Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders

by Judith Alguire

  Creighton consulted his notes. “Yeah. He went back to his cabin. Says he was expecting a phone call. Business. He’s the film director. He said he was here doing a documentary on what rich people do in little places like this. He’s shooting some stuff on the horse show, the art colonies, that sort of thing.”

  “Yeah, okay. Lloyd says he called for a cheese plate and a bottle of wine around nine-thirty. Medical. I think he meant Medoc.” Brisbois closed his notebook and put it away. “What do you think about that?”

  “I think Lloyd doesn’t know much about wine.”

  Brisbois smiled. “It might mean the gentleman was expecting a guest.”

  *

  “Jim, you’re coming to the party, of course.” Margaret accosted Devlin as he sprinted into the lobby.

  Devlin acknowledged Rudley and Tiffany with a dazzling smile, then turned his attention to Margaret. “Of course I’m coming. I’ve already sewn my costume.”

  “Why, Jim, you’re a man of extraordinary surprises.”

  “My mother always said ‘Jim, you can do anything you put your mind to.’ I’ll bet your mother told you that too, Mr. Rudley.”

  “Of course. The woman taught me everything she knew about the domestic arts.” He crossed himself mentally. His mother, fine woman that she was, couldn’t sew a button on straight.

  “Christopher isn’t sure he can come,” Tiffany said. “He’s been asked to fill in with the string quartet in Lowerton. Their bassist sprained his wrist.”

  “Tell him to come along when he’s finished,” Margaret said. “However late, we’ll be delighted to have him.”

  “However late,” Rudley murmured.

  The door sprang open. A slight, ginger-haired woman with thick glasses sliding down her nose swept into the lobby followed by a slender, tall young man, lugging three suitcases.

  Margaret rushed to greet them. “Miss Miller, Mr. Simpson.”

  Albert bounded up, tail wagging.

  Simpson set the luggage down. “Calm down, old chap. Sit.”

  Albert sat.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Rudley said.

  “Edward loves dogs,” Miss Miller said. She paused and beamed. “I hear you’ve had another murder.”

  Salvadore Corsi stared at Brisbois for a long moment, then nodded. “You’re right. I was…less than frank. I did see him after I left the dining room. He was here. He asked me not to say anything. Apparently, it’s against the rules for an employee to meet privately with a guest. He and the little cook had an argument about it.”

  “You had a date.”

  Corsi hesitated. “You could call it that. Why not? I set out a plate of cheese and crackers and a good bottle of wine. I guess that constitutes a date.”

  “I would say so.”

  Corsi shrugged. “As it turned out, he was a teetotaler. Fortunately, I had a bottle of ginger ale.”

  Brisbois searched him with his eyes. “Go on.”

  Corsi offered a weak smile. “Silly me. I thought this business of ‘I hear you do films’ was a come-on. As it turned out, he was mainly interested in my business.”

  “Mainly?”

  “Let’s just say I didn’t get the impression he was averse to sleeping his way to the top.”

  “Go on.”

  “We had a pleasant enough evening. He was rather witty, although a bit intense. He had the notion I might be persuaded to do a documentary about female impersonators. With him prominently featured, of course.”

  “And you weren’t persuaded. He got mad. The rest is history.”

  Corsi shook his head. “No. As a matter of fact, I had the project in mind.”

  “But not starring Gerald.”

  Corsi shrugged. “I would have considered him. He had some experience in front of the camera, although he was vague about the details. Hinted his work might be X-rated. I assumed he had done some skin flicks.”

  “Really?”

  “What struck me as odd was that he wanted an assurance he’d be filmed only in makeup. And he indicated he would be using a stage name. I assumed he didn’t want his friends and family to recognize him. Rather precious for a man who had done porn.”

  Brisbois shrugged. “Then what?”

  “Then nothing. We talked. He didn’t make any overtures. I believe he would have come through if I’d pressured him. I did not. He stayed until near midnight. I told him I would give him a call once I got back to Toronto. He seemed pleased with that.”

  Brisbois squared his shoulders. “So you told him that to get rid of him.”

  Corsi looked surprised. “I was sincere. He did a little audition for me. He was good. If I couldn’t have used him in a project, I have colleagues who probably could.”

  Brisbois looked annoyed. “Why didn’t you just tell us all of this before?”

  Corsi studied the floor. “I liked Gerald. I was sorry to hear what happened to him. I was shocked. But I didn’t want to get involved.”

  Brisbois tipped his hat forward and massaged the back of his neck. “You didn’t want to get involved,” he muttered. He looked Corsi square in the eye. “Well, Mr. Corsi, you are involved. Right up to your eyebrows. You could be the last person to have seen him alive.” He paused. “Do you know what that means?”

  Corsi’s mouth drooped. “Surely you don’t think I killed Gerald.”

  “You shouldn’t be surprised that I might come to that conclusion.”

  Corsi sank down onto the bed. “I’ve heard he was killed early in the morning. Around four.”

  Brisbois stared at him.

  “After my encounter with Gerald” — he moistened his lips — “I went into town. I was feeling a little restless. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Did anyone see you go?”

  “I don’t think so. I picked up my car from the parking lot. It’s a Honda. Fairly quiet.”

  “So you killed Gerald on the way home.”

  Corsi hesitated. “No. I went to the hotel.”

  Brisbois waved a hand. “Okay, you went to the hotel to drown your sorrows. And?”

  Corsi shrugged. “I fell into conversation with a young man. We had a drink together. We stayed at the hotel until closing time. Then we went for a drive up the lake.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “The bartender. One of your patrolmen. He stopped where we had parked to see if we were having car trouble.”

  “What time?”

  “Just before four-thirty.”

  “Were you in trouble?”

  “Apparently not. He went on his way, although not before asking for my registration.”

  “What was your friend’s name?”

  “Troy.”

  “Troy?”

  “I didn’t get his last name.”

  Brisbois paused, pen poised. “And then what? After the officer told you to move along?”

  “We drove back to Middleton. We bought coffee at the bait shop on the dock. I dropped him off downtown. I arrived back at the inn at about 6:30.” He shrugged. “I drove in. I saw the emergency vehicles parked beside the bunkhouse. I assumed there’d been a break-in. I parked my car and went on to my cottage.”

  “Did you talk to anyone? Who saw you drive up?”

  “Nobody as far as I know. Everybody seemed too busy to notice me.”

  Brisbois pondered this. “What I don’t get, Corsi, is why you just didn’t tell us this in the first place. We’re all adults. So you spent the night entertaining a series of young men.”

  Corsi gave Brisbois an injured look. “I hadn’t done anything wrong.”

  “But you thought it might hurt your career if the story hit the newspapers.”

  Corsi laughed. “Hardly. In my business it’s almost a badge of honour.” He sobered. “But my wife…”

  “Your wife wouldn’t understand,” Brisbois prompted.

  Corsi smiled weakly. “She’s my producer.”

  “So she holds the purse strings.”

  Corsi shrugged. “Let’s say s
he wouldn’t be pleased. Besides, there’s my children, my grandchildren to consider.”

  Brisbois slammed his notebook shut. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  *

  Brisbois was still shaking his head as they walked to the car. “I don’t know how people like him live with themselves.”

  Creighton shrugged. “You might not like his style but he’s got an ironclad alibi.”

  Brisbois pushed his hat back. “Even if he didn’t, it would be hard to imagine him killing Gerald. Spindly little guy. Must be at least sixty.”

  Brisbois took a turn onto the dock, walked to the end. Creighton followed.

  “Don’t jump,” said Creighton. “It isn’t that bad.”

  Brisbois gave him an aggrieved look.

  “So if it wasn’t Corsi and it wasn’t Gregoire, then it must have been somebody from outside.”

  Brisbois took out a cigarette. “They would have had to know when Gerald would be alone.”

  “They’d have to get that information from somebody at the inn.”

  Brisbois turned abruptly and headed back up the dock. “I think we’re going to a party.”

  The dining room was empty save for the table by the kitchen. Gregoire, minus his chef’s cap, and Tim, immaculate at the end of a long evening, sat around the table with Miss Miller, Mr. Simpson, and the Rudleys.

  “I can’t believe Detective Brisbois thought you were a murderer, Gregoire,” said Miss Miller.

  Gregoire bristled. “I don’t think for one minute he believed I was a murderer. He was being stubborn because he wanted me to tell him something I did not want to tell him.”

  “You didn’t want to tell him that Gerald had a date with Mr. Corsi.”

  “That was it,” said Gregoire. “That was all. It wasn’t important.”

  Margaret put a hand on Gregoire’s shoulder. “Gregoire was trying to protect our reputation. He didn’t want to see lurid headlines splashed all over the tabloids: ‘Sex Escapade Leads to Murder.’ That sort of thing.”

  Gregoire blushed. “Yes, and I couldn’t see that Mr. Corsi would have killed Gerald. He’s just a little older guy.”

  “And he was also trying to protect Gerald’s mother,” said Margaret.

  Gregoire’s eyes teared. “I couldn’t have her see something like that in the papers. I couldn’t have Gerald’s lifestyle pushed in her face like that. She was so good to me when I was little. She stood up for me when other kids picked on me. We came to Newcastle from Quebec because my father got a job. The kids thought my accent was funny.” He moistened his lips. “And she taught me to cook. My apple pie and rhubarb shortcake are hers. Even after we moved back to Longueuil, she sent me recipes.”

  “That’s very noble of you,” said Simpson.

  “Is the Crown charging you with obstructing the investigation?” Miss Miller asked.

  Gregoire sighed. “Let’s say we made a deal. They will not charge me with that and I will not sue them for charging me with murder with such flimsy evidence.”

  “I’m sorry about the death of your friend,” said Simpson.

  Gregoire shook his head. “Poor Gerald. He was not a bad person. But he could get into a lot of hot water sometimes. Detective Brisbois is certain he was killed because he was doing something reckless.”

  “Was he doing something reckless?”

  “He was a waiter. Sometimes he worked as a female impersonator. Apart from turning an ankle in his stilettos or tripping over the hem of his evening gown, I cannot see how he was doing anything reckless. But I don’t think the detective sees it that way.”

  “Detective Brisbois can be unsophisticated at times,” Margaret said.

  “Well,” said Miss Miller, “I’m here now.”

  “Fresh from Outer Mongolia,” Tim added.

  “It was lovely. Wasn’t it, Edward?”

  “It was.” He cleared his throat. “Stimulating.”

  “Edward especially liked the yak rides.”

  “The locals were quite taken with Elizabeth,” Simpson said. “They were especially impressed with her willingness to eat all sorts of things.”

  “Let’s just say their culinary arts are different from yours, Gregoire.”

  Tim relaxed back in his chair. “Do you have a theory about the murder, Miss Miller?”

  “Did you say Gerald was murdered between the time Gregoire left for the kitchen and returned an hour later?”

  “That’s the rumour.”

  Miss Miller narrowed her eyes. “Then clearly it was an inside job.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Creighton and Brisbois, in matching clown costumes, sat on a deacon’s bench just inside the ballroom door.

  “Do you think we’re fooling anyone in these outfits?”

  “With this nose, my wife wouldn’t recognize me.”

  “I feel like an idiot.”

  Brisbois shrugged. “So what? These costumes are roomy enough to conceal our weapons. Besides, they’re comfortable.”

  “We could have come as gorillas.”

  “Just keep smiling and pay attention.”

  Creighton gave his shoes a disparaging look. “So far, we’ve witnessed several reels and minuets, a seventy-year-old woman doing the Charleston, and an apple-bobbing contest. The best moment, so far, was when Doreen Sawchuck pinned the tail on Rudley’s ass.”

  “She tripped. The poor old gal has arthritis.” Brisbois smiled and nodded as a couple dressed like Sir John A. Macdonald and his wife, Agnes, stopped near them. Sir John’s costume included a mask with a prominent nose. “Nice costumes,” he said.

  They nodded their thanks.

  Creighton pulled at his ruff. “You know what Miss Miller would say if she were here?”

  “I hate to think.”

  “She’d say we don’t know what in hell we’re doing.”

  Mrs. Macdonald snapped her fan shut. “Miss Miller would never swear, Detective Creighton. Not that Miss Miller is a prude. She simply believes that swearing displays an absence of imagination or a failure to command the vocabulary of our English language. Isn’t that right, Mr. Prime Minister?”

  “If you say so, Agnes.”

  Creighton stared, bewildered. Brisbois shook his head, then rose to shake hands. “Miss Miller. Simpson. I heard a rumour you’d be here for Halloween.”

  She tapped him smartly on the shoulder with her fan. “I wish I could say I was flabbergasted to see you, Detective, but given the idiosyncrasies of the Pleasant…”

  “Say no more.”

  “Shall I fetch you some cider?” Simpson asked his companion.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Gentlemen?”

  “Nothing for us, thanks.”

  Creighton waited until Simpson was out of earshot. “So, you haven’t snared him yet.”

  “On the contrary. He’s quite well snared.”

  “I thought you would have been married by now.”

  She fluttered her fan. “As you may know, Detective Creighton, it’s more exciting to hunt without a licence.”

  Brisbois suppressed a smile.

  She folded her fan and sat down on the Queen Anne chair next to Brisbois. “Let’s recap your situation, Detective.”

  He crossed his arms, amiably. “All right.”

  “You have a man murdered. As yet, you don’t know who did it or why.”

  “I haven’t a who yet. I have a pretty good idea about the why.”

  She leaned toward him. “Do tell.”

  “The usual reasons, Miss Miller, money, love, revenge.”

  “That strikes me as simplistic, Detective.”

  “Well, you know, when you hear hoof beats, think horses not zebras.”

  She tilted her head. “Obviously, you think the killer may be here tonight.”

  “Might be.”

  “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Dressed like Bozo and Chuckles the Clown,” Creighton finished.

  “Actually, I like your costum
es. Especially the large red shoes.” She paused. “You’ve vetted the guests?”

  “Of course.”

  “Any red flags?”

  “You tell me.”

  She frowned. “I’ve been here just twenty-four hours, Detective. I haven’t had a chance to get to know everyone. Tim seems to find Mr. Harvey suspicious. I must say, he strikes me as oily.”

  “So does my car mechanic, Miss Miller, but I’m pretty sure he’s not a murderer.” He paused. “Did you have anyone else in mind?”

  She smiled. “Give me a few more days.”

  Simpson returned with the apple cider.

  “We were discussing the recent murder, Edward.”

  “Shocking,” he said. “Terrible for Gregoire.” He paused, then said hopefully, “I imagine the detectives have the matter well in hand.”

  She beamed. “Edward, dear, of course they don’t.”

  Napoleon, aka Gregory Frasor, staggered across the ballroom to the buffet. He snared a glass of punch and lumbered over to the mouse who stood in the corner, balancing a plate of canapés. “Let me guess” — he waved a hand in the mouse’s face — “you’re the guy who chases the birds.”

  The mouse froze.

  “No. You’re too short.” Napoleon snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. You’re the old guy I play poker with.”

  The mouse turned away.

  Napoleon grabbed a fuzzy ear and pulled.

  The head came off. The plate shattered on the floor.

  “Professor!” Margaret ran toward him and grabbed the mouse’s head from Napoleon, who was waving it like a captured flag. “Let me help you.” She stuck the head back onto Adolph who had shrunk back against the wall and led him into the hallway.

  Miss Miller turned toward Simpson. “Did she say ‘professor’?”

  Simpson nodded. “That was rather immature of Napoleon. The gentleman seems distraught.”

  “I don’t remember seeing him before.” Miss Miller looked to the detectives, who exchanged glances and shrugged.

  “He’s a bit of a recluse,” whispered Tim who had come to refill the punch bowl. “Doesn’t leave his cabin as a rule.”

  Frasor took a slug of punch and set out to pursue the mouse into the hallway.

  Rudley seized him by the shoulder. “Now, Mr. Frasor , perhaps you’d care to take part in the ring toss.” He steered Frasor toward the opposite side of the room. “Right this way.”