Many Unpleasant Returns (2 page)

“If that damn Semple hadn't shot him in the foot, we'd still have Officer Stubbs around,” she heard Rudley mutter.

Rudley had approved of Officer Stubbs, who had been stationed in the area with the Provincial Police. Semple, the colleague who had accidentally shot Stubbs, was still around, much to Rudley's chagrin. Stubbs had been assigned to a desk job in Orillia until the condition of his foot allowed him to return to active duty. Failing the return of Officer Stubbs, Rudley had hoped Tiffany might renew her interest in Officer Owens, who was still with the local detachment. Margaret had to admit she had hopes for Officer Owens, too. He was a gentle, thoughtful person, although, she suspected, not sufficiently intellectually stimulating for Tiffany, who had a strong romantic streak in the
Wuthering Heights
vein.

“Well, he's not going to stay in the bunkhouse,” Rudley boomed.

Margaret refocused on Rudley. “Where do you want him to stay?”

“As far from the inn as possible. Perhaps at the High Birches,” he added, referring to the cabin furthest from the inn. “Or perhaps at one of the neighbouring inns — maybe one on the other side of Middleton.”

“Rudley, the village is three miles away.”

“Perfect.”

Margaret opened the last card and smiled. “This is from Bertie. She writes: ‘Hope you have a wonderful holiday. I'm looking forward to going about with my choir. Hoping for a touch of snow.'” A touch of snow. She thought about her life in England before she married Rudley. Those wonderful Christmas Eve services in the ancient village church, singing in the choir with her best friend Bertie, the crackling fire in their country house. “We've booked Mr. Thornton into a room at the inn,” she said.

“I'm sure Officer Stubbs would have worked out if he'd stayed around.”

“He might have.”

Rudley sighed. “Frankly, Margaret, I doubt if anyone will ever work out for Tiffany. She's been here seven years now. She's run through every eligible bachelor in town, every eligible member of the constabulary, hordes of itinerant musicians, actors and artists, a myriad of sons, nephews and grandsons of guests, and nothing has worked out.”

“She seems perfectly happy. Perhaps she's not searching for a marital partner just yet. Perhaps never.”

“At least we'll have someone to look after us in our old age.”

“We'll always have Lloyd.”

Rudley crossed his eyes. “I don't find that very reassuring.”

Margaret had no doubt Lloyd, their handyman, would always be with them. And she had no doubt he would look after them in their dotage. Lloyd — although he had some strange habits and odd mannerisms — was a sweet, kind young man. He'd been with them for several years now and she knew he could be relied on.

She was glad Rudley had got off the topic of Tiffany. She had neglected to remind her husband that Tiffany had a few days off at Christmas. She wouldn't be staying in the bunkhouse. Margaret had booked her a room in the inn, just down the hall from Mr. Thornton. She reread the card from Bertie, treasuring it before finally tucking it into the rack with the others.

As if he had read her thoughts, Rudley said, “Can you imagine Lloyd looking after us in our old age? I swear he's going to kill us all one day. Take an axe to us in our sleep. It'll be the Bates Motel all over again. Years after we're dead, the police will break in to find you and me, and whoever else was unlucky enough to be around, reduced to skeletons in rocking chairs while he's rampaging around in Aunt Pearl's flowered duster.” He paused. “Not that the police would notice anything amiss.”

“Oh, I'm sure they'd notice a pair of skeletons, Rudley.”

“Not if that stupid Semple had anything to do with it. It's his fault about Stubbs. If it weren't for him, he would be here and not sitting at a desk in Orillia.”

“I'm sure he didn't mean to shoot Officer Stubbs.”

“If he'd wanted to be useful he would have shot himself in the foot.”

“Officer Semple hasn't been around much lately.”

“Thank God for that. We've had enough of him and that damn Brisbois and Creighton.”

“Oh, Rudley, you know you like the detectives.”

“No, I don't know that, Margaret.”

“Of course you know that.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Now, I'm going to get Tim and go through the decorations.”

Rudley shook his head as she walked away. The decorations. She had come back from town the other day with a basketful of little Santas — ugly little things with slits up the back to tuck sweetmeats into. Something Frances Blount had foisted on her. Frances Blount. Even thinking about the flower lady made him slam his fist into the desk. Christmas, he believed, should be an occasion for beauty. Subdued beauty. Red, white and green with only the most judicious use of muted silver and brass — and gold. No little Santas hanging all over the place, stuffed with Life Savers and humbugs. He hoped the Santas would end up in the guest cabins or the bird feeders — anywhere outside his line of sight. If Mrs. Blount had her way, the inn would resemble a hippie flophouse. I'm sure she dropped acid at one time or another, he thought, and has flashbacks on every holiday, especially Christmas, where she has aspirations to run wild with teal and fuchsia, dusty rose and puce. Puce. He gritted his teeth, remembering Christmases past. That awful white artificial Christmas tree with the teal balls that Mrs. Blount gave Margaret — as a gift, so it had to be displayed prominently. Fortunately, it had been inadvertently donated to the church rummage sale. Margaret was still scouring the storage areas for it.

Lloyd came in at that moment, startling Rudley.

“What in hell do you want?” he asked.

“Came to get Albert for a walk.”

“Oh.”

Lloyd got the leash and Albert's coat and left.

As far as he knew, Lloyd had never committed an atrocity. But who knew what lay in the future? Rudley had acquired him from the feed store several years ago. Perhaps
acquire
was the wrong word. Lloyd had been working at the feed store before he began work at the Pleasant. Still, Lloyd seemed like the sort of thing one might acquire at the feed store, something stuck up on a shelf between the non-sterilized sheep manure and the pig feed. He had an enormous appetite for comfort food and a casual attitude toward personal hygiene. Rudley set down his pen. Margaret had spoiled Lloyd — because he was an orphan. That was her excuse for everything out of place that Lloyd did. Be nice, Rudley, he's an orphan.

Still, he couldn't have wished for a better handyman than Lloyd. He could fix anything, kept the place in apple-pie order, grew exceptional fruits and vegetables, and was kind to animals. And he was talented. He had a surprising aptitude for the soft-shoe and had a good bass voice for Music Hall.

Rudley had to admit that, as annoying as they could be, he had exceptionally talented staff. Take Tim the waiter: a more sarcastic young man one could not imagine, but a talented thespian and dancer and a superb waiter with the ability to charm the most recalcitrant soul. Our young Paul Newman, Aunt Pearl liked to call him. Then there was Gregoire: a pain in the ass with his taste for extravagant ingredients for his kitchen, but a superb cook. And Mrs. Millotte, who had worked at the inn since the dawn of time: a no-nonsense woman who could always be counted on, even if she was a scrawny, starchy old bat. Then Tiffany, their housekeeper, who was like a daughter to him: a bit of a will-o-the-wisp, sometimes inclined to take leave of her senses, but a good worker and talented both at the piano and as a writer.

He thought of Officer Stubbs with regret. Officer Stubbs was everything Officer Owens was and more. Tall and well built. A handsome young man. Disciplined and intelligent. It was clear he was going places in his profession. Then snatched away from them because of that stupid Semple. He supposed a slight limp shouldn't be an impediment to a regional director and, later, chief. Still, the young officer's career was temporarily derailed. Why officers like that bumbling Semple should be allowed to remain on the force, he could not fathom. The man was a virtuoso in coming up with innovative ways to harm people and damage property.

“If he ever comes around here again,” Rudley murmured to himself, “he'll be checking his gun at the door.” He didn't want to think about the police, even in a social way. They'd had their share of problems at the Pleasant, each one necessitating hordes of police officers swarming over the place, and he wanted no more of them.

 

Detective Brisbois finished the paperwork for a trial forthcoming in January and left work at noon. He picked up his favourite all-dressed hot dog, a doughnut and a cup of coffee on the way home and began eating them in his car. If Mary were at home, she would insist on preparing him a nutritious and appetizing lunch when he arrived. But Mary was at work in town, her career in banking progressing, it seemed, endlessly. He finished his hot dog and unwrapped the doughnut, a peppermint-glazed thing with red and green sprinkles. He saluted himself with a Merry Christmas and took a bite. He knew he ate too much fast food. Mary made him a lunch every night when she made her own. Fresh vegetables, cottage cheese, an apple, a few almonds. He ate it. Sometimes he shared it with Creighton. But when he was on a difficult case — or when his mind couldn't give up a case — carrot sticks wouldn't do it. The hard part was explaining to Mary why he couldn't lose weight on diced vegetables. Metabolism, he would tell her. Look at Creighton, he'd tell her. Creighton could eat a tray of doughnuts every day and not gain an ounce. Look at Creighton's family, all of them tall and slender. Look at my family. Roly-polys, every one of them. He told her it was not in his genes to be slender. Mary had the decency and compassion not to point out to him that his family ate like lumberjacks. It was the job. Once he retired, he'd cut back on the garbage food.

He passed a sign for a bed and breakfast and immediately thought of Margaret Rudley. Because he was human, he couldn't help it if he, like Jimmy Carter, lusted in his heart. But he was Catholic, so he made a mental note to do some penance. Margaret Rudley was the embodiment of warmth and kindness and endless comfort. He thought she was the most selfless person he had ever met. The Pleasant Inn was like her — comfortable, beautiful and inviting. Because she made it that way. He opened the tab of his coffee and took a cautious sip. Lukewarm, just the way he liked it. How could a saintly woman like Margaret have married a grouch like Rudley?

 

Margaret stood on the stage in the coach house they had converted into a theatre a few years earlier, opening boxes, rummaging through them, checking the contents and resealing them. “Tim,” she said, “I could have sworn the wreaths were here.”

“Perhaps they got sent to the rummage sale with the tree,” Tim murmured. He climbed up the ladder to the loft. “Here's something.” He clambered up further, then returned with a box. “Voilà, the wreaths. Mislabelled.”

She looked at the label. “How did we manage to put them in with the Halloween stuff?”

“The boss helped,” he said.

She nodded her understanding. Rudley treated the decorations the way he did the files — throw everything in whichever way and expect to find what he wanted when he wanted it.

“What are we going to do with the big Santa?” Tim pulled the plastic sheets off the full-sized manikin, inviting her inspection.

“Oh, dear,” Margaret said. “He looks pretty tatty. I think the mice have been nibbling on him.”

“And worse.”

“Perhaps I can fix him up a bit. I don't think he's in good enough shape for the inn but we could use him here. The lights aren't so bright.” She looked around. “The stage looks splendid. Lloyd did a wonderful job with the boards. I remember when this was just a dusty old barn. I'd put it up against some of the best small theatres now.”

“It's taken a lot of work over the years to get it this way,” said Tim.

“It certainly has.” Margaret paused. “I think we made the right decision, having the play here. I think the set's too big for our ballroom stage.”

“Definitely.” Tim returned Santa to his plastic wraps and took out a handkerchief to wipe his hands. “We need the deeper stage.”

“Imagine adapting
Macbeth
as a contemporary musical,” Margaret said. “Tiffany did a wonderful job with the script. I trust Shakespeare wouldn't mind.”

“I'm sure he'd love it.” Tim surveyed the room. “Do you want that big artificial tree put in the corner?”

“I think so. We don't need to sacrifice another tree. Rudley can live with an artificial one as long as it's not in the inn proper.” She looked at the effect, pleased. “I think that's all we need to do for now.”

She and Tim picked up the boxes of decorations they wanted for the inn and headed back.

Rudley was at the desk when they arrived, a stack of invoices on the desk in front of him.

Margaret's nose twitched as she and Tim plunked the boxes in front. “Rudley, have you been smoking?”

“Why would you say that, Margaret?”

“Because you smell of cigarette smoke and I can see a plume of smoke coming from under the desk.”

He gave her a defiant look and pulled out the saucer with the smouldering cigarette. “I can never fool you, Margaret.”

“Not often, Rudley.”

“As you know, Margaret, I have been doing very well, laying off the weeds.”

“You have. What was it this time?”

“Mrs. Sawchuck just phoned. Spending twenty minutes on the phone with Mrs. Sawchuck is a nerve-wracking experience. The woman is getting senile.”

“She always has been, a bit.”

“She wanted to make sure we knew she and Walter were bringing her brother, Harry. Haven't we confirmed that reservation at least twice?”

“We've even given her his room number.”