“I find that rather condescending, Detective.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said. “And from what I’ve heard, you’ve come close a few times.”
“She has,” said Edward.
“So don’t do anything risky.” Sherlock turned and walked back toward the Pleasant.
“I don’t think he wants my help, Edward,” Elizabeth said when he was out of earshot.
“That’s never stopped you before, Elizabeth.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Margaret was at the desk when Sherlock entered the lobby.
“Detective,” she greeted him. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”
“Something” — he paused — “something just occurred to me. I have a few questions.” He checked his notebook while Margaret waited expectantly. “The girl who works for you but doesn’t really work for you — Sherry Brown.”
“She’s not here at the moment.”
“Where is she?”
“She said she was going to Ottawa.”
“I was supposed to be notified if anyone left the jurisdiction.”
“Oh dear, didn’t you get the message we left with your headquarters?”
He spoke through gritted teeth. “No. Did she say when she expected to return?”
“I think she was planning to do a little shopping. And she thought she might visit an old school chum. She expected to stay overnight.”
“Did she leave a phone number?”
“No. She probably didn’t think anyone would be wanting to get in touch with her.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “She’s a sweet girl but a bit of a flibbertigibbet. She really doesn’t need to be here at any special time,” Margaret added. “She’s more of a guest than an employee.”
“Do you think she had anything to do with the deceased’s death?”
She looked at him, startled at the abrupt question. “I don’t see how she could. I believe the camera showed she didn’t leave the bunkhouse all night. And she couldn’t have gone out a window. That would have triggered the alarms. They’re on the same system.”
“I know. I know.” Sherlock drew the palm of one hand down the side of his face. He remembered taking notes on this before. “It’s amazing,” he said finally. “The bunkhouse is like a fortified castle, but the main inn is as open as a church.”
“Mr. Rudley wouldn’t abide a security system with flashing lights and so forth. He’d forget the keypad number and be perpetually locked out. We’d have him on the front lawn, bellowing and waking the whole place. Besides, no one has been murdered in the main inn, except once.” She thought for a minute. “And that wasn’t on the upper floors. That one happened in the wine cellar.”
Sherlock smiled. Talking to her was sometimes like a trip to Oz, but she tried so hard to be helpful. “May I run something by you?” he asked.
“Of course, Detective.”
“There is some temporal consistency with the parrot arriving, Miss Brown sinking her boat, and the chief’s unfortunate end. Have you given that any thought?”
She beamed. “You’ve been talking to Miss Miller. That’s very wise of you, Detective. Miss Miller is a fountain of ideas.”
Spewing all over the place, he thought with chagrin. “I wanted to know your opinion, Mrs. Rudley.”
“I’m not sure if there is any connection, Detective,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Bad things happen in threes. Good things too. Of course, Betty and Sherry aren’t bad things, and what happened to the chief is not a good thing.” She paused. “Although I’m sure a third good thing must have happened.”
Mr. Rudley breaking his leg, Sherlock thought.
“We got to meet you, Detective. That must be the third good thing.”
He smiled. It was impossible to be gruff with Mrs. Rudley. “Think about it.”
“Of course, Detective.”
“And what does Mr. Rudley think?”
She sighed. “Mr. Rudley is suspicious of everybody.”
Making his way to his car once more, he hoped no one would intercept him, as he was eager to leave. Life at the Pleasant was like the plots of Pollyanna and Silence of the Lambs mixed together. And he wanted lunch in a place where the food arrived greasy on a heavy plate and the coffee looked as if it were one step away from coating the driveway.
“Feed Betty.”
He looked up, shook a finger at the bird. “If you dump another load of guano on me, you’ve got to go.”
The bird hopped closer to him and craned her neck. “Got to go. Sweetie’s got to go. Tweek and Freak.”
Sherlock climbed into his car. Something was tugging at a brain cell, but try as he might, he couldn’t bring it out. He scribbled down a few notes. Sherry Brown… She had told him she was from British Columbia, that she was travelling across the country, taking short-term, casual jobs to pay her way. He had her on his to-do list for background checks, but since there was no evidence to suggest she was involved in the chief’s death and because she was a personal friend of Chester Creighton, he had put that task on the back burner. He tapped his pen against his notebook. Perhaps that had been a mistake.
At 3:00 a.m. Tibor woke with a start. He leapt out of bed, his heart racing, pulled on his pants and shoes and grabbed his knife. He ran to the second-floor window and looked out. Saw nothing. He darted across the hall and shook Frankes awake.
“Get up,” Tibor commanded. “There’s something going on outside.”
“Maybe a raccoon,” said Frankes. He started to roll over.
Tibor seized him by the shoulder and dug his fingers in. “It was no raccoon.”
Frankes struggled up and pulled on his pants. “What’s the knife for?”
“It might come in handy…if we run into a raccoon.”
They crept down the stairs. Tibor stopped at Luther’s door, opened it, and looked inside. “Out like a light,” he reported to Frankes, moving to the next door and trying the knob.
“Locked?” Frankes asked.
“Yes.”
Tibor grabbed a flashlight from a drawer in the kitchen, opened the patio door and they stepped out onto the back porch. Frankes opened his mouth to speak, but Tibor silenced him with a sharp hand gesture across his throat and motioned for him to go around one side of the cottage. He turned in the opposite direction and reached the front porch first. He faded back into the shadows and gestured to Frankes when he appeared around the other corner.
“Didn’t see anything,” Frankes whispered.
Tibor pointed toward the lake and whispered back. “Let’s check out the shoreline.”
They moved slowly toward the dock, one on either side, Tibor with knife poised, flashlight sweeping the ground.
“Look at that,” Frankes giggled, as the beam of the flashlight illuminated the water. “Some idiot ran his boat into the dock.”
Tibor made a sweeping gesture with his arm to shut Frankes up. He approached the end of the dock and looked over into the water.
A motorboat, its hull split, was rapidly sinking, the motor beating the air.
“I guess the motor will go off once it goes under,” Frankes whispered loudly.
“Damn,” Tibor rasped, staring at the sinking vessel.
“What?”
“That’s our boat.”
“I guess we’ll have to canoe it for groceries.”
Tibor gave him a furious look and marched toward the boathouse, Frankes in pursuit. They ducked inside and Tibor swung his flashlight around. “I think you’re going to have to swim,” he said.
“Huh?”
Tibor grabbed Frankes by the arm. “Do you see any canoes?”
Frankes looked around, puzzled.
Tibor aimed his flashlight at the water. “Because they’re down there.” He turned and stormed out of the boathouse.
<
br /> Frankes caught up with Tibor halfway up the lawn. “What d’you think happened?”
“Probably some local yahoos thought it would be fun to wreck somebody’s boats. They likely tried to get away in the motorboat and were so damn drunk they ran the thing into the dock.”
“Where do you think they went?”
“Either they swam for it or drowned. That means they’re either somewhere on the island or lying on the bottom of the lake.”
“So what’re we going to do?”
“We’re going to search the island as soon as it’s daylight.” Tibor said. “I’m not going to risk running into some idiots in the dark. They could have guns.”
Frankes figured any guns the intruders had were probably at the bottom of the lake too, but felt it was unwise to say so.
Tibor stamped off to the cottage. Frankes followed. They reached the patio door. Tibor stopped and turned to Frankes. “Did you leave this thing open?”
Frankes paused. “No, I pulled it closed.”
“Well, it’s open now.” Tibor lowered his voice. “They must have got out of the boat and made their way up here.” He pushed Frankes ahead of him into the cottage. “You go around that way. I’ll have your back.”
“That’ll be good when someone blows a hole through my front.”
The main floor was clear. Tibor motioned Frankes up the stairs.
“Nothing here,” said Frankes, breathless, when they finished exploring the second floor His eyes were bright with the adrenalin rush.
They went back down the stairs. Frankes leaned against the door to Leonard’s room. And fell backward, stopping himself only by grabbing the doorframe. Tibor stared past him into the room.
Had the old man vanished? Tibor flicked on the light and darted into the en suite bathroom. He yanked the shower curtain aside. “Where in hell did he go?”
“I guess he unlocked the door and went out.”
“I locked it from the outside and took the key.”
“Maybe Luther let him out somehow.”
Tibor seethed. “Well, wake the damn fool up.” He shoved Frankes out into the hallway.
Tibor was still standing in the room, his jaw clenched, when Frankes returned. “He’s not there.”
“What?”
“He must have let Leonard out and they both took off. Maybe Leonard woke up and started banging at the door. So Luther let him out. Maybe they got scared when the boat hit the dock.” He shrugged. “Or maybe those guys who wrecked the boats took them out. Maybe they were kidnapped.”
They went into the kitchen, but Leonard and Luther weren’t there either. They fetched drinks from the refrigerator and slumped down at the table in the breakfast nook.
“What d’you think happened?” Frankes asked at last, unnerved by Tibor’s silence. “Maybe that guy who came to look at the paintings just wanted to make us think they weren’t the real ones,” he continued. “Then he comes back, distracts us, gets rid of Luther and Leonard and takes off with the paintings.”
Tibor blinked. It wasn’t a completely half-baked idea. He got up and went into the living room and lifted the box where the paintings had been left after the unsuccessful transaction. His shoulders sagged. The paintings were undisturbed.
Chapter Twenty-six
“I don’t know if I can go on in these slippers.” Leonard stopped and grabbed onto a tree. He was short of breath.
“It’s not much further, Leonard.”
“Why did you anchor so far away?”
“I had to put some space between us and the boys.”
Leonard sank to the ground. “I can’t go any further.”
Cerise turned to Luther. “You’ll have to carry him.”
Luther nodded, swept Leonard up and started back toward the house. Cerise grabbed him by the arm and turned him around. “We’re going this way.”
They reached the shore in minutes, Luther running ahead, carrying Leonard as if he were a large rag doll, Cerise scurrying to keep up with him, yelling occasionally to redirect him.
They arrived at a small sand beach. Cerise pointed out a rowboat tethered to a boulder. She jumped into the water, directed Luther to put Leonard at one end of the boat and indicated to him that he was to get in the other end. She then climbed in between them.
“Row,” she commanded Luther.
Luther did as told. Leonard turned his head, squinted into the darkness. “Where are we going?”
“Just wait.” She looked at Luther, who had eased up on the oars when Leonard spoke. “Keep going.”
He bent his back into the task.
Luther had rowed for five minutes when Cerise called out, “Stop!” She pointed to a large craft anchored several yards away. “There.”
Luther rowed closer. Cerise got up, grabbed the ladder on the side of the craft, secured the boat, then started up the ladder. She motioned to Luther to put Leonard on his back and climb aboard.
Leonard breathed a sigh of relief as Luther eased him down into a folding chair. He looked at Cerise, astonished. “How did you get here?”
“Friends in Montreal,” she said.
“Are we going to Montreal?”
“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “We’ll be out of the country before you know it.”
He smiled. “I hope we’re going to St. Tropez. I haven’t been in St. Tropez for a long time.”
She didn’t answer.
“Are we going by boat?”
“Private plane.”
He frowned. “Can we afford that?”
“I called in Mother’s IOUs,” she said.
“Sylvia?”
“The one and only.”
He frowned. “How?”
“Hubby has connections,” she said. “How else do you think he can keep her in the style to which she is accustomed?”
“Mafia?”
“I knew Stepdad would come in handy some day.” She grimaced. “It still cost us though. I had to sell the necklace to pay for the boat and the passports.”
“The one I gave you?”
“Yes.” She swept the hoodie away from her face.
He stared at the blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl with the long scar down one cheek. He recoiled. “Oh, my God!”
“It’s all makeup, Leonard.” She patted his arm. “People will look at me, but all they’ll remember is the scar.” She shrugged. “Dyed hair, tinted lenses, it all works. We’ll alter you a bit. Nothing dramatic. Maybe shave your head.”
He ran a hand over his thick, silver hair. “Not that.”
“Leonard, your hair sticks out like a sore thumb. It’ll grow back.”
“I suppose.”
She knelt and looked him straight in the eye. “How’s the other problem? The memory? Are you still having walkabouts?”
He smiled. “Walkabouts? Yes, I walk about. Not as much since my foot got sore.” A troubled look crossed his face. “I feel confused at times. Sleepy.”
“I think your blood sugar needs attending to,” Cerise said. “I’ll bet the boys haven’t been looking after that very well.”
“They aren’t very attentive.” He frowned. “I wonder if they’ve been slipping me something.”
“We don’t need to worry about them for a while.” When he raised his brows, she added, “I wrecked all of the boats.”
“That was very clever of you, Cerise.”
“Sophie Bright. You can still call me Cerise, at least when we’re alone.”
“Is my name still Leonard?”
“I’ll brief you on that later. Our paperwork’s in order. If we can get away in the next few hours, we’ll be as free as birds.” She smiled. “Besides, you haven’t done anything wrong. Neither has Luther. And I haven’t either.”
He regarded her dubiously.
“
Well, not really. Nothing that will keep me out of heaven. They don’t send people to the other place for ruining a few boats, do they?”
“No,” he said quietly, “not for that.”
“I don’t think we need to worry about Tibor and Frankes. They won’t be able to get off the island for a while. But I don’t think they’re very happy right now. You conned them about the Cartwrights, Leonard. And you are in possession of stolen art. But what can they do about it?”
More than you think, he thought. He listened to her prattle on and decided she was right. If Tibor implicated him, he would implicate himself more. Tibor was the one who burned down the house with Luella in it. He wouldn’t go to the police with information that would send him to prison for a long time, just out of spite. He knew Tibor was largely self-serving. Of course, Tibor might seek some kind of revenge in another way. But he and Cerise and Luther would be in the south of France. Tibor had no money. Frankes would move on once he could no longer depend on Tibor for his livelihood.
“You say your stepfather has Mafia connections?” Leonard asked Cerise.
“Let’s just say he has connections. Mother was able to talk him into using them.”
“Sylvia has her talents.”
“She does.”
“So she did all of this for you?”
“No, she did it for you, Leonard.”
He smiled.
“We’ll board a private jet in Montreal and be on our way. Before anyone knows what has happened — if they figure it out at all — we’ll be far away.”
“That will be expensive.”
“We’ll have enough money, Leonard. Not as much as we had hoped for. But we won’t be eating wieners and beans.”
He screwed up his face. “I never liked wieners and beans.”
“And if the money doesn’t keep us in a style we would like to maintain…” She smiled. “I’m quite resourceful, and” — she gave him a playful poke in the ribs — “I know you have money squirrelled away.”
“I’ve never doubted that you were resourceful.” He looked around. The horizon was a shade lighter. “Who’s running the boat?”
“Someone who will get the rest of his money when he delivers us safely to Montreal.”
A Most Unpleasant Picture Page 19