Many Unpleasant Returns

by Judith Alguire

  “Did you find out who doctored my Mrs. Dash?” Walter demanded of the detective as he headed toward the stairs.

  “Not yet, Walter,” Brisbois replied, “but I’ve got a task force working on it.”

  “Good.”

  Walter and Doreen proceeded up the stairs, Harry following, boosting Doreen as she faltered.

  “I’ve seen him happier,” Brisbois remarked.

  “I think he’s very happy,” Rudley said. “He’s doing what he and Doreen most enjoy — making mountains out of molehills.”

  Brisbois seized the flashlight. “I’m going back out to look for Creighton.”

  “Detective.” Margaret stopped him. “Give us a few minutes to get a search party together and to get you some dry clothes.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Margaret, but I’m going ahead.”

  Rudley reached into his drawer. “At least, take some reflective tape. To wrap around tree trunks to mark your way,” he explained, adding with a mutter, “Or around yourself if you want to.”

  “Rudley,” Margaret chided after the detective had departed, “that last remark was uncalled for.”

  “Perhaps.” Rudley picked up the phone. “Dead as a doornail.” He tilted his head toward the outside door. “Well, Margaret, as distasteful as it seems, I’m going to have to go out in that again. I’m going to get my snowmobile suit.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, I’ll take Lloyd. I need you to stay here and placate the guests.”

  “You don’t need to placate us,” Geraldine piped up. “We’re ready to join the search.”

  “No,” said Rudley, “you stay here. In Miss Miller’s absence, we need someone to observe and take notes.”

  “I knew something was up,” said Norman. “In Miss Miller’s absence we’ll be delighted to take over her traditional role and perform the investigatory functions.”

  “Now, Albert.” Simpson stopped as the dog tugged at his leash. “We can’t go off on side trips today. We’re in the middle of a storm. I’m sure the squirrels and rabbits are secreted away in their nests. They’d be foolish to go out in this.”

  “Is that a comment on our trek, Edward?”

  “Not at all, Elizabeth. It was not unpleasant when we started out. It’s always problematic to rely on long-range forecasts. I believe the most recent called for a blizzard.”

  She made a face. “I concede your point.”

  “It’s been a jolly good adventure, though, and we don’t appear any worse for the wear.” He gave Albert’s leash a gentle tug. “Come, Albert, we must be getting along.”

  Albert stared mournfully toward the west.

  “He seems upset about something.”

  She checked the compass. “We could indulge him a bit.”

  “I hope we don’t get lost.”

  “I remind you I was a girl scout, Edward.”

  “Quite.” He gave Albert a pat. “All right, Albert, we’ll follow your lead.”

  Albert leapt up and they headed west.

  Simpson tripped over a branch buried in the snow and fell heavily. The leash flew from his hand. Albert bounded away, rapidly disappearing behind a veil of snow. Edward struggled up. “Albert!” He stared in horror after him. “Oh, my God, we can’t lose Albert.”

  Elizabeth grabbed his hand. “Come, Edward, we’ll follow his track.”

  Albert’s tracks grew fainter as they followed. Finally they disappeared.

  Simpson lost his balance and grabbed a branch to steady himself. “It’s no use, Elizabeth. There’s nothing but snow. We can’t lose him. He’ll die of exposure.”

  She put an arm around him. “We’ll find him, Edward.”

  Brisbois had no idea where he was. He kept close to the woods, afraid of straying toward the lake. It was frozen near the shore, he guessed, but there could be air holes further out. He didn’t care for the water at the best of times. He enjoyed looking at it, didn’t mind being on it in a boat, but he was afraid of drowning. He couldn’t imagine anything worse than falling through the ice in the dark, in winter, with no one even there to witness. He cringed at the thought. He turned and aimed his flashlight behind him. The reflective tape he had last placed on a tree reflected back to him. Reassured, he went on.

  Simpson stared into the gloom. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  Simpson and Miss Miller had finally decided to hunker down, reasoning that Albert might return to them once he had finished his mission.

  “If we don’t find him soon, it will be pitch black.”

  Elizabeth scanned the landscape. “It’s already as black as it’s going to get, Edward.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “It’s possible he returned to the inn.”

  Edward turned to look at his wife. She had hung a tarp to cut the wind and was nibbling on a protein bar. “I don’t wish to brag, Elizabeth, but I’m sure if Albert had to choose between a rabbit, Mr. Rudley and myself, I’d end up second on the list.”

  “It’s his supper time. That might be enough to take him back to the inn.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Would you like an energy bar?”

  “No, thank you. My appetite depends on finding Albert, safe and sound.” Edward looked longingly in the direction Albert had disappeared.

  Elizabeth finished her snack, crumpled the wrapper, and put it in her pocket.

  Edward tilted his head. “I think I hear something.”

  “It could be the wind, playing tricks. I thought I heard something a minute ago.”

  He keened his ears. “There, Elizabeth, what was that?”

  “It sounds like something moving in the bushes.”

  “Yes, that’s it!”

  There was an urgent bark and Albert materialized. Edward held out his arms and stumbled backwards as Albert leapt on him. “Albert, you’re a sight for sore eyes. I can’t tell you how worried we’ve been about you.”

  Miss Miller trained her flashlight on the dog and frowned.

  Simpson tried to get up but Albert kept on him, licking his face. Finally, he was able to push the dog off.

  “Do you notice something odd about him?”

  Simpson studied Albert. “Good Lord.”

  “He’s swapped his collar for a necktie,” said Miss Miller.

  Brisbois tightened his scarf. His wife would skin him alive if she knew he’d gone out alone in weather like this. He’d felt secure at first with the reflective tape glowing reassuringly whenever he turned back. But it was getting colder. He should have taken the snowmobile suit. His boots were full of snow. What would it be like to freeze to death? Did you become unconscious before your heart stopped beating? Or did your heart stop and you had a few seconds to realize it would never start again? What would it be like living with that knowledge, however briefly?

  He moved into the woods. He was surprised at the sudden quiet. He looked up, shone his flashlight into the canopy, and smiled. It was beautiful in here. The trees broke the wind. Snow filtered gently through the tall conifers.

  Harry Justus came downstairs, stopped at the desk and waited until Margaret turned.

  “Mr. Justus,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were there.”

  “I didn’t mean to startle you, Mrs. Rudley. My sister and Walter were wondering if supper would be served tonight. I told them I was sure you were looking after that but” — he gave a helpless shrug — “you know how anxious Doreen gets.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Justus. Everyone’s a bit anxious right now. Supper will be served as always. Perhaps by candlelight.”

  He hesitated. “Mrs. Rudley, I want you to know I had nothing to do with the mischief around here.”

  “I never thought you did.”

  “Not even those hot pepper flakes Walter got hold of. I think h
e just picked up the wrong bottle at one of those dollar stores. He never buys the brand names.” He leaned toward her and said in a low voice, “He’s cheap, you know. And he doesn’t see as well as he used to.”

  “I don’t think any of us see as well as we used to.”

  He nodded. “I’ll just go tell Doreen.” He thanked her and went back upstairs.

  Tiffany came out of the drawing room, carrying a tray of empty dishes. “Have you heard anything about Detective Creighton?”

  “Not a thing, Tiffany.”

  “I hope everything’s all right.” She stole a glance toward the drawing room. “I’m doing my best to deflect inquiries about Mr. Franklin but everyone seems to know something is going on.”

  “I think the detectives will fill everyone in once reinforcements arrive,” Margaret said. “Detective Brisbois seems to think someone might disturb the scene and he doesn’t have an official to post.” She paused, seeking another conversational gambit. “How are things with Mr. Thornton?”

  Tiffany lowered her gaze. “ I’m not sure why he came here. He’s not nearly as attentive as he was in Toronto. There, he seemed so interested in my work, my poetry, my prose.” She hesitated, then added, “I suppose some men feel they can be inattentive once they’ve achieved their goals.”

  “I see.”

  “He seems more fond of himself than of me.”

  “As you know, Tiffany, creative types can have massive egos.”

  “Well, there’s no point in worrying about that now, given what’s going on. I just hope Lloyd and Mr. Rudley are safe.” She glanced toward the window. “It would be easy to get lost tonight.”

  “Rudley could get lost in the backyard,” Margaret said, “but Lloyd has the uncanny ability to find his way around.” She patted Tiffany’s arm. “Why don’t you get a snack? You’ve been on your feet all day.”

  “It’s rather quiet around here tonight,” Sheila Nesbitt said, noting everyone but the Sawchucks was in the drawing room. “The staff seems worried about something. Do you suppose we’re running out of fuel?”

  Mr. Bole gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m sure we aren’t.”

  “It is supposed to be the worst storm this area has experienced in half a century,” Norman said. “Of course, fifty years ago, people were not so wedded to their creature comforts as they are today.”

  “Creature comforts like heat and light,” Thornton said.

  “We couldn’t freeze to death, could we?”

  “People do freeze, Mrs. Nesbitt,” Norman said cheerfully. “But usually because they’re outside or inside with no heat and a supply of alcohol.” He smiled a buck-toothed smile. “I would say our chances of freezing are very low. Even if the propane and the generators fail, we have the fireplace. We have plenty of wood and we can always huddle together under blankets, conserve and share our body heat.”

  Keith Nesbitt said dryly, “Freezing to death might be more pleasant.”

  “I suppose it depends on who you’re huddled with,” said Mr. Bole. “I recall an occasion in the Northwest Territories — I was an observer with a research team — when bad weather forced us to spend four days straight in a very small tent. Of course none of us had had the opportunity to bathe for two weeks.”

  “I don’t think I need to hear about that,” Carla Johnson murmured. She was sitting on the sofa, bent forward, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, staring into the fire.

  “It wasn’t all that bad, actually,” said Mr. Bole. “The olfactory sense fatigues easily. It’s the initial whiff that does you in.”

  After a long silence, Sheila asked, “Why was that police detective here?”

  “He was looking for the other detective,” Norman said.

  “And what was the other detective doing here?” Keith Nesbitt asked.

  “The usual,” Geraldine piped up. “They were investigating.”

  “In the middle of a blizzard?” Keith scoffed.

  “Neither rain nor snow nor dark of night…” Norman began.

  “They’re investigating those murdered Santas,” said Geraldine.

  “I haven’t seen Frankie all day,” Keith said. “I thought they might have come to arrest him for being an ass.”

  Sheila looked away.

  Johnny looked up, frowning.

  “Now that’s a rather harsh assessment,” Mr. Bole said.

  Keith didn’t appear chastened. “Who else could be responsible for all the tomfoolery going on around here?”

  Mrs. Gowling sat in the corner in the drawing room, feeling quite at peace. She didn’t mind the power going down. She’d grown up in the age of coal-fired furnaces, and kerosene lamps were at the ready, if needed. These people, she thought, were in the lap of luxury — even with the power down — and some of them didn’t know it. She wasn’t sure what was going on but, clearly, things weren’t right and it had nothing to do with the storm. She’d caught quite a bit of Detective Brisbois’s conversation with the Rudleys, enough to know his arrival at the Pleasant involved more than the mischief of the Little Santas. She gathered the detectives were still on edge about Mr. Morton’s death, and although his death was rumoured to be an accident, the other events were casting bothersome doubts. Then there was Mr. Franklin. He hadn’t been seen all day, and even with the snowstorm diluting everyone’s attention, that seemed unusual. Unless — and she thought that was what Mr. Nesbitt was suggesting — the detectives had come to the conclusion that Frankie had done Mr. Morton in and had murdered the Little Santas and was on the lam, as they say. That was the only thing that made sense. That tied everything together.

  “I think the detectives are simply trying to tie up loose ends,” said Norman, echoing her thoughts.

  “Detective Brisbois simply loathes loose ends,” said Geraldine.

  Mr. Bole smiled. “Yes, that seems to be true for most people. Loose ends make people uneasy, which is strange when you think about it, because life is full of loose ends.” He sighed. “It’s a shame really, this obsession for an explanation for everything. I think it takes away from the wonder of the world.”

  “Yes,” said Thornton, “we do have an obsession for completeness.” He turned to Johnny. “Where is Frankie? Didn’t he go out with you this morning?”

  “No,” said Johnny. “He was still a little wound up last night after we finished up in the coach house. He’d been going non-stop all day and was still on a bit of an adrenalin rush. He said he was going to work on a bottle. He’s probably been sleeping all day. He does that once in a while.”

  “He’ll probably be up for supper,” said Carla. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the fire.

  “He was a veritable whirling dervish yesterday,” said Mr. Bole.

  “When he was in college,” Johnny continued, “if he got really wound up, it would be go-go-go then sleep the whole next day.”

  “Sort of like a two-year-old crossed with a teenager,” said Keith.

  Tim entered the drawing room at that moment with a trolley laden with hot chocolate, coffee, tea, and mulled wine.

  “I have some hot drinks,” he said merrily, “unless anyone wants something cold.”

  “I think we need the heat,” Sheila said.

  Tim stopped in front of Carla, smiled. “Mrs. Johnson?”

  She reached for a cup of hot chocolate. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Gowling took a sharp breath. “Mrs. Johnson, you’ve got a nasty burn on your wrist.”

  “Oh” — Carla pulled her sleeve down quickly — “it’s nothing. I was ironing a blouse.”

  “And you burned that nice Icelandic sweater too,” said Mrs. Gowling solicitously.

  Carla glanced at the singed cuff. “I’m sure I can find someone to repair it.”

  “A good knitter might be able to,” said Mrs. Gowling.

  Carla gave her a quick smil
e. “Yes, I’ll look into that.”

  Geraldine accepted a cup of tea from Tim. “If Mr. Franklin isn’t here by supper, someone should go down to wake him.”

  “Or perhaps not,” said Keith.

  Mr. Bole dismissed Keith’s comment with a flutter of the hand. “I, for one, deeply appreciate what Mr. Franklin did for me yesterday. If he isn’t up for dinner, I’ll take him down a tray.”

  I thought that was a generous statement by Mr. Bole. He was clearly unwilling to let Mr. Franklin be torn to shreds when he wasn’t there to defend himself. And he managed to put Mr. Nesbitt in his place without making a scene. Of course, people of Mr. Bole’s generation, and my generation, don’t like to make scenes. Today, people seem to go to great lengths to make scenes. The influence of television, I suppose. People these days seem to have a hard time separating fiction from reality.

  Mr. Bole went on to suggest that the men could work up an appetite for dinner by clearing the front porch and walkway, as the staff was stretched to the limit. Since Mr. Bole is a gentleman and not sexist in any way I’ve noted, I think he said “men” so no one would draw attention to me and, believe me, I’m well past the point of being able to shovel four or five feet of snow. Geraldine Phipps-Walker is up to the task. Sheila Nesbitt is young and athletic. Carla Johnson, in spite of being whip-thin, is strong. I’ve watched her cross-country ski and snowshoe. I think she could arm-wrestle her husband successfully. Mr. Johnson is, I’m afraid to say, a bit of a wimp, a rather morose one at that.

  Keith then said that no one seemed worried about Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson and they’d been gone all day. The Phipps-Walkers and Mr. Bole looked at each other and laughed.

  “Mr. Simpson is with Miss Miller,” Mr. Bole said.

  “Miss Miller was a girl scout,” said Norman.

  And that seemed, as they say, to make everything peachy keen.

  Brisbois stopped at another tree to place another piece of reflective tape. Six inches came off the roll, leaving it bare. He looked back and gulped. He couldn’t see the last one he’d placed. And he’d been so careful. He looked around but could see nothing but snow.