Leonard turned his back, placed the case on the table and took out the pencil sketches. He placed the sketches on the table and invited Evans to his side.
Evans scrutinized the sketches. “These are interesting,” he said.
“Interesting?”
“Mr. Turner would be pleased to take them, of course, for a reasonable price.”
Leonard named the price.
Evans frowned. “That seems high.”
Leonard paused, as if in deep thought. “If you would meet my price on these, I have something else that might interest you.” He opened the attaché case, took out some photographs.
Evans’s eyes feasted on the photographs of the Cartwright oils. He inhaled sharply. “You have these?”
“Let’s say I know where they can be had. I’m an agent,” Leonard said casually. “Much like yourself.”
Evans continued to stare at the paintings. “I’ll need to consult with the presumptive buyer, of course, to determine his interest.”
“Of course.” Leonard returned the photographs to his case. “I’ll be vacationing in Canada in a couple of weeks,” he said. “I’d prefer to complete the transaction there.” He lowered his voice. “People on St. Napoli are rather nosy and rather chatty, you understand, no matter how discreet one tries to be.”
Mr. Evans nodded. “Where can I reach you?”
Leonard took out a slip of paper and wrote down the information. “I expect complete discretion, you understand.”
“Of course.”
They shook hands. Leonard climbed down into the motorboat awaiting him beside the yacht. He sat, head tilted back, pretending to be enjoying the breeze as the motorboat crossed the bay. Once he had disembarked, he sank down onto a park bench and began to sweat profusely. The first part of his plan was complete.
Chapter Five
Two weeks later
An unmarked car on the highway headed toward Brockton, the largest city near the Pleasant Inn. Detectives Michel Brisbois and Chester Creighton were driving to divisional headquarters. Neither man had spoken for the last mile.
Creighton broke the silence. “I wish people would stop driving into trees,” he said. “It isn’t good for the trees.”
Brisbois didn’t respond. He didn’t care for Creighton’s insensitivity, although he knew black humour was Creighton’s way of coping with grisly scenes. Creighton liked to pretend nothing bothered him. Some day, he thought grimly, some day.
Brisbois planned to retire at the usual age; he had no plans of spending his retirement years, waking up in sweats from nightmares or sitting alone in the dark, brooding over his beer. He shifted to alleviate the stiffness in his lower back, an old injury from jumping into the lake to save his life. Mary had been talking a lot about post-traumatic stress lately. A retired police officer, an acquaintance of theirs, had recently committed suicide. The man’s widow said he had been having nightmares where mutilated bodies called out to him for help. And he couldn’t help. Brisbois told his wife not to worry. He acknowledged his feelings now and always talked them out with her. He had long ago realized that trying to protect Mary by keeping things from her was impossible. He thought about the accident scene they had just witnessed: dry road, good visibility, no skid marks. The car had hit the tree at a high rate of speed. Suicide by car. But why did the guy have to take his wife with him? He didn’t realize he’d said this out loud until Creighton spoke.
“Maybe they’d been fighting. Maybe he was one of those guys with a lot of rage and no impulse control.”
“Could be,” said Brisbois.
“Maybe he’d found out she was fooling around on him.”
“Hmm, well, we won’t know until we get the report on the car and talk to the friends and family.”
“Yeah, maybe we’ll find a suicide note and that will wrap it up and make sure nothing throws a wrench into our vacations.”
“I don’t think that will happen.”
They drove for a few minutes, then Brisbois said, “Have you decided what you’re doing on your break?”
“Well, it’s not the right time of year for hot places unless it’s Las Vegas and I’ve never liked the Strip all that much.” He grinned. “I mean after you’ve seen two thousand show girls you’ve seen them all.”
“Without really seeing any of them,” Brisbois countered.
Creighton laughed. “I haven’t seen much of most of them but I have seen a lot of a few of them.”
“You’re a real card,” said Brisbois. He couldn’t fathom how a grown man with a responsible job could be as big an ass as Creighton in his personal life. Brisbois was twenty-one when he married his wife. He knew they would be married for life and that was it. Four children had followed in the succeeding years. He had always taken his marriage seriously. Marriage was a serious business. Raising children was a serious business. Both required a responsible adult to accomplish successfully. He firmly believed a man should grow up at some point. And there was Creighton still acting like a twenty-some bachelor when, in fact, he was nearing forty.
“How old are you?” he asked.
Creighton grinned. “Younger than you.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you settled down?”
Creighton feigned surprise although they had had this conversation, in one way or another, many times over the years. “Why?”
“Marriage is good for you.”
Creighton shook his head. “Marriage is good for you,” he parroted. He pushed back his fedora, which gave him an older James Dean look. “God, you’re gloomy today.”
“I always feel gloomy when I see smashed glass and blood, not to mention body parts ground into spruce trees.”
Creighton chuckled, then changed the subject. “You’ve got to admit the news on Rudley was worth a laugh.”
The corners of Brisbois’s lips turned up just a bit. They had received the news from Officer Vance when they arrived to investigate the accident. Officer Vance had had trouble keeping a straight face when he informed them that Rudley had broken his leg when he ran into an urn chasing a bullfrog across the front lawn. Margaret had called 911, Vance said, but in the excitement of the moment, failed to stay on the line long enough to specify ambulance, fire or police. The image of Rudley lying on the front lawn, cursing, while emergency vehicles screamed around him danced in Brisbois’s head. He suppressed a chuckle. “I think it’s inappropriate to laugh at a man’s misfortune,” he said.
“Vance said the funniest part was Lloyd standing there telling everybody he’d told Rudley he hadn’t cemented the urn right.”
“That urn’s had a rough history. It got shot once, didn’t it?”
“Sure did,” said Creighton, pleased to see Brisbois’s mood lighten. “And I think Rudley dinged it with a snow blower once and somebody backed a truck into it.”
“How did the bullfrog make out?”
“Vance didn’t say.”
“I don’t know why Rudley doesn’t build that big frog its own little wildlife retreat with a fence around it. He’s always in a fit about someone running over it.”
“Yeah,” said Creighton, “maybe a solarium to keep him cozy in winter.”
“I think they burrow into the bottom of the lake.”
Brisbois had known Rudley for quite a few years. Rudley could be rude, cantankerous, unreasonable, a general pain in the ass, but he figured a man who worried so much about an aging amphibian couldn’t be all bad. He still couldn’t understand how he had managed to persuade a sweet woman like Margaret to marry him. He turned his head to look out the window. He had never been unfaithful to Mary and never would but if he did…
He didn’t realize he had been in reverie so long until Creighton spoke.
“A penny for your thoughts,” said Creighton.
“Oh, just wondering what I would do on my vacation.”
“I thought you were going to the cottage.”
Brisbois had recently bought a cottage not far from the village of Middleton.
“Oh, I’m going to the cottage,” he said, “but I might take a weekend to visit my parents in Sudbury. Maybe take the grandkids to a Blue Jays game.” He turned to Creighton. “Why don’t you spend some time at the cottage? It’s got that nice little sleeping cabin with the bunk beds. Mary’d be glad to have you.”
“Thanks,” said Creighton. “That’s really nice of you to ask.”
“I mean it.”
Creighton grinned. “I think bunk beds might put a crimp in my plans. Mary probably wouldn’t be keen on that.”
“Probably not.”
“The idea of a cottage sounds good, though,” Creighton said. “Maybe I’ll rent one of those little efficiency units just outside Middleton.”
“Suit yourself,” said Brisbois. “We’ll have to have you for supper a few times though.”
“Sounds good,” said Creighton. He sat back and listened while Brisbois went on about the herb garden he had planted at the cottage and how he used the plants in his cooking. It was good to get his partner’s mind off the besmirched spruce trees.
The days before Leonard and his entourage left St. Napoli were largely uneventful as far as Leonard was concerned — contacting Hiram’s agent, booking the flight, arranging for Betty’s transportation. Betty was too tall to fit into an under-the-seat cage and hence required her own seat. Tibor groused that buying a seat for a parrot was a waste of money. Cerise countered that buying a seat for Tibor was a bigger waste. The two conducted a proxy war by teaching the parrot insults aimed at one another: Tweek is a twit, Frankes is a freak, Sweetie stinks. Tibor hated Betty, but Leonard thought he hated Cerise more. Sibling rivalry, he thought. He had no doubt that Tibor thought he favoured Cerise. So Tibor sulked, Cerise smirked. Frankes went with the flow. Luther went about his business, cheerful as always, apparently unfazed by the fractured family dynamic.
If Tibor hated Betty, Leonard did not mind her. As long as she didn’t disgrace herself on him, he was willing to let her be.
So here they were on the island on Wood Lake just east of the village of Middleton. They had taken a flight to Ottawa and hired a car to the village. Hiram’s agent met them at the dock in an ample boat, ferried them to the island, then went on his way.
Bringing the paintings had not been a problem. First, no one was looking for them. He simply wrapped them in birthday paper and wrote a card to Hiram: Happy birthday, Hiram. I hope I’m not being too immodest making you a gift of my humble work. As they say, it’s the thought that counts. He wasn’t overly concerned about the authorities, reasoning, if queried, he would simply say they were reproductions he had made for a friend who was fond of the artist but couldn’t afford originals. Still, he was grateful when they cleared customs.
The deteriorating relationship between Cerise and the boys was a bit grating. On St. Napoli they had been able to avoid each other if they chose to. At the cottage this was difficult. Tibor was suspicious of Cerise’s motives and suspected she was always up to something, plotting some new way to separate Leonard from his money, mainly, Leonard guessed, because he, Tibor, was up to something himself.
Leonard smiled. He was up to something as well. He had been preparing the ground the last few days on St. Napoli, nodding off during meals, smiling with a befuddled expression. He caught the young people looking at him curiously. Like many older people he had exhibited certain changes of late — trouble finding words was one that disturbed him the most, although he gathered it was somewhat normal, and in his case, partly the result of anxiety. But he sensed the children were becoming increasingly fractious and he thought he might buy a little peace and a little leeway by feigning a bit of dementia. Also, being viewed as dotty would come in handy if, as they say, the shit hit the fan.
“Maybe he had a heart attack,” said Frankes. “My grandfather got confused after he had a heart attack.”
The boys were talking outside his room, thinking he was asleep.
“No, he didn’t have a heart attack,” Tibor countered. “Haven’t you noticed? He was acting dippy before we left. He wasn’t that sharp before.”
Leonard smiled. There were times when it was convenient to appear ignorant.
Cerise was the only one who seemed concerned.
“What’s going on, Leonard?” she asked when they were alone.
He smiled. “Mustard, I guess.”
She looked at him incredulously.
“Mustard goes on the hot dog,” he said and smiled. “Maybe some relish.”
She frowned, looked around to make sure the boys were out of earshot. “What are you up to, Leonard?”
“About six feet,” he said.
She gave him a suspicious look. “Don’t try to con me, Leonard.”
He gave her a confused look, then winked.
Rudley sat in a chair behind the front desk, his leg up on a hassock topped with two firm pillows. He was feeling very hard done by. In this position he was not lord of the manor. People had to look over the desk to see him, as the Phipps-Walkers were doing now.
“How are you doing today, Rudley?” Geraldine asked.
Rudley stared up at her. He had never seen her from this vantage point. She loomed over him, a substantial woman dressed as if she were going on safari, her large bosom propping up a pair of binoculars. Norman, her husband, hovered at her shoulder. Even he, although about half as big as his wife, seemed more imposing. With those buckteeth, Rudley thought, Norman looked like an enormous rat about to bite into a piece of cheese.
“Fine, Geraldine,” he said, lowering his newspaper. “I’ve never been happier.”
“It’s a shame they had to change your cast so soon,” Geraldine said. “I’m sure that will set you back.”
“These things happen,” said Rudley gloomily.
“They had to get the toothbrush out,” said Lloyd, who was waiting his turn for Rudley’s attention.
“Aha,” said Geraldine, triumphant, “you were trying to scratch an itch. You should never use anything you can’t guarantee you can pull out.”
“The doctor said that, too,” said Lloyd.
“You can leave,” said Rudley.
“Can do,” said Lloyd, “but got to tell you first there’s a man out there who said I was to bring you a message.”
“Yes, yes.”
“He’s got a tent on the lawn and he says that’s his.”
“What’s his?”
“The lawn,” Lloyd said.
“Well, I never,” Rudley fumed. “What kind of idiot is he?”
“Says his name’s Chief Longbow,” said Lloyd. “Says the whole place is his, but he don’t want to be greedy.”
“Damn,” said Rudley.
Chapter Six
“Where are you going, Rudley?” Margaret grabbed his arm as he struggled up on his crutches.
“Out, Margaret.”
“You’ll get your cast dirty.”
“I’m sure it’s dry by now.” He beckoned to Lloyd. “You come with me.”
“Yes’m.”
“I’m going out to speak to this interloper and find out why he’s laid claim to our property.”
“Why don’t you let me deal with that?”
“Because you’d end up ceding the whole place to him, Margaret. You’re a generous woman.” He paused. “We’ll probably find out this man’s just some loon who thinks you’ve booked him into a tent on the front lawn.”
Margaret shook her head but let them go.
Rudley headed for the steps and would have fallen down them on his head if Lloyd hadn’t grabbed his arm.
“You got to go slow until you know what you’re doing,” said Lloyd.
“Just stand by,” said Rudley. He set off at a
ridiculous pace across the lawn with Lloyd striding alongside him.
They arrived at the lower lawn adjacent the boathouse. A pup tent had been erected and a man was busy laying a circle of stones for a fire pit. He stood as they approached, a tall reed of a man with a cracked leather face and grey-green eyes. His long grey hair was braided under a battered grey felt hat. He wore a brown leather jacket, a blue plaid shirt and blue jeans. His feet were bound in splayed moccasins. He would have looked like any ordinary eccentric apart from the necklace of bear claws and the three grey and white feathers shoved into his hatband.
“Trevor Rudley,” Rudley barked. “Owner and proprietor of this place.”
The man grinned, displaying a set of yellowed teeth. “Chief Longbow,” he replied. “Proprietor and owner of this place.” He motioned to the area around the tent. “Didn’t that young yokel tell you?” He indicated Lloyd.
“Now see here,” Rudley spluttered.
“I’d invite you in,” the chief said, “but as you can see, there isn’t a lot of room in my tent.”
Rudley surveyed the scene with rising bile. “I assure you, you are misinformed. You have pitched your tent on Pleasant property. I have the deed.”
The man nodded amiably, took him by the elbow and eased him back a foot. “That’s what they all say.”
Rudley opened his mouth. No words came out.
“Now,” said the man, “I don’t want to be pushy. I have no plans to occupy any land beyond” — he glanced around — “ten feet on either side of my tent and the land the tent is pitched on, with water access, of course, and rights to the boathouse. I’m willing to let you use it. I know you need a place to put your canoes and motorboats in the winter months.”
Rudley found his voice. “I can show you my deed.”
The man smiled, shook his head. “What are deeds but empty words on paper? Kind of useless you know. As I said, I don’t mean to be pushy. I’m agreeable to letting you remain on the land, conduct your business.” He thought for a moment. “I could trade you for my rights to a piece of land on the DEW line.” He shrugged. “It’s contaminated with mercury and such but that won’t matter for your purposes, will it? It’s not as if you’re farming or living off the land.”
A Most Unpleasant Picture Page 5