He found it hard to believe that Cerise had returned to the islands without him. He thought he was a better judge of people. Not that he doubted for one minute her tendency for larceny. He rather liked that in her. But he never imagined she would leave him to the mercies of Tibor and Frankes. She’d always told him they were capable of murder. He always believed that, if push came to shove, she would ally herself with him against the boys.
He paused, the mixed nuts in his hand. He let them fall back into the bowl. Why would Cerise leave in the middle of the night? Why wouldn’t she simply leave at daylight saying she was going into town or going out for a ride on the lake?
Perhaps she had not left the area. He tugged fitfully at his tie. What if she had gone out on the lake early without a life jacket? What if she had had an accident? He knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t going to leave Hiram’s island until he found out what had happened to her. He reached for the phone to make an anonymous call to the police, but after holding the receiver to his ear for a moment, he returned it to the cradle. What purpose would calling the police serve now? If anything had happened to Cerise it would be too late to save her. And they couldn’t afford to draw attention to themselves. Then he realized something. There had been no dial tone. He picked up the receiver again and listened. Nothing. He punched the plunger. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Chapter Twenty-two
Sherlock faced Miss Miller across the desk in Rudley’s office. “You are Elizabeth Miller?”
“I am.”
He pored through his notes and frowned at an entry in the margin: Miss Miller is considered the Agatha Christie of the Pleasant. Everyone he had interviewed had advised him repeatedly of this and he was rather fed up with the idea. If you need any help, you should ask Miss Miller. Miss Miller helps Detective Brisbois with all his cases. He gave himself a moment to suppress his irritation lest it infect the tone of his interview. He hated civilians who solved cases by luck, leaving the lead detective looking like an idiot. For this reason, he had left his interview with her for last, lest her rash theories colour his opinions.
“And you are a guest at the inn? Room 206?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know the man who was known as Chief Longbow?”
“I had occasion to speak to him twice.”
“And did you form any opinion of him?”
“He was an interesting eccentric. I had some doubt that he was a chief. But I’m not an expert in North American indigenous people, therefore I couldn’t assess the veracity of his claim.” She leaned forward, smiled. “I didn’t question his claim to be a member of the Algonquin nation. I have since heard he was probably not. Perhaps he had a remote link and had simply latched onto that as his main identity.” She shrugged. “I could claim to be descendant of the queen of some ancient Celtic clan.”
He raised a weary brow. “Are you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never investigated the possibility. You asked me my assessment of the chief.”
He tried a different tack. “Did Mr. Rudley ever speak to you about the land claim the chief had made?”
She nodded. “When Edward and I signed in, we asked about the tent on the lawn. He said the chief had made a claim for the land occupied by the tent, and that later he had extended that claim to the boathouse. I understand he had later extended that claim to the entire property. Mr. Rudley had engaged his lawyer.”
“And what was Mr. Rudley’s demeanour?”
“Resigned, at that point.”
Sherlock looked up from his notes. “And later?”
“Mr. Rudley was rather frustrated, especially when the chief dug a large pit on his front lawn. I gather Mr. Rudley was planning to fill the hole in and seed it.”
“He told you this?”
“Mr. Bole told me.”
He flipped through his notes. “Oh, yes.” He looked up. “And that was it? He was perfectly calm about the problem?”
Miss Miller gave him a wry look. “Of course not. You’ve met Mr. Rudley. He alternates between resignation and bellowing. He always has.”
“And no one takes these fits of temper seriously?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. Yelling is Mr. Rudley’s way of coping with the many irritations of being an innkeeper, especially the proprietor of an inn that experiences so many murders.” She paused. “Surely you don’t think Mr. Rudley could have killed the chief.”
“The investigation is ongoing,” he murmured.
“Mr. Rudley might have yelled at the chief, but he wouldn’t have harmed him. I don’t know of a single incident where Mr. Rudley harmed anyone.” When he failed to respond, she continued, “Detective, have you considered Mr. Rudley’s broken leg? The chief was a fairly substantial man. How would a man with a broken leg, on crutches, overpower anyone?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Edward and I have been coming here for quite a few years now, and I can’t think of anyone here who would have a reason or the mindset to harm the chief. I think you should be looking for suspects outside the area.”
“You do?”
“Perhaps someone came into the boathouse, intending to steal one of the boats. Mr. Rudley has some fine canoes and a couple of nice motorboats. The thief startled the chief and killed him.”
“I haven’t ruled out anyone, Miss Miller, inside or outside.” He regarded her evenly. “And I’m not ruling out anyone because they’ve been a model citizen to date. Where were you between one and five the morning of the incident?”
“I was in bed. Edward and I didn’t come down to breakfast until almost eight.”
“Did you see or hear anything suspicious?”
“No,” she replied, adding, “Your modus operandi is somewhat different than Detective Brisbois’s.”
His stomach knotted at the mention of Brisbois’s name. “Yes,” he said calmly.
After Miss Miller left, Sherlock sat at the desk and reviewed his notes. He thought he’d handled Miss Miller rather well, but he had to admit he hadn’t given much thought to Rudley’s broken leg, though he was sure little effort would be needed to tip an old man into the drink. Hell, Rudley could have tripped the chief with a crutch. Getting him out of the water and into the life-preserver box would have been challenging, though, but not impossible. He sighed. His case against Rudley had rested on the bandage clip. And the volatile nature of Rudley’s temper. He flipped through his notes. Mr. Bole had confirmed Rudley’s story about his bandage losing a clip near the chief’s campsite. Everyone agreed that Rudley had a bad temper and was apt to blow his stack whether the matters were inconsequential or not. In other words, he could fly off the handle any old time, but he never acted on any of his threats. Everyone agreed it was his way of coping — just Rudley being Rudley. Add to that Lloyd’s statement that he had seen Rudley talking to an empty tent for several minutes, which implied he thought the chief was still alive.
So, Rudley wasn’t a leading suspect even if he appeared to be the only one with motive.
He checked through the other interviews. There was no evidence that Mrs. Rudley had left the inn during the night. The handyman, Lloyd, had been sleeping in the tool shed. There was no evidence to confirm or deny his activities during the night. Lloyd wasn’t high on his list of suspects. His blood type didn’t match the specimens lifted from the floor of the boathouse. He was rather artless and frank during his questioning if — Sherlock rolled his eyes — a little obtuse. The cook was in the kitchen at four in the morning, but with half the inn stopping by to get coffee and scones for early morning fishing trips, Gregoire’s opportunity to go down to the boathouse, drown an old man and load him into the box seemed limited. The surveillance camera confirmed the rest of the staff — the housekeeper, the waiter — had left the bunkhouse after six-thirty. The chief was dead by then.
He considered the guests, but f
ound little joy there. Reconsidered Sherry Brown. She wasn’t staff, but she wasn’t a guest. She was a friend of Chester Creighton staying at the inn, waiting for her papers, the originals having been lost in a boating mishap. She struck him as an airhead. Her interview had given him a headache. He’d never interviewed anyone who wandered off topic as much as she did. As for Creighton’s interest in her — well, there was no accounting for taste. But she too was staying in the bunkhouse and was alibied by the surveillance tape. He had to admit Miss Miller was right. No one at the inn seemed a good suspect.
He was contemplating his next move when someone knocked on the door. Tiffany entered bearing a tray with a cup of coffee and a sandwich. “Mrs. Rudley thought you probably hadn’t had lunch,” she said. “She wanted you to have this.”
He hesitated. He made it a rule not to accept any sort of gratuity. But he was touched by Mrs. Rudley’s generosity and didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Nor did he want to hurt Tiffany’s feelings. He found her a kind and lovely person.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “We really aren’t supposed to accept this sort of thing.”
“Mrs. Rudley would have made you a sandwich if you were parading her off to the gallows,” Tiffany said. “She’d think you would need the energy to pull the lever.”
He had to smile.
“And if you don’t eat it, it might go to waste.” A lie, Tiffany knew, since Lloyd would demolish anything left over.
“In that case,” he said, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
She left. He took a sip of the coffee, which was excellent. The sandwich, a vegetable with avocado and an interesting sweet dressing, was delicious. He began to have more respect for Brisbois. These were nice people here, generous and forebearing in light of their persistent bad luck. He could understand why it was difficult to be completely clinical about them, especially after attending a slew of their misfortunes. Sherlock took a sip of coffee. And that, he thought, was a good reason for rotating the two detectives out of the area from time to time.
He smoothed his moustache with an index finger. Who was the chief? So far no fingerprint matches, suggesting no criminal background. DNA typing still pending. The police artist’s sketch was circulating with no results yet. The chief had drowned. But had he fallen into the water or was he pushed? And how had he got into the life-preserver box? He hadn’t done that by himself.
Sherlock tucked his notebook into his pocket, rose and exited Rudley’s basement office through the back door. A patch of bright colour caught his eye when he stepped outside. The parrot was on the back porch, nibbling at a tray of fruit and seeds he assumed had been put out for her. He stopped and watched her. She ignored him at first, then hopped onto the back porch railing and peered at him.
“Hello,” he said to the bird.
“Feed Betty.”
“I think Betty’s had enough,” he said.
She cackled something he didn’t catch.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is no one paying any attention to you?”
“Tweek and Freak.”
“What’s Tweek and Freak?”
“Sweetie, Sweetie, Tweek and Freak.”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“She’s got to go.”
“You’ve got that stuck in your head.” He considered her for a moment. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”
She cocked her head.
“All right,” he smiled, looking into her eyes, “Try this — Creepy Creighton.”
She moved her beak soundlessly. He repeated the words several more times, enunciating each word carefully.
“Freaky Creety,” the bird said. “Freaky Creety.”
“Close.” He gave her a round of applause. “We’ll keep working on that.”
“Feed Betty.”
He shook his head at her and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-three
Tibor and Frankes were on the veranda when they saw the police boat. The navigator cut the motor as the boat approached the dock and let it drift toward a mooring. A uniformed officer jumped out and held the boat close for a neat young man in a suit and fedora.
Tibor spoke to Frankes out of the side of his mouth. “Just follow my lead. We’re exactly what we are. Leonard is Leonard. I’m his nephew. Luther is the cook. And you’re the general handyperson and gofer.”
“What about the old man? What if he says something?”
“I’ll prepare them. Come on.”
Tibor left the veranda and headed down to intercept Sherlock and Owens as they started toward the cottage. Frankes followed.
“Gentlemen.” Tibor held out a hand. “How can I help you?”
Sherlock showed his badge. “Are you the owner of this property?”
“No, my uncle Leonard and I are renting for the summer. I’m Tibor Gutherie. This gentleman,” he said, indicating Frankes, “is Bobby Frankes. He’s our caretaker.”
“And your uncle? “
“Leonard Anderson. He’s up at the cottage. He’s got a bad foot. Diabetic.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Three weeks.”
“Out and about much? Do you go into town?”
“Frankes goes in for supplies every now and then.” Tibor paused. “Are you looking into that murder we read about in the paper?”
Sherlock gave him an appraising look. “I am.”
Tibor stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know much about the area. My uncle’s been here more often. I don’t know if I can help you much.”
“Wondering if you’d seen anything unusual.”
“No,” Tibor said after a moment’s thought. “Nothing I can recall.”
“What about you?” Sherlock turned to Frankes.
Frankes shook his head. “No.”
Sherlock made a play of checking his notes. “And where were you on the night of June twentieth?”
“What day was that?”
“Last Wednesday.”
Tibor ran a hand across the back of his head. “Gosh, the days all run together out here.” He shrugged. “Well, I haven’t been anywhere else. So I guess I was here.”
“That’s the night we were watching that Mad Max movie,” said Frankes.
Tibor nodded. “Oh, yes. Mad Max.”
Sherlock made a note. “And the next morning?”
“What about the next morning?”
“Thursday, the twenty-first,” Sherlock continued. “Where were you then?”
“Here.” Tibor looked to Frankes. “I’m pretty sure no one went anywhere that morning.”
Sherlock glanced toward the cottage. “Is your uncle in?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to speak to him.”
“Of course.” Tibor led the way up the path, opened the door and called out. “Uncle Leonard, there’s someone here to see you.”
“Come in,” a tired voice called back from the living room.
Sherlock followed Tibor. Owens positioned himself just inside the front door.
“Uncle Leonard’s had some problems lately,” Tibor told Sherlock. “He’s a little forgetful at times.”
Leonard was staring absently at the Colville print on the far wall. The hound in Hound in Field reminded him of Tibor — slender, neat, and deadly. He sat up straight and was adjusting his tie when Tibor entered with the stranger. He struggled to stand but the visitor said: “Don’t get up.”
“Sherlock,” Leonard mused after introductions. “Nice name.”
Sherlock, who had been expecting the usual jokes about his name, responded, “Thank you.”
Leonard gave Sherlock a smart salute, then laughed. “Sorry, I guess that’s reserved for the military.” He motioned to an adjacent chair. “Please. Sit.” He crank
ed his head toward the kitchen. “Luther. Could we have some tea and cookies, please?” He turned to Sherlock. “Would you prefer coffee?”
“Tea is fine,” said Sherlock, who was beginning to wonder if offering refreshments was a knee-jerk reaction to the law in this neck of the woods.
“Somebody was murdered in the area,” said Tibor, grabbing a newspaper from the rack. “You remember, Uncle Leonard. I think you were reading about it.”
Leonard squinted at the paper. “Oh, yes. June twenty-first.” He regarded Tibor, puzzled. “Is it only the twenty-first?”
“It’s an old paper, Uncle Leonard. We haven’t got around to throwing any of the papers out,” he added to Sherlock. “It gets so damn boring around here, we read the papers several times.”
“Just in case the news has changed.” Leonard laughed heartily.
“Your nephew tells me you’re familiar with the area,” said Sherlock.
Leonard nodded. “Oh, yes. I haven’t been around much in the last few years, but I came here summers quite a lot when I was younger.”
“Your nephew said you were renting the cottage.”
“Yes, it belongs to a friend of my father’s. He’s been using the place himself the last few years but I understand he’s off on the west coast for a few weeks.”
“Are you familiar with the Pleasant Inn?”
Leonard frowned. “Oh, yes,” he replied after a moment, “the place that used to belong to the Mafia. I imagine it’s in more reputable hands these days.”
“Barely,” Sherlock murmured. “So do you know the current management?”
“I can’t say I do.”
“So, if you folks are here for the summer, where is home?”
A Most Unpleasant Picture Page 17