Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant

by Judith Alguire

  “It was lovely of you to join us for dinner,” said Louise.

  “My pleasure entirely,” Mr. Bole responded.

  “Terrible news about that murderer lurking about.”

  “He sounds like a bit of a rascal,” said Mr. Bole, “but I don’t think we need to worry unduly. I imagine he’s miles away by now.”

  “Oh,” said Emma in a disappointed tone.

  “If I were a serial killer,” Mr. Bole continued, “I wouldn’t linger in one place too long. That’s why these types are usually apprehended. They carry out their nefarious activities in a limited area, thus allowing the authorities to map their probable location.”

  “I suppose some of them have jobs,” said Kate. “They’re not free to flit about at will.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Bole mused, “it would be hard to conduct a cross-country killing spree if you had to report for work in the morning.”

  Mr. Bole hadn’t previously considered the killer might need to work. Independently wealthy, he had never worked a day in his life. His father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had been bankers with considerable business acumen, but Mr. Bole chose not to go into banking. He had no interest in business or money, except insofar as it allowed him freedom. He had taken a liberal arts education at the University of Toronto and studied an eclectic mix of subjects independently, including antiquities in the Middle East and the migration of Thomson’s gazelle in Tanganyika. He had toured the galleries of Europe and spent a bohemian year on the Left Bank in Paris. He had taken part in ceremonies at Stonehenge, walked the Great Wall of China, climbed Kilimanjaro, lived with Lapp herders, tended cattle with the Masai, and crossed the Sahara with Berber nomads. He was no stranger at either pole. He was particularly keen on the Incas and had gone on a sailing trip around Cape Horn, hoping to approximate the experience of Richard Henry Dana, Jr. in Two Years Before the Mast.

  At some point — perhaps after an Australian outback experience — someone asked Mr. Bole if he’d ever been to Newfoundland. Mr. Bole was embarrassed to say that he had not. Not to Cornerbrook or Come By Chance or St. John’s or, really, anyplace in Canada outside of Toronto. This epiphany was the prod for his decision to explore Canada, an undertaking that eventually led him to the Pleasant.

  As the years passed, he found himself spending more and more time at the Pleasant. He had developed a keen interest in finger puppets and found an appreciative audience at dinner theatre, in the drawing room, and at Music Hall. He enjoyed the nearby village of Middleton in the summer, frequently attending events at the library and jazz sessions in the public square. He enjoyed the waterfront and the leisurely stroll into town from the Pleasant. He loved the Pleasant, loved its constancy and loved its civility. He thought there was a place for everyone here. He enjoyed the people, the staff, and the guests who came year after year. Aunt Pearl was a card, Margaret Rudley was a doll, Trevor Rudley was…well, in spite of being impatient, rude, volatile, sarcastic, and thoughtless — a bit of a fly in the ointment of paradise — he was definitely not common. Mr. Bole had no interest in the common. He loved the Pleasant because it was a treasure trove of the uncommon.

  Which is why he didn’t enjoy dwelling on psychopaths. He realized many people found them fascinating. He found them banal, as banal as vandals. In each case, something common destroyed something beautiful. Accordingly, he turned the conversation away from the killer by telling the sisters about the time he ran into Katharine Hepburn while motoring in Connecticut. Since the sisters loved celebrity and enjoyed gossip, the misdirection was not difficult.

  James Bole had known the sisters for twenty years, from the time since he started coming to the Pleasant. The sisters had transferred their patronage decades ago to the Pleasant from the Water’s Edge when the owner refused to give them a seasonal rate and make their preferred accommodation available at all times.

  Like Mr. Bole, the sisters were well-educated and independently wealthy. They had inherited a reasonable sum from their father, a career diplomat, and had increased their wealth through an investment strategy that involved putting up a list of investment options and throwing darts at it. Somehow, the darts always fell on General Electric.

  Mr. Bole knew this, although he had trouble reconciling business acumen with the trio who sat across from him. The sisters lived largely in their own world, he believed, and were subject to flights of fancy. He enjoyed the sisters’ company, but society was not his main motive this evening. He had proposed to Mrs. Millotte that he check in on the elderly sisters with more frequency and remind them to lock their doors. The fugitive killer had yet to be found. He worried, too, that the twins, Ned and Nora, were taking advantage of the old girls.

  “I hope you’ll stay for the Hitchcock marathon.” Louise broke into his thoughts. She was cutting the spice cake, placing slices on plates (the sisters had brought their own Royal Worchester), and passing them around.

  “I’ll be pleased to take in the first show,” Mr. Bole responded. “Then I’m afraid it will be past my bedtime.”

  “We thought we’d put on Vertigo first.”

  Mr. Bole clapped his hands. “Oh, wonderful choice.”

  “There’ll be popcorn,” said Louise. “Kate has learned to make it herself in the microwave.”

  “Ned and Nora showed us,” Louise added.

  Mr. Bole seized the opening. “And how’s that working out? Don’t you find it inconvenient having the children around all the time?”

  The sisters exchanged glances.

  “It’s no trouble,” Emma said.

  “They’re wonderful children,” said Kate.

  “They taught us how to make popcorn in the microwave,” Louise reiterated.

  “It must interfere with your schedule,” Mr. Bole ventured. “Amusing them and so forth.”

  “We have firm guidelines,” said Emma. “By invitation only. They’re allowed to watch only movies and other entertainments we deem suitable.”

  “We did allow them to watch one episode of Criminal Minds,” said Louise.

  “It can’t be all fluff,” Emma added.

  “But no movies where we feel their reactions might compromise our own experience,” said Kate.

  “No blue movies,” said Louise.

  “Do they make a fuss about that?” Mr. Bole asked. “The restrictions?”

  “No,” said Kate.

  “They’ve been exceptionally well-behaved,” said Emma.

  “And they’re always jumping up to get us things we want — a can of soda, a cup of tea, the remote control,” said Louise.

  “I see,” said Mr. Bole.

  “I know no one likes the children,” said Kate.

  “They’re wonderful children,” added Louise.

  “Who found themselves in a strange place where no one understands them,” Emma finished.

  Mr. Bole smiled politely. He gathered the sisters didn’t understand the extent of their rudeness to the staff or their treatment of Rudley’s frogs.

  “They’re much like us when we were children,” said Kate.

  “The adults were always too preoccupied to appreciate us too,” said Louise.

  “Our father was the emissary to Saudi Arabia,” Emma explained. “We met most of the important people of the day.”

  “And got to ride a camel,” said Louise.

  “But we were often overlooked,” said Kate. “Mama and Papa were simply too busy with official functions to indulge us.”

  “So we made life hell for the staff,” said Louise.

  “We were expressing our displeasure about being handed over to nannies,” said Emma. “And we had more amusements available than these children do.”

  “I take it you’re quite happy to have them around then,” Mr. Bole said.

  “Of course,” said Louise.

  “We appreciate the staff is too busy to ente
rtain them. And their grandparents are too old.”

  Mr. Bole was somewhat taken aback, although he didn’t show it. He guessed the sisters had at least twenty years on the Sawchucks. But he had to agree there was old and then there was old.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying their company,” he said.

  “They’re wonderful children,” Louise repeated.

  They finished the cake. Mr. Bole helped Kate collect the dishes onto the tray. Kate went to the kitchenette to prepare the popcorn.

  “Movie time,” said Louise.

  Mr. Bole watched the opening credits of Vertigo and considered what the sisters had said. Perhaps everyone’s assessment of the children was wrong, he thought, then reconsidered. No they weren’t. The twins were horrible children, rude, selfish. He had met many children who were high-spirited and a bit of a handful. These little miscreants were simply mean-spirited bullies. He was left to contemplate the power of television and video players to alter behaviour and concluded that anything that could turn those rotten children into angels was nothing short of miraculous.

  ·

  The campers sat around the fire, transfixed by the flickering flames. Crickets chirped, the sound broken by the occasional hoot of an owl.

  “That would be the eastern screech owl,” said Norman. “The vocalizations immediately prior to that were those of the great horned owl. The great horned owl utters a series of low hoo hoo hoos. Like so.” He gave them a rendition. “The eastern screech owl, on the other hand, while it also hoots, emits a gentle trill. Like this.” He imitated the sound and smiled. “Once you get used to the pitch, you can easily tell them apart.”

  “Although I don’t know why in hell anybody would want to,” Turnbull remarked, picking up a stone and pitching it into the darkness.

  “It’s a matter of deepening our understanding and appreciation of the creatures whose space we share,” Geraldine said in an offended tone. “Norman specializes in owl calls. I have seen voles scurry when he hoots.”

  “Maybe you should go into the pest control business,” said Turnbull.

  “I wouldn’t mind being able to do that,” said Peters.

  “Kill bugs?”

  Peters gave Turnbull a hard look. “Imitate bird calls.”

  “I’d be happy to teach you the basics,” said Norman. “It’s not difficult once you develop an ear.”

  “Especially if you have a bird brain,” Turnbull murmured.

  No one heard the comment except Margaret, who was sitting nearest. She changed the subject. “When we were young, we loved sitting around the fire, telling scary stories, acting out frightful movies. What’s the scariest movie you’ve seen?”

  “I don’t find movies scary,” said Turnbull.

  “Halloween,” Miss Miller said. “That child standing on the sidewalk with the bloody knife.”

  “One can never trust children,” Rudley murmured.

  “Silence of the Lambs,” said Gil.

  “The old Boris Karloff movies,” Norman said.

  “Yes,” Rudley agreed, “the classics are the best. I find that modern horror lacks subtlety.”

  “Anything with Vincent Price,” Margaret offered. “I’m sure he must be the scariest actor.”

  “What about you, Mr. Peters?” Geraldine asked.

  He hesitated. “I don’t watch much horror. Zombie movies, I guess.”

  Geraldine shivered. “Oh, yes.” She grabbed Norman’s arm. “They give me the willies too. You’ll protect me, won’t you, Norman?”

  “Of course, Geraldine.”

  “She’s got six inches and fifty pounds on him,” Rudley murmured to his wife. “I was counting on her to protect both of us.”

  “Be nice, Rudley.”

  An owl hooted. Geraldine tapped Norman on the arm. “Norman, let’s see if we can get some photos.”

  “Let’s.”

  Norman and Geraldine got up and disappeared into the trees.

  “What’s the trip like tomorrow?’ Turnbull asked Gil.

  “About the same,” said Gil. “The river narrows as we move along, runs faster. There’re a few rocks in the next section but nothing we can’t avoid.” He drew a rough map in the dirt. “This is the only spot on the whole route we’ll need to portage.”

  Simpson was glad they had changed the subject. He seldom watched horror movies. When he was a child, his parents had forbidden him to watch them after he had had nightmares from The Exorcist. He was twelve at the time and his friends teased him about it. Elizabeth was aware of this and seemed to think nothing of it. She didn’t expect him to be a hero all of the time.

  He stared at the embers. It wasn’t that he lacked physical courage. He’d played rugger at Chester, his public school, and once stood up to a schoolyard bully. The boy had beaten him senseless. He winced at the memory. He had approached Jack Strachan, who was pummeling slight, bespectacled Terrance Glasspoole, and said: “I don’t think it’s fair of you to pick on Terrance.” So Jack left poor Terrance lying on the playing field, his glasses dangling off one ear and the knot of his school tie yanked under the other, and put the boots to him, Simpson, instead. In fact, Jack never bothered Terrance again. Simpson remained his victim until a new boy, Alfred Tollingate, arrived at school. He was the tallest, strongest boy at Chester and no one dared take him on.

  The day Simpson confronted Jack, one of the young boys alerted the headmaster, who came out and ushered him into the dispensary. He had several cuts, multiple bruises, and two magnificent black eyes. His father called him courageous. He didn’t remember feeling courageous. He remembered how his voice had quavered when he approached Jack.

  Simpson blinked. Terrance Glasspoole went to Cambridge where he was president of the debating society. Alfred Tollingate attended Sandhurst and commenced a career in the military. Jack Strachan went into the seminary. He was unaware of Elizabeth until she touched him on the shoulder.

  “A penny for your thoughts.”

  He looked up and smiled. “Oh, I was wondering if I could perform an appendectomy if the situation called for it.”

  Elizabeth beamed. “Of course you could, Edward.”

  Turnbull’s voice rose in the silence. “So, have you ever shot the rapids, Peters?”

  Peters was feeding wood into the fire. He turned his head and glanced at Turnbull. “No.”

  “Scared?”

  Peters shrugged, but his facial muscles tightened.

  “I guess you’re glad it’s a tame trip.”

  Peters’s hands tightened around his bundle of sticks. With a slight stutter, he said, “Why did you come on such a tame trip?”

  Turnbull stretched and yawned. “The timing fit. My girlfriend is in Ireland with her mother. Grandma’s eighty-fifth birthday or something. So” — he sighed as if bored with the conversation “ — I had a week to kill.” He smiled. “Do you have a girlfriend, Peters?”

  Peters dropped his sticks. He sat flexing his hands. Then he got up and walked away.

  Gil rose, walked over to Turnbull, and hunkered down beside him. “Cut it out.”

  Turnbull gave him an innocent look. “Cut what out?”

  “Picking on Mr. Peters. I think it’s gone far enough.”

  Turnbull rolled his eyes. “Sorry. He’s such a nerd.”

  “I think you should just leave him alone.”

  “Sure.” Turnbull got up. “I’m going for a walk.” He rose and headed down to the shore.

  “That was good of you to speak up for Mr. Peters,” Margaret said.

  Gil smiled. “Sometimes people don’t know when kidding turns into harassment.”

  “I don’t understand why Mr. Turnbull is so mean to Mr. Peters.”

  Gil shook his head. “He really isn’t that nice to anybody, but Peters is the only one without a partner here, so I guess that makes him look
vulnerable.” He smiled. “I’m going down to check the canoes.”

  “I’m glad you’ve never engaged in that kind of behaviour, Rudley.”

  “Sensitivity in interpersonal relations is essential for an innkeeper.”

  She let that go.

  “Mr. Turnbull is a bully. He picks on Peters because he sees him as the most vulnerable.”

  “Perhaps because he’s so quiet.”

  “Or because his ears are in the wrong place.”

  “Rudley.”

  “I’m not approving of Turnbull’s behaviour, Margaret, just hypothesizing.”

  Norman and Geraldine reappeared, smiling.

  “We got some super shots of a great horned,” said Geraldine. “Our new flash attachment was superb.”

  “He had just pounced on a mole,” said Norman, passing the camera around. “It’s the third photo.”

  “I think I’d rather not see that,” said Simpson.

  “Edward always cheers for the underdog,” said Elizabeth.

  ·

  Creighton waited at the desk as Brisbois spoke on the phone. It had been a long day but, he reasoned, since it was almost midnight, the day would soon be over.

  “What do they think of the new sketches?” Creighton asked when Brisbois had completed the call.

  “They think they’re great. They’re putting them out everywhere. And most of the local TV stations here also reach the northern part of the border states.” Brisbois came over to the desk, sat down, and grinned at Creighton.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “That wasn’t what the call was about. That was Turk.”

  Creighton looked blank.

  “Mel Turk, our lead in Fredericton.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “He had an interesting story to tell me. A cousin of the jewellery store victim, George Pritchard, came to Fredericton to settle the estate. He’s apparently the sole heir. And he wanted to know what happened to his cousin’s gun.”

  “His gun?”

  “Yeah, the old man brought a Dreyse pistol back from World War II. It was never registered. The cousin didn’t know that. He said the old guy kept it at the store.”