opened the door, catching Pearl before she fell headlong into the room.
Pearl tried in vain to duck under his arm. “I’m trying to find out what happened to Margaret.”
“We’re working on it, Miss Dutton.”
“You aren’t working on it very well.”
“Be patient. We’ve just started the investigation.” He motioned her back from the door. “You know you’re not allowed past the police tape.”
“I told you,” said Rudley.
“Something’s happened to Margaret and you’re trying to cover up.”
“There’s no indication your niece met with foul play.”
“Except the window’s broken, the cottage is ransacked, and Margaret is missing.”
“We don’t know that she’s missing.”
“She’s not here. I call that missing.”
Brisbois turned to Rudley. “Please take Miss Dutton back to the inn.” When Rudley reacted as if he’d been asked to pick up a rattlesnake, he relented. “Is there anything in particular you were hoping to find here?”
“I wanted to see if Margaret got my letter. If she had got my letter, she wouldn’t have wandered off.”
“Sometimes letters get lost in the mail.”
“Why in hell didn’t you just phone her?” Rudley asked. “Don’t tell me. You refuse to make the phone company rich.”
“Not after they shut down the independent.”
“That was decades ago.”
“Did Mrs. Rudley have her mail delivered here?”
“The staff brings it to her when she’s here,” said Rudley.
Brisbois swept the hair off his forehead. “I guess it wouldn’t do any harm to take another look. If Mrs. Rudley was expecting Miss Dutton she probably wouldn’t have taken off. Unless, of course, she’d made some other plans and had asked you to pick up her aunt, Rudley.”
“I’m sure she didn’t,” said Rudley, who wasn’t sure at all.
Brisbois stepped aside. “You can come in, but don’t touch anything. My officers took a good look, though. I don’t recall any mention of personal mail. There were a few invoices for her artwork and ads for workshops. That sort of thing.”
Pearl bristled. “Margaret wouldn’t mix her business and personal mail. I suppose you got that stuff you’re talking about from her desk.”
“Yes.”
“Margaret keeps her personal mail in a little binder with her writing materials. When she’s down here she keeps it in that little footstool over there.” She pointed to a small ottoman covered in green brocade. “The lid flips up. Margaret’s had that stool since she was a girl. She used to keep her letters from her boyfriends there to keep them away from her brother.”
“Did you know about this, Rudley?” Brisbois raised his brows and received only a glare. “Of course, you didn’t.” He pulled on gloves, knelt, and lifted the lid. He took out a packet of letters. “Here’s one from Ralph Dutton.”
“That’s her brother.”
“The one who used to snoop into her mail,” Rudley said.
“He’s in import-export,” Pearl said. “He travels the world, searching for treasures.”
“He imports plastic junk from China.”
“And this one,” Brisbois said, “is a postcard from Pearl Dutton. ‘Arriving village 6:00 am. Meet me.’ She knew you were coming, Miss Dutton.”
“I told you so.”
Brisbois shuffled the envelopes. “Ralph doesn’t have much to say. ‘Dear Margaret, here’s some pictures of me in Indonesia.’ And here are the pictures.”
“A man with a gut should never wear a red sarong,” Rudley murmured.
“And here’s one,” said Brisbois, “postmarked Coventry, England. Mailed ten days ago. From Alberta Beckwith.”
“That’s Margaret’s chum from school,” said Pearl.
Brisbois unfolded the letter, smoothed the paper. “‘Dear Margaret, Blah, blah, blah…’” He paused, eyebrows lifting. “‘And about that other matter, Margaret. Don’t give him another cent’.”
Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson pulled the canoe around the bend and headed back to the inn.
“Look.” Simpson
Pearl tried in vain to duck under his arm. “I’m trying to find out what happened to Margaret.”
“We’re working on it, Miss Dutton.”
“You aren’t working on it very well.”
“Be patient. We’ve just started the investigation.” He motioned her back from the door. “You know you’re not allowed past the police tape.”
“I told you,” said Rudley.
“Something’s happened to Margaret and you’re trying to cover up.”
“There’s no indication your niece met with foul play.”
“Except the window’s broken, the cottage is ransacked, and Margaret is missing.”
“We don’t know that she’s missing.”
“She’s not here. I call that missing.”
Brisbois turned to Rudley. “Please take Miss Dutton back to the inn.” When Rudley reacted as if he’d been asked to pick up a rattlesnake, he relented. “Is there anything in particular you were hoping to find here?”
“I wanted to see if Margaret got my letter. If she had got my letter, she wouldn’t have wandered off.”
“Sometimes letters get lost in the mail.”
“Why in hell didn’t you just phone her?” Rudley asked. “Don’t tell me. You refuse to make the phone company rich.”
“Not after they shut down the independent.”
“That was decades ago.”
“Did Mrs. Rudley have her mail delivered here?”
“The staff brings it to her when she’s here,” said Rudley.
Brisbois swept the hair off his forehead. “I guess it wouldn’t do any harm to take another look. If Mrs. Rudley was expecting Miss Dutton she probably wouldn’t have taken off. Unless, of course, she’d made some other plans and had asked you to pick up her aunt, Rudley.”
“I’m sure she didn’t,” said Rudley, who wasn’t sure at all.
Brisbois stepped aside. “You can come in, but don’t touch anything. My officers took a good look, though. I don’t recall any mention of personal mail. There were a few invoices for her artwork and ads for workshops. That sort of thing.”
Pearl bristled. “Margaret wouldn’t mix her business and personal mail. I suppose you got that stuff you’re talking about from her desk.”
“Yes.”
“Margaret keeps her personal mail in a little binder with her writing materials. When she’s down here she keeps it in that little footstool over there.” She pointed to a small ottoman covered in green brocade. “The lid flips up. Margaret’s had that stool since she was a girl. She used to keep her letters from her boyfriends there to keep them away from her brother.”
“Did you know about this, Rudley?” Brisbois raised his brows and received only a glare. “Of course, you didn’t.” He pulled on gloves, knelt, and lifted the lid. He took out a packet of letters. “Here’s one from Ralph Dutton.”
“That’s her brother.”
“The one who used to snoop into her mail,” Rudley said.
“He’s in import-export,” Pearl said. “He travels the world, searching for treasures.”
“He imports plastic junk from China.”
“And this one,” Brisbois said, “is a postcard from Pearl Dutton. ‘Arriving village 6:00 am. Meet me.’ She knew you were coming, Miss Dutton.”
“I told you so.”
Brisbois shuffled the envelopes. “Ralph doesn’t have much to say. ‘Dear Margaret, here’s some pictures of me in Indonesia.’ And here are the pictures.”
“A man with a gut should never wear a red sarong,” Rudley murmured.
“And here’s one,” said Brisbois, “postmarked Coventry, England. Mailed ten days ago. From Alberta Beckwith.”
“That’s Margaret’s chum from school,” said Pearl.
Brisbois unfolded the letter, smoothed the paper. “‘Dear Margaret, Blah, blah, blah…’” He paused, eyebrows lifting. “‘And about that other matter, Margaret. Don’t give him another cent’.”
Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson pulled the canoe around the bend and headed back to the inn.
“Look.” Simpson
Similar Books
