Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant

by Judith Alguire

  ·

  Lloyd took the chair to the basement, repaired the arm, and left it in clamps to dry. Then he went into the storage room and checked the spare chairs. He finally decided on a nice upholstered armchair with embroidered cushions. It was like the little one Mrs. Sawchuck favoured but it was three inches wider. He made some quick calculations and decided three inches would be enough allowance for Mrs. Sawchuck’s girth. This year at least.

  ·

  Mrs. Millotte estimated she was about two miles from home, deep in the forest. She wasn’t tired but she was getting desperate. If Albert had caught his leash on a limb and hung himself she would never forgive herself.

  She stopped, shone the flashlight around, and called his name. She noted with alarm the hesitancy in her voice.

  Was it her imagination? She was sure she heard an excited yip. She headed in the direction of the sound, calling the dog’s name, stopping periodically to listen.

  The yip seemed closer.

  She broke through a dense stand of undergrowth and there he was. Albert leapt up when he saw her, then fell back.

  “Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” Mrs. Millotte tried to sound gruff. She checked her watch again in the beam of the light. It was after midnight. “Two and a half hours!” She freed Albert’s leash from the fallen log and wrapped it firmly around her wrist. “It’s a good thing you got caught up on that. God knows where you might have ended up.” They set off toward the Pleasant, Albert leading the way, tail wagging.

  ·

  Lloyd went back upstairs. He met Tiffany on her way down from the second floor.

  “Want me to bring that big chair up now?”

  Tiffany shook her head. “Better wait until tomorrow. I’ve just got Mrs. Sawchuck settled.” She yawned. “I’m going to bed. Are all the doors locked?”

  “Yes’m. I’ll check them all again.”

  “Don’t forget to throw the bolts.”

  “Can do.”

  Lloyd made his rounds, checked and bolted the front door, the side door, and the back kitchen door, then went down to the basement where he ususally slept. He checked the back door and threw the bolt.

  ·

  “Rudley.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Rudley.”

  Rudley opened one eye. Margaret was shaking him by the shoulder. He opened the other eye. “What’s wrong, Margaret?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” She sighed. “Rudley, I think we should ask Gil if we can use the satellite phone tomorrow. I want to call home.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m worried about the staff.”

  “I worry about those ninnies all the time, Margaret.”

  “Rudley” — she propped herself up on one elbow, leaned over him — “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “With that murderer so close, I just want to be assured that everyone is all right.”

  “They’ve had murderers close by before and they’ve been all right.”

  “Yes, but we’ve always been there.” She paused. “I suppose that didn’t help much before, us being there.”

  “I like to think we had some positive influence.”

  “Do you think they’re all right?”

  He groaned. “I’m sure they are, Margaret. If not, we’ll probably read about it in a two-inch headline. Perhaps a plane will fly over trailing an announcement: Another Murder at the Pleasant.”

  “Rudley, don’t be facetious.”

  “Margaret, Mrs. Millotte is in charge. What could possibly go wrong with Mrs. Millotte in charge?”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right, Margaret.” With that Rudley rolled over and went back to sleep.

  ·

  Lloyd was sleeping soundly on the couch in Rudley’s office, dreaming. In his dream, he was in the tool shed behind the Pleasant with the transom open wide, enjoying the music of the night birds and the soft rustling of nocturnal creatures. The air felt fresh and slightly moist. The breeze off the lake sighed through the evergreens and rustled the leaves in the maples and oaks. And in the background, a tap, tap, tap. Then closer, tap, tap, tap.

  In his dream, he couldn’t move a muscle. The tapping continued, joined now by shuffling. He wasn’t frightened; in the dream, he simply couldn’t figure out who or what was making the noise. Aunt Pearl? Sometimes she came downstairs for a snack in the middle of the night. But the tapping and shuffling came not from above. They seemed to come from down the hall.

  Then the tapping stopped, replaced by the squeak of a door opening. Lloyd drifted up through REM sleep, waking with a jolt as something struck him in the ribs. He opened his eyes to see Doreen Sawchuck in a sliver of light. She was standing over him, trying to extricate her cane from his armpit. Walter hovered behind her.

  “Lloyd,” Mrs. Sawchuck said in a hoarse whisper.

  Lloyd blinked into the flashlight Walter directed into his eyes. “Yes’m?”

  Mrs. Sawchuck motioned him to keep his voice down. “Someone’s trying to break in.”

  Lloyd raised himself on one elbow. “Think so?”

  Walter glanced over his shoulder. “We know so,” he whispered irritably. “We heard someone on the veranda, trying the front door.”

  “Maybe a raccoon.”

  “Why would a raccoon be trying the front door?” Walter’s voice rose a notch.

  “Don’t know.” Lloyd rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You want me to look?”

  “Yes. Then, if necessary, call the police.”

  “Mr. Rudley doesn’t like the police around.”

  “Mr. Rudley isn’t here.”

  “He’ll know.” Lloyd got up and pulled his jeans up over his pajamas. “You stay here and if I don’t come back, you can call the police.”

  He turned to see the flashlight, but no Walter.

  Taking the flashlight, he started down the hall. Mrs. Sawchuck hobbled after him. Behind them a toilet flushed.

  “That was Walter,” Mrs. Sawchuck whispered.

  Lloyd slid the bolt across the back door and unlocked it.

  Mrs. Sawchuck hovered at his shoulder as he pushed the door open. “Do you see anything?”

  Lloyd’s gaze shifted left to right. “Nope.”

  “Are you going out to look around?”

  Lloyd turned and grinned. “Was thinking about going back to bed.”

  “There could be a murderer out there.”

  “Probably better to go back to bed.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Sawchuck fretted, “I won’t sleep a wink if you don’t go out there.”

  “I’m going.”

  Mrs. Sawchuck closed the door once Lloyd was clear and slid the bolt across. A hand touched her shoulder. She shrieked.

  Walter stumbled back. “Sorry, Doreen.”

  ·

  Lloyd stood, one hand against the clapboard side of the house, listening. There were lots of sounds at night at the Pleasant. He was used to them. Most were simply pleasant. But tonight he listened to each one of them. He heard the croak of frogs — bullfrogs, green frogs, leopard frogs — the hoot of owls — barn owls and screech owls — the chant of whippoorwills. He heard the water brush softly against the dock and the halyard ping against the flagpole. He wasn’t afraid, but he could understand why the Sawchucks were nervous. A twig snapped. In spite of the Pleasant’s history, he’d never worried much about being murdered. The Pleasant was home, a nice place with friendship and pie.

  He let go of the clapboard and eased around the building. He couldn’t imagine himself being dead. He knew if he died, Mrs. Rudley would be sad.

  A plop sounded in the water. He walked to the end of the dock, bent to his knees, and looked over the edge. If the moon were full, he thought, he would be able to see his distorted reflection in t
he rippling water. It would be like looking into a funhouse mirror. The moon was only a sliver, but he lay down on his stomach anyway and let his head hang over the dock to see if he could see a hazy reflection in the pale light. He couldn’t, but he enjoyed the music of the frogs, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be looking for Mrs. Sawchuck’s “murderer.”

  And then he did remember. He scrambled back up and headed to the inn, glancing about as he went. A few yards from the building, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he glimpsed a shadow. He stopped, stood very still, and peered into the dark. The shadow seemed to dissolve into the trees. He skirted the veranda, plastered his back to the wall, and peeked around the corner.

  Nothing.

  A hand touched his shoulder. He spun around.

  It was Mrs. Millotte. Her hands were on her hips and she was glaring at him. At her side, Albert gave him a dog smile. “What in hell are you doing out here?” she demanded.

  Lloyd broke into a grin. Mrs. Millotte didn’t usually swear. He guessed her spending so much time at the desk was driving her to it. Mr. Rudley was at the desk all the time and he swore a lot. “Mrs. Sawchuck said there was a murderer out here. She said she heard boots on the veranda.”

  Mrs. Millotte pointed to her Keds. “Do these look like boots?”

  “Nope.”

  “It was me,” she said.

  He grinned. “Are you the murderer?”

  “I could be.” Mrs. Millotte looked at her watch. “I’ve been up in the woods the last two hours. Albert took off on me. Then when I tried to get back into the inn, I found someone had thrown all the bolts.”

  “Did do.”

  “How did you expect me to get in?”

  “Thought you was in. Tiffany said she saw you at the back door.”

  “I came in to get the big flashlight to look for Albert, then I went back out. Didn’t you see my note?”

  “Nope.”

  Mrs. Millotte felt like saying the next time she would tack it to his forehead but she felt that would be unkind since Lloyd meant well. “How do we get in?” she asked.

  “Basement door. Mrs. Sawchuck’s waiting there.”

  “Good.” She took him by the arm. “Now, we’re going to go in there and tell Doreen that what she heard was just a sassy raccoon and that you shooed him away.”

  “That’s telling a fib.”

  “Think of it as for the greater good. If you tell Doreen that I was locked out of the inn with a murderer around, her imagination, or what she has of it, will run wild. She’ll start having doubts about our competence. She’ll imagine we aren’t capable of protecting her from the things that go bump in the night. She’ll be on edge the rest of the summer. Which means, she’ll be down every night, perhaps several times a night, waking you up because she thought she heard something.” Mrs. Millotte stopped, put her hands on his shoulders, and gave him a stern look. “Do you get my drift?”

  Lloyd grinned. “Yes’m.”

  “Good.”

  She steered Lloyd around to the basement door and knocked.

  “Who’s there?” Doreen’s voice came from the other side.

  “Mrs. Millotte and Lloyd.”

  The bolt slid aside and the door opened.

  “Everything is fine,” Mrs. Millotte said. “Nothing but a raccoon. We can all go to bed now.”

  “Are you sure it was a raccoon?”

  “Positive.”

  “There’s lots of raccoons out there,” said Lloyd.

  They collected Walter from the bathroom and saw the Sawchucks back to bed.

  “Now,” said Mrs. Millotte when they’d returned downstairs, “I’m going to have a cup of coffee and you’re going back to bed.”

  “Yes’m.” Lloyd hesitated.

  Mrs. Millotte read the disappointment on his face. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll get you a piece of apple pie and a glass of milk.”

  That done, she handed the tray to Lloyd and shooed him off to the basement. Back in the kitchen, she heated the dregs of the coffee in the microwave and sat down at the counter. She knew she should have invited Lloyd to sit with her but she wanted to relax for a few minutes before going to bed and having coffee with Lloyd didn’t fit the bill.

  She had known Lloyd since he started working at the feed store in Middleton eight years before. Sam Henson, who ran the place, kept Lloyd at the rear of the store where he loaded seed or feed or other heavy items from the loading dock to customers’ trucks. Sam had confided in her that Lloyd was not a good front man.

  After Lloyd came to do some chores at the Pleasant he never went back to Henson’s. Rudley didn’t seem to care about having an eccentric like Lloyd out front. Of course, Rudley, in her opinion, was just as alarming and much more off-putting than Lloyd.

  As for the fugitive murderer showing up at the Pleasant, she thought the odds were remote. And even if he did show up, they’d have nothing to worry about if they took the precautions Detective Brisbois suggested. She was more worried about the police constantly dropping by to give updates, which would alarm the guests, particularly Mrs. Sawchuck. As long as the police kept their presence to a minimum, everything would be copacetic.

  Mrs. Millotte was determined that no one would be murdered at the Pleasant on her watch.

  Chapter Eleven

  Margaret snuggled deeper into her sleeping bag as a ray of sunlight penetrated the canopy. “I could swear Gregoire was making fresh bread next door.”

  “Were that it was so,” Rudley murmured. “Gil’s probably got the fire going and is making up breakfast.”

  “Oh!” She grabbed his arm. “Rudley, you were going to see if you could call home.”

  “Yes, Margaret.” Rudley crawled out of the tent and stumbled off in bare feet and pajamas, cursing the pinecones and pebbles.

  He borrowed the satellite phone from Gil, who obligingly showed him how to use it. When he returned, Margaret was up and dressed.

  “Did you make your call, Rudley?”

  “Yes,” Rudley replied as he ducked into the tent and grabbed his trousers and shirt. “Apparently, everything is going smoothly.”

  “Whom did you speak to?”

  “Melba.” He sat down and yanked on his socks and shoes.

  “What did she have to say?”

  “Albert is getting plenty of exercise, Lloyd is keeping a careful eye on the grounds, the Sawchucks are active and alert, and Aunt Pearl is enjoying her time relaxing on the veranda.” Rudley tied his laces with a double knot. “Which means she probably has a case of Johnny Walker stashed in the window box.”

  “It sounds as if they’re coping well with your absence, although I’m sure everyone eagerly awaits your return.”

  Rudley smiled. “Of course, Margaret. I give their lives structure.”

  She returned his smile. “Come, Rudley, breakfast.”

  ·

  Tiffany came up the back steps and fetched her broom from the closet. Mrs. Millotte was at the desk.

  “The boss phoned,” Mrs. Millotte greeted her. “He sends his regards.”

  “Are they having a good time?”

  “He didn’t say. In fact, he avoided the question. He wanted to make sure we were all right, given the fugitive in the vicinity.”

  “How sweet of him.”

  “I told him everything was just fine. No point in putting his blood pressure through the roof.”

  “I’m sure that was best.”

  “And how are you getting along with Mr. Bostock?”

  “All right.” Tiffany commenced to sweep the area in front of the desk. “This morning, he drew up a chair and sat and watched my every move. When I went into the bathroom, he followed and stood at the door until I was finished.”

  “Perhaps his razor is encrusted with diamonds.”

  “You would
think.”

  “He is an odd duck.”

  “Yesterday afternoon he took out a rowboat. He had a satchel with him.”

  “Perhaps it was his fishing gear.”

  “No, he was carrying that in the other hand. This morning he took the paddle boat and the bag.”

  “Maybe it’s his lunch.”

  “I don’t know. I do know he went off in the same direction.”

  “He must prefer the scenery that way.”

  “There’s something disturbing about Mr. Bostock.”

  “If Miss Miller were here, you could make a case of it.”

  “I’m going to keep an eye on him.”

  Mrs. Millotte tapped her fingers along the guest register. “Good idea. That will keep you out of trouble and keep you from conspiring with Lloyd to wreck the antique chairs.”

  “You’re making fun of me, Mrs. Millotte.”

  “Sorry.” Mrs. Millotte went into the cupboard and brought out the invoices. “I agree that Mr. Bostock may have a screw or two loose. But he’s probably not dangerous. He hasn’t taken a hatchet to us yet.”

  “True.” Tiffany went on with sweeping the lobby. Albert rolled over to the middle of the rug. She gave him a nudge with the broom but he didn’t wake.

  I should wake him up and make him take a brisk walk, Mrs. Millotte thought. Some of us had to be up at the crack of dawn after last night’s fiasco.

  ·

  Nora and Ned wandered into the kitchen. Gregoire turned and frowned at them. “I have said that you cannot come into the kitchen.”

  Nora gave him a cross look. “Why not?”

  “Because you are guests.”

  “I’ve seen that skinny old man come in here and that old drunk,” Ned said.

  Gregoire pointed the spatula at him. “I will not have you call Miss Dutton an old drunk. And that skinny old man is named Mr. Bole.” He gathered himself. “You cannot come into my kitchen because you are children. Children do not wash their hands. And that would be against public health regulations.”

  “You let Lloyd come in,” Nora countered.

  Gregoire didn’t have a quick answer for that. “You must have more interesting things to do than pester me in my kitchen.”