“What time is it?” Frankes managed to get his legs over the side of the bed.
“You don’t need to know,” Tibor rasped. “Bring your knife.”
Frankes did as told and followed Tibor down the stairs. Tibor grabbed the flashlight from the stand near the door.
“She was headed for the dock,” said Tibor, staring out over the water.
“There’s a light out there,” said Frankes.
Tibor headed toward the boathouse. “Come on.”
They ran down the incline to the boathouse. Tibor shone a light around. “I think she took the rubber dinghy,” he said.
“She wouldn’t have got far. It doesn’t have a motor.”
“OK.” Tibor got into the motorboat. “We’ll just pull up alongside and find out where she’s going at three in the morning.”
“Maybe she couldn’t sleep,” said Frankes.
“We’ll see,” said Tibor.
They pulled out, moved slowly away from the dock, gradually picking up speed as they moved further from the cottage.
“There she is,” said Frankes. He pointed out toward the centre of the lake. “I just saw the light.”
Tibor shook his head. “I don’t know what she’s doing that far out.”
“She’s a pretty good swimmer.”
“On a strange lake in the middle of the night?”
“She probably took a life jacket.”
Tibor snorted. “Have you ever known Cerise to do anything sensible?”
“Guess not.”
“OK,” said Tibor, “we’ll pass her, do a little run around the dinghy, see what’s up.”
Cerise stopped rowing as they approached.
Tibor killed the motor, shone the flashlight on Cerise. “What are you doing?” he yelled. “Sleep-rowing?”
She rested the oars across her knees. “What’s it to you?”
“What’re you up to?” He let the boat drift up to the dinghy. He reached over and grabbed the oarlock.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said.
Before he could react, she swung an oar at him. It hit him hard in the upper arm, causing him to gasp and curse. “That’s the way you want it?”
“Suits me fine,” she said.
He took the knife from his ankle holster, jabbed it into the side of the boat and ripped a three-foot hole. He yanked the blade down, deflating the bottom compartment. “Go around,” he shouted at Frankes. “Get the other side.” He grabbed the oar as she swung it toward him again and pulled it on board. As Frankes manoeuvred the boat around the shrinking dinghy, he tore open the remaining compartment.
“Let’s get out of here,” he barked at Frankes.
“What about her?”
“She’s trying to kill us, you idiot.” Tibor scrambled aft, pushed Frankes aside and opened up the motor. “Let’s go,” he yelled.
They headed back to the cottage.
Chapter Ten
Creighton parked his car in the lot in Middleton and wandered down to the dock. He looked around, then approached the man at the bait shop. “Do you rent fishing rods?”
The man shook his head. “Sorry, just live bait here. There’s Howard’s on Main Street.” He paused as Creighton looked uncertain. “Lose your gear?”
Creighton shook his head. “I don’t fish much. I thought I’d just rent some stuff.”
“What’re you fishing for?”
Creighton laughed. “How in hell should I know? I grew up in Toronto. The most I’ve done is go fishing in the creek with my nieces and nephews. We hook whatever’s there.”
The man shrugged. “Yeah, you don’t really need to know much for that kind of fishing. Mainly how to get a worm on the hook.”
Creighton laughed. “The kids usually do that. It’s kind of messy.” He looked around. “Maybe I’ll just get a coffee for now.”
“Sorry I can’t help you,” the man said. He gave Creighton an appraising look. “Snazzy outfit.”
Creighton tipped his hat and wandered off down the dock.
A couple of kids were fishing off the end of a houseboat moored at the dock. Creighton stopped to watch a six-year-old send the lure thirty feet with a flick of the wrist. He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock. What in hell was he doing up at six o’clock? Because Brisbois told him that was when the fish were biting. He yawned and reflected that Brisbois’s descriptions of the joys of fishing were grossly exaggerated. He decided to get a packed lunch on Main Street, then have a long nap in the rented boat he had anchored at the dock. He’d just throw a line in the water and hope for the best. But first he needed a rod. He walked back to where the kids were busy filling up their basket with perch.
“Do you think I could rent your fishing rod for a while?” he asked.
The boy tightened his grip on the rod. The girl studied him with calculation. “How much?”
“Ten bucks?”
She screwed up her face. “How do I know you’ll bring it back?”
He gave her a salute. “Scout’s honour.”
She hesitated. “What if you break it?”
“I’ll buy you a new one.” He smiled. “Believe me, it’ll be used as little as possible.”
“Don’t forget,” she said. “This boat’s the Intrepid. We’ll be here all day.”
He took the rod. The child reluctantly included an extra lure. It wasn’t until he had got his lunch and was arranging his gear in the little motorboat that he discovered the rod had a purple reel covered with Hello Kitty stickers.
Tibor managed to doze off for an hour before the sun splitting the blinds woke him. He fumbled on the bedside table for his watch, then realized it was still on his wrist. Almost seven. He crawled out of bed, took a quick shower and dressed.
He had told Frankes to shut up about Cerise, justifying sinking her boat by saying she had tried to kill him. She had, too. Of course, swinging the oar might be construed as self-defence. He took a deep breath. This was nothing new. He and Cerise had been beating up on each other since they were young. It was no-holds-barred from her and he didn’t see why he should feel guilty about not ceding her any quarter. He knew what she was doing. She thought the Cartwrights were still on St. Napoli and she was trying to beat him to them. Well, he’d put the kibosh on that — for now, at least. Even if she hadn’t drowned, she would have to regroup considerably to get back to St. Napoli before he did.
But how to explain Cerise’s absence to Leonard? He decided the best thing to do would be to appear ignorant. Leonard would ask where she was, and after looking around the island, he and Frankes would report that they hadn’t found her, though the rubber dinghy was missing. They would then suggest to Leonard that Cerise was up to no good, that she had somehow sequestered the paintings in a safe place and was, even now, on her way to them. Or she had made a deal with Evans. Had she sold him the paintings and was making off with her money, which she had secreted in a safe-deposit box somewhere?
He had slowed her down at least and in that he felt entirely justified.
Leonard was not up when he arrived downstairs. Luther was not yet in the kitchen. He imagined Frankes would sleep until noon, not having to worry about thinking. He was passing the solarium when a squawk made him jump.
“Tweek is a twit. Frankes is a freak.”
“God damn.” Tibor went into the solarium and flung open the door of the cage. He tried to grab the bird by the throat but she eluded him. He was chasing her around the cottage when Luther came into the kitchen. He opened the door and went out onto the back porch with a basket of waste for the composter. Betty flew straight through the open door and disappeared into the foliage. Luther, oblivious, returned to the kitchen, surprised to see Tibor, who stamped off into the breakfast nook. Luther followed him and hovered nearby.
“French toast,” Tibor grumbled. “Maple syrup, bac
on, coffee.”
Luther nodded and returned to the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Leonard appeared, shuffling out of his main-floor room. He was dressed nattily in a light grey suit, a white shirt and blue tie. He had no socks on and was wearing slippers on the wrong feet. He smiled when he saw Tibor.
“Have you seen the paper?”
Tibor picked up the Globe Frankes had purchased in town the day before and handed it to Leonard, who scanned the front page, apparently unaware he had read it the day before. And the day before that. At least, Tibor thought, amusing him was cheap.
Leonard carried the newspaper to the table and sat down. “That smells good,” he said as Luther appeared with Tibor’s breakfast. Luther set the tray in front of Leonard, then looked to Tibor.
“I’ll have the same,” Tibor barked.
Creighton lowered himself into the motorboat. Although he had little appreciation for fishing, he did like boats, especially those with a motor. In fact, exclusively those with a motor. He supposed most men preferred vehicles with motors. Brisbois, he thought, would have something to say about the psychology of that! He waited until he had cleared the basin, then opened the motor to full throttle, which wasn’t all that gratifying, given the limitations of his little eggbeater.
As the breeze ruffled his hair, he realized Brisbois was right. This was better than the hassle of airports and six-lane traffic. He felt foot-loose and fancy-free. Nothing compelled him at home since Louise had died. His landlady had suggested he get a new goldfish, saying the sight of Louise’s empty bowl brought a lump to her throat when she went in to check on his apartment during his absences. She even suggested he try a kitten. He imagined the landlady enjoyed the extra excuse to interact with him that a pet afforded. He kind of missed her too, and their conversations about Louise and everyday things.
He glanced at the fishing rod and wondered, in light of Louise’s death, if he should even think about catching a fish. He knew what Brisbois would say: Louise was the only woman he had ever committed to.
He grinned. Brisbois was worse than his mother when it came to pushing him toward marriage. In fact, his mother had given up inquiring about his prospects some years before. He had suggested to his sister Carol that their mother had concluded that there wasn’t a woman good enough for her son. Carol had responded that their mother had finally decided there wasn’t a woman bad enough.
He had to admit Carol was right — he wasn’t good marriage material. He was used to living by himself and seldom did anything for himself. He ate out a lot, had a cleaning service in every couple of weeks, took his clothes to the laundry. Domesticity wasn’t his strong point. As Carol pointed out, not only would he not feel guilty about having his wife do everything, he wouldn’t even notice what she had done. He wasn’t even used to doing traditional male things. He’d always lived in an apartment so he didn’t do yard work. If anything broke around the apartment, his landlady fixed it — she was, for instance, a virtuoso with a monkey wrench. He took his car to the mechanic. Brisbois, meanwhile, talked about gardening and making dinner. He got the feeling Brisbois liked being at home, liked taking part in the general work around the house. Brisbois even knew what to do with kids. Creighton didn’t have a clue. Although he was the oldest in the family, he had never paid much attention to what his mother did with his siblings. He was the man of the house, going to school, hanging out in pool halls, playing baseball and softball.
He considered all of this as he turned up the lake, looking for one of those dark, cool places or piles of rock or reed banks where Brisbois had assured him fish liked to hang out. He supposed he’d make a decent father. Why wouldn’t he? He’d had ample opportunity to observe his brother-in-law, Gary, who didn’t do anything special other than just be there. That was the rub, wasn’t it? Being there. That’s what seemed to bug Brisbois; there were times he, Brisbois, wasn’t there. He shrugged. Another good reason to remain a bachelor.
“Where’s Cerise this morning?” Leonard looked from the clock to Tibor and to Frankes, who had finally made an appearance, unshaven and glassy-eyed.
“She wasn’t around when I got up,” Tibor responded. “Maybe she’s still sleeping.”
“Perhaps someone should check,” said Leonard.
Tibor got up from the table and went down the hall. He looked into Cerise’s room, which was directly across from Leonard’s. “She’s not there,” he said on his return. He took a sip of coffee and added casually. “The parrot isn’t here either. Maybe they both flew the coop.”
“Flew the coop,” Leonard repeated, frowning.
“Yeah,” Tibor murmured. “I thought she was up to something.”
“Who’s up to something?”
“Cerise,” Tibor persisted.
“Oh,” said Leonard, then grinned. “About four-eleven.”
Tibor rolled his eyes.
Creighton slowed the boat to a putt-putt when he spotted the weeping willows leaning over the rocky bank. “I think this is what we’re looking for,” he told a seagull that had landed near his boat. He dropped anchor and tossed out his line. The seagull watched him for a few minutes before flying away, wheeling above him briefly before taking off down the lake.
“I guess he didn’t think I was much of a bet,” he said. He sat back and let the line drag in the water. He had to admit that fishing was relaxing. Boring was more like it. Still, the scenery was nice. Finally, he pulled his line in and lay back, tipping his hat over his eyes. He chuckled to himself. This was what Norman Phipps-Walker called fishing.
He was enjoying his nap when he thought he heard something. He opened his eyes, lazily scanned the lake, perking up at the sight of a large bird splashing in the middle of the lake. Too big to be one bird, he thought, perhaps a gaggle of loons having a meeting. He narrowed his eyes, wishing he’d brought binoculars. Maybe it was a pair of otters or muskrats. Or did you only find those on the river? Maybe it was a dog, perhaps from a cottage just around the bend. His eyes widened as he realized it was a swimmer who, nearing his boat, vanished into the water then resurfaced a moment later a foot away.
“Sorry to scare you. I was just scoping you out.”
He stared at the red-haired, brown-eyed elf who hung by her forearms to the side of his boat. When he didn’t respond, she said, “Hey, I’ve swum a long way. Mind if I come aboard?”
Chapter Eleven
“How are you this morning, Mr. Rudley?” Simpson entered the lobby with Albert on a leash. His hair was windblown, his cheeks flushed.
“I see Albert’s had you chasing squirrels,” Rudley said.
“He is rather full of vinegar.”
“Did you lose Miss Miller?”
“She stopped to talk to Chief Longbow. She thinks his story might make an interesting piece for the papers.”
Rudley crossed his eyes. “The man’s clearly deranged.”
“He is quite eccentric. But he wouldn’t be the first eccentric to grace these premises.”
Rudley struggled up onto his crutches. “He’d be the first to lay claim to my land, although” — he winced as the arm of the crutch bit into him — “the Benson sisters seem to have laid claim to the Elm Pavilion. The only saving grace is that they don’t have anything in writing, and they’re older than the planet.”
“I imagine that you’d miss them if they weren’t here.”
“I have to say they do keep me feeling young,” Rudley conceded. He winced again. “These things are killing my armpits.”
Simpson cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind me saying, Mr. Rudley, you aren’t supposed to take all of your weight on your axillae.” He paused. “Didn’t they teach you how to use those at the hospital?”
“I think they just wanted him to leave,” said Margaret, who arrived with Tim on the tail end of the conversation. “Especially since everything they told him previously seemed to have gone
in one ear and out the other.”
“Which requires there be nothing in between,” Tim murmured.
“Now, Rudley,” Margaret said as her husband fumed, “Tim is just trying to introduce some levity into the situation.”
“I don’t see any levity in me being imprisoned behind this desk with this damn cast and everyone looking down on me and making jokes about my predicament.”
Margaret circled the desk and put an arm around him. “We’re sorry, Rudley, but you have to admit you’ve been a beast about this whole situation. Not only are you suffering, but you’ve made everyone else suffer.” She tidied the papers on his desk. “I think you should take some time to relax, perhaps sit out on the veranda and enjoy the view.”
“And we would enjoy the view,” Tim muttered, “of you sitting out on the veranda.”
“I heard that,” said Rudley.
“Now,” said Margaret, “Gregoire is making you something special for lunch.” She gave Rudley a pat on the arm and left with Tim in tow.
“It’s demeaning,” Rudley complained to Simpson, “to have everyone ignoring your wishes and doing whatever they please.”
Simpson regarded him sympathetically as he turned to leave. “In my experience, Mr. Rudley, life is much easier when you learn to go with the flow, as they say.”
Abandoning his crutches, Rudley leaned over the desk, supporting himself on his elbows, and tried to enjoy his paper. The idea of sitting for more than five minutes repelled him. The idea of sitting on the veranda especially repelled him. The view from the veranda these days would be sure to repel him. There was his pristine lakefront, his unsurpassable wildlife retreat and, in the middle of it all, Chief Longbow who had set up housekeeping in earnest. He had added a clothesline strung between two pine trees and a lawn chair with a table and umbrella, courtesy of Margaret. “The next thing I know, he’ll have added a carport and bought himself a Lamborghini,” he told Albert, who had collapsed on the rug in front of the desk and was wriggling about, happily transferring whatever stench he had picked up from rolling in the dead fish down on the bank.
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