Free Judith Alguire - Rudley 02 - The Pumpkin Murders by Judith Alguire

said. His words pained him.
    “We can’t poach other people’s chefs, Rudley. You wouldn’t want anyone to do that to us.” Margaret patted her brow. “I’ve left a message for Mr. Cadeau. I know he’s available.” She met Rudley’s stare. “They let him go from the Water’s Edge.”
    “What was he trying to do? Palm off a bear as filet mignon?”
    “I think the Watts got tired of his temper. He did very well when he filled in for us last time.”
    “He’s a pain in the ass.”
    “We need him, Rudley. The guests have been patient. We’ll ask him for the week. I’m sure Gregoire will be back by then.”
    “What in hell are they keeping him for?”
    “I suppose it’s because of the bad luck they had last time, Rudley. They gave their suspects free reign.” She lowered her voice. “You know what happened last time.”
    “I know what happened last time, Margaret.”
    She eased the spatula from his hand. “Rudley, why don’t you go out to the desk? We can manage here.”
    Lloyd grinned. “Probably better.”
    Brisbois returned to the interview room with a cup of coffee and closed the door behind him. He spread out his notes and perused them, tapping his pencil against the table.
    “Gerald wasn’t drunk and we don’t have anything so far on the tox screen,” he said to Creighton. “He didn’t drown. He was smothered. In his own bed. Probably with that pillow we bagged. Pathologist notes bruising on his chest. Pre-mortem. Suggesting someone sat on his chest while they were smothering him.” He grimaced. “Nice. He was then dumped upside down in the lake to make double sure.” His brows arched. “Look at this. His toes were dirty. Dorsal surface. But the soles were clean.”
    Creighton looked up from his notes. “Dorsal. That’s the top?”
    “Yeah.”
    “He was dragged out face down.”
    “And what does that suggest?”
    Creighton shrugged. “Maybe two people.”
    Brisbois cocked an index finger at him. “Could be. One person would have dragged him out backwards. Face up. The dirt would have been on his heels. Two people? They probably dragged him out, one under each arm.”
    Creighton tore a piece from the edge of his Styrofoam cup and flipped it into the ashtray. “It’s hard to imagine Gregoire being involved in that.”
    “The Crown didn’t think so.” Brisbois shrugged. “It’s hard to see him getting a body out of the bunkhouse by himself. But he could have. As for smothering him, it wouldn’t have been that hard. The victim’s asleep. Completely off his guard. Even if he woke up, what does he see? Gregoire. He wouldn’t see any danger. After that? Well, I wouldn’t want to have Gregoire sitting on my chest. He’s built like a fireplug.”
    “Gerald was quite a lot bigger. He could have bucked him off.”
    “Maybe he woke in a state of panic, confusion. He didn’t think about what was on his chest. He was pawing at the pillow.”
    Creighton gave him a look. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t see Gregoire doing something like that, even if he could.”
    “Okay.” Brisbois reviewed his notes. “Gerald was going somewhere. Where did he go? Who did he go with?”
    “That we don’t know. Yet.”
    Brisbois bounced his pencil off the table, caught it. “What I don’t get is why Gregoire won’t talk to us. Tell us what they were fighting about.”
    “Either he’s guilty or he’s protecting someone.”
    Brisbois tugged at his collar. “What did you get on those phone calls of yours?”
    Creighton picked up his notes. “Gerald Murphy. Last worked as a waiter at Le Cirque Rouge in Montreal. He also did a floor show there. Female impersonator. Specialized in Judy Garland and Barbra Streisand.” He shook his head. “Don’t these guys have any imagination? They’re always Judy or Barbra.”
    Brisbois waved his pencil to urge him on.
    “Anyway, he lost his job at Le Cirque when the place closed. Rent got too high. The address they had on him was a