A Most Unpleasant Picture

by Judith Alguire

  “What?”

  “It looks like some sort of stationary camera over the door,” Tibor mumbled. “It’s probably got a motion-detection light.”

  “Let’s get out of here.” Frankes turned and headed toward the boathouse. Tibor followed.

  They slipped in the door of the boathouse and came to an abrupt halt. The flame from a Zippo lighter illuminated a leathery face.

  “Who are you?” Frankes blurted.

  “I could ask the same,” said Chief Longbow. “I thought I saw somebody sneaking around,” he continued as Frankes and Tibor gaped at him. He winced at the heat from the lighter, then fumbled along the wall for a light switch.

  Tibor moved quickly, ramming a shoulder into the chief. The chief grabbed at him, but his fingers slid from Tibor’s neck. He fell backwards, striking his head on the apron. He uttered a deep grunt and rolled into the water.

  Frankes scrambled after the chief. Tibor held him back.

  “He’s unconscious,” Frankes protested. “He’s going to drown.”

  “Let him.”

  Frankes stared at Tibor in horror, then backed away. He turned toward the water, gulping as bile rose in his throat. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered.

  Tibor grabbed Frankes’s upper arm and squeezed down hard. “Wait.” He took a deep breath. “We’ll wait. We saw her come out of that bunkhouse before. She’ll do it again.”

  “It’s going to get light soon.”

  “If anybody else comes around, we’ll just say we got lost and came into the wrong boathouse.”

  “What about him?” Frankes gestured toward the water, his voice quavering.

  Tibor shone a light into the water. The chief floated just below the surface. His hat bobbed gently on the surface. Tibor turned and scanned the boathouse, his gaze settling on a long box along the wall under the window. He walked over and opened the lid.

  “What is it?” Frankes asked.

  “Life preservers,” Tibor snapped. “We’ll stuff him in here.”

  “Let’s just leave.”

  Tibor seized Frankes by the shoulders, turned him around, and shoved him toward the water. “Get in there and bring him to the side. I’ll help you pull him out. Get his hat too.”

  Frankes hesitated, then did as told. Tibor waited as Frankes towed the body to the side, then reached down and grabbed the chief by the shirt. Together, they hauled him up onto the apron. Tibor folded the chief’s arms over his chest. “Get him under the hips,” he commanded Frankes.

  With effort, they lifted the chief into the life-preserver box. Tibor retrieved the hat, stuffed it in beside the chief and closed the lid.

  Frankes opened the lid and put a hand on the chief’s wrist.

  “He’s dead,” Tibor snapped. He pulled Frankes away from the box, lowered the lid again, then peeked out the window. “All quiet,” he whispered.

  For the next fifteen minutes, the boathouse was silent except for Frankes’s shallow breaths.

  “What time is it?” Frankes said weakly. He had sunk down against the wall, and sat with his legs pulled up against his chest, his head resting on his knees.

  Tibor checked his watch. “Nearly four.” He was about to tell Frankes to get a grip on himself when something caught his attention. A light had gone on in the bunkhouse. “Someone’s up,” he muttered.

  Frankes rolled onto his knees, wincing as a nail bit into his leg. He got up unsteadily and stared over Tibor’s shoulder. “Somebody heard us,” he croaked. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Tibor reached to stop Frankes but he was already in the boat, reaching to undo the rope to cast off. Tibor cursed and followed.

  In the bunkhouse, Gregoire dressed for the day, unaware of the drama taking place a few yards away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rudley went to the veranda the next morning, eager to check the cage Lloyd had placed there. The minute he opened the door, he heard the scratching. I’ve got her, he thought triumphantly, thumping his crutches over to the cage. He groaned. Inside was a bright-eyed chipmunk that regarded him with bulging cheeks.

  “What are you doing in there? I set this trap for a specific purpose. There’s plenty of food around here to suit your needs. I don’t even know if pineapple is part of a proper diet for a rodent like yourself.” He opened the door and shooed the chipmunk away. “Off with you now.”

  The chipmunk scampered onto the porch railing and across the lawn into a maple. Rudley thumped down the stairs, casting an eye about for the bullfrog, which met him on his way up. “Now, you can just turn around and be on your way back to the swamp.”

  The bullfrog blinked at him without interest.

  “As you can see,” Rudley continued, “I’m somewhat compromised. You’ll have to get back on your own. That should not be a problem. You always get here on your own, after all.”

  “Talking to the frogs again?” Tim chortled as he approached.

  Rudley stumped around to face him. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Well, that’s different,” said Tim.

  “You can carry him back to the swamp.”

  Tim looked at the frog askance. “He has frog slime on him.”

  “He’s a frog.”

  Tim reached down and gingerly picked up the bullfrog. “No funny stuff,” he told the amphibian.

  Rudley watched Tim head for the swamp, holding the bullfrog at arm’s length. He knew Tim had nothing against the creatures; he just didn’t like to get a spot of anything on his pristine white shirt. He returned to the front desk in a better mood.

  Cerise was there when he arrived, writing on a piece of paper.

  “Where’s Margaret?”

  “In the kitchen.” She gave him an aggrieved look. “I’m not allowed to go into the kitchen, you know.” She finished her note and stuck it on the spike.

  “What was that?”

  “Mr. Smith, about a reservation.”

  “Why in hell is anyone calling at this time of morning?”

  “Maybe he’s calling from where the time’s later,” she said. “He wanted to change his reservation.”

  Rudley grabbed the note and began to leaf through the reservation book. “Alvin Smith. Alvin Smith,” he muttered.

  “Oh, maybe some other name,” she said wearily. “He just said Mr. Smith and Alvin seemed to suit him.”

  “Damn,” said Rudley.

  “He said he’s booked into the Oaks for the first week in August. He wants to change it to the second week. I looked at your reservation book. There wasn’t anyone booked then so I pencilled him in.”

  He flipped ahead to August. There it was, just as she said. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?” he said, aggrieved.

  “It’s so much fun to see you blow your stack. Anyway, now that you’re here,” she continued, sounding as if he had been egregiously truant, “I’m getting some breakfast. Do you want anything?”

  “Coffee,” he said, subdued, “and whatever Gregoire thinks is good. A scone or muffin.”

  After Cerise left, Rudley consigned her message to the recycle bin. “She’s cheeky,” he told Albert, who had padded in from the drawing room in anticipation of food. “I’m rather accustomed to that, but she has no respect whatsoever. I hope she gets her issues straightened out soon and can go back to wherever she’s come from.”

  He paused in thought. Except she didn’t seem to have come from anywhere. When he’d asked her, she’d replied that she was a citizen of the world. “What in hell does that mean?” he harrumphed to Albert.

  He himself was from Galt, Ontario, and wasn’t shy about saying so. The place a man is from shapes who he is, he thought with conviction. Galt was a solid town in a solid part of the world, an exemplar of the Canadian experience, and he, Trevor Rudley, was a solid man, a fine example of a Canadian.


  “You came from a den dug in under a barn,” he told Albert, who favoured him with a dog smile and drooled on the rug. “The people at the pound said you were as dirty as a pig and smelled like dead fish.”

  Cerise reappeared with a tray containing two cups of coffee, a fruit salad, and a raisin scone. A second scone was clamped between her teeth, which she removed when she placed the tray on the desk. “I hope this suits you.”

  “It suits me fine.”

  He expected her to go, but she leaned against the desk and took one of the cups as if she were ready to make herself at home.

  “Don’t you have anything to do?” he asked her.

  “No.”

  He was about to suggest something when the sound of a motor announced the arrival of the laundryman. Rudley thumped to the door and threw it open. Betty flew in, landed on his head, then launched herself onto the desk. Rudley turned to see her chowing down on his fruit salad.

  “Damn!” Rudley hobbled back to the desk, bellowing for Tim, Lloyd, or whoever else could hear him.

  The laundryman came up the steps and entered, closing the door behind him.

  “What are you doing here?” Rudley demanded as Cerise narrowed her eyes at the avian intruder.

  “I’ve come to deliver your linens, as usual,” said the laundryman. “I heard you bellowing. I assume you’re concerned about your bullfrog. I did not run over him.” His eyes travelled to the bird. “I see you have a parrot.”

  “She is not my parrot,” said Rudley. “She flew in here expecting us to feed her and is generally making a nuisance of herself.”

  “Just one of the guests then,” said the laundryman.

  “If you want to do something useful, keep your ears open in case someone is looking for their parrot.”

  “I will, of course, do that. But have you considered contacting the pound?”

  “Now, there’s an original idea,” Rudley grumped. “The pound doesn’t have the facilities for her. They’ve suggested a wildlife refuge several thousand miles away.”

  “Sweetie, Sweetie,” the parrot chirped. She flew suddenly to Cerise’s shoulder, leaned down and speared a raisin from her scone.

  “She seems to like you,” the laundryman observed.

  “She wants my scone,” said Cerise. “Besides, I’m the only one who hasn’t been trying to trap her and put her in a box.”

  “Mr. Rudley has always been a master of the subtle approach,” the laundryman tittered. “By the way, I noticed that pit on your lawn is getting rather large.”

  Rudley gripped the hand rests of his crutches so hard his knuckles turned white. “And that’s something that’s going to stop right now!” He abandoned his breakfast and thumped off down the front steps.

  “He’s a very dynamic man,” the laundryman said to Cerise.

  Rudley made his way to the chief’s camp, pausing to stare at the gaping hole in his lawn. He next noticed that, although it was well past sunrise, the chief’s fire pit was cold, the coffee pot absent. He went around to the front of the tent and called to him. Receiving no answer, he tried again. He bent forward on his crutches as far as he dared and tried to see past the tent flap.

  “Guess he isn’t up.”

  “Damn.” Rudley jerked back in alarm, noting Lloyd at his shoulder. “What in hell are you doing here?”

  Lloyd grinned. “Was looking to tell you I’m going into town. You said to look for you when I went because there was something you wanted from the feed store.”

  Rudley searched his mind but found it blank. “How in hell should I know what I want?” he barked. “I don’t want anything.” He peered into the tent again, cupping his hands around his mouth, shouting, “Chief, I need to talk to you.” He paused. “I refuse to be ignored. I know you’re in there.” He considered the chief’s boundary line and took a step forward. “I want you to know I’m crossing the line.”

  “Mrs. Rudley says you did that a long time ago,” Lloyd noted.

  “Grass seed,” said Rudley, suddenly remembering. “We need grass seed.” He took a step closer to the tent. “Chief, I’m coming ahead.” He turned to Lloyd. “Be on your way now.”

  “I’m going to take the boat on account I can’t find the truck keys.”

  Rudley thought about the last place he’d thrown them, recalling the metallic sound as they slid through a heat register. “All right.” He made a shooing motion toward Lloyd. “Off with you now.”

  After Lloyd had gone, Rudley cleared his throat. “Now, Chief, I don’t wish to be unpleasant, but we must resolve this issue for once and for all. I’m sure if you consult the area maps you will find that the piece of land you have pitched your tent on is the only one that could remotely be in contention and only because there was a crease in the paper when it was copied for the office. That certainly doesn’t include the boathouse or the other lands to which you have recently laid claim. As I’ve made clear, I respect your right to contest what you believe is yours, but we need the boathouse, and even if we were to give you the run of the place, we need it from time to time. I cannot pretend to address the issue of your original dispossession from this land. But I paid the Mafia — albeit once or twice removed — for this property. Surely we can work out something, man to man.”

  “The Chief ain’t in there,” a voice behind Rudley announced.

  Rudley started. Lloyd again. “Where in hell is he?”

  “He’s in the boathouse.”

  “So he’s gone ahead and moved in.”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What did he have to say for himself?”

  “Nothing. He’s in the life-preserver box.”

  Rudley gave him a quizzical look. “What’s he doing in there? Didn’t you tell him those things are the property of the Pleasant?”

  “Didn’t tell him anything. On account he’s dead.”

  “Nonsense.” Rudley took off, poling vigorously toward the boathouse, Lloyd loping behind him. He thumped into the boathouse and stopped. “Where is he?”

  “In the box.”

  “The lid’s down.”

  “Closed it after I opened it. You like it kept closed so the rats don’t get in.”

  Rudley cast Lloyd an aggrieved look, then flung the lid open. “Damn.” He looked down at the chief’s strangely pale face. “He can’t be dead.”

  “Dead as a doornail,’ said Lloyd.

  “Damn,” Rudley repeated. “What the hell.” He gave Lloyd an accusing look. “Why are you finding dead bodies? Isn’t that Tiffany’s job?”

  “Tiffany’s taking around the laundry.”

  “Well, he can’t be dead. He probably got cold in his tent and came in here to keep warm.” He shook the chief, recoiled. “God damn it, he’s as stiff as a board.”

  “On account he’s dead as a doornail.”

  “Damn,” said Rudley yet again.

  “Guess,” Lloyd said, “we’ve got to preserve the scene.”

  Rudley stood on the lawn outside the police tape, waiting impatiently for Detective Sherlock, who had ordered him to remain there, to return. He was about to complain to Officer Owens, who stood just inside the tape, when Sherlock returned.

  “So you’re Trevor Rudley,” said the dapper young man. He was perfectly groomed with a slender moustache. He wore a blue blazer, grey slacks, white shirt, and club tie, gleaming black oxfords and a black fedora set at a conservative angle.

  Rudley glared at the detective. “Didn’t I just tell you that?”

  “Just murmuring to myself.” The man reviewed his notes. “To recap…you found the deceased, whom you identify as Chief Longbow, in the boathouse in a box of life preservers.”

  “I didn’t find him anywhere. Lloyd, our handyman, found him.”

  “And he summoned you.”

  “He came to tell me that Chief Longbow
was in the boathouse because I had been looking for him at his campsite.”

  “Why was the handyman looking for him?”

  Rudley counted to ten. “Lloyd wasn’t looking for him. He discovered him when he went to take the boat out.”

  “And he told you he was deceased.”

  “Eventually. I didn’t believe him.”

  “Oh, is he in the habit of telling you someone is dead when they are not?”

  “No. I simply don’t like to hear that sort of news. Then I opened the lid — ”

  “That would be the lid on the chest of life preservers.”

  “Yes.”

  “But he didn’t run up to you and say the chief’s in the boathouse and he’s dead.”

  “Not immediately.”

  “That seems strange.”

  “It doesn’t seem strange at all,” Rudley protested. “We’re talking about Lloyd. Besides…” He started to say that finding dead bodies at the Pleasant was nothing to write home about. Instead he asked, “Where’s Brisbois?”

  “I’m the detective on this case.”

  “I take it Brisbois refused to come this time.” He stopped as the detective gave him a long look. “We’ve always had Brisbois and Creighton. It seems inconsiderate to send someone we have to break in.”

  The detective started to say something, changed his mind. “If you’ve got a problem with that, take it to the brass.” He reached into his breast pocket, removed a silver cardholder, and handed it to Rudley.

  “John Sherlock,” Rudley murmured, adding, “I suppose you’re finished with me.”

  “You suppose right. For now.”

  Rudley cleared his throat. “Surely, you don’t believe this is a homicide. Surely it has to be death from natural causes.”

  “If you think it’s natural for someone to die in a box of life preservers with the lid down.”

  “Perhaps he got tired of sleeping on the ground. He was not a young man.”

  “Did you ever consider giving him a cot?”

  Rudley bristled. “We gave him everything but the kitchen sink. My wife is a generous woman. She’d give anyone the shirt off my back.”