He sprawled across the desk, pulling once again at his hair. He was still in this posture when Margaret entered the lobby.
“It’s no wonder you’re going bald, Rudley,” she said. “You must stop tearing at your hair.”
He heaved himself up. “It’s them, Margaret. The staff. Where did we get these people?”
“We found Lloyd at the feed store,” she said. “The rest of them, we placed advertisements in the newspaper and hired them.”
“How many applicants did you interview, Margaret?”
“We saw quite a few, Rudley.”
“And these were the best you could get,” he muttered.
“Now, Rudley, we have a first-rate staff and you know it.” She didn’t add that several other good applicants had been available but those chosen seemed to be the only ones with the capacity to put up with him.
“But why do they have to be so consistently, persistently aggravating?”
“Because they’re like family, Rudley. Family is always aggravating.”
He looked at her, bewildered. “Somehow that doesn’t cheer me, Margaret.”
“Perhaps I could pick you up something nice in the village.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m off to get Aunt Pearl at the hair salon.”
He watched her go, murmuring, “If you don’t bring her back that would lift my spirits.”
He didn’t really mean that, of course. He was actually quite fond of Margaret’s old auntie, in spite of her kleptomania, drinking habits, and appetite for all the older male guests — not to mention her cheating at cards.
He patted his hair down with one hand, straightened, and glanced out the window. Norman Phipps-Walker, a long-time regular guest, was out in his boat, several yards offshore, resting back on his pillow, his fishing line trailing in the water. He suspected Norman had long given up on the notion of catching fish; he wondered if he even had a lure on his line. He thought Norman simply enjoyed taking a nap, gently rocked by the waves.
Mr. Bole, another regular, stood on the shore gazing out across the lake, apparently deep in thought. Probably planning the next finger-puppet show, Rudley thought. The Easter production of Spartacus had been rather gruesome, especially when Mr. Bole decided to add fake blood to the production. He hoped he wouldn’t be doing that again.
Tiffany came in at that moment.
“Back already?”
“I forgot the mail,” she said. “Do we have anything for the Benson sisters?”
He reached under the desk. “Their copy of Soldier of Fortune is it, I believe.”
She took the magazine, studied the figure in fatigues on the front. “I wonder why three elderly ladies want this piece of literature.”
“They could be planning an attack on the tool shed,” he said.
She shrugged. “They are getting bored.”
Tiffany took the magazine and left. Rudley shook his head. The Benson sisters were ancient but showed no sign of acting their ages. They were living year-round in the Elm Pavilion now and had begun calling it their retirement home. Like the Sawchucks, they seemed timeless, never older, merely nuttier. He was not sorry they were bored. After years of trying to run an inn with dead bodies showing up and assorted emergency vehicles running around and those damn detectives, Brisbois and Creighton, poking around, he was due a year of boredom. He smiled a lopsided smile. Maybe this would be the year.
Chapter Four
Leonard was getting worried. Tibor was pressing for a bigger allowance, and when Leonard explained that the investment portfolio had been performing poorly of late, Tibor brought up the issue of the paintings.
“Those Cartwrights must be worth a pretty penny by now,” he said.
“I suppose,” said Leonard. Tibor had developed a keen interest in the economics of the art market, especially the egregious sums paid for paintings once the painter was dead, especially for newly discovered older pieces.
“I imagine, as a set, they could bring a few million on the open market,” Tibor continued.
“They aren’t worth a cent on the open market,” said Leonard. “They don’t exist.”
Tibor frowned.
“They were lost in a fire some years ago, as you may recall,” said Leonard, trying to keep his tone casual.
Tibor was silent for a moment, then said, “Then they’re probably worth more on the underground market.”
“That will have to wait,” Leonard murmured.
But Tibor’s greed was not Leonard’s only problem. Frankes had virtually moved in, or, at least, seemed to be there every time Leonard turned around. And Cerise, although she never pressured him or made any threats, was proving to be more expensive than he had expected. She was indeed like her mother. Sylvia could wangle more things out of him than an anteater out of a termite hill, then leave him thinking he had come up with the idea of lavishing her with gifts all on his own. When he was younger, less encumbered, and anticipating a substantial legacy from Luella, he found this charming. The money from his investments should have provided him with a comfortable old age even without his patron’s largesse. But supporting two — now, it seemed, three — adults in the manner to which they were not only accustomed but aspired to become accustomed was stretching him a bit. And what if their appetites continued to go unsatisfied? Then there was Luther. Although Luther remained innocent to the joys of acquisition, Leonard did feel a responsibility to ensure his cook-housekeeper was not taken advantage of after his demise.
If worse came to worst, there were always the Cartwrights. And although the prospect of parting with them pained him — something Tibor could never understand (Tibor understood only that selling the paintings was something that had to be approached cautiously and in good time) — if he stood on the brink of financial disaster, it would be done. He had been around the art world long enough to know how these things were accomplished although he himself had never been party to such transactions. He knew people. He hoped to put the day of reckoning off as long as possible.
Unfortunately, for Leonard that day arrived sooner than he had hoped. The investments his brokers had been so bullish about in the Asian markets suffered a catastrophic drop, and although he was not completely wiped out, his resources had dwindled to a point where he was forced to contemplate a more modest lifestyle. No more trips to the Riviera, no more flat in London, decanting to a more modest residence on St. Napoli. That is, if he could explain the economics of the situation to his difficult family members and gain their cooperation.
He broached the topic with Tibor. Tibor listened respectfully, hands folded in his lap, eyes on the carpet. When Leonard finished his belt-tightening speech, Tibor said simply: “It’s time to sell the paintings.”
Leonard fidgeted. “I would suggest it’s still too soon.”
Tibor replied calmly, “I think it’s time.” He sat back, gave Leonard a long look. “I saw a piece in the newspaper some time back, suggesting there was a collector in the hotel business who’s pretty much addicted to Cartwrights. He’s been snapping them up as if they were ice-cream sandwiches.”
Leonard knew this of course. He didn’t have to rely on newspaper pieces to know who was acquiring what in the art world. He wasn’t sure of the taste of the hotelier, but he recognized his type: Someone who liked to acquire just for the sake of having something no one else had. He despised people like that, although, in this case, he might need them.
“There are always rumours like that floating around in the art world,” he said dismissively.
Tibor gave him a hard look. “You owe me,” he said, rising. He looked to be heading toward the door, but instead he turned and approached Leonard’s chair. He leaned toward him and whispered in his ear, “Nobody will ever be able to prove I had anything to do with Luella getting burned to a crisp.”
Leonard could feel Tibor’s breath on his cheek.
“But you have the paintings, Leonard. Wouldn’t that raise a lot of questions? If someone happened to call a tip line, I mean?”
It was eighty-five degrees in the islands but Leonard shivered.
Tibor patted Leonard on the shoulder, then left the room, closing the door behind him.
Leonard sat still for a long time after Tibor left. The day had come. He picked up the phone, dialled the number. “Dreyfus,” he said when the man answered, “I wonder if you could join me for a drink at the club tomorrow?” After a few moments of small talk he hung up.
The die was cast.
The Pleasant Inn. 6:45 am
Trevor Rudley stood behind the front desk, bent over his morning paper, sipping at a cup of coffee, periodically nibbling at one of Gregoire’s delicious strawberry scones. He had to admit that Gregoire was a maestro in the kitchen in spite of his profligacy and tendency to be a prima donna. He was nibbling and sipping and feeling entirely merry when Tim approached the desk with a covered tray. He placed the tray in front of Rudley and removed the lid.
“Gregoire thought you might like to try his crepes Suzette.”
“And what favour might Gregoire be angling for?” said Rudley, although his mouth was watering.
“Probably some secret, very expensive ingredient that he is trying to get you addicted to so you can’t say no when he begins to put it on his inventory,” said Tim. He glanced at his watch, then pointed to the wall clock. “Do you know what time it is?”
“What?” Rudley stared at the clock, then at his watch. “Damn.” He abandoned his breakfast and bolted for the door. He had run down the steps and was searching the drive when the laundryman pulled in. Rudley ran in front of the truck, waving his arms. “Stop, you idiot!” he shouted. “Stop!”
The truck came to a halt. The laundryman got out and ambled over. “You seem to be in a state this morning, Rudley,” he smiled. “That’s not to say you are not usually in some sort of state.”
“I wasn’t expecting you so early.”
“I’m right on time, Rudley.”
Rudley galloped off behind the truck, searched the area behind it, then knelt and peered under it. He checked each tire, then stood up, relieved.
“Looking for your bullfrog,” the laundryman observed.
“He’s been here for years,” Rudley hissed. “I’m not about to have him squashed under the tires of your truck.”
The laundryman adjusted his glasses. “You know, Rudley, this may not be the same bullfrog. I’ve noticed he seems a little smaller.”
“He’s lost weight,” Rudley rasped. “He’s getting older.”
“If you say so.”
Rudley continued to scan the ground, then brightened. “There you are.” He trotted across the lawn. The bullfrog was hopping toward the driveway. Unfortunately, Lloyd had just finished watering the plants. The grass around the big cement planter was slick. Rudley slipped and slid into the base of the urn. The bowl toppled off the base and landed on his leg. Rudley shrieked.
The laundryman trotted over. “It’s all right, Rudley, I headed him off toward the swamp.” He leaned over Rudley, who lay writhing on the ground. “Did you hurt yourself?”
Leonard met Dreyfus at the club. They shared a drink, then wandered out onto the grounds.
“I understand your bank is involved in that new development on East Bay,” Leonard began.
Dreyfus grinned. “Hoping to get in, Leonard? I thought you were with the antis.”
Leonard shrugged. “You know how these things are.”
“Everyone wants St. Napoli to remain pristine,” Dreyfus said. “What can I do? I’m just a grubby capitalist.”
“I’m not interested in the development,” Leonard said. “I was hoping you might be able to arrange a meeting with Mr. Turner or his agent.”
Dreyfus lit a cigarette. “I might. But why would he want to meet with you, Leonard? Not that you aren’t perfectly charming.”
“I have some Cartwright pencil sketches. I understand he’s a collector.”
“He is.” Dreyfus gave him a sympathetic look. “Do you expect those pieces would bring much?”
Leonard didn’t answer immediately. “You know how things are,” he said finally.
“Yes, we’re all in for a little belt-tightening,” said Dreyfus. He clapped Leonard on the shoulder. “Mr. Turner will be here next week. I’m sure I can arrange an audience with his people.”
Leonard left the meeting feeling uplifted. Dreyfus would make good. On his way home, he stopped by the bank, asked to be let into his safe-deposit box where he stored various documents and, occasionally, his most valuable pieces of jewelry when he travelled. He smiled. The box was big enough for two small paintings. He walked home and had lunch with Luther. The young people were out. Probably up to no good, he thought with amusement, knowing he also had been up to no good.
The children came home around suppertime, first Tibor and Frankes, then Cerise. The grease on Frankes’s tattooed arms announced he had been tinkering with the boat engine. Tibor’s immaculate fingernails suggested he had been, as always, merely supervising. Cerise gave a typical response: Out nowhere, doing nothing. She was wearing a fetching sundress and smelled of cigar smoke, which meant she had been scandalizing the dowagers at the waterfront restaurant, sitting on the breakwater, smoking a big Cuban cigar, with Betty the parrot on her shoulder. She had taught Betty to call Tibor and Frankes “Tweek” and “Freak,” to say “Papa Leonard” and to call her “Sweetie,” which is what Leonard often called her. The young women would envy her chutzpah; the men of all ages would find her irresistible. He smiled. She was a lot like her mother.
“We’re going to spend two or three months in Canada,” he announced.
He could tell by their expressions they were not impressed. Saw images of freezing in the high Arctic or swatting blackflies as they slashed their way through dense brush. He let these impressions take hold for a while, taking satisfaction in their dismay, before adding, “We’re going to a very nice cottage in southeastern Ontario. It belongs to a friend of mine. We can relax there and conduct business.”
He saw Tibor’s ears pick up when he heard the word business. Cerise gave him a calculating look. Frankes looked to Tibor for guidance and shrugged slightly.
“When are we leaving?” Tibor asked.
Leonard made a pretense of studying his daybook. “In two or three weeks.”
“We’ll get the boat ready,” said Tibor.
“We won’t be taking the boat,” said Leonard. “We’ll be flying into Ottawa.”
Tibor scowled.
“It’ll be easier this way,” said Leonard. “I’m not sure if I want to deal with the three of you and Luther in close proximity for an ocean voyage.”
“You can say that again,” said Cerise.
Leonard gave her a wink.
They wandered off. Leonard sat back with a sigh, feeling somewhat reassured. No one had mutinied. Not so far.
“Rudley,” Margaret chided, “you must stay quiet until the cast is set.”
“And it will be six to eight weeks before your fracture is knit,” said Gregoire. “And if you are not taking that long walk into my kitchen, it will probably heal even faster.”
Tim tittered.
“And the doctor said you really should sit with your foot up until the swelling goes down,” Margaret reminded him.
“What in hell does he know?” Rudley bellowed.
“He did study orthopedic medicine for eight years, Rudley.” Margaret took an analgesic from the bottle and edged it toward his lips along with a glass of water. “Take this. You’ll feel much better.”
Rudley reached for the glass of whisky on the counter. “If I take them with this, I’ll feel much better, much faster,” he said.
“It says on the bottle not to take the pills with spirits,” Marg
aret said.
He grimaced. “I’m in pain, Margaret.”
“Said you should have let me fix that planter a long time ago,” said Lloyd.
Rudley glowered. “Give me the pills.”
Margaret popped them into his mouth. Before she could put the water in his hand, he grabbed the glass of whisky and downed them.
“When we have to call the ambulance to have your stomach pumped, I hope you will apologize to me, Rudley.”
“If a man can’t handle an ounce of whisky and a couple of aspirin, he’s not much of a man.”
“It was codeine, Rudley.”
“Who in hell gave me codeine?”
“The doctor, Rudley. Have you ever considered reading a label?” She gave him a pat on the arm. “Now I have to go into the village for my hair appointment. Lloyd will look after you while I’m gone.”
Lloyd grinned. “Won’t leave your side for a minute.”
Rudley looked stricken. “Where’s Tiffany?”
“She’s busy, Rudley. Besides, she hates seeing you in pain.”
He looked mournful. “I hate seeing me in pain too, Margaret.”
“I’ll be back soon,” she said.
Ten days later, Leonard stepped aboard a handsome yacht anchored in East Bay. He carried an attaché case. He was met by a skinny little man with deep black circles under his eyes.
“Mr. Evans?” Leonard offered his hand.
The man stared at him. “Yes.” His eyes darted to the attaché case. “You have something for me?”
A Most Unpleasant Picture Page 4