Free Pleasantly Dead by Judith Alguire Page B

if.”
    She put the shoe on the platform and pulled herself up beside it. She squinted. “Glasses, Edward.”
    He obliged. “The heel looks new,” he said.
    She turned the tongue out. “Shoniker’s Shoe Repair.” She grabbed his arm. “This has to belong to the victim.”
    He studied the shoe, nodded. “You may be right.”
    “So what do we do next?”
    He cleared his throat. “Elizabeth, it’s time to turn this information over to the police.”
    Rudley didn’t have much time to contemplate why Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson had chosen to go swimming at 6:00 am or why they had crept back around the side of the inn, her dripping wet, him dry as a bone.
    “Mr. Rudley.” Geraldine Phipps-Walker steamed up to the desk and gave it a rap with her walking stick. “Norman and I have received some exciting news. Mr. Bole tells me that a particularly large flock of herons has gathered in the reeds up the bay.”
    Rudley gave her a blank look. “They have been known to do that.”
    “We want to get some photographs.” She held up the camera strung around her neck. “We would like someone to take us out.”
    “Lloyd has gone to the dump,” said Norman, who lurked behind his wife like a grey shadow.
    “I take it you would like me to get a boat out for you.”
    “We were thinking of a motor boat,” said Norman.
    “Norman could manage the boat, but we were afraid of getting the motor tangled in the reeds.”
    Rudley had been keeping himself together by denying that Margaret was missing. By pretending she had gone away, to Toronto or Miami or the South Pole, and was even now involved in some adventure, oblivious to the search for her. He welcomed Mrs. Phipps-Walker’s intrusion. “Tiffany.”
    She appeared before him, feather duster in hand.
    “Would you mind watching the desk? I’m running the Phipps-Walkers out to the reed bank to ogle some birds.”
    Ruskay accosted them at the doorway. “Where are you folks going?”
    “We were thinking South America. Uruguay, perhaps. The Caribbean, if we run out of gas.”
    Ruskay smoothed his moustache. “Mr. Rudley.”
    “I’m taking the Phipps-Walkers over to the reed bank to take in the blue heron convention.”
    Ruskay entered this information in his log. “All right, sir. Don’t leave the county.”
    “I’d like to make a run for it, just to spite him.” Rudley galloped off down the veranda steps.
    The Phipps-Walkers followed like hand-fed ducks.
    Rudley gunned the motor and set out across the lake at a clip that had the Phipps-Walkers holding onto their hats while the wind curled their lips in a lurid rictus sneer.
    As they neared the reeds, Rudley cut the motor, flipped it up, and got out an oar. “We’ll paddle in from here.”
    Geraldine put a finger to her lips. “Sh. The herons.”
    “Right.”
    “Oh, there they are, Norman. What a sight! Rudley, how close can you get?”
    “I could probably run right up their rear ends, Mrs. P.W., but I’d rather not crash the boat into those stumps.”
    “Oh, of course.”
    Rudley slipped the paddle into the water. Norman stood, camera poised.
    Geraldine grabbed Norman’s legs. “Careful, Norman. We don’t want you in the water.”
    “Rudley would pull me out.”
    “Don’t count on it, Norman.”
    “Of course he would, dear.” Geraldine trained her binoculars on the bank. “Is that a red-tailed hawk, Rudley? I can’t get a fix on it from my position.”
    “Where?”
    “Over there, on that low-hanging branch.”
    Rudley scanned the shoreline. He caught sight of the bird just as it took flight. “Yes, it is, Mrs. P.W.”
    Norman continued to snap pictures.
    “Save some film, dear, in case we spot something special on the way in.” Geraldine adjusted her binoculars. “Have they done anything with that run-down place yet?”
    Rudley was considering a cigarette. He grabbed the binoculars, took a look at the buildings she pointed out. “No, they haven’t done a damned thing. Whispering Pines. They