“I’ll have a small piece of chocolate cake with the jam filling in,” said Rudley. He sagged back against the wall, defeated.
“Buck up,” said Pearl.
“It’s not your fault, dear,” said Margaret. “These things happen.”
“People roaming around taking potshots at us isn’t just one of those things, Margaret.”
“I’m sure it was just one of the local boys who’d had too much to drink.”
He gave her a morose look. “I don’t think our luck’s that good, Margaret.”
Brisbois stood, hands in pockets, hat pushed back. “Does your ankle hurt, Semple?”
Semple blinked away drops of sweat. “Quite a lot, sir.”
Brisbois turned to the uniformed sergeant. “Any shell casings?”
“We’ve found a couple.”
“Anything else?”
“There’s some partial footprints in that boggy area over there. They don’t look much good though.”
Semple groaned.
“Maybe we’d better get him down to the ambulance,” said Creighton.
“In a minute.” Brisbois leaned down to look at Semple. “You’re all right, aren’t you?”
Semple hugged his ankle. “Yes, sir.”
“I want to take a quick look at those footprints.”
The sergeant led him to the site and pointed. Brisbois hunkered down. “Looks as if his foot slipped in the mud. Kind of squashed out. Not much tread.” He stood up. “Rope it off for Sheffield. Get him up here as soon as we’re sure the area is secure. I guess we’d better get Semple looked after.”
The radio crackled.
“We’ve got a little guy up at the High Birches. Looks like he passed out. I think the gunshots scared the crap out of him.”
“Are you sure he didn’t take a bullet?”
“Don’t look like it. He’s just lying here in this little fuzzy grey suit. Whiskers and everything.”
Brisbois turned to Creighton. “Professor Wyler. The guy in the mouse costume. They found him passed out.” He turned back to the radio. “Get the paramedics to take a look at him.”
They returned to where Semple sat gritting his teeth.
“Okay.” Creighton leaned down. “Put your arm around my shoulder, bud, and we’ll have you out of here in no time.”
Brisbois took the other side. By the time they reached the inn, he was sweating. The paramedics loaded Semple into the ambulance bay.
“Did you check out the mouse?”
“Yeah, he’s okay. He couldn’t get his head off. Got too hot and passed out. He wouldn’t let us take him in the ambulance.” The paramedic grinned. “Maybe we should set up an aid station here.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I thought it was kind of funny,” said Creighton. “It would save all the 911s. They could just step outside and ring the dinner bell.”
Brisbois glared at him.
Creighton chuckled. “This place is one giant screw-up.”
Brisbois wheeled on him. “Margaret and Rudley are trying to run a nice place. Nothing that’s happened is their fault.”
Creighton narrowed his eyes. “Why is it always Margaret and Rudley?”
“What should I call them?”
“How about the Rudleys?”
Brisbois was about to respond when his radio crackled.
“Brisbois, you’d better get down here.”
The officer directed Brisbois with his flashlight. “We missed him the first time around. No lights on in the cottage. We figured whoever was staying here was still up at the inn.”
“I guess you could miss him in the dark.” Brisbois caressed his cigarettes. “He’s in the bushes beside the door. Keys are a couple of feet away. Porch light’s on. So he had his keys out, probably just about to put them in the lock when he gets shot and topples into the bushes. Even with the porch light on, somebody had to be a damned good shot. Maybe he had an infrared scope.”
“With all the shots whizzing around, maybe this guy just got unlucky.”
“Could be. Or somebody wants us to think that way. Get the forensics guys down here post-haste.” Brisbois turned to Creighton. “What do we know about this guy?”
Creighton flipped open his notebook and leaned toward the porch light. “If the guy matches the cottage, it’s Gregory Frasor from Hamilton.” He took a peek at the body. “Napoleon suit. Yup, that’s Frasor. In a nutshell? Forty-year-old computer geek. Divorced. Sort of an aging frat boy. Yuck, yuck and all that. Pays his taxes. No criminal record. Came here because he heard the Halloween party was good and the food was great. Said one of his friends was here a couple of years ago and loved it.”
Brisbois gave the body a long look. “Well, I hope he had a good time.”
Chapter Fifteen
Rudley leaned over the desk, staring gloomily at the mantle. “Seems familiar, doesn’t it, Margaret? Bodies all over the place. Brisbois ensconced in my office.”
“I’m afraid so, Rudley.”
“I’m sorry about Gerald, but I can’t say I regret that Frasor won’t be back.”
She sighed. “He was a bit boisterous, lacking in the social graces, but he was harmless.”
Rudley sprawled across the desk, wrapping his head in his hands. “You’re right, Margaret. Nobody deserves to die, however unpleasant.”
The laundryman came up the steps and stopped in front of the desk.
Rudley raised his head. “What in hell are you doing here?”
“I went to the rear door to deliver your linens, Mr. Rudley, and guess what I found?”
“A doorknob.”
“Be nice, Rudley.”
The laundryman smiled. “Now, now, Mr. Rudley. The door was locked. That’s what I found.”
Rudley dragged himself off the desk. “Damn.”
“I’m sorry,” Margaret said. “There’s been so much going on.”
“Yes,” the laundryman said. “I heard you’d had some trouble here last night. Something about someone shooting up the Pleasant.”
“Bad news travels fast,” said Rudley.
“I assumed it was someone you do business with,” the laundryman said. “Due to your charming personality.”
Rudley pressed his lips together as Margaret shot him a warning look.
“After you,” he said to the laundryman.
“I’m glad you could see me early,” Christopher said. “I need to get to my office. I have appointments. ”
Creighton yawned. “Doesn’t seem early to us. We’ve been up all night.”
Brisbois glanced at his notes. “This won’t take long. I just need to review your statement.”
“Of course.” Christopher sat in the chair beside Rudley’s desk, his wrists dangling out of the sleeves of one of Gregoire’s uniforms.
“You said you were coming across the lake, in a rowboat, dressed like a pirate to surprise Tiffany.”
Christopher looked aggrieved. “I should have driven.”
“Or taken a motor boat.”
“Part of the problem was, I’m not that good at navigating the lake. I got a late start. I didn’t realize it would take that long to row in from town.”
“What time did you arrive at the inn?”
“As I said, it was about a quarter to one when I saw the light at the end of the dock.”
“Did you hear the shots as you approached?”
“I heard several explosions. Perhaps seven or eight. The first two were almost simultaneous. You know, pft-pft, then bang, bang, bang, bang, etcetera. I thought it was fireworks from the party. I remember looking and wondering why I didn’t see the display.”
Brisbois paused, pen poised. “Pft-pft. You mean pft-pft, like two different guns?”
Christopher thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. It was as if the first two shots overlapped. Sort of as if the echoes blended. The other shots were distinct. Bang, bang, bang, and so on. Or perhaps I just wasn’t registering what I was hearing at first. I can’t say
I was paying much attention to my surroundings at that point. I was focusing on manoeuvring the boat into the dock. I was about twenty feet out when something hit my boat. I jumped.”
“What next?”
“I swam in, then hung onto the edge of the dock until I saw the police cruiser.”
“Then you felt it was safe to come out.”
“Yes. And I hadn’t heard any more shots after the one that hit my boat.”
“Where were the shots coming from?”
“From the woods behind the inn.” Christopher shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t be more specific. I’m not very good at noticing things.”
Brisbois raised his brows. “Do you have any theories?”
Christopher looked at him, surprised. “I assume the shooter was some inebriated Neanderthal. Too bad that man, Frasor, had to pay for his idiocy.”
“Okay.” Brisbois jotted a few notes. “As you were rowing over here, did you notice any cars on the road? Traffic on the lake?”
Christopher wrinkled his brow. “I thought I saw pinpoints of light on the water quite a long way up when I was out in the middle of the lake, but nothing came my way.” He shrugged. “It was probably just moonlight on the water.”
“Do you know what time that was?”
“Sometime just before midnight, I think.”
Creighton laughed. “You did take a long time to get here.”
Christopher blushed. “I lost my bearings. I almost pulled into the Water’s Edge by mistake.”
“It’s easy to get lost on the water.” Brisbois checked his notes. “Anything else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. You have our card. If you think of anything, please contact us.”
After Christopher left, Brisbois tipped his chair back and sorted through his notes. “So what have we got? Everybody was at the party until midnight, except the Benson sisters who were yucking it up over at the Elm Pavilion, throwing popcorn at a B-movie. Mr. Bole returned to his cottage, the Pines. Didn’t see or hear anything on the way down.”
“The Pines. Three cottages from the Oaks.”
“Yeah. Norman Phipps-Walker went down to take some treats to the Benson sisters and show off his costume. Amazon parrot. Saw nothing on the way down. Heard what he thought were firecrackers. Left the Elm Pavilion. By the time he got halfway to the inn, he decided what he was hearing were gunshots. However, he didn’t panic because he assumed they weren’t shooting at him.”
Creighton grimaced. “He might have been wrong, but he was lucky.”
“Tiffany and Lloyd were out behind the inn. The pumpkins got it first. They’re certain the shot came from above and directly behind them.”
“According to Rudley, the flagpole was next.”
Brisbois nodded. “So the shooter didn’t stand in one spot and blast away. He had to be moving across the rise and west, shooting, until he came to an angle from the dock. He got Christopher’s boat on the starboard side.”
“Unless there was more than one person shooting,” Creighton said. “Which makes sense. The last shot that anyone heard hit the boat. But Frasor’s cottage is west of the dock.”
Brisbois nodded. “He had to have been hit earlier.” He flipped through his notes. “We have some pretty exact reports about what got hit — the pumpkins, the flagpole, the urn, the boat, the porch spindles, the rock. The two shots that were fired almost simultaneously, one hit the pumpkins, the other must have hit Frasor.”
“So he was hit right away,” Creighton said. “Bang-bang, then bang, bang, bang…”
“Pft-pft, bang, bang, bang,” Brisbois murmured. “There was more than one shooter.” He dropped his notebook onto the desk and thumbed through it. “Frasor took a clear shot to the head, the mouse fainted, the flagpole got dinged, the jack-o’-lantern bought the farm, the boat sunk, the flower pot’s got a new dent, and Semple sprained his ankle.”
“A good time was had by all.”
Brisbois turned a page. “Last year someone pumped the pumpkin patch full of lead.”
“Yeah, but that was with a shotgun.”
“They never got any leads on that.”
“Nope. That same night somebody wrecked a stop sign and shot up a couple of outdoor toilets.”
Brisbois shook his head. “Occupied?”
“The report doesn’t say.”
“If they were occupied, it shows a certain degree of recklessness.” Brisbois closed his notebook and tucked it into his pocket. “It’s going to be a long day. We’ve got to interview all the guests again. Revisit everybody’s background.”
“What’s next, boss?”
Brisbois smiled. “I think we’ll lock that door and catch a two-hour nap.”
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard in a long time.”
By ten o’clock, the breakfast rush was over. Miss Miller and Simpson had pulled two tables together and were conducting an animated conversation with the Rudleys and staff. Paul Harvey entered the lobby and paused in the dining room doorway. Margaret saw him, then stood and beckoned him over.
“Mr. Harvey, would you like to join us for brunch?”
He smiled and sidled to the chair she indicated. “Thank you. Actually, I’ve had my breakfast. I’m on my way to Middleton. I wanted to drop by and thank you again for the lovely party.” He waved a hand toward the window. “I noticed when I came up you have a police cruiser parked at the side.”
“Someone was shot at the Oaks last night,” said Tim.
Harvey’s jaw dropped. “Oh, no, the professor!”
“No, it was Mr. Frasor.”
Harvey frowned. “I didn’t hear any gunfire.”
“You were probably home by then, Mr. Harvey,” said Margaret. “You wouldn’t have heard anything from there.”
Harvey shook his head. “No, nothing at all.”
Aunt Pearl entered at that moment, Roy Lawson trailing after her.
Harvey jumped up and stuttered, “Miss Dutton.”
“Mr. Harvey.”
“Why don’t you sit here? I was just leaving.”
“We can get another chair,” Margaret protested. “At least have a cup of coffee.”
“Really, I must be getting along. I have things to do.” He smiled. “Thank you.”
They watched him walk away.
“Mr. Harvey always seems so unsettled,” Margaret said.
“Anyone with a brain in his head would feel unsettled coming into this madhouse, Margaret,” said Rudley.
“He must get lonely over there,” Margaret said. “He’s been coming here rather frequently lately.”
“He makes me shudder,” said Gregoire. “So quiet, with his eyes flickering over everything. Like those little house finches.”
“And always smiling,” said Tim.
“He could be cured of that if he spent a little more time around here,” said Rudley.
“Aren’t we in a grand mood this morning?” said Pearl.
“Sorry, Pearl. I tend to be down in the mouth the morning after a murder.”
“Don’t mind him,” Pearl told Roy, who was staring myopically at the tablecloth. “He takes these things hard.”
Miss Miller leaned across the table. “Why would Mr. Harvey think it was the professor who had been shot?”
“Well, the professor was signed into the Oaks originally. Mr. Harvey wouldn’t have known he moved.” Margaret paused, frowned. “Although I’m not sure how he would know he had signed into the Oaks in the first place.”
Tiffany entered the dining room at that moment, waving a note.
“Mrs. Rudley.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Mr. Devlin called. He wanted to apologize for missing the party.”
“Did you tell him we barely missed him?”
Tiffany ignored Rudley. “He had a problem with his boat. He said he spent hours trying to fix it.”
“Only to find it had run out of gas,” Rudley murmured.
“He wanted to stop by
and see you but he won’t have time. He’s leaving first thing Friday morning for Portland. Apparently, he has all sorts of things to do before then,” Tiffany continued. She paused to check her notes. “He wanted you to know he’s going directly from Portland to Toronto, then on to Marrakesh….”
“Best news I’ve heard in ages,” Rudley muttered.
“He’ll pop by as soon as he returns,” Tiffany finished.
“Into every life some rain must fall,” said Tim. As Rudley glowered, he headed for the kitchen, whistling.
Brisbois brought his chair forward with a thump, jolted awake by a hammering on the door. Where in hell was he? The cobwebs cleared when he saw Creighton stretched out on the couch, his hat over his face. He gave his colleague a swat on the leg. “Get up, sunshine. Somebody’s at the door.”
Creighton swung his legs over the edge of the couch. “What time is it?”
Brisbois looked at his watch. “A quarter to eleven. Damn.” He straightened his tie, brushed his hair back, and opened the door.
Miss Miller stood in the doorway. Simpson hovered at her shoulder.
“Detective Brisbois.” She swept past him. “We must talk.”
“We must?” He started to protest, but she had already ensconced herself on the corner of the desk.
Simpson shrugged apologetically.
“Detective Creighton.”
He bowed. “Miss Miller.”
“You’ve been going about your investigation the wrong way.”
Brisbois smiled. “We usually do, Miss Miller. As you know, it’s our modus operandi.”
“Something bigger is at play.”
“I see.”
“You’ve postulated Mr. Frasor’s death was an accident.”
He shrugged. “You tell me.”
“I don’t think it was an accident.”
“Are you suggesting someone was trying to kill Mr. Frasor?”
“I’m not sure if Mr. Frasor was the intended victim.”
He raised his brows.
“Have you taken a good look at Mr. Harvey?”
“Harvey?”
“Yes. He had opportunity. He left the party early, before the shooting started.”
“He’s an older man. He probably didn’t want to be out on the lake in the middle of the night.”
Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders Page 11