. She uses her key to unlock the door. Knocks anyway, just in case. Leslie says, ‘I’m in the tub.’ ‘I have your towels,’ she says. ‘Leave them on the bed,’ he says. The murderer pushes in behind her, knocks her on the back of the head, heads toward the bathroom. Leslie might be surprised to hear footsteps coming toward the bathroom. But not alarmed. Maybe he thought she was going to leave the stuff on that wicker table by the bathroom door. Imagine his surprise. Motive,” he muttered. “Wallet’s on the bedside table, jammed with credit cards, a couple of hundred dollars in cash.”
“The watch looks worth a couple of thousand.”
Brisbois pushed his hat back. “We’ll see what the pathologist turns up. In the meantime, we’re treating this as a murder.”
Creighton nodded.
“Let’s find out where everybody was during this debacle. And underline this: Nobody leaves this place. I don’t care if they have a command performance with the Queen. Confiscate their passports, their driver’s licences, and their credit cards.”
Simpson looked at the clock. “I suppose they’ll stop serving breakfast soon.”
“I’m sure I can talk Gregoire into something.”
“I’m sure you could talk anybody into anything.” He tilted his head to take in her coral nipples. Red hair had its advantages. “I must say I was surprised to find you at my door so early. Pleasantly surprised.”
She wriggled on top of him, propping herself up on the heels of her hands. “I got up this morning with the female equivalent of a hard-on. I checked the dining room. You weren’t there. Where is he? I wondered. In bed, I replied. I couldn’t wait a minute longer. If I had met you coming down the stairs, I would have herded you right back up again.”
He cupped her breasts. “I’m delighted, of course. I was afraid I might have to take the initiative. I’m not very good at that.”
“British reserve?”
He laughed. “Oh, we Brits are really quite randy. This particular one, however, is rather reticent.”
“He shouldn’t be. He’s really quite talented.” She lowered herself over him.
“If you keep finding dead bodies, I may have to include them on my menu.” Gregoire leaned over the stove, a solicitous eye on his crêpes. “They seem to be the most common ingredient at the moment.”
“I don’t appreciate your humour, sir.”
“I’m sorry, Detective. Please give me a moment. Crêpes demand total concentration.”
Brisbois waited as Gregoire wrapped the crêpes around a sprinkling of cinnamon and handed the plate to Tim. “Where were you this morning?”
“Where I am every morning.” Gregoire picked up three eggs and cracked them one by one against the bowl. “Slaving over a hot stove for a troop of clods who have fouled their taste buds with copious quantities of Jim Beam and other noxious spirits the night before.”
“Is there a lot of drinking around here?”
“Yes, especially last night. Last night was �
��on the house.’ Rudley springs for the first drink.”
“Generous.”
“Good business, I would say. Once this crowd starts drinking, there is no stopping them.”
“So what time did you start work?”
Gregoire put a plate aside, patted his forehead with a linen towel. “I start at four o’clock every morning. I prepare the breakfast and the lunch. I take a few hours off, then return to prepare the evening meal. During some of that time, I am at the market or in the garden, looking over the produce.”
“Sounds rough. Do you do this every day?”
“Yes. If I want to take time off, Rudley gets a semi-retired chef from the village to replace me.” He shrugged. “My duties are not onerous, Detective. Cooking is my profession, my hobby, and my passion.”
“Can anyone verify you were here?”
“No one saw me arrive. At about four-thirty, Mr. Thomas and Mr. Phipps-Walker came to get coffee for the lake. Going out to harass the fish. Tim arrived at six to set up the dining room.”
“How did he seem when he arrived?”
“His usual self. Cracking wise and begging me to ask him about the night before and the dish of a waiter he picked up at the West Wind. I did not take him up on his offer so he told me anyway between bouts of laying the silver.”
“Appearance?”
“Elegant as always. Shirt, snowy white, pants and vest without a speck of lint. Hair, perfectly coiffed. He would never put his nose out of his room otherwise.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“Rudley poked his head in around six-thirty to get some coffee. Margaret came in at the same time to help Tim. To set the tables, place the flowers, which she does every morning, except on those occasions where she has been kidnapped or is particularly incensed with Rudley, which, if I were in her place, would be most of the time.”
“What about Tiffany?”
“She came at six as always. She likes to have a cup of my excellent coffee before she starts the day. I did not see her after that. Usually, she cleans the common areas until near seven. Then she makes her rounds.”
“Starting at the cottages?”
“Yes, in spite of swilling liquor all night, the guests are lined up like pigs at the trough the minute the dining room opens at seven. I should just step out onto the veranda and shout sooey.”
“You’re a sarcastic man.”
Gregoire shrugged. “It’s behind-the-scenes humour. I assure you, I am a paragon of propriety in the presence of the guests.” He washed his hands, picked up a red pepper and a cleaver. “As for the others…Trudy Popkie and Melba Millotte come in at a quarter to seven. They check in with me when they arrive since, theoretically, I am master of my domain.”
“And they were on time?”
“Yes.”
“What about the guests?”
Gregoire halved the pepper with a blow. “You would have to check with the wait staff. I have not had my nose outside the kitchen since I arrived.”
The guests had left the dining room. Tim sat in the corner near the kitchen with Melba Millotte, an older woman, and Trudy Popkie, a dumpy high-school student. Mrs. Millotte was drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. Brisbois pulled up a chair and sat down. Creighton leaned against the wall.
“I was wondering what you could tell me about the whereabouts of the guests this morning.”
“Most of them were milling around in the lobby a few minutes before the doors opened,” Tim said. “Except the Benson sisters in the Elm Pavilion.”
“The Benson sisters?” Brisbois flipped through his notebook.
“You’ve probably seen them sitting on their veranda. The youngest one is eighty-eight. They arrive here by limousine and never put a foot off the veranda until their chauffeur pries them off near the middle of October.”
“The Sawchucks had breakfast in their room this morning,” Mrs. Millotte said without looking up from her paper. “She has arthritis. When it’s acting up, she can’t get going until after nine. He has prostate trouble and likewise.”
“You seem to know them rather well.”
“They’ve been coming here since Trigger was a colt. Even before Rudley. They spent their honeymoon here.”
“Who took their breakfast up?”
Trudy put up her hand.
“And they were both there?”
“They were in bed. I had to help Mrs. Sawchuck get her legs over the side.”
“And everybody else?”
“Mr. Leslie wasn’t here,” Tim said.
“Obviously.”
“Mr. Thomas and Mr. Phipps-Walker were fishing,” Tim said. “Simpson wasn’t here. Miss Miller came looking for him. When we told her we hadn’t seen him, she went back upstairs.”
“What time was that?”
“About twenty after seven.”
“She’s got her cap set for him,” Mrs. Millotte said.
“So Miss Miller went to get Mr. Simpson.” Brisbois turned a page. “When did she come back?”
“She didn’t. Neither did he.”
“Pretty hot and heavy?”
“Since she set eyes on him.”
Brisbois turned to Creighton. “Go see where they are. Don’t tell them anything. Just say I want to see them.” He turned back. “Did anyone see Leslie this morning?”
Tim and Mrs. Millotte shook their heads. Trudy looked down.
“Trudy?”
“No.”
Brisbois was planning his next line of questioning when Creighton reappeared. He leaned over and whispered in Brisbois’ ear. “Message delivered. By the way things looked, it may be a while before we see them.”
“Okay.” Brisbois turned back in his chair. “Did Leslie have any problems with anyone here that you know of?”
The staff looked at one other.
“I don’t think Mr. Thomas liked him too much,” Tim said. “Nothing dramatic. He just didn’t seem to want to give him the time of day.”
“I didn’t like him,” Mrs. Millotte said. “He was a womanizer. I don’t like men like that.” She gave Brisbois a long stare and returned to her newspaper. “But I didn’t kill him.”
“This place works to a definite rhythm,” Brisbois said. “Everyone has a routine that might as well be engraved in stone. The maid starts in the lobby. She goes to the cottages, starting with the most distant and works her way back. She does the rooms in the main inn last.”
Brisbois was pacing. After interrogating the staff, he and Creighton had returned to Rudley’s office.
“You’d think she’d start at the nearest. Lighten up her load as she goes along.”
“She has to pick up the dirty linen so it probably doesn’t make much difference.”
“What does she do if someone has a DND sign on?”
“She goes back later. According to Rudley, that doesn’t happen very often. The guests like to get up early, have breakfast, get out on the lake, whatever.”
“Except for our two lovebirds.”
Brisbois turned his chair to face the wall, swung back, oscillated. “Leslie’s murder has to be an inside job. The killer would have to know the routine.”
Creighton tapped his notebook. “Could be a local, someone who comes here to do work, make deliveries.” He shrugged. “What I don’t understand is why didn’t Leslie have a DND sign on his door. If he was going to have a bath, you’d think he’d put out his sign. Otherwise the maid would walk in on him.”
“Maybe he didn’t care if she caught him in the buff.”
“Yeah. Mrs. Millotte said he was a womanizer.”
“Maybe he did put up the DND sign,” Brisbois said. “Maybe the murderer took it off to make sure the maid would unlock the door. Or” — he paused — “maybe he didn’t put the sign up because he was expecting someone and that someone murdered him.”
“An inside job.”
Brisbois nodded. “Who do you think did it, Creighton? Who would you pick?”
Creighton laughe
d. “I think they’re the biggest bunch of fruitcakes I’ve met in one place. But it’s hard to see any of them as a killer.”
“Motive?”
“It wasn’t robbery. Must be revenge, or love gone wrong, which is the same, I guess.”
“One murderer? Two murderers?”
Creighton shrugged. “There doesn’t seem to be any connection between the two. Unless whoever killed John Doe in the wine cellar thought Leslie knew something.”
“Leslie wasn’t here when John Doe bought the farm.”
“Maybe he picked something up in conversation. Maybe he knew something he didn’t even know he knew. The murderer got nervous and killed him.”
“Interesting angle, Creighton. Unfortunately we’re not going to be able to jog his memory.”
“Maybe they all know something they don’t know they know. You said yourself the place thrives on routine. Damn near worships it. They know so much about what each other’s doing at any one time — maybe they can’t get beyond that. They assume something happened a particular way because that’s the way it always happens. Now, Lloyd — ”
“What about him?”
“He’s everywhere. He sees everything. He’s kind of a chameleon. You don’t see him, but when someone yells, he’s there as if he’s been there all the time. Sort of blends into the wallpaper.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Brisbois said. “But he seems kind of dense.”
“I think he’s one of those people who assumes everybody’s smarter than he is. He wouldn’t necessarily say what he knows because he assumes smarter folks would have thought of it.”
Brisbois gave him a surprised look. “I think you’re on to something, Creighton.”
Lloyd was in the garden when he spotted Brisbois and Creighton moving down the flagstone path toward him. He watched them for a moment, then returned to his work.
The garden was no idle indulgence. His greens provided salad for the Pleasant all summer. His corn was a hit at the mid-summer hoedown along with his new potatoes, carrots, and summer squash.
Lloyd liked working at the Pleasant. He had been working in the feed store before Rudley hired him. The feed store was all right, but he liked working in the fresh air, so it wasn’t hard to leave. He liked to wake up early and listen to the birds before rolling out of his cot in the tool shed. He had a room in the bunkhouse, but he found it too noisy. In the winter, Mrs. Rudley made him sleep inside. Mr. Rudley said if he wanted to freeze his ass, it was his business, but Mrs. Rudley won the argument, so he guessed it was her business. She didn’t say that, of course. She said the shed was drafty and unheated and he would get pneumonia and die. He missed being close to the air, but it was hard to say no to Mrs. Rudley.
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