“Albert!” Tiffany ran to the dog, who was tonguing Sherlock’s face vigorously, corralling him by the collar and pulling him away.
Sherlock struggled up. “This is the Albert who digs in the garden?” he asked, petting the dog.
“Yes,” said Margaret. “I’m so sorry, Detective.” She gave Rudley a nudge as he tried to suppress laughter.
“It’s all right,” he continued, “he didn’t mean any harm.”
“We’ll replace your shirt, and” — she wrapped a piece of newspaper around the mangled pen — “your lovely fountain pen, of course.”
“It’s all right,” he repeated. “Animals are innocent. It’s people who screw things up.”
“At least we can offer you a stick pen for now,” said Margaret, reaching under the desk for a cloth. She turned to Rudley, who grudgingly handed Sherlock a Bic.
“No, thank you,” said Sherlock. “I’ll get one from my car.”
“Have it your way,” Rudley muttered. He hobbled out from behind the desk to examine the floor, watching Margaret as she wiped up ink before it sullied his hardwood.
Sherlock’s eyes went to his leg. “That bandage on your cast seems a little loose.”
Margaret glanced at the leg too. “Rudley, let me get a safety pin. If that comes loose you’ll trip over it.”
Sherlock smiled. “It looks as if you’ve lost one of your bandage clips, Mr. Rudley.”
Chapter Twenty
Sherlock faced Rudley. “Now, can you recall when you last saw that clip?”
“How in hell would I remember something like that?” Rudley fumed. “It’s not as if I’m sitting around all day counting the clips in this damn elastic bandage.”
“So you have no idea where you lost it.”
Rudley’s ears turned red. “I could have lost it anywhere. I’ve lost dozens of them. They’re always falling off.”
Sherlock paused a few seconds, pretending to be examining his notebook. “What would you say if I told you we found one in the boathouse?”
“There you go,” Rudley said, triumphant. “I told you I could have lost it anywhere.”
“So you were in the boathouse.”
Rudley crossed his eyes. “Of course I was in the boathouse. You know I was in the boathouse. I’ve told you a dozen times I was there.”
Sherlock looked up from his notes. “So, Mr. Rudley, how did one of your bandage clips end up stuck in the knee of Chief Longbow’s pants?” When Rudley stared at him in disbelief, he added, “Perhaps it happened while you were stuffing the poor man’s body into your life-preserver box.”
“He could have got it stuck in his pants anytime,” Rudley cried. “I could have dropped one on the lawn. He was always crawling around on his hands and knees.” He stopped and bit his lower lip to maintain his composure. “This is sheer poppycock.”
“You seem to be the only one around with a motive,” said Sherlock.
“Damn to hell,” said Rudley. He slammed his fist down on the desk so hard the pen set jumped.
“And you seem to have trouble controlling your temper.”
“You would, too, if you had to put up with the nonsense I do around here, including dealing with a neophyte detective who is clearly out to make his mark and doesn’t have a clue about what he’s doing.” Rudley did a mental count to five. “I have never killed anyone in my life. I have never committed a single act of violence on anything except inanimate objects.”
Sherlock was scribbling in his notebook. “What time did you get up the morning Chief Longbow was found deceased in the boathouse?”
“Around six-thirty.”
“Are you sure you weren’t up earlier?” Sherlock asked. “Perhaps you couldn’t sleep because you were worrying about the chief’s claim to your property.”
Rudley seethed. “And I managed to make my way down the stairs on crutches without anyone hearing me.”
Sherlock flushed. He hadn’t considered that angle.
“Believe me, Detective,” Margaret said. “Everyone hears him coming down the stairs on those crutches.”
“But you went down to the chief’s campsite,” Sherlock challenged, “shortly after you got up. What would cause you to do that?”
“Because the laundryman told me the pit the chief had dug was getting bigger. I went down to talk to him about that.”
“And?” Sherlock asked.
“And I couldn’t talk to him because the man was dead,” Rudley seethed. He paused, brightening as a thought came to him. “I know…the day before when I was at the campsite talking to the chief…I might have lost it then.”
“So you think you lost the clip then?” Sherlock made a note.
“My bandage was loose,” Rudley said, triumphant. “I almost tripped on it. Mr. Bole was there. He fixed it for me.”
Sherlock made a few more notes, then tucked his notebook into his pocket. “I’m going to continue my interviews with your staff and guests. I would appreciate it if you made everyone available to me.”
“Ask anyone you want. Interview the whole county,” said Rudley. “You won’t find a person who has a single bad thing to say about me.”
Sherlock smiled. “We’ll see, Mr. Rudley.”
Sherlock returned to his car, removed his jacket and shirt, took a fresh white shirt from a cellophane wrap and put it on. He folded the soiled shirt, placed it into the wrap and put back on his jacket and tie. He was examining his notes under a pine tree when something struck his hat. He reached up to brush it off, assuming it was a leaf or a maple key, and pulled his hand away in disgust. Officer Vance, appearing on the scene at that moment, looked at Sherlock’s hat and suppressed a grin.
“Get that package of wipes from my car,” Sherlock ordered, trying to keep his dignity.
“Dirty bird,” said a voice, startling Sherlock as he continued to examine his hat. He glanced up into the low branches of the tree. “What on earth is that?”
“That’s Betty,” said Vance, returned with the wipes. “She’s a parrot that showed up a couple of weeks ago. They’ve tried to trap her but that didn’t work too well. I guess she’s hanging around because she’s getting treated like a queen.”
“Does she say anything except dirty bird?”
“Oh, yes. She says Tweek and Freak all the time. I don’t know what that’s about.”
“Tweek and Freak,” Betty cackled. “Sweetie’s got to go.”
“That’s another of her favourites,” said Vance.
“Sweetie’s got to go. Get Sweetie.”
Sherlock frowned. “I wonder who’d teach her to say things like that.”
“I think they pick things up on their own,” said Vance. “They hear words and phrases and repeat them, mix them up, combine them.”
“You seem to know a lot about parrots.”
“One of my great-uncles had one.” Vance shrugged. “I don’t think anything they say makes sense. It’s not as if they’re answering you.”
“Stupid,” said Betty.
“I think she disagrees with you,” said Sherlock. He wiped his hands and hat with the wipes and looked around for a garbage bin.
“I’ll take those,” said Vance. “I’m going past a bin.”
“Are you going off duty?”
“No, I just came on. I’m relieving Owens at the boathouse.”
“I’ll be around conducting interviews,” Sherlock said. “Have me paged if you need me.”
Vance went on his way, shaking his head. Sherlock didn’t seem to know one officer from the other. They were just uniforms to him. He was respectful enough but impersonal. He decided he didn’t care for Sherlock. Brisbois and Creighton knew each officer and a little about each one’s personality, likes and dislikes. He liked working with them.
Sherlock went down the path toward the dock, sat on a nearby b
ench and reviewed his notes. The latest interviews with the guests hadn’t yielded much worthwhile. Everyone agreed that Trevor Rudley wouldn’t hurt a fly, although he was apt to fly off the handle frequently.
Interview with Mr. James Bole: Oh, Mr. Rudley yells a lot, throws things and so forth. But he would never kill anyone. Mrs. Rudley wouldn’t kill anyone either. Neither would any of the staff. The guests are mostly repeats. None of them has ever killed anyone, as far as I know. I can’t imagine why any of them would start now. Bandage clip? Oh, yes. Mr. Rudley’s bandage was always coming loose. I don’t think he secured it properly. He’s impatient about that sort of thing. He came close to tripping one day, Detective. That was the day he was having it out with the chief about him digging up the lawn. Mr. Rudley has to put up with a lot.
Interview with Doreen Sawchuck: Mr. Rudley wouldn’t kill anyone, Detective. You aren’t taking him away, are you? We need him to keep things running properly.
Interview with Geraldine Phipps-Walker: Oh, Detective, Mr. Rudley has put up with so much nonsense around here. He blows his stack fairly often. The only one he harms is himself. He would never treat anyone shabbily no matter how vexed he was with them.
Interview with Norman Phipps-Walker: Mr. Rudley likes to shout. That’s the worst thing Mr. Rudley would do.
That, Sherlock thought, remains to be seen.
Chapter Twenty-one
Frankes returned from Middleton, dumped the groceries on the kitchen counter, gestured to Luther to put them away and retreated to the veranda. He pulled a newspaper from under his shirt and handed it to Tibor, who read the story about the suspicious death at the Pleasant Inn and tossed the paper aside.
“I guess we should keep this from Leonard,” said Frankes.
“What for? He didn’t know the guy.”
“He might figure something out,” said Frankes, injured. “How do we know he didn’t notice us coming or going in the middle of the night?”
“Because I added a couple of antihistamines to his cocoa.”
“That was kind of risky. That could have killed him, you know. He’s got heart disease. The doctor told us not to give my grandfather stuff like that.”
Tibor turned on Frankes, his face ugly with anger. “I’m sick and tired of hearing about your grandfather.”
“He raised me,” said Frankes. “Until he died when I was fourteen.”
“Bad things happen,” Tibor grumbled. “But we’ve got to think about the here and now. And there’s no way anyone can tie us to that old man.” He paused. “Besides, we didn’t kill him.”
“We let him drown,” Frankes countered. “And that’s the same thing.”
Tibor’s hand went to the scratches on his collarbone. “He attacked me.”
“He was afraid,” Frankes mumbled. “We should have done something.”
“So what were we supposed to do, Frankes?” Tibor asked sarcastically. “Pull him out? Call the paramedics? Get interviewed by the police? Have our picture in the paper as local heroes? Cerise’d be hightailing it back to St. Napoli so fast all you’d see was a blur.”
“You said she probably didn’t have any money.”
Tibor grunted. “Knowing her, she’d sell her body if she had to.”
“You think so?”
“She’s do anything to get what she wanted.” He jumped up and went to stand at the railing. “Those paintings didn’t burn. There’s no way that happened. Leonard was as sharp as a tack back then. He was in love with those paintings. I don’t care what he’s saying now. The Cartwrights exist. He was getting dotty before we left the islands. He must have made a mistake and brought another set of copies he had stashed somewhere. That means the real ones are somewhere on St. Napoli.”
“OK,” said Frankes. He retrieved the newspaper and turned to the sports section. “Hey, look at this, Liverpool…”
“Who cares?”
Frankes threw the paper down. “I’m getting tired of this, Tibor. I think we should just split. We’re not going to get the paintings, supposing they do exist. If the old man doesn’t fuck up, Cerise’s going to screw us. If we stay around here, we’re going to get into trouble. They’ll probably be asking questions all over the lake. They’ll get to us eventually, and if they start digging too deep…”
“Leave the thinking to me,” Tibor growled.
“So far that’s got us into a big mess,” said Frankes. “I was willing to play second banana when you seemed to know what you were doing. But now you’ve just got us into a lot of trouble.”
“If you stick with me, you’ll end up set for life. If you want to go on your own, fine. But you’ll end up with a fat nothing.” He saw Frankes’s face darken, added, “We’re going to come out of this smelling like roses. As long as we don’t lose our nerve.” He grabbed Frankes by the shoulder as he started to turn away. “You’re not losing your nerve, are you?”
Frankes hesitated, then shook his head. “No.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
Glancing at the Elm Pavilion as he made his way toward the lake, Sherlock reminded himself not to take anything the Benson sisters had to say lightly. If they were right about the chief not being aboriginal, they could be right about other things. The sisters were inclined to fancy. He didn’t mind that. Police work brought one into contact with all kinds of people. He was also aware of the tendency of older people to feign deafness, memory loss, poor vision or eccentricity to get themselves out of trouble or simply to amuse themselves. The sisters seemed to be skilled in a number of these tactics.
He wandered out onto the dock, sat down in a folding chair, looked out over the lake, scrutinizing the shoreline and the sightlines to the boathouse. He noted a rowboat about thirty yards distant in which Norman Phipps-Walker lay dozing against a pillow, his fishing rod dipping into the water as the boat rose and fell on the swell. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, wondering if he was all right. Then Norman reached up a hand, tipped his hat forward, and eased back against the pillow.
Sherlock yawned and almost dropped his notebook in the water. No wonder, he thought ruefully, Brisbois and Creighton managed to screw things up around here. The place was so damn soporific and so damn dense, like those tiny, ancient places in the United Kingdom where history seemed to pile up layer on layer and affect the present in surprising ways. What would compel so many oddballs to collect in such a small space? Why would such a place compel so many to commit murder?
He roused himself, folded his notebook and proceeded to Chief Longbow’s campsite. He reviewed the evidence. The chief had drowned. Time of death, between 1:00 a.m. and 5:00 a.m. Someone had taken him from the water and placed him in the life-preserver box. That he knew for sure. The tox screen had come back, revealing nothing more than a trace of cannabis. The chief did like the odd joint. Indeed, the pup tent had yielded little of interest beyond an envelope containing a small quantity of marijuana. The stuff between the chief’s teeth was probably just the lettuce Mrs. Rudley had taken down.
Few people, he thought, were much good at living off the land, as civilization had rendered humans incredibly stupid. He knew he wasn’t immune to stupidity himself, though. But he considered that his ability to recognize his flaws was an important tool in overcoming them. He realized he gave the impression he was rigid and uncompromising, but he found doing so a useful strategy. In fact, he paid close attention to what people told him. By pretending to be dismissive and uninterested, he found people were often more forthcoming.
He smiled. People hated not to be liked; they hated to believe that what they had to say was not important so, if they felt this way, they were more apt to blurt out things they never intended to say. Young women anxious to impress a dapper detective with a dangerous sullen look were the most likely to lose their inhibitions. He’d read some of Brisbois’s interviews and thought he was too benign, too folksy, too solicitous of the people he interviewed, slow t
o be suspicious of those he took a fancy to. He didn’t know Creighton. The interviews suggested he played second banana to Brisbois and did it rather well. If he were to select a partner, Sherlock thought, Creighton wouldn’t be bad choice. He was an action man, confident, a guy who would have your back. He liked the idea of him being the brains and a partner like Creighton being the brawn. Not that he would let any situation come to that.
The venetian blinds were partially drawn to filter the light streaming into the den where Leonard sat staring at the blank television screen, disappointed no one had arranged to repair the satellite. With no television and no newspaper, he felt completely cut off from the world. He couldn’t even find a radio around. He wondered if Frankes could pick up one in the village next time he went, which seemed to be rather often of late. He checked his watch. Even though it was early in the day, he was nicely dressed in a lightweight grey suit, yellow shirt, and mauve-and-yellow-striped tie. His socks matched the grey in the suit. The only discordant note was the shabby Romeo slippers, which he had chosen for comfort. They were a bit bigger than his shoes and with the soles not as rigid, they didn’t chafe the sore growing under the metatarsal callous of his right foot.
He felt uneasy about the wound. He had kept his diabetes under control with oral medication and some concessions to diet, but since they had come to the cottage, he had been careless. He dipped into the bowl of mixed nuts. They were, of course, full of salt, but he had developed a taste for salt and sweets since they left St. Napoli. Luther was loyal but incapable of understanding his needs. He wished Cerise were here. She had always been willing to act as his nurse. The boys were useless for that sort of thing.
His memory was slipping. He knew it was. He told himself to be careful about feigning stupidity, to use the ploy carefully because he might fall too deeply into his own trap. That had been a problem even when he was a child. Isolation led him to make-believe and make-believe led him to fabrication, and, at times, he’d had trouble sorting out real from imaginary. It wasn’t merely physical and intellectual isolation; the emotional isolation was worse. If he’d been willing and able to commit to Sylvia, perhaps life would have turned out differently. Perhaps she would have committed to him.
A Most Unpleasant Picture Page 16