Many Unpleasant Returns

by Judith Alguire

  He reached the window.

  Creighton came to consciousness in the snow, a swarm of angry hornets buzzing inside his skull. He groped for his gun but the holster was empty. Fumbling, he located the gun under his knee and staggered to his feet. His hat was gone, no sign of it anywhere. Sensing the temperature dropping, he pulled the scarf from around his neck and tied it around his head, thinking that if he froze to death he’d be found looking like a babushka. He peered into the undulating white world, noting short narrow slashes in the snow fading into the west. Tracks. He decided to follow them.

  Brisbois completed his walk-through of the death scene and returned to Margaret, Rudley and Lloyd.

  “Why, Detective?” Margaret asked in a voice so low Brisbois could hardly hear her.

  “Good question.” He sat down beside her and took out his notebook. “To ask the obvious, did he seem depressed to you?”

  “No, no,” she replied, taken aback by his question. “Not at all. He never did. Yesterday, he seemed unusually animated. He was enthusiastic about helping Mr. Bole with his puppets, getting ready for the play.” She paused. “Oh, dear, they do say when someone is most cheerful, that’s a warning sign.”

  “Did he have any problems with anybody?”

  “No…well, nothing serious. He was a bit of a clown at times. Sort of a tease. But no one seemed seriously irritated with him.”

  Lloyd grinned. “Miss Miller said he was an idiot.”

  “He ambushed her with a snowball,” said Margaret. “Miss Miller doesn’t tolerate fools gladly.”

  “But nothing serious,” Brisbois pressed.

  “No.” Margaret frowned at the detective. “Are you thinking someone murdered him?”

  Rudley rolled his eyes. “Of course he is, Margaret.”

  Ignoring Rudley’s remark, Brisbois replied, “I’m asking if he had any problems with anyone serious enough to make him feel remorseful, enough to make him want to harm himself.”

  “I don’t know. I understand he’s divorced, but that was some years ago. No children. He was rather flirtatious, but he reminded me of a big puppy more than anything.”

  Brisbois glanced toward the stage. Frankie, he thought, didn’t look very happy now.

  Having sent the Rudleys and Lloyd back to the inn with orders not to say a word to the guests about Franklin’s death, Brisbois resumed his examination of the stage. The only thing that struck him as unusual, apart from the obvious, was the big Santa. If no one else had touched the Santa since it was left in the wings the night before, how had it ended up on the stage? Had Franklin dragged the dummy out, intending to hang it? He rubbed his chin. That would make sense. If Franklin were behind the other pranks, perhaps hanging the big Santa was to be the grand finale. Did he try to hang the Santa and somehow manage to get his own head through the noose, as Creighton suggested? Not likely, he decided, but not impossible. People did silly things all the time, and sometimes silly things happened to them.

  He reached for his cell phone, but got a busy signal followed by a disconnect at the coroner’s office. Damn thing. The chances of getting anyone out here today were not good anyway. In the meantime, he decided to take photographs. He took the Polaroid from his evidence kit, found a stool in the wings, climbed up on it, and took a picture. The stool wobbled, sending a chill up his spine. He climbed down, placed the photograph on the bench to develop. He took a deep breath, looked around to make sure there were no dangling hooks or ropes, then got back up on the stool and snapped another picture. He eased down again, placed the photograph beside the first. He then removed his notebook and made detailed observations. He took a closer look at the pulley system’s arrangement. Nothing fancy. The rope ran over a couple of big pulleys and wound around a hook.

  He looked at his watch. An hour had passed since Creighton left to secure the Pines. Where in hell was he? He didn’t like to leave the coach house unattended. He was fretting about this when he spotted a phone on the wall, which, on closer examination, appeared to be some kind of intercom system. He hit a button.

  “This is Gregoire.”

  “Gregoire, this is Brisbois in the coach house. Is Creighton there?”

  “I will ask.”

  Gregoire was back in a minute. “He is not.”

  “Are your phones working?”

  “They are off and on.”

  “Then before they go out again could you try to reach the detachment? I need uniformed officers to secure a scene.”

  “How will they get in? The weather is terrible.”

  Brisbois sighed. “Just tell them I need two uniformed officers to secure a scene. Maybe they can get the county plow to give this a priority. Tell them I’ll call in to confirm if I can. The if I can is the important part.”

  “I understand.”

  Brisbois sat down on the nearest chair and reviewed his notes, wondering how long he would be stuck out here before reinforcements arrived.

  Gregoire made the call Brisbois had requested. Although the line kept cutting in and out, he thought he had got his message across. He then went out to the front desk and explained to Margaret and Rudley what Brisbois had said.

  “I told you that intercom was a good idea, Rudley,” Margaret said.

  “Yes, yes.” He looked at Gregoire. “Are you trying to tell me Brisbois expects to get the coroner and the whole shebang out here in this weather?”

  Gregoire shrugged. “I think just the other officers. He was thinking the plow might come out.”

  Rudley looked at the snow rapidly obscuring the windowpanes. “I don’t think that’s likely to happen for a day or so.” He turned to Margaret. “Damn, Margaret, are we going to have a dead body hanging around the coach house until spring?”

  “Rudley, be quiet. The guests aren’t to know.” She glanced toward the window. “My goodness, you can’t see a thing out there.”

  “It’s one of those tie-a-rope-between-the-house-and-the-barn sort of days,” he said almost cheerfully. “At least the generators are working.” He glanced around. “I’m surprised Mrs. Johnson hasn’t been bugging us about Franklin. She seemed quite concerned earlier.”

  “She may not suspect anything is wrong.”

  “Perhaps,” he said absently, “she went back down to her cabin after brunch.”

  “I think she ended up going out with the Phipps-Walkers.”

  “Are they back in?” Margaret looked anxiously at the windows again. “I hope they’re back in.”

  “I think everyone’s in.” He paused to do a mental count. “Norman and Geraldine are in. They’ve gone for a nap before dinner. Mrs. Gowling is back. That means Tiffany is back. The Nesbitts are back. Mr. Johnson is back. The Sawchucks and Mr. Justus never went out. They’ve been in the drawing room most of the day.” He paused. “But Elizabeth and Edward are still out — with Albert.”

  “Rudley, they’re not!”

  “Margaret, I can’t imagine that would be a problem.”

  “In this storm?”

  “Elizabeth was a girl scout. The one person I would trust to survive any situation is Miss Miller. And since he is with her, Mr. Simpson is safe. That makes Albert safe.”

  The door opened to reveal an exhausted-looking Brisbois. “Creighton,” he said.

  “Not here,” Rudley responded.

  “Didn’t you send him down to secure the Pines?” Margaret asked.

  “I did. I can’t imagine he’d still be there.” He took off his overshoes and advanced to the desk. “May I try the phone?”

  Rudley shrugged and handed him the receiver. Brisbois frowned. “It’s down.”

  “Gregoire believes he got your message through,” said Margaret.

  Brisbois shifted restlessly. “I cordoned off the coach house. Do you have a padlock?”

  “We don’t lock the coach house,” said Rudley. “There�
�s nothing in it worth stealing. Besides, I don’t think anyone will try to go down there tonight.”

  An unsatisfactory answer, Brisbois thought, though realizing he couldn’t do much about it at the moment. His mind turned to Creighton. “I’m going down to the Pines,” he said, turning back toward the door.

  Margaret stopped him. “Detective, we have a combination lock we can use to secure the hasp at the coach house. Rudley will go with you to lock up and see what’s keeping the detective. And you’ll need our high-powered torch.”

  “And the rope,” added Rudley.

  “He means the one to be tied between the house and the barn,” Margaret interjected with haste.

  “The lighting’s pretty dim in here.”

  “We’re on generators,” Margaret told Brisbois. “It’s been iffy for days. I think one of those old oaks up the road must have come down.” She shuddered. “That worries me. Elizabeth and Edward out in that with fallen lines around.”

  “You mean they’re out in that.”

  “They’ve been out with Albert for quite a while.”

  “Well, I guess if they get lost Albert will guide them home.”

  “Albert couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag,” Rudley said. “And I’m not sure about Simpson. But I’m sure Miss Miller will get everyone home safely.”

  “Creighton?” Brisbois reminded them.

  “Oh.” Rudley left the desk to get Lloyd and the flashlights.

  “Elizabeth” — Simpson shielded his eyes against the snow and wind — “I think we should be getting back. It’s getting rather beastly.”

  Albert gave him a dog smile.

  He patted the animal’s head. “Not beastly like you, Albert. Grotty.”

  “Language, Edward.”

  “I apologize, Elizabeth, but we really need to get back. Are you sure which direction we came from?”

  She pulled the hood of her parka over her toque and snapped down the tabs. “Don’t worry, Edward. I was a girl scout.” She patted her pocket. “I always carry matches.”

  “I don’t see how matches are going to help us find our way home.”

  “The matches are in case we can’t get back and have to boil snow to prepare tea.”

  He brightened. “Tea?”

  She motioned to her backpack. “You know I would never go anywhere in winter without tea and chocolate.”

  “Then it seems we don’t need to worry, although I can’t say I would look forward to spending a night in this.”

  “We wouldn’t be in this. I’d make a lean-to with pine boughs. We would share body heat.”

  He smiled. “Sounds rather jolly.” He felt in his pocket. “I just remembered, Lloyd gave me a compass.” He adjusted Albert’s coat. “We should do quite well then.”

  “As long as we stay dry and the temperature doesn’t drop below minus forty,” said Miss Miller. “In which case we might lose a few toes.”

  “How cold would you say it is now, Elizabeth? Perhaps minus five?”

  “Probably minus ten with the wind chill.” She pulled the zipper tighter against her throat. I believe it may drop to minus twenty overnight.”

  “I wonder if Albert is in any danger. If he starts limping, I shall have to carry him.”

  “He weighs ninety pounds, Edward. If he seems to be in distress, we’ll make a sledge and drag him out.”

  “I expect he’ll be hungry soon.”

  “I added a few biscuits to our kit.” She smiled. “It’s gallant of you to worry about Albert in the face of your own peril.”

  “We’re in this together, Elizabeth.” He took a deep breath. “All three of us.”

  She took his arm. “We’ll be fine.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rudley, Lloyd, and Brisbois locked the coach house, then made their way to the Pines. Brisbois used Rudley’s master key to enter the cabin and take a quick look around while Lloyd and Rudley waited outside.

  Brisbois left the cabin, locking the door behind him. “He’s not in there,” Brisbois said, leaning close to Rudley to make himself heard over the wind. “The place is a little out of order though, drawers left open, clothes hanging out of them.”

  “I don’t think Franklin was that neat,” Rudley yelled.

  Brisbois thought it was more than that, but the immediate concern was finding Creighton.

  “He’s clearly not here,” said Rudley.

  “Just a minute.” Brisbois took the flashlight and skirted the building, ducking as a loose shutter slammed against the wall near his head. “Jesus,” he whispered. He reached the back corner of the building, tripped over a buried flowerpot and fell on his face in the snow. Cursing, he felt someone grab him by the arm. He looked up to see a grinning Lloyd in the beam of his flashlight.

  “Did you find Creighton?”

  Lloyd shook his head. “I came all around and he weren’t there.”

  They headed back to the front of the Pines, floundering through the snow. Rudley was where they had left him, examining the door of the cabin. Brisbois noticed a piece of yellow tape attached to the corner of the porch and disappearing into the storm. At first he thought the tape had come loose but when he picked up the end, the whole roll ran through his hands. He frowned.

  “Damn.”

  Brisbois cupped a hand around his mouth to keep his words from being lost in the wind and shouted to Rudley, “Creighton came down to cordon this place off. He tied off one end, but it looks as if he just dropped the roll and took off.”

  “Maybe he had somewhere better to go,” Rudley shouted back.

  “I don’t think the reinforcements are coming, Brisbois,” Rudley said as the detective slammed the phone down after another futile effort. “There’s no point in wrecking the telephone.”

  Brisbois took a deep breath. It was bad enough that Creighton was missing, worse that he was now incommunicado with no help. He had a dead man hanging in the coach house. He should be grilling the staff and guests now, but finding Creighton took priority. He glanced at Norman and Geraldine, who had appeared at the desk.

  “I take it the power is still down, Rudley,” Norman began.

  “That would be an accurate assumption.”

  “We just wanted you to know you don’t have to worry about us,” Geraldine trilled. “We’re used to roughing it and if you need any help placating or entertaining the guests, you can count on us.”

  Margaret smiled. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate that.”

  “Norman and I can do hundreds of bird calls.”

  “And we could do slides with commentary,” said Norman.

  Rudley rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

  Norman looked over his shoulder and leaned in. “There’s something going on, isn’t there, Rudley?”

  “Something dreadful,” his wife added.

  Rudley gestured toward Brisbois. “Well, there’s always something fairly dreadful going on.”

  “We know something has happened,” Norman whispered. “We were just in the drawing room. Some of the guests think it has to do with the storm but someone noted Mr. Franklin appears to be missing.”

  “Who noted that?” Brisbois asked, affecting nonchalance.

  “Mr. Nesbitt,” Geraldine replied. “I heard him asking if Mr. Franklin were ill.”

  “Oh, he’s that for sure,” Rudley muttered.

  “No one has seen him since last night,” Norman said and Geraldine added, “Everyone agrees it was last night.”

  “Who’s in the drawing room?” Brisbois asked.

  “Everyone except Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson,” Geraldine replied. “And Mr. Franklin, of course. Tim mentioned that Mrs. Johnson had been looking for him earlier today.”

  Brisbois’s hand moved toward his notebook. “What did she say?”
<
br />   “She said she had decided he’d just slept in,” Norman said. “And Mr. Johnson said he probably had. He said Mr. Franklin said something about having a good bottle of Scotch he planned to work on last night.”

  “So everybody decided he’d slept in,” Brisbois concluded. “Until four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “I guess that’s the answer,” Rudley said. “A good bottle of Scotch might make me sleep until four in the afternoon.”

  Norman smiled. “I know something’s up.”

  “Otherwise, Detective Brisbois wouldn’t be so interested in the subject,” added Geraldine.

  Brisbois sighed. “I’d like you and Geraldine to forget this conversation about Franklin for the time being. My greatest concern right now is that I can’t find Creighton.”

  Norman’s eyes widened. “Are you saying that Detective Creighton is missing?”

  “I’m saying I can’t locate him.”

  “Detective Brisbois is worried that Detective Creighton may have got disoriented in the snow,” Margaret explained.

  Norman and Geraldine looked at one another knowingly.

  “That would be easy if you weren’t experienced in the wilderness,” said Norman. “You need to know little tricks to find your way around.”

  “We break off twigs as we go,” said Geraldine.

  “It’s better than leaving bread crumbs,” said Norman, grinning. “You know how that worked out.”

  His impatience growing, Brisbois was about to upbraid the Phipps-Walkers when the Sawchucks, trailed by Harry, entered the lobby.