“Or he didn’t want to be around when the bullets started bouncing off the flagpole.”
Brisbois contemplated this for a moment. “You’re postulating Mr. Harvey didn’t do the shooting, but he knew it was about to happen?”
“Perhaps.”
Brisbois spun around to face Simpson. “What do you think, Simpson?”
“I try not to, Detective.”
Brisbois turned back to Miss Miller. “Okay, let’s go along with your theory for the moment. What is there about Mr. Harvey that makes you think he was involved? For instance, where’s his motive?”
“I don’t know that. Not yet. But what do we know about this man?”
“He’s a retired schoolteacher.”
“Sounds pretty suspicious,” Creighton chuckled.
Brisbois smiled. “Great reports from all sources. Coached the drama club. Was active in Cubs and T-Ball. He came here a year ago. Since then, he’s joined the reading club at the library and he started the orchid society.”
Miss Miller frowned. “Edward is a member of the orchid society. He has huge Orchidaceae.”
Creighton suppressed a smirk. “I think Harvey’s are smaller. He specializes in the wild varieties.”
Miss Miller erased his smile with a steely look. “Orchids aside, he did leave the party early and came around early this morning, ostensibly to thank the Rudleys for the party. Why didn’t he just telephone?”
“He did say he was on his way to the village,” said Simpson.
“He pretended he didn’t know what happened last night,” said Miss Miller.
Brisbois shrugged. “He probably didn’t, Miss Miller. His place is up the lake. He wouldn’t have seen anything and probably couldn’t have heard the shots.”
“He asked about the police cars out front, and when he was told there had been a shooting at the Oaks, he said: ‘Oh, no, the professor.’ And Tim said: ‘No, it was Mr. Frasor.’” She leaned forward, triumphant. “Now, why would Mr. Harvey assume the professor had been the victim?”
Brisbois thought for a moment. “Professor Wyler was originally signed in at the Oaks.”
“But how would Harvey know the professor was at the Oaks in the first place?”
Creighton yawned and straightened his jacket. “Wouldn’t be that hard, Miss Miller. Mr. Harvey comes and goes around here. The staff has been trotting three meals a day to the professor. Harvey may have heard somebody mention the Oaks at some point in the connection with the professor and assumed he was still there.”
Brisbois nodded. “It’s not that difficult to figure out what’s going on around here.” He shrugged. “Look at what you’ve been able to find out.”
“But why would anyone want to shoot Frasor? He struck me as nothing more than an overgrown kid.”
“That seems to be the general opinion,” Brisbois said. “But, at this point, we don’t know if anyone was trying to shoot him.”
“Then perhaps they were trying to kill Professor Wyler.”
“There doesn’t seem to be any reason anybody’d want to kill him either, Miss Miller. Or anyone else at the Pleasant for that matter.”
“Except perhaps Rudley,” Creighton said.
“The professor is rather eccentric,” Miss Miller went on. “Prior to the Halloween party, he’d never left his cabin. Tim told me he was worried people would harass him if they knew he was a professor specializing in the Romantic poets.” She paused. “I suppose I would have, but only in the most civilized way.”
“He seems to have an exaggerated idea of the rock-star appeal of an English professor, Miss Miller, but his background doesn’t raise any red flags.”
“He’s from Montreal. Gerald was from Montreal.”
“Actually, he’s from Ottawa. He commutes to Concordia. Except this year. This year he’s on sabbatical. Unless we’re thinking disgruntled student, there doesn’t seem to be any reason anyone would want to kill him.”
“He seems nervous.”
“I’m not surprised, Miss Miller. He came here because he was having trouble getting started on his book. He probably expected peace and quiet, not double homicide.” He shrugged. “Sorry, Miss Miller.”
She eyed him gravely. “Detective Brisbois, after all we’ve been through, and you’re unwilling to entertain my theories.”
“Sorry.”
She hopped off the desk. “I’ll keep you apprised.”
“I appreciate that, Miss Miller.”
Creighton shook his head after Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson left. “Last night, she thought someone was setting off firecrackers. Now she thinks it was an assassination.” He grinned. “Of course, she was preoccupied last night.”
Brisbois picked up his notebook and leafed through it. “Interview with Miss Miller last night. Detective Brisbois: ‘What did you think when you heard the shots, Miss Miller?’ Miss Miller: ‘I thought someone was setting off firecrackers.’ Detective Brisbois: ‘At midnight?’ Miss Miller: ‘Please, Detective, we’re talking about the Pleasant.’”
He smiled. “She’s got something there.”
Miss Miller led Simpson up the stairs.
Simpson cleared his throat. “Elizabeth, it seems your theories may be unfounded.”
She looked at him over her glasses. “Nonsense, Edward, I find Mr. Harvey’s behaviour most suspicious.”
“But you must admit, Detective Brisbois’ opinions have merit. Mr. Frasor’s death may have been nothing more than a tragic accident.”
She tapped him on the shoulder. “Edward, I have a plan.”
The boss’s voice was steely. “I guess you guys screwed up.”
Serge composed himself before responding. “Right place, wrong guy. We got bad information.”
“The guy’s still on site?”
“Yeah. In a different cottage. Turns out he got moved.”
“What do the cops know?”
“They don’t know squat.”
“You know what you’ve got to do.”
“We’ll get it done.”
“Good. And don’t leave a trail.” There was a pause. “Figure it out and get back to me. Tout de suite.”
Serge winced as the receiver slammed in his ear.
Chapter Sixteen
Tiffany tapped on the door of the High Birches. Adolph opened it a crack, then stepped back when he recognized her.
“I’ve brought your lunch. An apple, a sandwich, and Mrs. Rudley insisted I bring you a sample of chocolate layer cake and some of Gregoire’s thumbprint cookies.”
“That’s very considerate of Mrs. Rudley.”
“Is there anything I can bring you to read?”
“No, I have plenty.”
“Please let me know if you need anything.”
Adolph took the tray and closed the door. He carried the tray to the table and removed the cover. The salmon sandwich on homemade cracked-wheat bread looked delicious, nicely presented on a floral china plate, cut into quarters, with a dill pickle and a garnish of carrot curls and shredded red cabbage on a bed of baby spinach. They were good here, he thought, going out of their way to dress up his simple requests. Perfect presentation. The apple was polished, its stem removed, and set on a separate plate with a cheese sampler. He took a bite of cheddar and swallowed painfully. He checked the tray. No milk.
As he turned to reach for the telephone, he noted a shadow pass the window. He froze. He had forgotten to lock the door. He got up, stumbled across the room, and fumbled for the lock.
The door slammed into him. A heavyset man shoved him backwards onto the bed. A second man entered, closing the door behind him. The chunky man pinned his upper arms. The other knelt beside him.
“Now, you’re going to come with us and you’re going to be quiet and you’re going to pretend you’re enjoying a nice stroll up into the woods. Do anything stupid and we’ll waste you and anybody else within shouting distance. Understand?”
Adolph choked on his own saliva. He understood perfectly.
; “Edward, we’ll take a turn down the lake, then come back up.”
Edward rested the paddle across his knees. “Elizabeth, we’ve been scrutinizing Mr. Harvey for three days and so far the most incriminating thing we’ve witnessed is him hanging a dishtowel on the clothesline.”
“Paddle in the water, Edward.”
Tiffany rushed up to the desk where Margaret and Rudley were huddled over the reservation book. “Where is Detective Brisbois?”
Rudley turned a page. “I believe he’s out on the porch, contemplating his navel.”
Tiffany ran to the door and flung it open. “Detective Brisbois?” She ran back into the lobby, distracted.
Brisbois followed her inside. “What’s the matter?”
She paused to catch her breath. “Professor Wyler. He’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“I took his lunch down earlier, then went on to the Elm Pavilion. When I returned to the kitchen, I noticed a glass of milk on the counter. Gregoire must have forgotten to put it on Professor Wyler’s tray. I poured a fresh glass. When I got to the High Birches, he was gone.”
Creighton had entered the lobby and stood leaning against the door frame.
“When did you see him last?” Brisbois asked.
“Half an hour ago.”
Brisbois turned to the Rudleys. “Have you heard anything from him?”
They shook their heads.
“Not since he called in his lunch order, Detective,” Margaret said.
Brisbois put an arm around Tiffany and steered her toward a chair. “He called up for his lunch. You delivered it. Half an hour later, he’s missing. Maybe he went for a walk.”
Tiffany shook her head. “His lunch was barely touched. He had taken a bite of cheese. The door was ajar.”
Margaret frowned. “I don’t think he would have gone for a walk, Detective. He hasn’t been on the grounds since he arrived. He hasn’t come down for a single meal. The Halloween party was his only outing. He might just as well have checked into a hotel in downtown Toronto.”
“Do you think he might have decided to walk away without paying his bill?”
Margaret put a hand to her mouth. “That couldn’t be. A professor of the Romantic poets?”
Rudley sniffed. “I, for one, Margaret, have always been suspicious of grown men who get misty-eyed over daffodils.”
“Lloyd’s been out and around,” Brisbois said. “Maybe he’s seen him.”
Rudley turned and bellowed, “Lloyd.”
Lloyd came down the hall from the kitchen. “You were wanting me?”
“Yes. The police want to talk to you.”
“Have you seen Professor Wyler today?” Brisbois asked.
“Nope.”
“I’m sure he didn’t run off without paying,” Rudley said. “We’ve never had a guest leave without paying.”
“Except Katherine Hepburn,” said Lloyd.
Rudley shook his head. “Who could have imagined Katherine Hepburn would leave without paying her bill?”
Brisbois raised his brows. “You had Katherine Hepburn as a guest?”
“As it turned out, her real name was Dianne Thumboldt,” Margaret said. “But she looked ever so like Katherine Hepburn. Straight out of The Philadelphia Story.”
“I thought she looked more like Katherine Hepburn in Bringing up Baby.”
“Or even in Morning Glory,” said Lloyd.
Rudley gazed dreamily across the lobby. “Wonderful actress. Real class.”
Brisbois cleared his throat. “We were talking about Professor Wyler.”
Rudley looked injured. “Well, I don’t know how much more I can tell you. If he’s gone, he’s gone.”
Margaret fluttered her hands, distressed. “Detective, something must have happened to him. I can’t see him wandering off. As I’ve said, he’s been here almost three weeks and he’s not put a toe outside his cottage, except for the party.”
“Didn’t that strike you as odd?”
“Out of the ordinary, perhaps, but not odd. Every now and then we get some poor soul who needs to get away for a rest.” She took Rudley’s arm. “Remember Mr. Franklin?”
Rudley glowered.
“Uncomfortable subject, Rudley?”
“We found out later he had come here intending to commit suicide,” Margaret went on. “Instead, he developed a crush on Tiffany.”
Brisbois smiled. “For once, you have a good story.”
“And then he went back to Toronto and got hit by a bus,” said Lloyd.
“The point is,” said Rudley, “sometimes people come here for reasons other than fishing and society. One man came here hoping to cure his insomnia. Slept like a log his entire stay. Said the frogs’ chorus was like a Brahms lullaby.”
“They do outdo themselves,” said Margaret.
Brisbois looked at Creighton out of the corner of his eye. “We’ll be back. He tipped his hat to Margaret and headed for the door.
Creighton stopped a few steps back as Brisbois paused to lean over the railing and stare out over the lake. Finally he launched himself off the railing and headed down the steps and out onto the lawn. Creighton caught up to him halfway to the dock.
“I think the folks have finally lost it,” said Creighton.
Brisbois lit a cigarette. “I can’t say I blame them.” He took a long drag. “We’ll give the professor another hour.”
“Chances are he just went for a walk.”
“I don’t know. Maybe Miss Miller was right. Maybe somebody was out to get the professor and they shot Frasor by mistake.”
“Or the whole thing could just have been a Halloween prank that went sour.”
“Or a hit man who wanted to make the killing look random.”
Creighton considered this. “The professor was pretty shaken up. Maybe he just decided to get to hell out of here.”
“Could be.” Brisbois pushed back his hat. “Look, why don’t you call the university? See if anybody there’s heard from him.”
Serge prodded Adolph through the woods to an outboard camouflaged by a sweep of aspen. “Now, you’re going to sit nice and quiet and act as if you’re having a good time. We’re just three guys out for a ride up the lake.”
Adolph stumbled over the seat. “I don’t know anything.”
“You can tell us all that later. Right now, we’re going to get out of here before they miss you too much.” He gave Adolph a sharp nudge in the back. “If they miss you at all.”
Simpson cleared his throat. “Elizabeth, I’m feeling rather peckish. We’ve been paddling up and down the lake since breakfast. Let’s say we return to the inn for lunch.”
“Just a moment. There’s a boat headed for Harvey’s dock.” She picked up her binoculars and gasped. “Edward!”
“Yes?”
“Three men.” She turned to him, triumphant. “One of them is Professor Wyler.”
He took the binoculars. “I believe you’re right, Elizabeth.”
“Why would Professor Wyler be headed for Mr. Harvey’s with two strange men?”
“They look rather ordinary to me.”
She took the binoculars back. “It seems suspicious.”
“Probably not as suspicious as us lurking about watching him hang his laundry.”
“Paddle, Edward.”
After cruising along the shore for fifteen minutes, Mitch manoeuvred the outboard into the boathouse at Harvey’s cottage, got out, and tied up. Serge shoved Adolph onto the platform, where he landed in a heap against a support beam.
Serge reached down and hauled him up. “We’re going up to the cottage. Don’t try anything funny.”
They walked single file to the cottage, Adolph sandwiched between them.
*
Tears streamed down Adolph’s face. “I’ve told you, I don’t know anything.”
“We think you do.”
“I don’t know where he worked or who he worked for.”
Serge tightened his grip on Adolph�
�s collar, while Mitch stod guard over Harvey. “You were his boyfriend and he didn’t tell you anything?”
“He wasn’t my boyfriend.”
“Okay, so he was your friend. Friends tell friends things.”
“All I know is he made some films.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Adolph tried to take a deep breath, but choked. “Okay, I know he heard something, but I don’t know what it was.”
Serge turned away, then turned back and smiled. “Even if I did believe you, I can’t let you go. You know that.”
Adolph closed his eyes.
Serge smiled. “You two guys are going to have an accident. You were going for a nice ride up the lake. Your boat blows up. End of story.”
“You can’t do that,” Harvey stuttered. “You barged into my house…”
Waving him off, Serge wandered over to the window and peered through the slit between the curtains. “Who are those people out there?”
Harvey stuttered. “What people?”
“Those people in the canoe.” He grabbed Harvey and pulled him toward the window. “Those people.”
Harvey blinked. “They’re guests from the inn across the lake.”
“What are they doing here?”
“I don’t know.”
Serge stepped back from the window, pushing Harvey ahead of him. “You keep things under control,” he told Mitch. “I’m going out to see what they want.”
*
Simpson dipped his paddle into the water. “I think we should go now, Elizabeth.”
“Just a minute,” she said. “I want to get a better look at that outboard.”
She put her paddle in the water just as Serge stepped out from behind the shrubs.
“Can I help you?”
She smiled. “We were just leaving.”
He levelled the rifle. “I don’t think that would be polite.” He beckoned them ashore.
Simpson started to paddle in. Miss Miller stopped him with a hand to his wrist. “We can wade in from here, Edward. It’s not that deep.”
He gave a quick nod.
Serge grinned. “Come on, let’s join the fun.”
*
Brisbois was pacing up and down the veranda when Creighton bounded out.
“You’re going to like this, boss.”
Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders Page 12