A Most Unpleasant Picture

by Judith Alguire

  “I really can’t say.” Leonard smiled. “I spend time in London, the south of France, the Caribbean. I’m back and forth. I’m in the art business.”

  “A buyer?”

  “Not really. I advise people on what’s good, what’s awful but rising in value, and so on. I mainly dabble these days. I’m getting older.”

  “And where would your principal residence be?”

  “St. Napoli, I suppose. That’s home base, if you will, for all of us.”

  “What passport do you carry?”

  “Canadian. My parents were Canadian. My entourage” — he nodded toward the others — “my nephew Tibor is Canadian. Frankes is British. Luther, our cook, is a native of the British Virgin Islands.”

  Luther appeared with a tray of tea and cookies. He started to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” Sherlock said. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Luther,” Leonard called. He turned to Sherlock. “Luther is mute. Childhood trauma.”

  “Can he write? Use sign language?”

  “Luther is challenged,” Tibor said in a low voice. “He knows how to cook. He can clean up the kitchen. That’s about it.”

  “All right. Maybe he can nod.” Sherlock waved a hand at Luther to get his attention. “Is your name Luther?”

  Luther nodded.

  “Did you know a man got killed?”

  A look of horror crossed Luther’s face.

  “I don’t think you knew him.”

  The horror turned to confusion.

  “Do you know anyone at the Pleasant Inn?”

  Luther shook his head.

  “You can go, Luther.”

  “He’s been that way since he was a child,” Leonard said. “He was in an orphanage. I hired him.”

  “Commendable,” said Sherlock.

  “Do you have to go door-to-door and interview everyone?” Tibor asked.

  “I like to be thorough,” said Sherlock. “You never know what you might turn up.”

  “Will you be in touch later about the paintings?” Leonard asked as Sherlock as he rose to leave.

  As Sherlock flicked Leonard a quizzical glance, Tibor nudged him and pointed discreetly to his temple. “I may be in touch with you again,” Sherlock said.

  Tibor escorted the detective to the door and watched as he made his way back down to the dock.

  “Who was that?” Leonard asked.

  Tibor exhaled deeply. “Just somebody asking for directions.”

  “Oh,” said Leonard.

  Sherlock parked his unmarked vehicle outside the morgue. He and Owens had made the rounds on the lake. Most of the people were summer dwellers. Most of them were aware there had been a murder in the area. Many of them were familiar with the Pleasant Inn. Several of them had cackled the minute the words murder and Pleasant Inn were mentioned together. He had received comments such as “I never recommend the Pleasant to anyone I like” and “I’m surprised they even give the location of the crime anymore. Everyone assumes if it was murder, it happened at the Pleasant.” He thought these remarks were mean-spirited. A few hadn’t heard of the murder and a handful had never heard of the Pleasant. No one had anything useful to tell him. Still, it was a necessary exercise. It also gave him a chance to relax and put the incident into perspective. To look at it from the other side of the lake, as it were.

  He was at the morgue because the pathologist had left a message saying that he had something more to report, but he had arrived early. Not keen on waiting for Dr. Jim in his office, as he found the pickled appendix unappealing, he decided instead to review his notes.

  Tiffany Armstrong. Nice person, he thought. She seemed genuine and rather sweet. Rather nice looking in a wholesome way. His mother, who always warned him against flashy women, would have approved of her — not that he needed his mother’s advice. He was a decent-looking, respectable young man with good potential. He didn’t smoke or drink. He didn’t gamble or frequent what his mother called bawdy houses. He imagined that when he was ready to marry he would be able to find a suitable mate. He did like Tiffany, though. He knew she had dated several of the police officers, but he had never heard a single derogatory remark about her. At least she had never been out with Detective Creighton. That was a positive sign.

  He didn’t realize he had been so preoccupied until he glanced at his watch and realized he was five minutes late.

  Dr. Jim was sitting at his desk when Sherlock arrived. He looked at him over his glasses, then pointedly checked his watch.

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Sherlock. “I dipped into my file and the time slipped away.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Dr. Jim amiably. “Time flies when you have good reading. Like this,” he added, gesturing to the file on his desk. “There was something interesting in the debris we vacuumed up. You remember the blood I mentioned earlier?”

  Dr. Jim read a few lines from the report. “There was a tiny piece of fabric stuck to a nail identified as the sort that might come from a wet-suit. And there was a fleck of blood on the nail that matched those few drops on the edge of the dock. Ergo,” he looked up at Sherlock, “the fabric got caught on the nail, the skin below got nicked. Enough to get a few drops of blood.

  “There were also some bits of debris ground into the fabric,” he continued. “Tiny amounts, which we’re trying to identify.”

  Sherlock frowned. “Any tissue on the nail?”

  Dr. Jim smiled. “A speck. We’re looking into that too.”

  “Prints?”

  “Just the usual suspects. Rudley, Lloyd, Norman Phipps-Walker, Miss Miller, Mr. Simpson. The regular guests are all over the place. They get their own boats out sometimes. Of course, someone could have been in there wearing gloves.”

  Sherlock nodded. “What else have you got?”

  “There was other stuff in the vacuum bag, of course. Bits of vegetation, sand, the odd bird feather and droppings. There wasn’t as much as you might expect. Lloyd cleans the place out regularly. Mr. Rudley is a stickler for keeping things in good order.”

  “Mr. Rudley is a stickler about a lot of things.”

  Dr. Jim smiled. “You’ll get used to him over time.”

  Sherlock returned to his car and perused the copy of the report the pathologist had given him. He had no intention of getting used to Trevor Rudley over time. He had no intention of becoming a fixture around the Pleasant the way Brisbois and Creighton and half the detachment had. He placed the papers into his file and put the file into his briefcase. The Pleasant, he decided, was like a damn Venus flytrap. No one who went in ever came out. They just got digested.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Detective Sherlock returned to the Pleasant the day after he received the trace-evidence report, keen to take another look around the boathouse, just in case something had been missed. He looked up into the rafters and let his gaze move slowly, inch by inch, over the walls and floor. He then got down on his hands and knees and inspected the cracks between the boards. He put on a pair of gloves and approached the life-preserver box, which came up to his chest. He opened the lid and noted the life preservers placed at a convenient height for easy retrieval. The bottom of the chest was divided into compartments that held extra rope, oarlocks, attachments for water skiing and the like, but these offered no clues. He straightened his back, stood in front of the box, and imagined lifting 170 pounds chest high. The task would have taken a fairly strong person to accomplish, especially without scraping the deceased’s hands or face. As he recalled from the autopsy report, there was no evidence of suspicious abrasions.

  Two people, he decided, definitely two people — one to fold the arms over the chest and hold them there, the other to grip the body under the hips and knees and place it neatly into the box. He paused in thought. Why would they be so careful? Because it would be quicker? Because it wouldn’t make the noise bashi
ng a body against the box would make? He thought that tended to rule out an opportunistic criminal just taking a look to see what he could get. That kind of person might not even get the body out of the water. Perhaps someone who had another purpose in mind. What would anyone have to gain by killing the chief? Apart from Rudley, whom he had pretty much ruled out as a suspect, that answer was unclear. He sighed. He would need to know the chief’s identity to figure that one out. They’d had no luck on that so far.

  “Edward” — Miss Miller interrupted Simpson as he was thinking about what to order for dessert — “I don’t think Detective Sherlock is approaching this case from the right angle.”

  “I wonder if the rhubarb pie will be a full-topper or lattice crust.”

  “Tim will know.”

  “I rather like the lattice crust. It makes the pie lighter. It also has more esthetic appeal. However, Gregoire’s crusts are so light and airy…”

  “Why don’t you try the Bavarian chocolate cake? You love Gregoire’s chocolate cakes.” She frowned at him. “I know what you’re doing, Edward. You’re trying to distract me and avoid considering my proposal. You’d be happy with the pie no matter what the crust looks like.”

  “I do prefer the lattice,” he said. “But I have to admit I was trying to lead you away from any involvement in this case. Detective Sherlock is not as amenable to direction as Detectives Brisbois and Creighton.”

  “I wish they were here.”

  “Yes, it was most inconsiderate of them to go on vacation while a murder was taking place.”

  “Sarcasm, Edward.”

  “I apologize, Elizabeth. I think, in this case, however, you are bound to be stymied even if Detective Sherlock hangs on your every word. The word on the street, or at least at the breakfast table, is that the death of the chief was probably unpremeditated. The man was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  She gave him an exasperated but affectionate look. “Edward, you know it’s never as simple as that.”

  He glanced at her over the top of the menu. “It could be.”

  She ignored this. “Everyone seems to believe that the chief was in the boathouse because he felt cold during the night. But why would he be warmer in the boathouse than in his tent with his sleeping bag and the extra blanket Mrs. Rudley had given him?”

  “Perhaps his tent had a leak.”

  “It hasn’t rained since we arrived here.”

  “Perhaps he took his sleeping bag with him to the boathouse. We don’t know that he didn’t.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard to find out.”

  “I assume you intend to ask Sherlock that.”

  “I do. It seems more likely that the chief heard something in the boathouse and decided to check it out.”

  “That makes sense, Elizabeth, but I’m not sure if that fact advances the case in any way.”

  “Someone came into the boathouse to steal a boat is the theory. There’s nothing else worth stealing, really. But no boat is missing.”

  “The murderer got scared off when he realized the chief was dead.”

  “Then why didn’t he just leave? Why would he risk staying around to conceal the chief’s body in the life-preserver box?”

  Simpson frowned.

  “The murderer came here for another purpose,” Elizabeth continued. “He entered through the boathouse because, possibly, he came by boat and it seemed to provide cover while he scoped things out.”

  “That makes sense, Elizabeth. If he had come in at the front he would be completely exposed. If he came in by the road, he could be seen from the bunkhouse. If he came in from the west, he risked being seen by someone in the cottages. If he came in from over the hill, he could have been seen by someone with a room at the back of the inn or at the High Birches.”

  “If he came in through the boathouse, he could conceal his boat and take time to plan his next move.”

  “Quite right.” He gave Miss Miller an approving smile. “Well thought out, Elizabeth. Now, which dessert should I choose?”

  “You know my interest isn’t merely theoretical,” she said. “I don’t think Detective Sherlock has a handle on this case. I think he needs our help.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he murmured.

  She paused in thought. “I don’t think his interest was in the boathouse. I think he came here for another reason.”

  “What would that reason be?” he asked cautiously.

  “I don’t know…yet.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you can see the chief’s tent from the water.”

  He considered this. “No. It’s behind that little hedge.”

  “So whoever came into the boathouse had no way of knowing someone was camped out a few feet away.”

  “I suppose not.” He returned to his menu, pretended to be completely absorbed in it, peeking over the top periodically to read her expression, which soon turned into a smile.

  “I don’t like that look,” he murmured.

  “Think about this, Edward. What three unusual things occurred at the same time?”

  “Apart from certain Biblical events, I’m not sure, Elizabeth.”

  “A parrot shows up, seemingly from nowhere, Detective Creighton fishes Sherry out of the lake after she sinks her boat and loses all of her identification and the chief is murdered.”

  “Interesting,” he said. “But Miss Brown is a personal friend of Detective Creighton. He apparently doesn’t find anything suspicious about her.”

  “Detective Creighton is a man.”

  He sighed. “That’s true. She’s a red-headed woman. I was once led astray by a red-headed woman.”

  “That’s not a parallel, Edward. You weren’t led astray by someone with such a cockamamie story.”

  He considered this. “At least not the same story.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  He handled the question like a live grenade. “She’s attractive in a gamine sort of way, I suppose. She’s lively. However, she’s really quite a rattlebrain.” He put down the menu. “I’ve decided on the rhubarb pie, if it has a lattice crust.” He caught her expression of admonishment. “You were never a rattlebrain, Elizabeth, merely audacious and impulsive. Frankly, I don’t think that young woman has an idea in her head. She’s on to the next thought before the first has a chance to alight.” He closed his menu, set it aside. “I’ve noted, Elizabeth, none of the women around here seem to like her much.”

  “Only men are attracted to her sort of charm,” she said. “Most women can tell she lacks sincerity.”

  “Or perhaps she’s suffering from some sort of emotional disorder.”

  She patted his arm. “Edward, you’re such a good person.”

  He looked at her quizzically.

  “You’re always willing to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.”

  Sherlock finished his tour of the boathouse, then went up to the inn. Rudley was at the desk, the newspaper spread out, leaning over his crutches to read.

  “How much longer in the cast, Mr. Rudley?”

  “With my luck, until hell freezes over,” Rudley muttered without looking up.

  Sherlock hesitated for a moment before delivering the news. “I wanted to let you know that I won’t be able to release the boathouse to you for another two days.”

  Rudley bit down on his lower lip to suppress an outburst.

  “There are a few things I want to think over again.”

  “Damn to hell.”

  “The sooner I get this wrapped up, the sooner we’ll be out of your hair on this.”

  “Out of my hair?” Rudley grabbed the sides of his hair and pulled it into two tufts. “Do you see this? This is what you and your ilk have done to me over the years.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Rudley.” Sherlock turned to leave, tossing over his shoulder
, “You might try a toupee.”

  Sherlock headed down the front steps, leaving Rudley spluttering in his wake. He was planning to drive to the little café near the dock in Middleton when Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson accosted him on the pathway.

  “Yes?” he asked warily.

  “I’ve been thinking about your case,” Elizabeth responded.

  “Fine.” He continued walking.

  She fell into step with him. “Why do you think Chief Longbow went into the boathouse?”

  “Perhaps he thought it would be more comfortable.”

  “Where did you find his sleeping bag?”

  He blinked.

  “I understand the supposition is that the chief went into the boathouse because he thought it would be more comfortable there.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Did he take his sleeping bag with him?” She fixed him with grey-green eyes. “Because if not, why would he think he would be more comfortable in a boathouse, which is essentially on the water with hard wooden floors?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but frowned instead.

  “Now the supposition, according to our sources…”

  “Your sources?”

  “Tim,” she replied. “According to Tim, the supposition is that the murderer entered the boathouse with theft in mind and met the chief by accident.” She narrowed her eyes. “But what if he was there for some other purpose?”

  “What other purpose?”

  “I don’t know…yet.” She went on to relate the ideas in her earlier conversation with Edward. “There, you see?”

  “Interesting,” Sherlock said, looking past her head toward Simpson. “What do you think of your wife’s theories?”

  “Quite a bit, actually, Detective. She’s usually right.”

  Sherlock sighed and said sternly, “Miss Miller, I’m not dismissing your ideas out of hand. But I don’t want to find you meddling in my case. And I want to remind you, you can theorize as much as you want, but stay away from cordoned-off areas and be careful who you share your ideas with.”