Sherlock allowed himself a quick smile. “The man’s dead. He’ll be autopsied. Perhaps we’re dealing with an unexpected death through natural causes and nothing more. But in the meantime, we’ll be poking around, asking questions, the usual. Keep your guests where they are and make your staff available.”
“All right, all right.” Rudley waved his arms in frustration. “We know the drill.”
Sherlock gave him a knowing smirk. “So I’ve heard.”
Sherlock left Rudley spluttering and strode over to where Lloyd was waiting for him on a bench on the lower lawn. He introduced himself formally, showed his badge, then sat down beside him.
“Full name?” he asked, pen poised.
“Lloyd Brawly.”
“Middle name?”
Lloyd grinned. “Don’t think so.”
Sherlock paused, slightly taken aback, then forged ahead. “You were the person who found the man known as Chief Longbow in the boathouse.”
“Yes’m.”
“And where was he when you found him?”
“In the box of life-preservers. Dead as a doornail.”
“And how did you know he was dead?”
“Didn’t have any pulse. Wasn’t breathing. Kind of cold and stiff. Just lying on his back as nice as you please with his arms folded over his chest.”
Sherlock checked his notes. “Lid up or down?”
“Was down until I lifted it. Then I put it down again on account Mr. Rudley don’t like it left up.” Lloyd grinned. “Says it lets the rats get in.”
“And what were you doing in the boathouse?”
“Went to get a boat to get the groceries.”
“And that’s your usual practice? To take a boat to get groceries?”
“Mostly take the truck but Mr. Rudley lost the keys.”
Sherlock made a few notes, then pressed on. “So what made you look in the life-preserver box?”
“’Cause I was going in the boat. It’s the law.”
“Commendable,” Sherlock muttered. “So,” he said, “how well did you know the chief?”
“Not much.”
“Did you like him?”
“Nothing not to like.”
“Did Mr. Rudley like him?”
“Didn’t like him digging up the lawn but never said he didn’t like him. Let him pitch his tent on the lawn and gave him stuff.”
Sherlock flipped back through his notes, reviewing what Officer Owens had told him about this odd situation. He decided to shift tactics. “So how did you sleep last night?” he asked pleasantly.
“On my cot in the tool shed just like always. In my shorts.”
Sherlock’s brow creased. “I mean, did you sleep all night? Did you wake up during the night?”
“Woke up around five.”
“Why so early?”
“Things to do.”
“Things?”
“First I have to get out of bed. Then I have to feed the chipmunks.”
“So around five you got up and went out to feed the chipmunks.”
“Nope. They came in.”
Sherlock rubbed his forehead. “The chipmunks come in?”
Lloyd grinned. “Yup. Right down the tree onto the roof and in through the transom.”
“What about the skunks and raccoons?” Sherlock said sarcastically. “Do they come in?”
“The raccoons are too fat to get in and the skunks don’t climb so well.”
Sherlock sighed. “All right. What did you do next?”
“Got dressed and went to get breakfast. Apple muffin and milk on account the pancakes weren’t ready. The grill has to be hot so a drop of water scoots.”
“Take the chipmunks with you?”
“Nope. On account Gregoire won’t let them into the kitchen.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And who is Gregoire?”
“The cook.”
Sherlock decided to try a different approach. “You like Mr. Rudley?”
“Yes’m.”
“Chief Longbow was ruining Mr. Rudley’s lawn. That must have made you mad.”
“Nope.”
“Really? I’d be mad if someone did that to someone I liked.”
“Never get mad. It’s hard on your digestion and makes your blood pressure zoom way up. Mr. Rudley is always mad and Mrs. Rudley says he’s going to have a heart attack and a stroke.”
“So nothing makes you mad.”
“Maybe if somebody hurt Blanche or Albert.”
Sherlock made a note. “And who are they?”
“Our cat and our dog.”
Sherlock sat back, gave Lloyd a long appraising look. “What would you say if I said I thought you killed Chief Longbow?”
Lloyd grinned. “Would say you was wrong.”
“Would it make you mad?”
“Nope, but would make Mrs. Rudley mad if you said I did something I didn’t do.”
Sherlock sat in silence for a minute, trying to decide if Lloyd were incredibly stupid or incredibly smart. “So when you found Chief Longbow and you decided he was dead, you ran and told Mr. Rudley right away.”
“Didn’t run. Walked fast.”
“So you walked fast and said to Mr. Rudley ‘The chief is dead.’”
“Not all at once.”
“Why not?”
“Sometimes it’s better to tell him things in little bits. He gets mad when you tell him somebody’s dead.”
Sherlock nodded wearily. “And then he would have a stroke or an upset stomach.” He folded his notebook. “Have you ever had your fingerprints taken? Has anybody ever swabbed your mouth?”
“Yup, on account Detective Brisbois had all that done and on most everybody who ever came here.”
Sherlock smiled. “I guess that’s one thing I won’t have to do.”
Sherlock let Lloyd go, sat back and stared into the canopy. Interviewing that guy was like pulling teeth, he thought. He drew a hand along his jaw. His own teeth.
Chapter Eighteen
After Sherlock released him with the usual admonishments, Rudley returned to the inn. He had elbowed the front door aside when Margaret came up the back stairs from the basement. The phone was ringing.
“Rudley” — she stopped at the top of the stairs — “what is going on? I was down in the basement, looking up some of the old receipts and the phone was ringing off the hook. I took calls from the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker.”
“Well, at least no one barged into the office to arrest you.”
She shook her head, uncomprehending.
“The chief is dead.” He slumped against the doorjamb. “Dead as a doornail.”
She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Rudley!”
“Lloyd found him in the life-preserver box,” he said gloomily. “Dead as a doornail.”
She came to him, put her arms around him. “Rudley, I’m so sorry.”
“You couldn’t possibly be sorrier than I am, Margaret. I’ve just spent twenty minutes being grilled — most disrespectfully — by some young whippersnapper called Sherlock.”
“Sherlock?”
“Yes, natty young ass, no personality, no sense of how things are done around here.”
“Where’s Detective Brisbois?”
“Apparently, he’s not available. Perhaps he’s still on vacation.”
“Perhaps he’s tired of coming here,” she said with a sigh. “Or perhaps they thought at the office we were all becoming too familiar.”
He grabbed the phone. “Well, I’m going to call the station and find out where he is. I’m not putting up with this idiot.”
She moved the phone away from him. “Rudley, I don’t think you can put in an order for the police officer of your choice. It’s not as if it’s takeaway.”
; “He doesn’t need to be here anyway,” Rudley grumbled. “No one killed the old bugger. I think he just climbed into the box and had a heart attack.”
“Rudley, why would he crawl into a box in the boathouse to have a heart attack?”
He shook his head. “How should I know, Margaret?” He sagged forward on his crutches. “Perhaps he thought it would be warmer in there. Or softer.”
“It wasn’t particularly chilly last night. He had a ground sheet in his tent and a sleeping bag. I think that would be more comfortable than a box of lumpy life preservers.”
“Perhaps he had a heart attack, became disoriented and ended up in the boathouse.”
She considered this. “I suppose that could happen, Rudley. But it’s more likely someone put him in there.”
He sighed, thumped in behind the desk. “Couldn’t you be on my side on this, Margaret?”
“It’s not a matter of being on your side. If the poor man’s been murdered, we can’t hide our heads in the sand.”
“Damn.” He collapsed forward onto his desk, elbows digging into the wood, head between his forearms. “I never thought that was an appealing place to stick one’s head, but if someone gave me a pail of it right now…”
She patted his arm.
“I don’t know how you missed all of this, Margaret. Ambulances. Sirens. Police cars.”
“I was rather distracted with the phone ringing, Rudley. Besides, it’s not that easy to hear anything from the boathouse when you’re in the basement. If they had come across the front of the inn, I’m sure I would have noticed.”
He lifted his head, tufts of hair sticking out in all directions. She patted it down with one hand. “You must stop pulling at your hair, Rudley. I’m sure that’s why you’re going bald.”
He stared across the lobby, his expression doleful. “I’m going bald, Margaret, because of all the nonsense that takes place around here.”
She sighed. “I’m afraid it’s all an inconvenience for us, Rudley. For Chief Longbow, it’s a tragedy. The poor man is dead.”
He nodded reluctantly. “I know. He was not a bad man, even likeable in a way. But in many ways he was damn irritating, and why did he have to die here?”
“Everyone else seems to, Rudley, whether they want to or not.” She brightened. “On the positive side, statistically, it does tend to make every other place safer.”
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Did the police have any idea of who he might be?”
“No,” he said, distracted. “I imagine they’ll be able to figure that out eventually.”
“It seems strange that he would come here alone to make a land claim. Why wouldn’t he bring members of his tribe with him for support?”
He crossed his eyes. “Margaret, if I had a chance to get away from my tribe, I would take it.”
The silence was broken by a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Rudley bellowed. Receiving no answer, he hobbled across the lobby and flung the door open.
Detective Sherlock stood on the veranda, hat in hands.
“You don’t have to knock,” Rudley snapped. “This is an inn, for god’s sakes.”
“Merely trying to be courteous.”
“I don’t know why,” Rudley grumbled. “No one else does.”
Sherlock glanced at Margaret. “And she is?”
“She’s my wife, Margaret,” Rudley replied.
Sherlock nodded and addressed her: “And where have you been?”
“I’ve been here. I’ve been in the basement most recently. I didn’t realize anything had happened until Rudley told me.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“He told me that Chief Longbow had been found dead in the box of life preservers in the boathouse.”
“And when did you last see Chief Longbow?”
“I saw him last evening, about six, when I took a plate of food and a thermos of coffee to him.”
Sherlock made a note. “And this was a regular habit? Taking food to the deceased?”
“I don’t think he had much with him. And it did keep him from setting fire to the tent.” She paused. “He didn’t seem very good at managing his campfire. He had a nasty burn on his arm. I don’t think his vision was the best.” She smiled. “Detective, could I get you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you,” he responded, absorbed in his notes. “Do you know if he was taking any medications?”
“I don’t know. Apart from his vision, he seemed in reasonable condition.”
“Did he say anything about his family, associates?”
“He said he was a member of the Algonquin nation,” Margaret said.
“That’s like saying his name was Smith.”
“Now see here,” said Rudley. “There’s no reason to insult my wife. She’s from England. How is she supposed to know anything about our Canadian tribes?”
“I wouldn’t think Longbow would be a common name,” said Margaret.
“Did he have any visitors?”
“Not that I know of.”
“According to your husband, he laid claim to a patch of land when he arrived and then expanded that claim to include the area up to and including the boathouse.”
“That’s true.”
“And your husband was happy with that?”
“Of course he wasn’t, Detective.”
“And he wanted him away?”
“He was willing to let him stay undisturbed when he thought it was just for the summer and involved just the area of his campsite. But when the chief made further claims and seemed to be ready to stay indefinitely, he realized that could be a problem.”
“And how was he planning to solve that problem?”
“He had turned the matter over to our lawyer.”
“Who would have taken until hell freezes over to get anything done,” Rudley grumbled as Margaret winced and tried to shush him.
“So perhaps you decided the legal route wouldn’t work and decided to take things into your own hands,” Sherlock suggested.
“I decided to have it out with him, man to man.”
“And so you did?” Sherlock raised his brows.
Margaret gave Rudley a sharp poke with her elbow. “Detective, I assure you, Rudley had nothing to do with Chief Longbow’s death. Rudley is all talk. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s never killed a single soul around here, human or otherwise. The chief wandered in here, set up his tent. We’ve done our best to accommodate him.”
“So it seems,” Sherlock murmured. He turned a page in his notebook. “Mrs. Rudley, what time did you get up this morning?”
“About six.”
“And then you came downstairs?”
“Not immediately. I had my bath, helped Rudley and his cast out of bed, got him underway.”
“And what time did he get underway?”
“About six-thirty. He’s usually down earlier but with the cast…”
He made a note. “Go on.”
“I came downstairs, got a cup of tea in the kitchen and took it to the basement office. I wanted to review last month’s receipts.”
Sherlock smoothed his moustache. “And was Mr. Rudley up during the night?”
“No.”
He fixed her with a steady gaze. “Are you sure?”
“Detective, you may have to take my word for it, but when you share a bed with a man in a cast, you tend to notice when he gets out of it.” When he didn’t respond, Margaret added, “Believe me, Detective, no one here would harm the chief.”
“That remains to be seen.” Sherlock closed his notebook. “I’ve got some more poking around to do. Don’t go anywhere, please. I’ll want to talk to you again.”
“Now he’s starting to act like Brisbois,” Rudley fumed as Sherlo
ck departed.
“That’s good, Rudley. You like things to be familiar.”
Sherlock left the inn, noted Sheffield and Maroni taking a break by the forensics van and pulled a map from his pocket. He checked it, looking up uncertainly toward the Elm Pavilion. He decided to take a chance and knock on the door, but there was no answer. He knocked louder.
This time he heard footsteps crossing the floor. The door flung open and he found himself face to face with an imposing older woman.
“Didn’t you hear me say come in?” the woman said.
“Sorry, I didn’t.” Sherlock removed his hat and introduced himself, adding, “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“We’ve already been asked a few questions by Officer Vance.”
“Officer Vance is filling in for Detective Brisbois,” a voice called out from across the room.
The woman tilted her head toward the voice. “My sister Louise,” she said. “And the one on the sofa with the movie magazine is Kate. And I’m Emma Benson.” She gave him an appraising look. “Identification?”
Sherlock presented his badge. “I’m investigating the death of a man known here as Chief Longbow.”
“Oh, he’s not likely to be a chief,” said Emma dismissively.
“You say he’s dead?” Louise said in a surprised tone.
“We know he’s dead, Louise,” said Emma. “Officer Vance told us that.”
“I thought Lloyd said he was.”
Emma looked pained. “Tiffany said he was. Officer Vance confirmed the fact.”
Louise clasped her hands to her bosom. “Oh, yes, I like Officer Vance. I love his moustache.”
“He’s bald,” said Emma. She marched over to the sofa and tapped Kate on the shoulder. “Kate, put down that magazine. This man, who says he’s a detective, is asking about Chief Longbow.”
Kate gave Sherlock a dubious look. “How do we know you’re a detective?”
“He showed me his identification,” said Emma.
“It could have been forged,” said Louise. “Remember the man Daddy knew who forged passports?”
“Daddy knew lots of men who forged passports,” said Kate.
“He was a spy,” said Louise.
“Some of them were women,” said Kate.
“You aren’t Detective Brisbois,” said Louise.
A Most Unpleasant Picture Page 14