Rudley nodded. “I don’t know if I’d call Doretta a young lady. She’s in her forties and built like a brick outhouse.”
“Someone told me she used to be a grade-school teacher,” Norman said. “She must have a gentle heart.”
Rudley nodded. “I understand the children loved her once they got over the fact she could lift a piano with one hand.”
Bonnie and Tee Lawrence entered the lobby at that moment, she in a tailored pantsuit with coordinated scarf, he in khakis, a plaid shirt, and a vest with many pockets. He carried a Bob Izumi fishing rod and reel.
Margaret bustled out from the kitchen with two picnic baskets. “Norman, Mr. Lawrence, here’s your supper.”
Norman took his basket. “Are you going on Doretta’s fishing charter?” he asked Tee.
Tee hesitated. “Yes.”
“Well,” said Norman. “No need for both of us to drive. You can come with me.”
“No need for either of you to drive,” said Margaret. “Lloyd’s going into town for the Monster Marathon at the Regent. He’ll drive you in and pick you up later.”
Bonnie looked distressed. “But I wanted to drive Tee in.”
Tee rolled his eyes. “I’ve told you, Bonnie, there’s no need for you to drive me.”
“But I was planning to stop by the pharmacy and pick up the latest brides’ magazines,” Bonnie fretted. “I was hoping to spend the evening getting some ideas for Miss Miller’s wedding.”
“You don’t have to do that tonight,” said Tee.
Margaret brightened. “As it happens, I have some recent copies. We’re putting on Father of the Bride this season. I’ll be happy to get them for you.”
Tee patted Bonnie on the shoulder as she continued to fuss. “There, you can plan to your heart’s content.”
“But…”
Tee kissed her on the cheek. “And since you don’t have to drive me into town or pick me up later, you’ll have even more time to plan the wedding.”
Bonnie looked crestfallen.
“I’ll get those magazines right away,” said Margaret. “And I’ll ask Lloyd to drop you off. He’s just finishing his dinner. He should be ready in a few minutes.”
“There you are,” said Tee. He gave Bonnie another peck, smiled. “Have a nice dinner, and I’ll see you later.” He headed for the door.
“You could have dinner with Geraldine,” said Norman. “I’m sure she’d love to have you join her. She can tell you about our wedding. Avian motif. Bird songs in the background, that sort of thing. Afterwards, we provided a bird buffet so our feathered friends could also enjoy the occasion. Perhaps you’d like to include something like that in Miss Miller’s wedding.”
Bonnie looked as if she were going to cry.
“Just give her a buzz,” Norman said as he turned to catch up with Tee. “She likes to dine at seven.”
Lloyd came out of the dining room.
“You know you’re going to drop Mr. Lawrence and Norman at the dock,” Rudley said.
“Yes’m.”
“What movies are you going to see?”
“Godzilla and The Monster who Devoured Cleveland.”
“Sounds horrific.”
Bonnie was still standing in front of the desk, clutching her handbag to her chest.
“Don’t worry,” said Rudley. “He’s a fine driver and not dangerous in any way we know of.”
Margaret arrived at the desk carrying a pile of magazines. “I found you six copies.” She plopped the bundle into Bonnie’s arms.
“Thank you, Mrs. Rudley,” Bonnie said in a small voice. “I think I’ll go now and freshen up for dinner.”
“Mrs. Lawrence seems upset,” said Margaret as she watched her walk down the front steps, shoulders hunched. “But I’m sure the magazines I found will do. None of them is more than a year old.”
“She’s a rather delicate little thing,” Rudley said.
“He doesn’t seem particularly sensitive to her.”
“Opposites do attract, Margaret. Look at Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson.”
“Yes, Rudley, but Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson clearly respect each other. Mr. Lawrence seems almost condescending.”
“Some men are beasts.”
“Perhaps being here, with our example, meeting other exemplary couples, perhaps that will rub off on Mr. Lawrence.”
“Or perhaps on both of them. He can stop being so condescending, and she can stop being such a ninnyhammer.”
Tim cleared his throat. “Your camping trip?”
“Your gear is waiting for you on the back porch,” said Gregoire.
Margaret pried the pen from Rudley’s hand. “Time to go, Rudley.” She beamed. “I’m so looking forward to this experience.”
Jack Arnold shoved his wallet into his pocket. He had his hand on the doorknob, then hesitated and turned back. He grabbed a bottle of Glenlivet, slopped two fingers into a tumbler, saluted the bottle, and downed the drink in one go. One for the road.
He glanced at his watch. Eight-thirty. He was headed into town, hoping to catch some action at the hotel. The fact that he’d killed half the bottle that day didn’t worry him. He’d been drinking and driving for years. If the cops in Sarnia couldn’t detect he was DUI, the hicks out here wouldn’t. He’d just finished a big dinner and felt quite capable of steering several tons of metal along a winding country road.
He put his glass down on the table by the door and left.
Great evening, he thought. Warm. Half-moon. Water lapping against the dock. Not a soul in sight. He heard muted laughter as he passed the inn. They were having some kind of games night. He’d heard someone mention Snakes and Ladders. He hadn’t played that game since grade school and couldn’t imagine why the whole inn would crowd into the drawing room for that sort of entertainment. Of course, most of the guests were either infirm like the Sawchucks, or old nuts like the Phipps-Walkers, or just plain weird like that red-headed woman with the thick glasses. Educated woman. Saucy. He didn’t like saucy, educated women. The laughter faded as he approached the parking lot. Here it was just the frogs and crickets. He belched and climbed into his vintage Cadillac.
The Caddy was old and a bit beat up, with dents and scratches here and there he’d never bothered fixing. He liked to think of the car as an extension of himself — getting along in years with the bumps and bruises from a life lived hard and a little recklessly but still with a charge in the engine.
He pulled out of the driveway, paused to decide which road to take. The one to the left ran along the shore before curving to meet the main road. The one to the right led up through the woods, he believed, before meeting the highway a mile or so along. He glanced to his right, caught sight of a familiar figure hurrying up the road in the distance. Hell of a time to go for a walk, he thought. He turned the wheel to the left and set out along the shore road.
Trevor Rudley reached down the back of his pajamas, pulled out an insect, held it out. “What do you think this is, Margaret?”
She squinted in the dim light. “I think it’s a pillbug.”
“How am I supposed to sleep with all of these insects crawling over me?”
She took the bug from him, released it into a corner of the tent. “They’re just innocent denizens of the soil. We have a net to keep the mosquitoes off.”
He started to crawl out of his sleeping bag. “Let’s go home.”
“We just got here.” She gave him a reproachful look. “This isn’t about the insects. You like insects. You just don’t like being away from the front desk.” She snuggled up to him. “Rudley, it’s wonderful here. The clean, earthy fragrance of the forest carpet, the crickets chirping, the owls hooting, the brook gurgling over its rock bed.”
“We could get that from the back porch.”
“Privacy. We can’t get that from the back porch.”
He thought about that for a moment, smiled. “I have to admit you’re right about that, Margaret. No Lloyd sneaking up on me, depriving me of two ye
ars of life, no Gregoire nagging me over cilantro and fennel root. No Aunt Pearl suffocating me with her whisky fumes.”
She sighed. “Alone at last.”
He plucked a slug from his arm. “Virtually.”
A twig snapped.
Rudley froze, slug poised.
“It is us.”
Rudley sighed. “Come.”
The tent flap opened. Tim poked his head in. Gregoire hovered at his shoulder.
“We’re not here,” Rudley said. “We’re camping in Algonquin Park.”
Tim ignored him. “Shall I take away the supper dishes?”
“Please.”
“Did you enjoy the trout?” Gregoire asked.
“Excellent.”
“I grilled it over an open fire. Just as if you’d caught it and cooked it yourself.”
Gregoire ducked outside the tent, came back with a picnic basket. “We brought you a thermos of coffee, raspberry scones, and a cognac nightcap.”
“Wonderful.”
“And what would you like for breakfast?”
“Surprise us.”
“Should we expect you home by noon?”
Rudley gave Margaret a jaunty smile. “Unless we decide to toss our unmentionables into the bramble bush and cavort in the brook, or braid daisy chains.”
“I really don’t want to hear this,” said Gregoire.
“And how are things back at the ranch?”
“You will be pleased to know everything is functioning as usual,” said Tim.
“That’s enough to make me shudder,” said Rudley. He gave them an expectant look as they lingered. “You may leave now.”
“Thank you for the treats,” said Margaret. She turned to Rudley. “Wasn’t that sweet of them?”
“They’re like children,” said Rudley. “You can’t get away from them.”
“Nor would we want to.”
Rudley crossed his eyes. “Why do I sometimes feel like the headmaster of a school for incorrigibles? I’m surprised Tiffany hasn’t shown up.”
“Tiffany said she was making fudge this evening.”
They finished their snack. Rudley collapsed back against his pillow. “Being an innkeeper can be a trial at times.”
Margaret poured two glasses of cognac. “Oh, you love it.” She handed him a glass. “Bottoms up.”
Carl Hopper woke to the sound of an approaching car engine. Or was it the sound of silence following the sound of an engine? Light pierced the gap between the curtains. The light cut a swath across the window, then was extinguished.
The room was dark. He fumbled for the light switch, knocked a glass over, gave up. He was sitting in the recliner in his living room. His jaw throbbed.
He sorted through a grainy set of mental images. He’d gone to Middleton for a dental appointment. The dentist had given him a prescription for Tylenol #3. He’d gone to the library, taken a couple of the pills, sat in a dark corner, and rested for an hour. After that, he’d made his way to the hotel for a bowl of soup. Then he started to walk home. A guest at the West Wind had come upon him weaving along the road and had given him a ride to the laneway. He’d fallen asleep on the couch, woken sometime later in pain. He’d taken two more pills and sat down in the recliner, meaning to watch the evening news. That was the last thing he remembered before the engine woke him.
He ratcheted the recliner into a sitting position as he heard footsteps on the veranda. The door burst open. He caught a glimpse of Evelyn as she switched on the light in the hallway and hammered up the stairs. He reached for the table lamp, finally located it, and turned it on. The glass he had tipped over had, fortunately, been empty. He looked around for his pain pills, spotted them on the floor a few feet from his chair. He was trying to figure out if he had the wherewithal to get up and get them when Evelyn came downstairs.
“Evelyn?”
She turned, startled.
He grinned. “I dropped my pills. Could you get them for me? And a glass of water, please?”
Her surprise turned to anger. “Get your own pills, you pathetic…” The words dissolved in an explosion of disgust. She spun and slammed out the door.
He shrank back against the cushions, stunned. Finally, he got up, made his way to the kitchen, ran the tap for a glass of water, and dropped into a chair at the table. Gave a mirthless laugh as he realized he had left his pills in the living room. He wobbled back to the living room, bent to pick up the bottle. The change in position brought on a wave of vertigo. “OK, soldier,” he muttered, “you can do this.” He snared the bottle, then grabbed the edge of the coffee table and levered himself up. He went back to the kitchen and took the pills. He sat down, resting his head against the wall. The wing of his glasses bit into his temple. He took them off and stuffed them into his breast pocket.
He dozed off, woke to a high-pitched whinny. He sat for a few minutes, trying to clear his head.
He thought of the expression on Evelyn’s face. Anger? Surprise? He swallowed hard. Maybe pure hatred. He shook his head. Evelyn didn’t hate him. Maybe impatience. She’d been impatient with him lately. He paused. Maybe for a long time.
He needed to talk to her. He reviewed what he would say. Talking to Evelyn was like walking on eggshells these days.
He got up and went out onto the veranda. Evelyn’s car was in its usual spot. He surmised she was in the stable. Probably telling the horses her secrets. He shrugged. Lately, he’d taken to confiding in the horses himself. He sagged against the pillar, deflated. God, he needed a cigarette. He patted himself down, searching for his Player’s Regulars, found them in his hip pocket. There were four cigarettes left, all bent, two broken at the filter. He removed one of the salvageable ones, straightened it, and lit up. He inhaled deeply. The cigarette comforted him, gave him a modicum of clarity. He dragged on it as he made his way down the path to the barn.
The stable door was open.
“Evelyn?”
No response.
He plunged the cigarette into a pot of sand by the door and entered the stable. He felt his way along the box stalls past Gert and Maisie. Bob plucked at his shirt as he passed.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I didn’t bring you anything.”
Ned’s stall was empty. He stood there, staring into the empty space as if he expected the horse to be hiding in a corner, then backed away. He supposed Evelyn had taken Ned for one of her nocturnal jaunts up the laneway. She did that when she was trying to sort something out. The horses were her soulmates. Sometimes, he thought she loved the horses more than she loved him. He laughed, a laugh that ended in a sob. He knew she loved the horses more than she loved him.
He started back toward the door, blinded by tears, tripped and fell violently to the floor. He lay there against the cement, feeling lonely and abused.
Finally, he picked himself up and limped back to the house. He went to the liquor cabinet, poured an ounce of Scotch and downed it in one gulp. He poured another and took it to the couch. He turned on the television, hoping there might be something on that would cheer him up, found himself staring at a blurry version of something called Lady Hoggers. He turned the television off, took a slug of his drink. The Scotch tasted good. He comforted himself with the knowledge that his daughter, Terri, was coming home the next day. He hoped to God Evelyn would be in a better mood by then. He hated Terri to know things weren’t a bed of roses at home. He finished the drink and lay down, waiting for her to return.
Tiffany sat on a stool, stirring a pot of fudge. The aroma of chocolate filled the kitchen. “This is like being at a slumber party.”
Gregoire checked the oven, then poured coffee all around. “I will have to take your word for that.”
Tiffany gave the fudge a few lazy swirls, then rested the spoon along the handle of the pot. “When I was a teenager, my friend Hortense and I would make fudge every Friday night while my parents were out shopping.”
Tim hoisted his coffee. “So this is like having the parents out shopping.”
> “The parents were most anxious about how we are managing here,” said Gregoire.
Tim took out his notebook. “Very well, I would say. We’ve taken nine dinner reservations, checked in two guests, confirmed six reservations, and solved the plumbing problem in the Elm Pavilion. Thanks to yours truly.”
“I never thought you had it in you to be a plumber,” said Gregoire.
“Having three old ladies with a compromised commode is a great motivator.” Tim reviewed his notes. “Caught a mouse headed toward the Sawchucks’ room. Live release. Tiffany fed the cat. Mr. Simpson walked Albert. I would say everything is in order.”
“I hope Mr. and Mrs. Rudley will be all right,” said Tiffany.
“They are only three hundred yards from the back porch,” said Gregoire.
“That’s quite a long way in the woods. They could be attacked by a bear.”
The fudge began to boil. Tim reached for the spoon.
“Perhaps we should check on them during the night,” said Tiffany. “We could take turns.”
Gregoire turned to Tiffany. “Believe me, there is nothing to worry about.”
Tim opened the refrigerator, scanned the shelves. “I thought we had some roast beef left over.”
“I gave you the last for Mr. Carty. You said he wanted a doggy bag.”
“He’s a bottomless pit,” said Tim.
“He’s a growing boy. There is chicken and ham if you want a sandwich.”
“Let’s have chicken sandwiches and talk about the wedding,” said Tim. “That will take Tiffany’s mind off the Rudleys being gnawed by bears.”
“It is marvellous,” said Gregoire, “Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson choosing to have their wedding here.”
“It’s so romantic,” said Tiffany.
“Knowing Miss Miller, it should be an eventful affair,” said Tim. He paused. “I hope no one gets murdered.”
There was a long silence.
“That’s a horrible thought,” said Tiffany.
“But not outlandish,” said Tim.
“Nothing like that will possibly happen,” said Gregoire.
They turned to the rat-a-tat-tat of steps across the dining room floor.
A Most Unpleasant Wedding Page 3