She dismounted.
“We need to tell Brisbois, straight away,” he said.
She frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t trust him to come to the correct conclusion. He’ll probably accuse Rudley of stealing the canoe. I don’t think he’s very good. He didn’t know the man’s socks were wet until Lloyd pointed it out.”
“We can’t withhold information.”
She lifted the lid of a large cedar box that turned out to contain life preservers, their tapes carefully tied. “You’re right. Rudley does keep things in good order.” She closed the lid. The next box contained nautical cord. “Come on.” She grabbed his hand. “We’ve got to check the other canoes.”
Her hand lingered. He would have followed her anywhere.
They were startled by the sound of someone thrashing around in the tall grass behind the boathouse.
Miss Miller went to the window and stood on tiptoes to peer out. “It’s Mr. Phipps-Walker.”
Phipps-Walker was slashing about with a walking stick. He stopped, stared at the boathouse, then circled toward the side door.
They looked at each other. Miss Miller threw herself into Simpson’s arms. “Try to look convincing, Edward.”
The door swung open. Phipps-Walker staggered back in surprise. Miss Miller broke her embrace, tugged primly at the collar of her blouse. “Why, Mr. Phipps-Walker, what are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to scare up some frogs.”
“Oh,” said Simpson, “you’re a herpetologist.”
“I was planning on trying one on a muskie.”
Miss Miller bristled. “You want to use the poor things for bait? That’s disgraceful.”
“Frogs get eaten by fish every day, Miss Miller.”
“What do you think Mr. Rudley would think about you poaching his frogs?”
“I can’t see that they’re his.”
“They’re on his property.”
He looked aggrieved. “I suppose I should leave you to get back to whatever.”
Miss Miller watched through the window as Mr. Phipps-Walker trudged back toward the inn. “What do you think he was really doing here?”
“Looking for frogs. He doesn’t strike me as a murderer. I think he and Thomas have a rivalry going over their fishing. He’s probably hoping to find an advantage.”
She grabbed his hand. “Let’s get out of here before anyone else comes in.”
She dropped his hand once they were out of the boathouse and sailed off toward the dock. He drifted along in her wake.
Several canoes were stacked in a rack near the dock.
“All P’s,” Simpson said.
“Identical to the others.”
“Do you want to take out a canoe?” Lloyd materialized from behind the rack.
“Yes.” Miss Miller scrutinized the canoes with the discerning eye of Imelda Marcos in a shoe store. “Let’s take the orange one, Edward.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a red one, Elizabeth?” He blushed. There. He’d done it. He’d used her first name.
“I like green,” Lloyd said. “Except in duck-hunting season.”
“Let’s take the green one.”
“Green it is.”
“Do they all come with that P on the side, Lloyd?”
“Every single one. P’s for the Pleasant. Mrs. Rudley paints them on.”
A few minutes later, they were paddling away from the inn.
“You do this rather well,” he said.
“Brown Owls, Girl Scouts. I spent every summer of my life in a boat.”
“I’m used to sculls, mainly.”
“That odd canoe is significant.”
“It could be the personal property of one of the guests, or one of the staff.”
“Rest,” she said. She balanced the paddle across her knees. “It was damp.”
“True.”
“That canoe is an important piece of evidence.”
“Which we must share with the police.”
“Not until we’ve confirmed our suspicions.”
He raised his brows.
“I have a plan,” she said. She spun the paddle into the water and headed down the lake.
“We’re not supposed to be here, Pearl.” Rudley hovered behind Pearl as she pushed at the door to the High Birches.
“No, you’re not.” Brisbois
“We need to tell Brisbois, straight away,” he said.
She frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t trust him to come to the correct conclusion. He’ll probably accuse Rudley of stealing the canoe. I don’t think he’s very good. He didn’t know the man’s socks were wet until Lloyd pointed it out.”
“We can’t withhold information.”
She lifted the lid of a large cedar box that turned out to contain life preservers, their tapes carefully tied. “You’re right. Rudley does keep things in good order.” She closed the lid. The next box contained nautical cord. “Come on.” She grabbed his hand. “We’ve got to check the other canoes.”
Her hand lingered. He would have followed her anywhere.
They were startled by the sound of someone thrashing around in the tall grass behind the boathouse.
Miss Miller went to the window and stood on tiptoes to peer out. “It’s Mr. Phipps-Walker.”
Phipps-Walker was slashing about with a walking stick. He stopped, stared at the boathouse, then circled toward the side door.
They looked at each other. Miss Miller threw herself into Simpson’s arms. “Try to look convincing, Edward.”
The door swung open. Phipps-Walker staggered back in surprise. Miss Miller broke her embrace, tugged primly at the collar of her blouse. “Why, Mr. Phipps-Walker, what are you doing here?”
“I was hoping to scare up some frogs.”
“Oh,” said Simpson, “you’re a herpetologist.”
“I was planning on trying one on a muskie.”
Miss Miller bristled. “You want to use the poor things for bait? That’s disgraceful.”
“Frogs get eaten by fish every day, Miss Miller.”
“What do you think Mr. Rudley would think about you poaching his frogs?”
“I can’t see that they’re his.”
“They’re on his property.”
He looked aggrieved. “I suppose I should leave you to get back to whatever.”
Miss Miller watched through the window as Mr. Phipps-Walker trudged back toward the inn. “What do you think he was really doing here?”
“Looking for frogs. He doesn’t strike me as a murderer. I think he and Thomas have a rivalry going over their fishing. He’s probably hoping to find an advantage.”
She grabbed his hand. “Let’s get out of here before anyone else comes in.”
She dropped his hand once they were out of the boathouse and sailed off toward the dock. He drifted along in her wake.
Several canoes were stacked in a rack near the dock.
“All P’s,” Simpson said.
“Identical to the others.”
“Do you want to take out a canoe?” Lloyd materialized from behind the rack.
“Yes.” Miss Miller scrutinized the canoes with the discerning eye of Imelda Marcos in a shoe store. “Let’s take the orange one, Edward.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a red one, Elizabeth?” He blushed. There. He’d done it. He’d used her first name.
“I like green,” Lloyd said. “Except in duck-hunting season.”
“Let’s take the green one.”
“Green it is.”
“Do they all come with that P on the side, Lloyd?”
“Every single one. P’s for the Pleasant. Mrs. Rudley paints them on.”
A few minutes later, they were paddling away from the inn.
“You do this rather well,” he said.
“Brown Owls, Girl Scouts. I spent every summer of my life in a boat.”
“I’m used to sculls, mainly.”
“That odd canoe is significant.”
“It could be the personal property of one of the guests, or one of the staff.”
“Rest,” she said. She balanced the paddle across her knees. “It was damp.”
“True.”
“That canoe is an important piece of evidence.”
“Which we must share with the police.”
“Not until we’ve confirmed our suspicions.”
He raised his brows.
“I have a plan,” she said. She spun the paddle into the water and headed down the lake.
“We’re not supposed to be here, Pearl.” Rudley hovered behind Pearl as she pushed at the door to the High Birches.
“No, you’re not.” Brisbois
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