He let her fuss with the wig. “Lovely idea, Margaret, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. But I’m not sure how I feel about you losing your head.”
“It has to be done in the interests of historicity.” She reached into the box and took out a papier-mâché head. “Magnificent job, if I do say so myself.”
Rudley shuddered. “Put it away, Margaret. It gives me the willies.”
“That’s the point. It’s for Halloween.” She beamed. “It’s going to be perfect, Rudley. The forecast calls for an overcast, wind-tossed night. Imagine. The branches of the oak trees, gnarled arms writhing in the wind, the moon riding scudding clouds. Bats flitting in and out. Lloyd will make a wonderful scarecrow. I can’t wait for the children’s reaction when he leaves the garden and advances toward the house.”
“I don’t know about the children but Sawchuck will piss his pants.” Rudley took off the wig. “Why on earth did Pearl decide to come as Harry Truman?”
“She’s always wanted to wear a bow tie.” Margaret put the head back in the box. “The menu will be wonderful as always. Gregoire is making candied apples and popcorn balls for the children. Dozens of assorted cookies. Chocolate and brown-sugar fudge.”
“I assume we can put all that stuff in a bag and throw it at them as they come up the walk.”
“Be nice, Rudley.” Margaret took a program from her pocket. “The children will be touring the sites. Then Tiffany, Lloyd, and I will supervise a special party for them in the coach house.”
“In that case, I’ll be needed up here to ride herd on the adults.”
“Except you will need to make a brief appearance to declare that the mummy has risen.”
“I see.”
“And that will conclude the program for the children.”
“Then the parents will come to pick them up and take them away.”
“Some will collect them early, Rudley, but others will want to stay to enjoy the party. Therefore, we’ll take turns amusing them. I expect most of them will be collected by ten.”
“Sounds pretty grisly, Margaret.”
“It will be splendid. And such fun for the children.” She patted his arm. “I’m going to take these things upstairs and do the alterations.”
Margaret left, humming. Rudley flopped into the chair behind his desk, swivelled to face the wall, and stared at the map of the lake and environs. Almost fourteen months without the flag at half-staff, he thought. No drownings, no accidental poisonings, no dead bodies cluttering up the woods and cabins.
Tiffany was coming to the party as Lucrezia Borgia. Compared to a Borgia, Harry Truman seemed benign. Well, except for that damned A-bomb thing.
Mrs. Phipps-Walker was coming as John James Audubon. He supposed Norman would accompany her as a dodo. The Sawchucks were coming as James and Dolly Madison. Mr. Bole was coming as the Duke of Wellington. He wished Margaret didn’t have to lose her head.
He swivelled his chair back to the desk and plunked his feet down on it. He couldn’t imagine being married to anyone but Margaret. She had deserted him for the High Birches just twice in the past year, once for calling the president of the Ladies Auxiliary a picklepuss, the other time for insulting her brother Roger: “You know he’s sensitive about his middle-aged spread, Rudley.” He looked to heaven. “Beer belly’s more like it.”
Margaret’s family had a fondness for the bottle. Witness Aunt Pearl. Margaret was the only one who seemed immune to the habit. He didn’t have any moral issues around drink and didn’t mind a nip himself now and then. Still, Roger did have an unseemly paunch.
Although Tim hadn’t returned from his Mexican vacation, Gregoire said the two of them were coming as Radisson and Groseilliers — as if anyone could imagine that pair exploring North America. Rudley stood and did a sedate dance step across the room. He and Margaret were polishing their minuet. To be historically accurate, he reminded himself. He danced his way to the stairs, then did a Fred Astaire up to the lobby.
He ran into Aunt Pearl, who had paused at the top of the stairs to powder her nose. She snapped the compact shut and tucked it into her purse.
“You look as if you’ve stuck your nose in a flour bag.”
She retrieved the compact, wiped a clear space in the mirror, took out a Kleenex, and removed the blob of powder from the tip of her nose. “Thank you, Rudley. This blasted mirror is useless.”
“What are you up to today?”
She checked her lipstick. Scarlet’s Passion. “Afternoon tea with the chaps in the drawing room.”
“A little Rumoli?”
“Five-card stud.”
“How much did you relieve them of last time?”
“A hundred or so, but who’s counting?” She snickered. “If I play my cards right, that charming Mr. Lawson might invite me to dinner.”
“He has all the charm of a travelling salesman.”
“He’s a fine specimen.”
“If you like overgrown elves.”
“He’s my age, he’s a member of the opposite sex, and he seems to have good bladder control.”
“Pearl, everyone knows optometrists are virtually asexual.”
She smiled demurely. “Speak for yourself, Rudley.”
Rudley watched her feel her way along the wall. “The woman needs cataract surgery, but at least she seems happy,” he said to Gregoire, who was crossing the lobby from the dining room.
“She is a walking advertisement for you-are-never-too-old-for-love.”
“If you say so.”
Gregoire handed Rudley a list. “I have the menu for the children’s party.”
“Can’t they eat what everybody else does?”
“No peanuts or shellfish. And we have to have animal crackers for the canapés, straws with loops, and sprinkles for the ice cream and cookies.”
Rudley curled his lip at the list. “Cheese strings and marsh-mallows. They’ll be upchucking all night.”
“And that is what makes a successful dinner party for kids.”
“The little twerps aren’t even paying a cover charge.” Rudley handed the list back to Gregoire. “At least I get the satisfaction of going down and scaring the hell out of them.”
“That should be the icing on your cake.”
“Indeed.” Rudley checked his schedule. “We’re going to have a busy weekend. Tiffany’s going to the big city with Mr. Greenjeans. Tim’s not back. Melba has a harp camp.”
“I hear she’s making amazing progress.”
“We have a full slate of dinner guests for Saturday.”
Gregoire spread his hands. “I don’t anticipate any problems. Trudy is always reliable. Margaret will help if necessary. And Gerald is like he is on amphetamines. He could probably handle the dining room by himself.”
Rudley lowered his voice. “Is he taking anything illegal?”
Gregoire shook his head. “Never. Gerald has done many crazy things, but he has never done that. He is just a human generator of energy.”
“Refreshing,” Rudley murmured as Gregoire left. “Someone who works full tilt and never complains. We could use more of that.” He paused as Gerald flicked past the door. “Or perhaps not.”
He couldn’t fault Gerald as a waiter. He showed up on time, was pleasant, attentive to the guests, and got along well with the rest of the staff. But he realized he didn’t want Gerald around forever. All that activity would drive him nuts eventually. He preferred the contemplative life, far removed from the hustle and bustle of city life, like Thoreau at Walden. Rudley shrieked as a drawer opened behind him. “What are you doing here?” He turned to face Lloyd.
“Looking for my jackknife.”
“What would your jackknife be doing in my drawer?”
“Put it there.” Lloyd pulled out another drawer and sorted through it. “Here it is.” He grinned. “Wanted to make sure I knew where it was. For my jack-o’-lantern.” He returned the knife to the drawer.
“You can leave now,” said Rudley.
“Ye
s’m.”
Rudley pulled out his package of cigarettes. Of course, he thought, Thoreau didn’t have to put up with this crowd.
Chapter Eight
The sun had set hours before. The dining room had shut down, the chatter of dishes and clatter of silverware now absent. Rudley lounged against the desk, sipping coffee and reading a creased copy of the Globe and Mail.
“Rudley.” Geraldine and Norman Phipps-Walker appeared before him.
Rudley lowered his paper. “Mrs. P.W., Norman.” He gestured at the device Mrs. Phipps-Walker had strung around her neck. “Doing some night photography?”
“We hope.”
“We’re looking for the great horned owl tonight,” Norman said as if he were announcing he was looking for his shoes.
Mrs. Phipps-Walker removed a box from her pocket. “We’re also hoping to get a recording.”
“Perhaps we could feature that at Music Hall.”
“Wonderful idea,” said Norman.
“We’re optimistic we’ll have a good experience tonight,” said Geraldine.
“Lovely evening for it,” said Rudley.
“We couldn’t have asked for better.”
“Planned it myself, Mrs. P.W.”
She stared at him for a moment, then smiled. “You’re a caution, Rudley.” She started toward the door. “Come along, Norman.”
Rudley watched them leave. Norman has been trailing after Geraldine for forty years, he mused as he straightened the newspaper and picked up his cup. He paused to stare dreamily across the lobby. The evening was perfect, with the quiet glow of the lobby, the dining room dark and silent, the gentle click of dice from the drawing room, and the occasional burst of laughter from the gentlemen enjoying cigars on the veranda. In an hour or so, he would call it a day and retreat to his quarters with a good suspense novel and a glass of Chivas Regal. He glanced at the empty spot on the lobby carpet. Margaret had taken Albert for a walk along the shore. No need to worry when she’s with Albert, he thought. She’d fight to the death to save that slavering behemoth. He took a deep breath and smiled. The life of an innkeeper, he thought, was onerous but damned near perfect.
Gregoire gave the kitchen a final inspection, turned off the overhead lights, tossed his apron into the laundry hamper, and let himself out the back door, locking it behind him.
A glass of wine, a little light opera, and to bed for a well-earned few hours. He sauntered down the path to the bunkhouse.
When he arrived, Gerald was modelling a shirt in front of the hall mirror. “Do you like this?”
Gregoire studied the silk Art Deco print. “Very nice.”
“Or what about this?” Gerald ran to his room and returned with a flaming red number. “With black leather pants.”
Gregoire went to the kitchen and poured a glass of chardonnay. “It would be a big hit in Amsterdam. Otherwise, it’s a bit much. Where are you planning to wear it?”
“I have a date.”
“A date?”
“Yes.” Gerald checked his image in the mirror and flicked back a lock of hair. “The Silver Fox.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. Salvadore Corsi.”
Gregoire paused, his lips kissing the rim of the wine glass. “Mr. Corsi?”
“Yes. Didn’t you notice? He’s been making eyes at me since he got here.”
Gregoire put his glass down. “No, I didn’t notice. I am too busy in the kitchen to notice that the waiter is hustling the guests.”
Gerald smoothed his lapel. “Don’t be a prude.”
“I am not being a prude. It is not proper to date the guests.”
Gerald waved him off. “You don’t have to yell. I have ulterior motives.”
“I don’t care what motives you have. It is not right.”
“The man’s a filmmaker. He does documentaries. A guy has to take advantage of his opportunities in this business. Who knows? He might want to do a documentary on female impersonators.”
“That is even worse. Not only are you dating a guest, you plan to take advantage of him.”
“In all the ways I can.”
Gregoire drew himself up to his full height. “I will not let you do this.”
Gerald gave him an oblique look. “What are you going to do about it?”
Gregoire picked up the telephone. “I will call him myself. As chef and captain of the dining room. I will tell him it is against the policy of the Pleasant Inn for the staff to meet privately with the guests.”
Gerald caught his arm. “Oh, don’t be such a goody two-shoes. This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Do you think I’m going to pass it up because it violates some old crab’s silly rules?”
Gregoire removed Gerald’s hand. “Rudley may be an old crab, but he took you in when nobody else was seeming to want you and gave you a job and a nice place to stay.”
Gerald opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. “Good night, Gregoire.”
Gregoire ran to the door, shouting after him. “This is the last time. You will not get away with this with me again.”
“Poo to you,” Gerald called over his shoulder.
“I warn you…” Gregoire stopped, his face flushed. “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Phipps-Walker.”
Chapter Nine
Rudley woke to a familiar sound. He leapt out of bed and seized the alarm clock. Twenty minutes past five. He looked over at Margaret. She was sleeping soundly.
“Damn sirens,” he muttered. “They’re so common now, they might as well be loons.”
He threw on his bathrobe and ran down the stairs, pausing at the dining room door to catch a whiff of Gregoire’s wonderful coffee. There was none.
He charged into the kitchen. The lights were on. Ingredients for omelettes and pancakes, waffles and muffins sat on the counter. A bowl of fruit glistening with water droplets cozied up to the juicer. The coffee urn waited, ready to be turned on.
“Gregoire?”
He checked the pantry, opened the back door, and stepped out onto the porch. The morning mist lay like a blanket two-feet deep across the lawn, shredding at the edges with dawn’s first light. It was thick, but not thick enough to obscure the red and blue flashing lights in the lane behind the bunkhouse. He secured his bathrobe and scurried across the lawn, coming to a halt at a line of yellow tape. Beyond the tape, two police cars and an ambulance squatted in the shadows. A uniformed officer and a civilian in a blue windbreaker and grey chinos huddled together at the shore. A little man in khakis and a straw hat stood outside the tape.
Rudley stopped short of the tape. “What in hell is going on?”
The uniformed officer turned. “Mr. Rudley. How kind of you to grace us with your spindly white legs at this hour in the morning.”
“Ruskay.” Rudley glared at the officer, then turned to the man in the straw hat. “Norman what are you doing out here?”
Norman gave him a blank look. “Trying my luck as usual.”
“In a fog bank like this?”
“I thought it might be clearer out in the middle.”
Ruskay returned his attention to the lakeshore.
“What in hell is going on here?” Rudley repeated.
“Well,” said Norman, “I got fifty yards out or so and still couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, so I decided to return to the shore. Except I couldn’t see the dock. I didn’t want to run the boat aground so I decided to make a soft landing in the reed bank. I searched until I found the spot where the reeds thin. I had almost reached shore when I ran into him.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t believe what I saw.”
Rudley gave him a pleading look. “What did you see, Norman?”
Norman bowed his head. “I know you don’t want to hear this sort of thing, but there was a man hanging over the bank with his head and shoulders in the water. He was practically naked. Gregoire was bending over him. I called to him: ‘Gregoire, help me get him out of the water.’ He looked up at me. His eyes were like saucers, gleaming white
through the fog. Finally, he responded. We hoisted him out of the water. It was then I realized it was Gerald.”
“Gerald?”
“Dead as a doornail.”
“Dead?”
“We tried, Rudley, but we couldn’t do a thing for him. I suppose we shouldn’t have taken him out of the water before the police arrived. I suppose we destroyed evidence, but we couldn’t tell for sure he was dead. When it was clear he was, I called the police.” He produced a cellphone from his pocket. “With all that goes on around here, I decided it was prudent to carry a telephone with me at all times.”
“Gerald? Our Gerald?”
“I’m afraid so, Rudley.” Norman observed a moment of silence, then said, “The police questioned me, then they questioned Gregoire, then they took him into the back of the cruiser for further interrogation.” He gave Rudley an oblique look. “They were friends weren’t they? Gerald and Gregoire?”
“Yes.”
“This is the first time we’ve had a body around here near and dear to someone.”
Rudley’s mouth drooped. Damn, Gerald, Gregoire’s old friend from grade school. He understood they hadn’t been close in recent years but still… He thought of Squiggy Ross, his childhood playmate, the cute little boy with the blond curls and gap-toothed smile. Damon and Pythias, they had been. He hadn’t seen Squiggy in years. He’d turned into a toothless rummy, as bald as a cue ball. Sat around on corners, begging for change. Still, if he heard Squiggy had drowned…
“They had an argument last evening, on the steps of the bunkhouse,” Norman went on. “Geraldine and I heard them.” He gave Rudley an apologetic shrug. “I didn’t mean to implicate Gregoire, but the argument came up in the line of questioning. By the police. Geraldine and I weren’t the only ones. The Sawchucks were taking a stroll nearby. They also heard the argument.”
“What were they arguing about?”
“I don’t know, but Gregoire was clearly upset. He was screaming at Gerald: ‘You won’t do this to me again,’ he said. And Gerald replied: ‘Poo to you.’”
Rudley’s brow wrinkled. “‘Poo to you?’”
“Yes. And then Gregoire said: ‘I warn you.’ At that point he saw us and went into the bunkhouse.”
Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders Page 5