“I suppose not.” Margaret took him by the arm. “Rudley, the perpetrator may simply be playing an elaborate prank. He may not think of what he’s doing as malicious.”
“Why do you say he, Margaret?”
She gave a little shrug. “Well, Rudley, men are more likely to do these things than women are.”
“What was that story Pearl used to tell about the prank you played on the headmistress in school?”
A groan sounded from somewhere near the ceiling. Margaret looked up apprehensively. “Rudley, are you sure the roof isn’t going to cave in?”
“Of course, Margaret.”
“These noises are a bit unnerving.”
“Just the usual expansion and contraction.” Rudley balled up the paper he had been writing on and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. “The roof won’t cave in, Margaret. Its pitch is too steep. Besides, with the wind howling like a banshee, the snow doesn’t have much of a chance to settle.”
“Are you sure?”
“Lloyd and I checked it this morning. It’s fine.”
“If you were so sure it would be fine, why did you and Lloyd check it?”
He crossed his eyes. “To be complete, Margaret. In the unusual event that the snow might pile up on a steeply pitched roof and that that roof might cave in and kill several guests. You can imagine what a falderal there would be if I wasn’t prudent.”
“The coach house roof doesn’t have a steep pitch.”
“No, but it has a very solid construction. It has enough beams to hold up the roof of Westminster Cathedral. Besides, it’s survived many storms.”
“I’m not sure if it’s ever seen this much snow.”
“I’m sure it has.”
“Possibly when the mastodons were roaming around.”
“Margaret, no one’s living in the coach house.”
“Herb stops there from time to time,” she said, referring to the local hobo.
Rudley smiled. “The whole place could come down around his ears and he wouldn’t notice.” He bent over a paper and scribbled his signature. “There’s nothing to worry about. The inn and its outbuildings are in no danger.”
Margaret’s gaze wandered to the mantel. “I don’t like what’s happening, Rudley.”
“We’ve had worse, Margaret.”
“I don’t like the idea of guests playing pranks on one another.”
“At least they’re not murdering one another. Mr. Morton fell onto the road looking for a suitable tree, according to Creighton. I don’t know why he couldn’t have relieved himself beside the car.”
She looked horrified. “Right there on the roadside?”
“Why not?”
“He’s a proper English gentleman, Rudley.”
“I know, Margaret, an English gentleman would rather die than appear improper. However, I would rather catch someone relieving himself as I passed him on the road than have him soak me as I passed beneath him.”
“Poor man.”
“It was tragic, Margaret.” He set down his pen and put his arm around her. “But it was an accident. And now it’s over. The pranks are pranks. Just that. Whoever’s behind them is a bit of a dud, but no one’s been hurt and they’re certainly keeping the guests occupied.”
“Some of the guests are getting nervous.”
“Well, that’s the purpose of a drawn-out practical joke, isn’t it, Margaret? To keep people on edge?”
“I don’t think it’s very nice.”
“But rather interesting to watch.”
Margaret cast him a searching look. “I’m beginning to have my suspicions about you, Rudley.”
“Me, Margaret?”
“You are taking this rather well. You don’t usually take these things well.”
“Margaret, this person is probably getting a lot of fun out of upsetting everyone. I refuse to be caught in his web.”
“You said he, Rudley. You suspect the miscreant is a man.”
He sniffed. “Of course, Margaret. Women don’t do silly things like that.”
“Are you suggesting that women don’t have the spirit, the devil-may-care attitude, to pull off elaborate pranks?”
“No, Margaret, I’m suggesting women are too busy doing productive things to engage in such silliness.”
“Women are accustomed to multitasking, Rudley.” Margaret smiled and took off into the ballroom.
Rudley leaned over the desk and addressed Albert who lay asleep on the rug: “It’s an evolutionary thing.” Men, he decided, developed a talent for practical jokes because they had time to kill sitting around getting high on fermented fruit while their wives cleaned, dressed, and cooked whatever they had brought home after a week in the wilderness. This also explained the origins of hunting and fishing jaunts to isolated camps with cases of beer but no indoor plumbing.
He had never had a taste for pranks himself, considered them the hallmark of immaturity. His father had no patience for tomfoolery. His father worked all day, went out on calls at all hours, and when at home, engaged in purposeful activity — reading the newspaper, ensuring his children weren’t wasting their time and, if his eyes were tired and he still felt the urge to do something, help carry dinner to the table or dry the dishes. If his father were around when he and Squiggy Ross were taking off on some adventure, he would be sure to admonish them: “No nonsense, boys.” And he and Squiggy would solemnly pledge: “No nonsense.” Maybe, Rudley considered, if Squiggy had indulged in a few hare-brained schemes as a boy, he wouldn’t have ended up a bald, toothless rummy begging on the streets of Galt for enough money for a bottle of cheap wine.
Rudley thought back to his childhood. If his father was serious, his mother had a great sense of fun. Always laughing about something. Margaret was a bit like his mother that way. Great sense of fun… But then his mind turned to the Little Santas. He frowned. Margaret?
“A penny for your thoughts.” Tiffany’s voice was suddenly in his ear.
“What?” Rudley jerked from his reverie. “What did you say?”
“I offered you a penny for your thoughts because you seemed to be in a brown study.”
“Nothing in particular. Just thinking about this business with the Santas.”
“Do you have a theory?”
“No…do you?”
She glanced around the lobby then whispered behind her hand. “I wonder if it’s Mr. Bole.”
“James Bole?”
“Perhaps he’s setting us up for his puppet performance.”
“I can’t see Mr. Bole doing these things.”
“Some people will do anything for the sake of their art,” she said. “Suppose he’s planning to do Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None?”
“Surely he wouldn’t. That business with Walter…”
“I’m not suggesting he had anything to do with that. But the Little Santas…no one is above suspicion.”
He gave her a long look. “No one, Tiffany?”
She shook her head solemnly. “No one, Mr. Rudley.”
As he watched her walk away, Margaret returned from the ballroom.
“Margaret,” he began, “while you were in school, did you have anything to do with burning the headmistress’s desk?”
“Oh, Rudley, you know how I love antiques.”
Brisbois was at home when the pathologist telephoned.
“I thought you might be interested in something,” Dr. Jim began.
“Shoot.”
“You remember that Ziploc bag of chocolates found in Mr. Morton’s car?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they didn’t look like much to be concerned with on the surface. All the chocolates looked as if they were from the same batch. They all had nice smooth bottoms — except for one. It had kind of a rough blob on the bottom.”
/> “Maybe it was from a different batch,” Brisbois suggested, puzzled.
“Maybe, maybe not,” the pathologist continued. “The smooth-bottomed ones were filled with a jam-jelly substance. But the one with the blob was filled with something else.”
“What something else?”
“A yellowish material. Same thing that was on Mr. Morton’s beard. That stuff on his beard contained substances consistent with an over-the-counter cough syrup.”
“So,” Brisbois mused, “he bites into the chocolate. It doesn’t taste good. He splutters and spits some of it onto his beard.”
“That would make sense.”
“Any idea where the chocolates might have come from?”
“Can’t tell.”
“So they were identical except for the bottoms.”
“Yes.”
“Any pattern on the top?”
“Nothing unusual. All had little curlicues. We took some good photographs of them before they were sent off. We’ve sent a set to your office.”
“Thanks,” Brisbois murmured. “Anything written on the bag?”
“Not a thing.” Dr. Jim paused. “The bag’s gone for fingerprinting.”
“OK.” Brisbois thanked the pathologist and asked him for an update when he had a more detailed analysis of the substances. Then he sat back, brow furrowed. How many places could Mr. Morton have got candy from?
Chapter Twelve
Carla Johnson came by the front desk, togged out in an Icelandic sweater, toque and ski pants.
“Off to enjoy the great out-of-doors?” Rudley asked.
She gave him an enigmatic smile. “You have such a good chef, Mr. Rudley, daily exercise is mandatory.”
Around here, Mrs. Johnson, Rudley thought as she passed out the door, we consider exercise mandatory only if you’re under five feet and are encroaching on three hundred pounds. I imagine it would take three of you to manage that. Weight was a case of mind over matter. He had been eating Gregoire’s wonderful cooking for seven years and hadn’t gained an ounce. Standing thinking all day — that was the ticket.
“Have you seen my new camera, Rudley?”
“What?” He looked up to see Norman with Geraldine hovering at his shoulder.
“I was asking if you’d seen my new camera. It’s top of the line.”
“I imagine it is,” said Rudley, who still thought of photography as a man with a tripod and a drape over his head.
Norman was waxing poetic about his latest acquisition when Frankie and Johnny came out of the dining room.
“If you push that button,” Norman was telling Rudley, “you can see our first sighting of a snowy owl. On this trip, I should say.”
Rudley fumbled unsuccessfully with the buttons on Norman’s camera. He saw nothing. “Wonderful specimen, Norman.”
Frankie dropped his backpack by the desk and went to look out the window.
“I got a shot of those, too,” said Johnny. He removed his camera from his backpack and began scrolling through the pictures. His brow furrowed. “This isn’t my camera.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Frankie, who had returned to the desk. “Your camera is the one with the blue strap. Mine is the one with the green strap.” He unzipped the other backpack and took out a camera. “This one is yours.” He pointed to the blue strap and chuckled. “You must have scooped up my backpack at breakfast, partner. They’re both black, after all.”
Johnny fingered the blue strap. “You know I’m colour-blind.”
Frankie shrugged. “I know you have trouble with green and blue but I thought with neon blue and neon green it wouldn’t be a problem. Maybe I should have got you a different backpack too, buddy. Colour-blind and short-sighted,” he murmured to Norman. He strapped on his backpack and took off, leaving Johnny staring at his camera.
“Were you going up into the woods?” Geraldine asked. Getting no answer, she repeated, “Mr. Johnson, did you want to come with us?”
“Oh, sorry. I was just thinking…this colour-blindness thing…”
Geraldine smiled. “It was an easy mistake to make, Mr. Johnson. The backpacks are identical.”
“And the cameras, too,” said Norman. “Except for the straps. That’s why I put my initials on mine in large red letters.”
“You’re welcome to join us,” Geraldine repeated.
“Thank you, but I think I’ll catch up to Frankie.”
“Ta ta,” said Geraldine.
“It must be hard,” said Norman after Johnny left, “being short and short-sighted and colour-blind.”
“I wouldn’t know, Norman,” Rudley said. “I’m tall and have eyes like a hawk.”
“Norman used to be shorter and short-sighted,” said Geraldine. “Both situations have improved since we met. I have him on an exercise regime.”
“And he got taller?” Rudley asked.
“Not really, but he stopped slouching.”
“And got new glasses,” added Norman.
“Whatever does the trick,” said Rudley. He bid the P.-W.s adieu and returned to his ruminations. I thought she was going to say she had him stretched on the rack, Rudley thought. Whatever — she still has six inches on him.
Margaret came in from the kitchen and placed a cup of hot chocolate in front of him. “Drink up, Rudley. You’ll need something warm before you go out to tackle the paths again.” She glanced out the window. Johnny stood halfway down the lawn, leaning over his ski poles. “Mr. Johnson always looks so morose.”
“Unfortunate.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps that’s his comfort zone. Some people seem content in that state.”
“Hard to believe.”
“You’re happy being a grouch, Rudley.”
“If you say so, Margaret.”
I’m waiting in the little alcove by the back porch. Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson are getting a sled. They’re going to give me a ride up into the woods, so I can see more of the birds and perhaps get a glimpse at the deer. Lloyd has taken some hay back to the woods for them because the snow’s so deep. I’m worried about being a burden but Miss Miller says that Edward needs the exercise. She asked me to call them by their first names. They’re such a nice pair.
As I was waiting, Mrs. Johnson skied by and paused. Mr. Franklin came up behind her and stuffed snow down her back. She turned, hands on hips, and gave him a tongue-lashing. He approached her. By his gestures, I think he was offering to dig the snow out. She glanced toward the inn, then gestured to him to get lost and skied away. He yelled something after her. She turned and gave him a look. He doubled over laughing. I would love to know what was so funny.
I was observing the young people so intently I didn’t notice Miss Miller had come into the room beside me.
“Interesting,” Miss Miller said.
I feigned innocence, not wanting to look like a voyeur.
“The Johnsons and Mr. Franklin.”
“They’re an odd threesome,” I agreed. “A couple with a tag-along friend,” I said. “I hear he’s divorced.”
“Not surprising,” said Miss Miller. “I don’t know why anyone would marry him in the first place.”
I told Miss Miller about Mr. Franklin stuffing snow down Mrs. Johnson’s back.
“She has a harem,” she said.
“A harem?”
“Yes,” Miss Miller said. “She controls them both. She keeps them in their place.”
Mr. Simpson came around the corner of the inn with a very nice old-fashioned sled with a cushion.
“I hate you having to pull me around,” I said as Mr. Simpson got me situated.
“It’s our pleasure, Mrs. Gowling,” he said. “We can’t have you lounging about, sipping sherry all afternoon.”
I laughed because I don’t drink sherry and he knows it. I could tell he does by the twi
nkle in his eye. Miss Miller is very lucky to have Mr. Simpson.
“It’s good exercise for Edward,” said Miss Miller. “It strengthens his calf muscles for croquet.”
“I didn’t know you needed strong calf muscles for croquet,” I said.
“You do the way Elizabeth plays it,” said Edward.
Miss Miller smiled demurely. They got me strapped into the sled and we set off.
That night, Miss Miller woke to a sound she didn’t recognize as one of the usual creaks and groans she had become accustomed to from the inn over the course of her many visits. It wasn’t consistent with the wind across the shingles or sleet glancing off the windows or the creaking old limbs of the venerable maples.
She crept down the stairs and into the lobby, where the night lights cast her shadow across the opposite wall. She took a step back and hung close to the wall behind her.
There was a moment of silence, then a creak. Before she could decipher its meaning, the wind picked up and she heard a thunk and clatter on the porch roof. She stared as a long, thin branch fell into view and rode the wind, drifting out of sight to the west.
She pulled her robe around her, tightening the sash. She glanced toward the drawing room, then turned to the dining room, took a penlight from her pocket and searched the room with the beam. Nothing seemed amiss. She paused, listening. She was considering that the sound she had heard had been nothing more than fallen debris kicked up by the wind when she thought she heard a thud from the opposite side of the inn.
She crossed the lobby and entered the drawing room, playing the flashlight beam over the homey room. Bookcases lined the walls, packed with books of mismatched heights, the classics slummed with the hard-boileds and the romances. Board games lay stacked in a cupboard on the far wall. She noted a Clue game on the coffee table in front of the sofa. She stared at the game, trying to remember if it had been left out when the guests left the room that evening. The second Little Santa had been stabbed with a knife from a Clue set. Perhaps, she thought, the noises she had heard had been the prankster searching for his next weapon.
She opened the box and proceeded to sort through the contents.
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