Many Unpleasant Returns (11 page)

“Five cents for your thoughts,” said Creighton.

“What?”

“I thought you might not want a penny,” Creighton said. “Nobody else does.”

“Oh, I was just thinking about the statement Morton's sister gave. She said he was a nice man, a private man.”

“His fly was down. What a way to have your last piss. That's a good lesson. Always carry a pickle jar under the front seat.”

“Why a pickle jar?”

“It's got a wide mouth and a screw-on lid.”

“Poor bugger.”

“Guess it could go down in the books as one of the hundred worst ways to die,” Creighton said. “Well, he was a guest at the Pleasant. The place should come with a warning sign.”

“Don't start in on that.” Brisbois realized he sounded annoyed but he had to concede Creighton was right. Bad things did happen to good people there. We'll kill you with kindness. No good deed goes unpunished. “Here today, gone tomorrow,” he said out loud.

“Move along. Nothing to see here,” Creighton added cheerfully, easing the car back.

“What's the hurry?”

“Nothing more to be done here, Boss, and I don't want to get snowed in and end up waiting for a plow that will never come. I'm guessing the side roads around here aren't a priority.”

Brisbois turned his gaze reluctantly from the landscape. “Guess you're right.”

Creighton pulled off the shore road onto the improved road. Snowflakes parachuted into the windshield. “Look at the size of them,” he murmured.

“Pretty.”

“Except they're supposed to keep coming and coming, according to the latest report.”

Brisbois sighed, slumped in his seat, then straightened as his back cramped. “Maybe it'll keep the bad guys in.”

“Maybe the bad guys are already in.”

 

The tree-cutting group arrived back at the inn an hour before low tea. Gregoire had been scurrying around putting the finishing touches on his creations. He's a perfectionist. Some might find that off-putting. I'm finding it delicious. They came in — all of the young people — and Norman and Geraldine, who are honorary young people. They'd apparently had a wonderful time in the snow. Their clothes were soaked — brr. They had stories of snowball fights and snow angels.

The tree was thick with snow. Mr. Simpson, aided by Frankie and Keith Nesbitt, took the tree to the tool shed to dry it off and trim it up a bit. Lloyd stayed behind to prepare the stand in the ballroom. I hear that Mr. Rudley will not tolerate a tree that has to be secured to a wall or propped up in any way. I understood he'd given up the little lighted candles only after a guest singed her wig.

So we'd arrived at Christmas Eve, looking forward to a wonderful evening, decorating the tree and enjoying a late buffet dinner. We were also asked — and I couldn't imagine anything more delightful — to hang our stockings on the mantel. I understood that this too, was a tradition at the Pleasant.

 

“I wish Walter would stop fussing about his Mrs. Dash,” Margaret told Rudley, glancing at Walter, who had been sulking all day. “I'm sure it was an accident.”

“That's the way he's determined to have it,” Rudley said mildly. “I think ruining Christmas for Harry has become his raison d'être. Doreen is too self-absorbed to have anything ruined unless she wants to.”

“He thinks we're all trying to poison him. Did you notice, Rudley? He didn't take anything to eat at tea until he was sure someone else had tried it.”

“I'd poison him myself for five dollars.”

“Rudley, lower your voice. If he heard you say that, he'd never come near the place again.”

“I could live with that.”

She swatted him on the arm. “You don't mean that. You'd miss the Sawchucks.”

“Yes, I would,” he said, thinking, but not for long.

“The tree's ready to decorate,” Miss Miller called out.

Margaret clapped her hands. “Oh, good.” She went over to the boxes Lloyd had set out and began to sort through them. “We should start with the lights.”

“We used to have real candles,” said Norman.

“Until that woman singed her wig,” said Geraldine. “Who was that, Rudley?”

“I don't think I should say,” said Rudley. “The poor woman died a few years ago.”

“As so many have,” Thornton murmured.

Frankie laughed.

Rudley glared. “The lady was eighty-eight and died of natural causes.”

“Which box are the garlands in, Tim?”

“The one marked roofing nails, Miss Miller,” Tim sang out.

“I suppose the bulbs are in the one marked finishing nails,” Keith said.

“No, they're in the one marked bulbs,” Margaret said.

“What's in this one?” Frankie held up a carton.

“Open it and see,” Tim called out.

Frankie opened the box and held up a handful of little Santas.

“Oh,” said Margaret, “that's where they went.”

“I guess I didn't hide them well enough,” Rudley said.

“We'll put them around the ballroom,” Margaret responded.

“Couldn't we put them back in the closet?”

“Frances will be visiting during the holidays. She'll be disappointed if they're not on display.”

“They're kind of skinny,” said Lloyd.

“They're supposed to be stuffed with treats,” Margaret explained. “But never mind that for now. Just put them around wherever.”

“Preferably in some place dark and remote,” said Rudley.

“Consider them avant-garde,” said Thornton.

“Christmas is a time when we celebrate excess in all things,” Rudley muttered. “And here we have these scrawny Santas wagging their fingers at us as we revel in our food and libation.” He picked up his whisky and took a generous slug. “Leave it to that damn woman to put the kibosh on any hallowed tradition.”

“Don't let him get going about Mrs. Blount again,” Tim whispered to Miss Miller. “We'll just scatter the Santas around and maybe he'll stop obsessing.”

“I have a special tree ornament for Norman,” Margaret whispered to Geraldine. She dangled a little fisherman in a Santa Claus hat.

“He'll love it.”

By the time they finished decorating the tree Rudley was in good spirits, humming “Christmas is coming.”

“Now,” said Margaret as Tim moved the stepladder closer to the tree, “it's Gregoire's turn to place the star on top.”

“This is the tallest tree we've ever had, Margaret,” Gregoire said.

“Steady the ladder, Rudley,” Margaret instructed her husband as their chef tested the first step. “We don't want Gregoire pitching into the tree.”

“That would put a damper on the event,” said Rudley. “Not to mention what it would mean for our dinner.”

Gregoire climbed the ladder. Margaret handed him the star, which Gregoire positioned. Lloyd turned the tree lights on and everyone applauded.

“It's the most beautiful tree we've ever had,” said Tiffany.

“Let's join hands around the tree and do our traditional song.”

They joined hands and Margaret led them in a spirited version of “O Tannenbaum.”

 

With the tree decorated, the lights on, and the ballroom lights dimmed, it really felt like Christmas. The snow continued to fall steadily. There's a feeling of good cheer everywhere. The decorations are beautiful, with the exception of the Little Santas (that's now their official title). I'm beginning to appreciate Mr. Rudley's opinion of Mrs. Blount's taste. I got a close look at the Little Santas while Tim was passing them around. They aren't just ugly, they're evil-looking little imps. After the first dozen or so were hung, Mrs. Rudley took a closer look at one and said perhaps we'd hung enough. Lloyd boxed the rest up and took them away.

Norman loved the little fisherman.

The one sour note of the evening was that Tiffany seemed a bit down. I heard Tim say that he thought she was annoyed with Mr. Thornton, who seemed to enjoy every opportunity to point out the unfortunate history of the Pleasant. I have the feeling that the various murders and so on are things only the insiders — the staff and guests of long-standing — are allowed to make light of, and Mr. Thornton is not considered an insider. I also think Mr. Thornton is one of those people who wears less well outside his natural environment. Tim may be right, but perhaps there's a more mundane explanation. As the kids would say, he's just not that into her.

 

Brisbois woke to a big surprise on Christmas morning. His daughter Katie and son Pierre and Pierre's family showed up at his door. They had hoped to make it home the evening before but ended up getting snowed in around Lowerton and had to wait for the plow to come through and followed it home.

Pierre noted that the plows were having a hard slog and one of the freelancers who cleaned the parking lot at the motel where they spent Christmas Eve told him that two of the county plows had been taken out of service with broken blades. They were hoping no one would urgently need to use the secondary roads because they were having trouble keeping the main routes clear.

 

Creighton's mother was so used to Creighton not showing up as expected that she was throwing around a few of her routine pronouncements like: “You never expect Chester until you see him,” until her daughter had to remind her that Chester was there and he wasn't planning to go anywhere.

“Don't worry, Carole,” her mother said. “Someone's bound to get knocked off halfway through the carving of the turkey.”

 

We were up early Christmas morning like children, eager to get at our stockings. They were full of nice little treats, miniatures of fine wines and brandies, squares of Almond Roca, and real Turkish delight, good-smelling soaps, even miniature pen-and-ink sketches by Mrs. Rudley. And, for each of us, a windup toy. We had a lot of fun racing those across the breakfast table.

Mr. Sawchuck was the last to open his stocking and that's when the fun began.

 

Walter was sorting through his stocking at the dining room table, pretending not to be pleased with the nice little items when, all of a sudden, he shrieked, “What's this?”

“What?” asked Doreen, ignoring him in her eagerness to get at the popovers with honey.

Walter stared at the Little Santa in his hand.

Margaret, who was pouring coffee from the urn on the sideboard, came over when she heard the commotion. She looked at the Little Santa, perplexed.

“It was in my stocking,” Walter said.

Margaret looked to Tim, who had joined her at the Sawchucks' table. “We didn't put the Santas in the stockings,” she said. “Are you sure that's where you got it?”

“I'm sure. And look at this.”

Someone had X'ed out Santa's eyes and drawn a tongue lolling out of his mouth and a little bottle with a skull and crossbones on his chest.

“I think Santa has bought the farm,” Tim murmured.

“Someone tried to poison me,” Walter spluttered. “And now they're making fun of it.”

Harry Justus hid a smile behind his serviette but, unable to contain his amusement, emitted a short laugh.

“You did it, didn't you!” Walter said. “You think it's smart.”

“No and yes,” said Harry. “I mean I didn't do it, Walter.”

Mrs. Rudley took a deep breath. “I'm very sorry. Obviously it was meant as a joke and a rather bad one. I'm sure whoever put it in your stocking is regretting having done so now. And I'm sure that person will apologize at the appropriate time. But,” she concluded brightly, “it's Christmas. Let's not let a bad joke spoil the day.”

“I want the police,” Walter snapped.

 

Miss Miller called the police. The officer who took the call said since no harm was done and since the whole area was snowed in up to the crotch in some places, we would be better to wait for another day. He advised Miss Miller to place the little Santa in a plain brown bag or paper wrapping, to seal the package, sign across the seal, and place the evidence in a locked site until someone could examine it. He suggested she use gloves or tongs to handle the little thing. Miss Miller reported her conversation with the police verbatim, including the part about having snow up to the crotch. That made Frankie laugh, although some of the men winced a bit.

 

“I'm sure she made most of that up for Walter's benefit,” Rudley told Margaret. “The officer probably told her to give the old man a sedative and flush the damn Santa down the toilet.”

“Rudley, you know that wouldn't be good for the septic system.”

Rudley wanted to say that Mrs. Blount always managed to screw things up somehow, but since it was Christmas, he refrained.

“Be nice, Rudley.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were thinking it,” she said.

 

Walter finally settled down and by dinner was in somewhat better spirits.

“I think Walter feels vindicated,” Miss Miller said. “He's sure Mr. Justus played those tricks on him and he assumes the rest of us believe that, too.”

“Do you think Mr. Justus did it?” Tim asked.

Tim and Gregoire were sitting with Miss Miller and Simpson. The buffet supper was on the sideboard. In a few minutes, the curtain would be going up for Music Hall.

“I'm not sure,” she said. “The business with the hot pepper flakes could have been an accident. He may have simply bought the wrong thing.”

“Mr. Sawchuck would not consider that,” said Gregoire. “He never wants to admit he is wrong.”

“I can't see why Mr. Justus would plant the Santa in Mr. Sawchuck's stocking,” said Simpson. “Since he's already under suspicion by Mr. Sawchuck, why would he want to draw more attention to himself?”

“And who would have opportunity?” Miss Miller asked.

“Practically everyone,” Tim said. “The stockings were on the mantel. Mrs. Rudley hung them last night. Everyone was milling around this morning.”

“It would have been easy to slip something into Walter's stocking,” Miss Miller agreed.

“The culprit would have had to take time to alter the Santa,” Simpson pointed out.

“Someone might have snatched one last night,” Tim said. “The little things were all over the place.”

“Giving someone a dead Santa strikes me as malicious,” Simpson said.

“The only one around here who strikes me as immature enough to pull a stunt like that is Frankie,” said Miss Miller.

“What would be his motive?” Simpson asked.

“He does come across as a bit of an…” Tim hesitated “…a bit of an ass.”

“He does tend to be loud,” Simpson said, “especially after a drink or two. I suspect he's accustomed to a more boisterous crowd.”

“And younger,” Gregoire noted.

“Why, Gregoire,” Miss Miller turned to him, “I didn't know you were ageist.”

“No, no, I am not saying that is right,” Gregoire responded, flustered. “But some people are not accustomed to being social with people outside their own age.”

“Quite,” Simpson agreed. “He did say he and Mr. Johnson have a company — financial planning consultants, I believe it was. He mentioned that Mr. Johnson was the inside man and he was the one who had the most to do with securing clients and the like. I gather playing a lot of golf and squash was part of that. He probably doesn't spend much time with the variety of people you normally find at the Pleasant.”

“I think you're right, Edward,” said Miss Miller. “In his own milieu, he probably comes across as a hail-fellow-well-met.”

“Then we're left with Mr. Justus,” Tim said.

“Mr. Justus seemed surprised at the Santa,” Miss Miller said.

“He did laugh about it,” said Tim.

“I noticed he took a long look at the Santa,” Miss Miller said. “Would he do that if he were the one who had planted it?”

“Perhaps he's a good actor,” said Simpson.

“I don't know, Edward. He strikes me as straightforward.”

“He does seem to be a decent sort,” said Simpson. “I'm reluctant to suspect him in either prank.”

“Not even the Mrs. Dash?” Tim asked.

Simpson gathered his thoughts. “If you were trying to trick someone into using the hot pepper flakes in place of the Mrs. Dash, wouldn't you simply switch the contents of the bottles? If Walter had read the label of the bottle in question, he would have known it wasn't his Mrs. Dash.”

“That is a very good point,” said Gregoire.

“Walter isn't very careful about reading labels,” said Tim. “I've seen him take his Mrs. Dash from his pocket, shake it all over everything, and return it to his pocket without even looking at it. Wouldn't Mr. Justus have picked up on that?”

Everyone had to admit that was possible. And, apart from Frankie, no one could name anyone they would suspect over anyone else.

 

A bell tinkled. Mr. Bole took the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “I'm your emcee for the evening. To continue our holiday celebrations, the Pleasant Inn presents Music Hall.” He paused. “Normally, we would have a bigger audience, but the locals who usually fill up our tables have been held back by the weather. I understand that many of the main routes have been reduced to one lane and the back roads are not passable at all. And more snow is on the way. For those who have attended Music Hall before, I regret to say we will not be able to enjoy one of our most enduring numbers — Judge Waverly playing ‘It's a Long Way to Tipperary' on the spoons.” There was a smattering of applause. “I trust that was a show of appreciation for the judge's past contributions.”

“I wouldn't trust that,” Tim murmured.

“This evening will be typically vaudeville with a variety of performances,” Mr. Bole continued. “I should remind everyone that the fun doesn't stop with Music Hall. On the twenty-ninth, we'll be having a theatrical performance in the coach house along with some surprises. I believe everyone here is booked through New Year's, and even if you aren't, your chances of getting out of here don't look promising.” He smiled. “The weather is expected to be equally challenging through New Year's.”

“Only a gentleman of independent means and no obligations could be pleased with foul weather,” Rudley murmured.

“You don't seem concerned about the weather, Rudley.”

“Well, Margaret, no matter how bad it gets, we'll be merely inconvenienced.” Rudley ruffled through his program. “Why is Mr. Bole not doing his puppet show tonight?”

“He's going to do a little skit with them. He'll be doing his grand performance in conjunction with our play on the twenty-ninth. It requires a bit more stage.”

“How can finger puppets demand more stage, Margaret?”

“I don't know the details, Rudley, but he's using some sort of shadow projection technique. It will allow the finger puppets to be projected against a screen at the back of the stage in startling ways.”

“In startling ways?”

“Those were his words, Rudley. I'm merely the messenger.”

“What an eccentric crowd we have around here.”

“Yes,” she said fondly. “And you've always liked that.”

“I do.” He glanced toward the table where the Sawchucks were sitting. “Now if we could get Walter out of his funk…”

“Yes, it is unfortunate, what's happened.” Margaret lowered her voice. “I wonder if his prostate is bothering him.”

He winced. “You mentioning his prostate is bothering me.”

“I'm serious, Rudley. What would happen if he had a crisis with his prostate? With the storm, it could take hours to get him to help. His bladder could burst. He could get backed up to his kidneys with life-threatening consequences.”

“Sounds rather drastic, Margaret.”

“I'm serious, Rudley. I know Walter can be difficult. But he's usually not like this.”

“We must have some tubing of some sort around here,” Rudley considered. “Perhaps Lloyd could fix him up.”

“Lloyd?”

“He's good with mechanical things. He must have a piece of garden hose or something.”

“Rudley” — she gave him a look to kill — “that's terrible. Don't you dare breathe a word of this to Walter. He really will think we're trying to kill him.”