Ruskay confirmed the licence plate and checked the mileage. “You’re all clear, Miss Miller.”
Simpson eased Aunt Pearl into the back of the car. “Fasten your seat belt, Miss Dutton.” He pulled it around her and tethered her as she fumbled about. “There, we don’t want you tumbling out.”
“Thomas didn’t want to come, I guess,” Aunt Pearl drawled as Simpson and Miss Miller buckled themselves in. “Pity.”
“Why, Aunt Pearl, would you happen to have a thing for Garrett Thomas?”
“He’s a dreamboat, don’t you think?”
“He is rather dapper,” said Simpson.
“That perfectly shaped head, those nice tight ears. I never could resist a man with tight ears.”
“It would be a distinct advantage for rugby,” said Simpson.
“And such a gentleman. Such old-fashioned manners.”
“A lady’s man,” said Miss Miller.
“Oh, probably,” said Aunt Pearl. “But such fun.” She rummaged in her purse, took out a small flask. “Anyone for a nip?”
Miss Miller and Simpson declined.
“Cheers,” said Aunt Pearl as she drained the flask.
They drove in silence for a few minutes. Simpson glanced into the rearview mirror. Aunt Pearl snoozed away, the wind fluttering the gingham bow on her straw hat.
“Strange how opinions of people vary.”
“Garrett Thomas?”
His brow wrinkled. “Yes. I find him sarcastic, somewhat inconsiderate with his cigars and so forth.”
“But Aunt Pearl adores him.”
“Clearly. He seems charming with her. Attentive. And he really doesn’t have anything to gain by being gracious to an elderly lady.”
“You mean he has a streak of kindness he tries to conceal by being a sourpuss.”
“Perhaps.”
“Like a brilliant lover pretending he’s awkward?”
He blushed. “I’m glad you came to my room.”
She put a hand on his knee.
“I’m not sure we should have brought her,” Simpson said. He and Miss Miller sat at a booth in the Fish and Fowl, a place dressed up to look like an English pub.
“She must have a hollow leg. I don’t understand why she’s still standing.”
“I suspect she’s had considerable practice.”
Aunt Pearl tottered around the corner from the restroom, plopped down beside Miss Miller, and summoned the waiter. “I just saw Garrett.”
“Did he say if he wants a lift back to town?”
“I didn’t get a chance to ask him. I just caught a glimpse of him as he slipped around the corner by the gas station.”
“We’ll probably come on him on the way home.” Simpson glanced at his watch. “We should be thinking about getting back.”
“One for the road,” Pearl said when the waiter arrived.
“Why don’t we wait and have a cocktail at the Pleasant?”
“Killjoy.” She struggled up out of the booth. “Could we at least stop at the place on the dock for a root beer float?”
Simpson took her arm to steady her. “That sounds like a marvelous idea.”
The dock was crowded on a warm afternoon. A dozen people were lined up at the kiosk.
“Why don’t you and Miss Dutton take a stroll?” Simpson suggested. “I’ll wait in line for the refreshments.”
Miss Miller smiled. “That’s gallant of you, Edward.”
Aunt Pearl tugged at Miss Miller’s sleeve. “Now there’s one I’d hang on to.”
“I’m trying my hardest, Aunt Pearl.”
“He reminds me of my late husband. Winnie was a gentleman, through and through.” She sighed. “There’ll never be another like him.”
“Not even a man with nice tight ears?”
Aunt Pearl giggled. “I said there would never be another like Winnie. I didn’t say I’d become a nun.” She smiled and waved at an older man getting into his boat. The man waved back. Pearl lowered her voice. “That’s Nick Anderson. I think we could have had something if it hadn’t been for his boat. He insisted on speeding up and down the lake at full throttle. Said it made him feel young. Made me seasick. It’s a shame. I love a man with a boat.”
Miss Miller scanned the boats tied up along the dock. “What about that one?” She pointed to a catamaran.
“The boat’s okay,” Pearl said. “But I hear the gentleman is into younger women.”
“That one.” Miss Miller indicated a nondescript inboard. “The Gemini. It looks rather sedate.”
Pearl tilted her head. “I don’t know that one. Looks like something that would belong to a young married couple with three kids.”
Pearl watched with a wistful expression as Nick Anderson roared away from the dock.
Simpson came down the dock a few minutes later with a tray of refreshments.
“I wouldn’t throw him back in,” Pearl whispered.
“A root beer float for you, Miss Dutton,” Simpson said. “Iced tea for Elizabeth. I hope you didn’t get too warm waiting. That sun’s quite hot, isn’t it?”
Miss Miller smiled. “Actually, we were having a wonderful chat. About boats and fishing.”
Aunt Pearl tittered.
“Mr. Thomas, if you would just take a seat there.” Brisbois pointed to a chair on the opposite side of the desk.
“I hope this is good, Brisbois.” Thomas took a cigar from his pocket, examined it, then put it back. “You’re interfering with my afternoon nap.”
Brisbois smiled. “I think you’ll find this quite stimulating.” He hauled out his notebook. “For starters, we have a witness who saw you coming out of the Low Birches this morning.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Our witness said you were wearing a brown shirt, khakis, and a Tilly hat.” He ran his finger along his notes. “Oh, yes, he also said you had a smirk.”
Thomas gave him a long look. “Your witness was right about one thing, Detective. I was wearing a brown shirt and khakis. That’s as far as it goes. I was out on the lake, fishing, when Mr. Leslie was allegedly murdered.”
“Do you have anyone who can corroborate your story?”
“As I believe I told you earlier, Phipps-Walker was with me all morning. His boat wasn’t more than thirty feet away.”
Brisbois wrote this down. “And where were you and Phipps-Walker fishing?”
“Halfway out. Directly across from the inn.”
“Catch anything?”
“I did. A handsome three-pound trout.”
“And what did Phipps-Walker catch?”
“What he catches most of the time. Nothing. He uses the wrong bait.”
“You’re quite the expert.”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Most men in my position golf. I fish. Like a common good old boy.”
“Do you hunt?”
“No, I don’t find hunting very sporting.” He started to stand up. “If you don’t mind, Detective. I assume you’re through with me.”
Brisbois held up his hand. “If you’ll indulge me.” He thumbed through his notebook. “Oh, yes, interview with Phipps-Walker…he confirms your story.”
Thomas shrugged.
“This witness,” Brisbois went on. “Jason Turner. You know him?”
“I can’t say that I do.”
“He lives in that big place across the lake.”
Thomas sniffed. “You mean that young jackass with the jet ski?”
“That’s him.”
“Hm.”
“I understand you had an altercation with him.”
Thomas shrugged.
“Phipps-Walker says he was harassing the boats. That you snagged his shorts.”
“One of my more gratifying casting efforts.”
“He must have been pretty mad about that.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Mad enough to want to get back at you?”
“You’ll have to ask him that, Detective.”
“Oh, I think I will. At
some point.” Brisbois checked back through his notes, taking his time studying the entries. He removed a stack of index cards from his coat pocket, sorted through them, pausing occasionally to check off an item. “Yes,” he concluded, “it’s possible Jason made his story up to get back at you. He’s just a kid, you know. A spoiled rich kid.” He sorted through the cards again, then tapped them back into a neat pile. He turned to Creighton. “Was there anything else, Creighton?”
Creighton leaned foreword and whispered behind his hand.
Brisbois nodded. “Oh, yes, Mr. Thomas. One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Are you familiar with a shoe repair shop in Chicago? Shoniker’s?”
Thomas drew a blank for a moment, then his lip curled. “Detective, do I look like the kind of man who has his shoes repaired?” He stood up. “I assume you’re through with me?”
Creighton sat down in the chair Thomas had vacated while Brisbois finished his notes.
“So Phipps-Walker sticks by his story?”
Creighton nodded. “He was fishing with Thomas all morning. Not more than thirty feet away. Saw him land a nice trout. He sounded kind of jealous about that.”
“Tim saw him out on the lake?”
“Yup.”
“And Rudley?”
“Yup.” He shrugged. “I guess our man in the khakis wasn’t Thomas.”
“If there was a man in khakis.”
“You think the boy was lying?”
“Either he’s lying or all those people who gave Thomas an alibi are lying.”
“Doesn’t seem likely. Why would they stick their necks out for Thomas?”
“I don’t know. The way things are going around here, Creighton, I don’t think I’d trust the damned Pope if he gave one of these nuts an alibi.” He shoved the index cards into his pocket. “I don’t think I’d trust anything I didn’t see with my own eyes.”
Creighton looked at him for a long moment.
“What?”
“Have you noticed, boss, you’ve been swearing a lot more since you came here?”
Chapter Eleven
“Lloyd.” Rudley reared up from behind the counter. He knocked his head on the edge. “God damn it.” He drove his fist into the counter, which did nothing but compound his pain. He solved the problem by yelling louder. Margaret hustled across the lobby, carrying a basket of pompoms. “Lloyd is in the garden. I asked him to bring up some green onions.”
“Well, I’ve got a more urgent problem. Mrs. Sawchuck has called down twice. She’s got the tip of her cane caught in the floor register and can’t get it out.” He grabbed the telephone and shoved it across the desk. “God damn it, if Brisbois doesn’t get this investigation wrapped up before…” He stopped and stared into space, pressing his lips together as Margaret threw him a cautionary look. “Why would she be clumping around on our fine old hardwood with that damned metal-tipped cane anyway?” He slurred the word damned, hoping to slip it past Margaret.
She rolled her eyes. “She picked it up the last time she was in Bavaria. She’s hoping it will give her more mobility on the rough spots around the inn.”
“It looks like something you’d use to scale Everest.”
She patted his arm. “Be nice, Rudley. This is a big adventure for her. Her first foray into the woods in five years.”
“You’d think she could get her thrills on the sidewalks in the village. Why a place that thrives on tourists won’t patch the sidewalks is beyond me.”
“Council is still considering tearing them up to put in boardwalks, which I think is a splendid idea.” She put down the basket. “I’ll go up to see if I can deal with the problem.”
Tim sailed through the lobby, trailing garlands. They encircled his shoulders like feather boas.
“You look like a whore in a cheap strip joint,” said Rudley.
“These are for the ballroom.”
Rudley shook his head.
Gregoire passed the desk, pushing a cart of chafing dishes. “Have you perfected your act, Rudley?”
“I’m only doing it because the damned guests expect it.”
Rudley had been doing his soft-shoe routine at Music Hall for years. He said he did it because Margaret insisted it was his duty as the innkeeper to accompany her in her act. He did it because he loved to do it and because he was good. He thought about Mrs. Sawchuck and her lethal cane, about the people who sank boats, the kid who carved his initials into his prized cottonwood, the dead bodies scattered about, and how onerous an innkeeper’s life could be. If he had been a man of lesser ambition, he would have followed his heart and hoofed the boards from the Poconos to the Laurentians. He wouldn’t have won Margaret if he hadn’t been so accomplished at dance. He allowed himself a jaunty smile as he recalled her surprise and delight when they took their first turn on the dance floor so many summers ago: “Why, you can dance, you devil. They said you could, but I never imagined you were so accomplished. I thought they meant it was safe for me to wear something more elegant than army boots.”
He shuffled his feet. Dance was in his blood. If life had taken him in a different direction, he would have been right up there with Fred Astaire. But you had to be an innkeeper, Rudley. He whistled a few bars of Easter Parade and did a nifty sideways shuffle.
“I love that movie.” Tiffany paused in front of the desk, her hands wrapped around her broom.
“Oh, yes, great old standard. They don’t make movies like that any more.”
“I wish I could dance but I still get dizzy when I spin.”
Gregoire paused on his way back to the kitchen. “You’re lucky that brute didn’t kill you.”
Tiffany’s face fell. “I still can’t remember anything. I can’t even remember going down to the Birches.”
“Detective Brisbois will be here for Music Hall,” Gregoire said. “Nothing could possibly happen.”
“We had that big boots stationed at the front door,” Rudley shouted, “and Leslie managed to get killed and Tiffany got smashed on the head hard enough to make her lose her marbles.”
“Don’t shout, Rudley.” Margaret came down the stairs, waving her hands. She put an arm around Tiffany. “Tiffany didn’t lose her marbles. She simply can’t remember what happened that morning.”
“The doctor says I’ll never remember. She says short-term memories are easy to obliterate.” She shook her head. “It’s probably just as well. I don’t want to remember Mr. Leslie lifeless in that tub full of blood, that monster leaping at me from wherever, smashing me on the head with whatever. Creighton thought he might have used a blackjack.”
“That’s because he’s a city boy,” Rudley said. “I agree with Doc. It was probably a fish club. They’re all over the place.”
“I suppose it’s preferable to being hit with a table lamp or a piece of sculpture.”
“I should say so. We bought those lamps as a unit. I don’t know if we could find replacements.”
“Rudley.”
“The last thing I remember is having a cup of coffee in the kitchen with Gregoire.”
“I think that’s very touching. I am the last thing you remember.”
“That would certainly be the highlight of my day,” Rudley muttered.
“I solved Mrs. Sawchuck’s problem,” Margaret said. “The register wasn’t flush with the floor. She caught the tip of her cane and fell onto the bed. No harm done.”
“It was probably her fault in the first place,” Rudley said. “She probably got that cane caught in the register and wrenched it out. How else would it have come up?”
“I don’t know, Rudley. I’m just glad she wasn’t hurt.”
“I suppose we should glue them down,” Rudley said.
“It was just one of those things, Rudley. It would be a shame to mar the hardwood with glue. And the registers are elegant. I’ve never seen ceramic registers before.”
“I hope she didn’t chip it with that damned instrument.”
“Not that I noticed
, dear.”
“I’ll be choosing a Merlot and a Pignot Noir for the entrée,” Rudley said. “A port for dessert. After that, they’ll be so potted, we can trot out the Mogan David.”
“The place goes mad when we have Music Hall,” Margaret told Trudy, who had come up to the desk for her next assignment. “Even the Sawchucks do a number. Last year, they did ‘Sidewalks of New York’.”
“Quite horribly,” said Gregoire.
“Make sure we have a spotter,” Rudley said. “I don’t want the old turds falling into the orchestra pit or getting wound up in the curtains.”
Brisbois and Creighton entered the lobby.
“Perhaps you would care to do a number for Music Hall, Detective,” Margaret said.
“I don’t plan to be part of the entertainment but I wouldn’t miss Music Hall for the world, Mrs. Rudley. Since we’re all here, why don’t we go over the ballroom? I want to make sure no one has a chance to slip a knife between someone’s ribs backstage.”
They trailed after him into the ballroom.
“If you ask me, you’re going to have a hard time keeping track of people,” Rudley said. “People come and go during intermissions. Outside for a smoke. To their rooms.”
“Especially Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson,” said Gregoire.
Tim tittered.
“It’s so romantic,” Margaret said. “They make a lovely couple.”
“He’s as innocent as a new-born lamb and she’s the shark from Jaws,” Rudley murmured.
“She’s a modern young woman.” Margaret smiled. “Perhaps not so modern. I recall, I had to take the lead with you in the beginning, Rudley.”
“My ears are wide open,” said Creighton.
“Shut them,” said Rudley.
“We have at least one romance every summer. We wait with bated breath to see how it’s going to turn out.”
“Usually, once they get away from the inn, they can’t understand what they saw in one another,” Gregoire said.
“Don’t forget Flora First and Ben Greer.”
Rudley sniffed. “They were in their eighties, Margaret. I don’t think he lasted six months after they announced their engagement.”
“At least he had the courtesy not to die here,” Tim said.
“Only because we were lucky enough to be booked up the week they called,” Gregoire said.
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