Tim tilted his head. “Did you say on an island east of Middleton?”
Creighton helped himself to the coffee. “I did.”
“Do you think that’s Hiram’s island?” Tim recounted his earlier conversation with the Benson sisters. “They thought an acquaintance of Hiram’s, a man called Leonard Anderson, might be staying there this summer.”
“Leonard Anderson!” Margaret turned to Rudley. “‘Leonard is stupid.’ That’s the phrase Betty uttered that sent Detective Sherlock back to the island.” She rubbed her hands together. “Oh, Rudley, isn’t this exciting?”
“If you say so, Margaret.”
“Vance says that the occupants of the cottage were an older man called Leonard and a manservant called Luther. They have both vanished,” said Creighton.
“So,” said Tim, “we have Leonard, this man Luther and Sherry disappearing all at the same time.”
“Another coincidence,” said Margaret with a sage nod.
Creighton turned to Tim. “You were saying the Benson sisters knew Leonard?”
“Apparently, his parents were friends of their father.” Tim tittered. “According to Louise they were all spies.”
Creighton frowned. “This case is getting curiouser and curiouser.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Brisbois listened to Creighton’s story as he sat across from him in a coffee shop along Middleton’s lakeshore.
“So that’s what happened,” said Creighton. “The bird blabbed.”
“And Sherlock made the connection.”
“After everything had jiggled around in his brain for a while.”
“That’s the way we solve things sometimes,” said Brisbois.
“The boys at the cottage had a pretty good story, but Sherlock nailed them with evidence linking them to the scene. The blood in the boathouse matched that of the guy, Frankes. Other trace evidence matched stuff on a wetsuit belonging to Frankes. He snagged the wetsuit on a nail in the boathouse at the Pleasant, left blood, tissue, and a tiny piece of his wetsuit behind. The guy, Tibor, had scratches on his neck. Tissue found under the nails of the chief matched his.”
“Pretty compelling evidence, I would say.”
“You’d think if a guy tore a hole in his wetsuit and nicked himself on a nail, he’d have the brains to get rid of the suit,” Creighton said.
“Criminals always make the mistake of underestimating our intelligence,” said Brisbois, taking a sip of his coffee. “Not to mention our persistence and deductive powers.”
“Chalk up one for the good guys,” Creighton said. After a long pause, he said, “I should have been more suspicious of Sherry.”
“Maybe her story seemed far-fetched. But there was no reason to think she had done anything criminal” — he shrugged — “still isn’t. She came across as a bit of an airhead when Mary and I met her at our barbeque. She never let down that persona — if it was a persona.”
“Yes, but how many people forget the name of their employer or where they’re employed, lose their identification, sink their boat…?” He squirmed, thinking how he had been bamboozled.
“Not many,” Brisbois conceded. “But she would. I’d say she’s a first-rate con artist.”
“She’s somehow connected to that parrot, and that parrot is connected to the guys on the island.”
“Is Sherlock thinking the boys on the island knocked off the old guy and the servant, too?”
“Vance says he hasn’t ruled anything out. They’ve got Interpol involved. Apparently the old man was quite a globetrotter.”
“What business was he in?”
“Apparently, he was an art dealer, appraiser, and the like.” Creighton chuckled. “Oh, here’s an angle you’ll like. The cottage the group was staying at belongs to Hiram, the Benson sisters’ chauffeur.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, I’m not. The sisters told Tim that Leonard’s father was a friend of their father. Leonard’s father was apparently connected to the art world too. Leonard had spent time on the island when he was younger. Anyway, Louise suggested that Leonard’s parents were also spies.”
“Louise thinks everybody’s a spy.”
“True,” Creighton agreed. “In a way, Louise is sort of like Betty.”
“Betty?”
“The parrot. They both pick up all sorts of things and blurt them out at the worst possible moments — for someone, at least.”
“Maybe somebody should investigate those three.”
“The Benson sisters?”
“Who knows? They could have been pulling the wool over our eyes for years with their harebrained act.”
Creighton frowned. “Do you think it’s an act?”
“No, but I could make just as good a case for them being con artists as I could for Sherry.”
“I like that way of looking at it.”
“That’s why I’m such a good partner.” Brisbois took another sip of his coffee and gave Creighton a sideways look. “I’ll probably retire one of these days. Maybe you’ll get to hook up with Sherlock.”
Creighton rolled his eyes. “The little twit’d drive me nuts.”
“He’s methodical, he’s thorough, he’s willing to think outside the box.”
“He still needed Miss Miller’s help to link up a few things.”
“Even the best of us need Miss Miller’s help at one time or another.”
Creighton shrugged. “Miss Miller is one thing. But a parrot?”
“Well, the parrot…Betty, was it? She probably expedited things. But, in the end, it was Dr. Jim’s work that was critical. Without the DNA evidence, Sherlock couldn’t have made a case. Dr. Jim,” he mused, “now there’s a man who never gets enough credit.”
“So he says.” Creighton drained his coffee. “So the boys — Tibor and Frankes — are still insisting they don’t know where Leonard is.”
“I guess they’re sticking to their story he went to Boston.”
“Well, if he’s out there, they’ll find him eventually. Leonard is well known in the art world. And his haunts are well known. He’ll show up in one of them sooner or later.”
“If he’s alive.”
“If he’s alive,” Creighton repeated. “They’ve got a team out around the island looking for him right now.”
“So Sherlock isn’t convinced he took off.”
“Not entirely.” Creighton picked up his plastic stir stick and bent it. “I wonder how many of these things they make every year.”
“Probably enough to drive us all to extinction.” Brisbois took a sip of his coffee. “So, no trace of Sherry?”
“Nope.”
“So they think she might be with Leonard and the other guy.”
“That’s one theory.”
Brisbois clapped him on the shoulder. “You know, Chester, I wouldn’t worry too much about that girl. No matter where she is, I’m sure she’s just fine.”
“Probably.”
Brisbois looked off over the lake. “I was thinking, we should treat ourselves tonight. I’ll call Mary and ask her to meet us at the Pleasant for dinner.”
Creighton smiled. “Sounds good.”
The private plane headed south over the Atlantic.
“Sandwich, Leonard?”
Leonard patted his abdomen, then shrugged. “Why not? I must have lost a pound or two when you shaved my hair off.”
“You look very handsome bald. Like a larger Yul Brynner.”
“Hmm.” He glanced out the window. “I don’t get the feeling we’re headed to Europe.”
“How’s your foot?”
“Much better. I think it’ll make it now.” He turned to look at her directly. “Why do I have the feeling you’re keeping something from me?”
Cerise flashed him an innocent smile.
“Have I ever kept anything from you?”
He smiled back. “I hope you’ll be getting rid of that hideous makeup after we’re settled.”
“I’ll keep it for a while, then I’ll visit a plastic surgeon — just in case someone gets nosy.”
“And I can grow my hair back.”
“We’ll see.”
He sighed. “So I can never be Leonard Anderson again?”
“Of course not,” she said, giving him an affectionate hug. You’re Herr Jan Merkel. You’re Austrian.”
“Well, my German’s good at least.” He nodded. “I like that. Jan Merkel.” He looked at her. “And you would be?”
“Sophie Bright. I’m just someone you picked up on your travels. I don’t speak German. You’re trying to teach me.”
He pointed out the window. “It still doesn’t look as if we’re headed to Europe.”
She handed him a bottled milkshake and flipped open a magazine. “Leonard?”
“Yes?”
“How do you feel about magic realism?”
“I’ve always rather liked the idea.”
“Then you’ll love Colombia.”
“Colombia.”
Leonard didn’t ask any more questions. He’d spent a little time in Rio and Buenos Aires and always enjoyed South America. He thought he could forego London, which was damp, and St. Tropez, the social life of which wasn’t what it had been in his day. He was sorry Cerise had to take risks on his behalf, consorting with criminal types to arrange forged passports, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that she hadn’t done anything terribly criminal. All she had done was make a transaction with the mob to save her guardian — him! — from his avaricious nephew. She was an innocent. That thought made him laugh out loud. Cerise flicked him a glance, but he just shook his head and motioned for her to go back to her magazine.
And if the authorities caught up to him, what could they do with him? He was a senile old man, after all, being manipulated by people he couldn’t resist. His moment of levity passed. He had caused Luella’s death. That he could never take back. He turned to stare out the window, thinking of his house on St. Napoli, that lovely breeze off the ocean at night, his studio, his walks downtown, tea with Dreyfus.
He could never go back to St. Napoli. He would never see the Cartwrights again. That was his punishment.
“Well, Rudley,” said Margaret. “It’s all worked out.”
“I suppose.”
“At least we know who the chief really was and that his murderers have been apprehended.”
“Clifton Watts, retired teacher from Manitoba,” he mused. “What would possess him to become Chief Longbow? He must have had a good pension.”
“His family did say he’d had a lifelong fascination with Grey Owl, Rudley.”
“Not to mention he was inclined to be delusional.”
“And the Phipps-Walkers are researching a good home for Betty. I’ll miss her though.”
“I won’t.”
“And Detective Sherlock has invited Tiffany to accompany him to the string quartet performance at the theatre.”
“Mr. Bole invited both of them to accompany him,” said Rudley.
“Mr. Bole is a romantic,” said Margaret.
“I hear the boys are sticking to their story,” said Rudley. “They happened by the boathouse when the chief fell in. They tried to help him, but he was already too far gone. They thought they would be blamed for his death so they stuffed him into the life-preserver box when they thought they heard someone coming.”
“Every time I hear that explanation, it makes less sense.”
“I suspect even a half-baked jury — the likes of which is to be found around here — would find that a little hard to swallow.”
“And why were they wandering around in a boat in the middle of the night in wetsuits?”
“Not to mention the fact that the police divers found the uncle’s suitcases sunk off the island. And an examination of the boats they claimed they had damaged on a rock shelf revealed they had been sabotaged.”
“Officer Owens says they’re still looking for the uncle, but they feel he may have met with misadventure.” She paused. “I must say, Rudley, much of it doesn’t make sense.”
“The theory is they wanted the uncle’s money. People will do anything for money.”
“The murderers deny any knowledge of someone called Sherry. Perhaps she was using an alias. Perhaps she had nothing to do with them. It’s all very confusing, Rudley.”
“I don’t think everything is supposed to make sense.”
“Good thing, too, Rudley, since so little does.”
He smiled. “The important thing, Margaret, is that the murder has been solved. We no longer have to put up with that snotty Sherlock or that bird-brained Sherry.”
“Dirty bird,” said Betty.
He made a threatening gesture toward her.
“Now, Rudley.”
He did a little pirouette behind the desk. “And tomorrow night, Margaret.”
She clapped her hands. “Music Hall.” She paused. “Do you think the rest of the season will be uneventful?”
He sighed. “We can only hope.”
About the Author
Judith Alguire’s previous novels include Pleasantly Dead, The Pumpkin Murders, A Most Unpleasant Wedding, Peril at the Pleasant, and Many Unpleasant Returns, the first five books of the Rudley Mysteries, as well as All Out and Iced, both of which explored the complex relationships of sportswomen on and off the playing field. Her short stories, articles and essays have also appeared in such publications as The Malahat Review and Harrowsmith, and she is a past member of the editorial board of the Kingston Whig-Standard. A graduate of Queen’s University, she has recently retired from nursing.
ISBN 978-1927426-57-9
Also available as an eBook
ISBN 978-1-927426-58-6
Everyone at the Pleasant Inn is looking forward to a very merry Christmas. Oh, irascible proprietor Trevor Rudley has his usual complaints about Mrs. Blount’s non-traditional floral arrangements. And he’s sure he won’t like housekeeper Tiffany’s new beau, Dan Thornton, who’s a writer, of all things. But it’s Christmas. The guests are excitedly preparing the Christmas pageant and chef Gregoire is spoiling everyone with his delightful cuisine. There’s a snowstorm on the way, but Trevor and Margaret Rudley have everything under control. Surely nothing catastrophic could happen.
Bad things do happen, of course. Once the snow begins, it seems like it will never stop. Poor Margaret runs over a man lying in the road during a whiteout. Walter Sawchuck almost chokes when someone doctors his Mrs. Dash. And those disturbing little Santas begin to appear, each one representing a gruesome event in the Pleasant’s past. Then a dead body is found hanged in the coach house. As the snow continues to fall, paranoia at the Pleasant mounts.
ISBN 978-1927426-26-5
Also available as an eBook
ISBN 978-1-927426-27-2
Margaret Rudley has finally persuaded her husband to take a vacation, a week-long canoeing expedition in Northern Ontario. Rudley hates the idea of leaving the Pleasant, but he is reluctant to deny her a cherished dream. They set off, with long-time guests Elizabeth Miller, Edward Simpson, and the Phipps-Walkers, and a pair of neophytes, Vern Peters and Eric Turnbull. They leave the Pleasant and a few regular guests, including the Sawchucks and their incorrigible eight-year-old grandchildren, Ned and Nora, in the capable hands of Mrs. Millotte.
But contrary to their hopes, it is chaos at the Pleasant. Ned and Nora disappear and a ransom note is received by the local paper. Tiffany encounters an intruder in the kitchen. The laundryman’s truck is stolen. And a serial murderer is on the lam in the vicinity. Detectives Brisbois and Creighton are on the scene to investigate these various crimes, including the appearance of a dead body in
a ditch a few miles from the Pleasant.
Meanwhile, the canoeists continue downriver, oblivious to the threat that lurks around the next bend.
ISBN 978-18987109-99-1
Also available as an eBook
ISBN 978-1927426-07-4
Another summer, and the Pleasant Inn, nestled in beautiful Ontario cottage country, is filled to capacity. This season is especially exciting, as perennial guests Miss Miller and her long-time admirer Mr. Simpson have chosen to marry at the Inn. The guests and staff are clamouring to be involved, particularly Bonnie Lawrence, a young wife adrift while her husband is off fishing. Margaret and Trevor Rudley are delighted to host the wedding, and barring Mrs. Lawrence’s obsessive interfering, everything is set to go off without a hitch.
But when a neighbour is found dead in the woods behind the inn, the possibility of a joyous occasion starts looking distinctly less likely. Detective Michel Brisbois, who is heading up the case, is back on the Pleasant Inn’s doorstep. Rudley barely tolerates the presence of the police, who are once again on site interviewing the guests as possible suspects. Even though she’s prenuptially preoccupied, the fearless Miss Miller refuses to be left out from solving yet another murder at the Pleasant…much to her own peril.
ISBN 978-18987109-45-8
Also available as an eBook
ISBN 978-18987109-69-4
Autumn returns to Ontario cottage country. Leaves redden. Pumpkins ripen. And Trevor and Margaret Rudley, proprietors of the Pleasant Inn, expect nothing more than a few Halloween high jinks to punctuate the mellow ambiance of their much-loved hostelry. However, the frost is barely on the pumpkin when Gerald, a female-impersonator friend of the Pleasant’s esteemed cook Gregoire, turns up, dragging his very frightened friend Adolph behind. After witnessing a drug deal in Montreal, they’re on the lam, hoping to blend into the Pleasant’s pleasant rhythms until the heat is off. Alas, they hope in vain.
A Most Unpleasant Picture Page 23