Pleasantly Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

“He seems to have all the luck, doesn’t he?”
    Rudley finished his drink and shoved the glass under the counter. He was thinking of dropping around to the kitchen to see what looked enticing and perhaps irritate Gregoire by asking him to rustle up a mess of poutine.
    Brisbois and Creighton chose that moment to return.
    Brisbois fixed Rudley with a blank stare. “Your wife doesn’t seem to be at the cottage.”
    “She must have gone into Middleton. Is her car there?”
    “We didn’t see a car.”
    “Bob’s your uncle.”
    “When did you last see your wife?”
    “How in hell would I know?”
    Brisbois rolled his eyes.
    “What I mean is, it’s been hell around here. Getting ready for the summer season. We close for two weeks and work like dogs.”
    “You and Mrs. Rudley had a fight. She moved out, and you can’t remember when that was?”
    “It wasn’t a fight.” Rudley reached under the desk, pulled out a chamois, and gave the counter a vigorous polish. He draped the cloth over his shoulder. “You see, I think Margaret invents these things when she wants privacy. She pretends to be mad at me about some imaginary situation. Like insulting the florist.”
    “It sounds as if you did insult the florist.”
    “She’s damned delicate if she thought my remarks constituted an insult. You can’t be sensitive if you’re in business.” He shrugged. “In any event, the next thing I knew, Margaret was taking herself up to the High Birches.”
    “And that’s the last time you saw her?”
    Rudley put a finger to his lips, eyes shifting side to side. “I think I saw her after that, but I’m not sure exactly when. It might have been yesterday. Actually, I’m not sure if I saw her. I was in the closet behind the reception desk, looking for a box of receipts. She came up behind me and said something about the cat, something about picking up the cat.”
    Brisbois took out his notebook, stood, pen poised. “Was the cat at the vet’s?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    Brisbois sighed. “One of the windows in the door up there’s broken. Did you know that?”
    “No.” Rudley stepped out from behind the desk. “Lloyd?”
    Something fell on the floor down the hall. Within seconds, Lloyd materialized.
    “Did you know one of the windows in the door at the High Birches is broken?”
    “Weren’t yesterday.”
    Brisbois turned to him. “Did you see Mrs. Rudley yesterday?”
    “Did do. She came up to the garden to get some leaf lettuce.”
    “Did you see her today?”
    “Nope.”
    Rudley retreated behind the desk.
    Brisbois leaned over the desk. “How do you think the window got broken, Rudley?”
    “Margaret probably tossed something, contemplating my iniquities.”
    “How often do you and the missus have these spats?”
    “Once or twice a year.”
    “Maybe three or four,” Lloyd said, oblivious to Rudley’s glare.
    Brisbois shook his head. “If my wife moved out on me three or four times a year, I think I could keep that straight.”
    Rudley’s jaw tightened. “I don’t like your insinuations, Detective. Margaret has been doing this for twenty-seven years. We work sixteen hours a day. We eat in the kitchen ninety per cent of the time — sometimes together. If I don’t find Margaret in my bed, I assume she’s at the High Birches. The years run together. I’m too busy to keep track of these things, year to year. Unlike some people.”
    “What if she wasn’t in your bed because something had happened to her?”
    “If anything happened to Margaret, someone would tell me.”
    There was a long pause while Brisbois contemplated this. “Do you ever talk to your wife, Rudley?” he said finally.
    “Of course I do. When she’s not being ridiculous, we’re a normal married couple.”
    Brisbois tipped back his hat, rubbed his forehead. “Mr. Rudley, would you get the key to your wife’s cottage and come with me?”
    “I propose we take the solution of this murder on as a vacation project,” said