A Most Unpleasant Wedding

by Judith Alguire

  Lloyd peered over Rudley’s shoulder. “Don’t smell so good in here.”

  Rudley suppressed the bile rising in his throat. “Forget the commentary, Lloyd.” He edged toward the bed.

  “Don’t look like he’s breathing,” said Lloyd.

  “Of course he’s breathing,” Rudley hissed. He took another step. “Mr. Arnold?”

  “Don’t look like he’s going to answer,” said Lloyd.

  Rudley thrust two fingers into the side of Arnold’s neck, turning his face away.

  “Dead as a doornail,” said Lloyd.

  “Rudley” — Margaret looked up as Rudley barged into the lobby, followed by Lloyd — “is Mr. Arnold all right?”

  Rudley paused. “No, he isn’t, Margaret.”

  “Dead as a doornail,” said Lloyd.

  Margaret put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. You didn’t leave him by himself?”

  Rudley took a deep breath. “Yes, we did. We closed the door so the coyotes wouldn’t get him, and left. He’s dead. He would have been just as dead if we’d stayed.”

  “All alone?”

  “He won’t be alone for long. I called the police from his cabin. We should hear sirens any minute now. Ambulances, police cruisers, evidence vans. Maybe even the volunteer fire department.”

  “Are you absolutely sure he’s dead?”

  “Trust me, Margaret, the man’s dead.”

  “Why, this is terrible, Rudley.”

  He leaned against the desk, folded his arms. “Well, I don’t know. No one particularly liked him. He was always in the middle of one unsavoury mess or another.”

  “Mrs. Millotte says he’s a boob,” Lloyd volunteered.

  Rudley nodded. “Melba and I don’t see eye to eye on many of the issues of the day, but her intuition about Arnold was impeccable.”

  The sound of sirens rose and fell as an ambulance and police car rushed past the front door.

  “But, Rudley, what could have happened to him?”

  “I imagine he had a heart attack. He was that sort of man — fleshy around the gills.” He paused. “Although, I’m sure Brisbois will try to turn it into foul play. I don’t know why he’s so eager to have every death around here a murder.”

  “Probably because he’s a homicide detective.”

  “There was vomit all over,” said Lloyd.

  “Oh, dear.” Margaret started to move out from behind the desk. “I’ll go down. We can’t have Tiffany dealing with that.”

  Rudley stopped her. “Margaret, Brisbois will have the body fluids packaged up. He usually does. Lloyd and I will go in when he’s through to see what needs to be done.”

  She squeezed his arm. “That’s very gallant of you and Lloyd.” She sighed. “You’re taking this well.”

  Lloyd grinned. “Wasn’t a minute ago.”

  Rudley glared at him, then sagged against the desk. “What a fine state of affairs for a wedding. Two dead bodies before the first ‘I do’. Some brides would find that off-putting.”

  She nodded. “We should be grateful Miss Miller isn’t one of them.”

  “Now, let me get this straight.” Brisbois thumbed through his notes. “You went down there because Tiffany reported that Mr. Arnold was lying on his back, covered in vomit. Did she say he was dead?”

  Rudley crossed his arms. “No. I think she’s getting a little tired of making those announcements.”

  Brisbois shook his head. “He didn’t respond to your knock, so you used your master key to get in.”

  “That’s right.” Rudley glowered. “Why do you have to rehash this? Do you think I’m going to tell you something different the second time?”

  Brisbois gave him a long look. “You’d be surprised how often people do.” He paused. “So you unlocked the door and saw him lying on the bed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you move him, roll him over?”

  “No. I felt for a pulse. In his neck. That’s all I did.”

  Brisbois flicked his pen. “When did you last see Mr. Arnold alive?”

  “He was up for dinner last night. He stayed around for a while.”

  “How long?”

  “I’m not sure. I believe he was in the ballroom for at least an hour.”

  “Is that his usual pattern?”

  “No, he doesn’t usually stay for the entertainment. He usually goes into town.”

  “Did he go into town last night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he have anything to drink at dinner?”

  “You’ll have to ask Tim. He had a glass of something in the ballroom.”

  “OK,” Brisbois murmured. “Did he complain about being sick?”

  “No, but he always looked unhealthy, if you ask me. With that red face, the man was a prime candidate for a heart attack or stroke.”

  “I guess he doesn’t have to worry about that now,” said Brisbois. He looked at Rudley, pen poised. “Did he have any visitors? Anybody come to see him while he was here?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Did you put any calls through to his cabin?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “We’ll check your telephone log.”

  “Then why did you bother asking?” Rudley fumed. “Are you through with me?”

  “For now.

  Rudley stamped off.

  Brisbois sank into the chair, pushing back his hat. “The guy smelled like a distillery.”

  Creighton wrinkled his nose. “Booze mixed with a little eau de vomit.”

  “He gets drunk, passes out, chokes on his vomit.”

  Creighton shoved his hands into his pockets. “An experienced drinker like old Jack?”

  Brisbois shrugged. “Maybe you have another theory?”

  Chapter 14

  The pathologist looked at Brisbois over his glasses. “I hope this is the last I see of you for a while.”

  Creighton chuckled.

  “You too.” The pathologist dropped into the creaking, cracked leather chair behind his desk, leafed through the file. “Hmm, what can I tell you? Your man was not in great shape. He had diabetes — poorly managed — coronary artery disease. Liver showed cirrhotic changes. He could have dropped dead at any time.”

  Brisbois shuffled his feet. “Are you saying he died of natural causes?”

  “He choked on his vomit.”

  “He choked to death.”

  “Yes, set up by a gallon of booze and a whack of Benadryl.”

  Brisbois’ forehead creased. “How much?”

  “The levels suggest about ten capsules.”

  Brisbois stared at him. “Wouldn’t you have to be awfully itchy to take ten capsules?”

  The pathologist sat back. “I don’t think it’s something you’d do by accident.” He reached for the file, pulled it into his lap. “There may be other substances involved. I won’t know until I get the full tox screen. But Benadryl was the only drug in his possession so we ran that.”

  “Nothing for diabetes or heart?”

  The pathologist shook his head. “That’s all they brought in. His family doctor hasn’t seen him in months. Their relationship soured, according to the doc, when he read him the riot act about the booze. He had Type 2 diabetes but he refused to take medication or make any modifications to his lifestyle. In denial, I guess.”

  Brisbois considered this. “So you’re thinking suicide.”

  “Why not? His health was the pits. With blood sugars like his he was headed for a mess of trouble down the road. Amputations, blindness, kidney failure, you name it. Maybe he had financial troubles too. His clothes were top of the line but pretty well-worn, frayed at the cuffs and collar.”

  “He’s a single guy,” Brisbois said. “Divorced. Maybe his wife took care of those things.”

  “Could be,” the pathologist conceded. “Or he couldn’t afford the eighty-dollar shirts anymore and couldn’t bring himself to shop at Sears.”

  Brisbois’ eyes wandered
to the pickled appendix on the desk. The label said Jim’s. “Any evidence of foul play?”

  The pathologist levered himself forward. “There’re no signs anyone forced the stuff down his throat, although someone could have spiked the booze. I suppose that’s up to you to figure out.”

  “Do you think he could have survived the combination if he hadn’t vomited?”

  “Possibly. With timely medical intervention.”

  Brisbois frowned. “If it wasn’t accidental, say someone spiked the booze, wouldn’t that be a little hard to get down?”

  “Not if you’re half-potted to begin with. If you think back to your student days, would you have noticed if someone slipped something into your drink?”

  Creighton grinned. “I can think of times I might not have noticed if someone had slipped a dead toad into my drink.”

  “I never got that drunk,” Brisbois murmured. He made a note. “So it’s booze and Benadryl with the how and why to be determined.”

  “For now. I’ll let you know if we get anything else on the tox screen.”

  “What do you think, Boss?” Creighton followed Brisbois into the hall, leaned against the wall as Brisbois paused to leaf through his notes.

  “I think Arnold didn’t strike me as the suicidal type.”

  “Like the doc said, money troubles.”

  “He didn’t seem to be overly burdened by that. He was an entrepreneurial type. I think he could have got something going.”

  “His health was lousy,” Creighton said. “And if he had diabetes, maybe he had ED. What do you think that would have done to a guy like Arnold?”

  Brisbois shook his head. “A guy like Arnold would have had himself on Viagra. But I can’t see suicide. He didn’t strike me as introspective. I think he’d have to really hit the skids before he’d admit to having a serious problem. The way he acted around the Pleasant, you’d think he had the world by the tail.” He turned toward the exit. “I want to do another walk-through at the Pines.”

  “Rudley’s taking the latest better than I thought he would,” said Creighton as they pulled into the Pleasant.

  Brisbois climbed out of the passenger’s seat, paused to stretch his back. “That’s because he assumes the guy dropped dead of a heart attack.”

  They walked to the Pines. Officer Owens stood outside the yellow tape.

  “How’s it going?” Brisbois greeted.

  “Everybody’s stopped to offer their condolences, see what they could see,” Owens said. “Otherwise, nothing.”

  “You keep a record of who came by?”

  Owens held up his notebook. “And what they said.”

  “Good.” Brisbois pushed open the door. He took a few steps inside, stopped and looked around.

  The crime scene unit had completed its work.

  “So,” said Brisbois, “he was up at the inn until around nine.”

  “One of the guests, Mr. Oliver, thought he saw him near the dock around that time. Maybe he was thinking about drowning himself but lost his nerve.”

  “Yeah.” Brisbois crossed the room, took a long look at the stripped bed. “Have you got a list of the stuff they took out of here?”

  Creighton reached into his breast pocket, took out a folded sheet of paper, handed it to Brisbois

  Brisbois studied the list. He went into the kitchen, looked into the cupboards, checked the garbage, then went into the bathroom. He checked through the medicine cabinet, came out, brow furrowed. Creighton watched as he got down on his hands and knees, and looked under the bed and bedside table. He continued his tour around the cabin, opening drawers, inspecting wastepaper baskets. Finally, he stopped and turned to Creighton.

  “Know what isn’t on that list?”

  “Diana Krall’s telephone number.”

  “The blister pack from the Benadryl.” Brisbois pointed to an item on the list. “What’s documented here is one package of Benadryl with two capsules missing. What does that mean?”

  “The techs took an empty blister pack and forgot to document it.”

  “Or?” Brisbois prompted.

  Creighton gestured to the disarray on the counter. “Arnold threw the empty blister pack into the garbage because he’s such a neat guy.”

  Brisbois rocked back on his heels. “Or somebody else brought the Benadryl in and took the empty blister pack with them. Or maybe they emptied it first and just brought the pills in. ”

  Creighton shook his head. “You’re determined to make this a murder, aren’t you?”

  Brisbois raised his brows. “If forensics didn’t take the blister pack, it’s a reasonable supposition.” He beckoned to Creighton. “Come on. There’s something I want to check out.”

  Creighton wrinkled his nose. “I’ll bet you’re planning on diving into every garbage can on the place.”

  Brisbois gave him a cherubic smile. “Only half of them.”

  “Of course, I keep Benadryl in my medicine cabinet,” said Rudley. “Don’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact, no,” said Brisbois. “What do you keep it for?”

  “In case someone gets into something they’re allergic to. That happens often enough to warrant having some on hand.”

  “I keep a package handy,” said Mr. Bole. “You never know when someone might need it.”

  Mrs. Sawchuck looked at Walter. They shook their heads in unison.

  “We never keep Benadryl,” said Walter.

  “What do you do if you get dermatitis?” asked Brisbois, using the term he had heard bandied about after interviewing everyone on the premises.

  “A little dab of hydrocortisone cream works quite nicely,” said Walter.

  Creighton checked back in with Brisbois.

  “Half the people here have a few of those capsules,” said Brisbois.

  “No empty blister packs, though,” said Creighton. “The paramedics didn’t take any. Neither did our guys. ”

  “Maybe it went out in the garbage.”

  Creighton gave Brisbois a look to kill. “I hope you’re not suggesting we’re going to root around in the county dump.”

  “We’ll just have to check the orange bags,” said Brisbois. “That’s what they use around here.”

  “This is a new suit.”

  Brisbois regarded the light-grey summer-weight suit. “I see your point. I’ll put Semple on it.”

  Rudley had been sorting through a stack of invoices when Brisbois posed his question. He tossed them into the air, exasperated. “Why in hell would I remove an empty package?” he said as the papers fluttered down around him.

  “Because you were flustered,” said Brisbois.

  “I was not flustered.”

  “You’d just discovered Mr. Arnold, dead in one of your cabins. Why wouldn’t you be flustered?”

  Rudley drew himself up to his full height. “I’ll have you know I was as cool as a cucumber.”

  Brisbois flipped through his notebook, gave Rudley a pointed look. “Interview with Mr. Lloyd Brawly.” He commenced to read.

  Brisbois: Why did you and Mr. Rudley go to the Pines?

  Lloyd: Because Mr. Rudley said Tiffany saw Mr. Arnold lying in vomit.

  Brisbois: So when you and Mr. Rudley got to the Pines, was the door locked?

  Lloyd: Yes’m [sic].

  Brisbois: How did you get in?

  Lloyd: Mr. Rudley pounded for a while. But nobody answered so he used his key.

  Brisbois: So Mr. Rudley used his master key to open the door.

  Lloyd: Yes’m [sic].

  Brisbois: Who went in first?

  Lloyd: Mr. Rudley.

  Brisbois: And where were you?

  Lloyd: Just behind.

  Brisbois: What did you see?

  Lloyd: Mr. Arnold was lying on his back on the bed, and there was vomit all over him, and Mr. Rudley went over and stuck his fingers into his neck.

  Brisbois: And then?

  Lloyd: Mr. Rudley didn’t believe he was dead, but I said, “He’s as dead as a doornail
”.

  Brisbois: Go on.

  Lloyd: And Mr. Rudley said, “Oh, for crissakes.”

  Brisbois looked at Rudley. “He has a great knack for quoting you word for word. I mean, I’ve never heard Lloyd swear unless he’s quoting you.” He paused. “You sound a little flustered.”

  Rudley began to scoop up the invoices. “I wasn’t delighted to see a dead body. But I wasn’t put off enough to pick something up without knowing I had.”

  “Is that so?” Brisbois returned to his notes. “Listen to this.”

  Brisbois: Then what?

  Lloyd: Then Mr. Rudley said, “We’ve got to call an ambulance. Where’s the damned phone?” And I said, “In your hand.”

  Brisbois gave Rudley a there-you-see shrug. “If you didn’t realize you had picked up the phone, how can you be sure you didn’t pick up something else?”

  Rudley clutched the loose invoices to his chest. “I know I didn’t. Clearly, I picked up the phone as a natural subconscious reaction. In other words, my subconscious mind told me the next logical step would be to call for an ambulance. My subconscious mind wouldn’t have any reason to tell me to pick up anything else.”

  Brisbois gave him a dubious look. “OK, who was at the Pines besides you and Lloyd? Between the time you called the ambulance and the first responders appeared?”

  “Nobody.”

  “None of the guests poked their noses in to see what was going on?”

  “The three bears dropped by, but left when they found we didn’t have any honey.”

  “And you stayed with Mr. Arnold until the first responders arrived?”

  “No.”

  “You left him alone?”

  Rudley crossed his eyes. “He was dead.”

  “What I’m trying to get at is, is there a chance somebody could have got in between you leaving and the paramedics arriving?”

  “No. I locked the door.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Rudley gritted his teeth. “Yes. We never leave a cabin without locking the door. I had to go down after and open it up for them.”

  Brisbois smiled, snapped his notebook shut. “I think that’s enough for now.”