“Thank you, Gilly. Levon will be most appreciative.”
Gilly laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “Give him my regards, Arabella. He’s all yours now, if indeed there was ever a time he wasn’t. A woman in my position can’t afford to date a man who’s suspected of murder.”
“Surely you don’t believe he’s guilty?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, Arabella. Or what you think, for that matter. Perception is everything. I’m afraid the charities I work with wouldn’t want that sort of stigma attached to me, and I do have to earn a living. I thought Kerri wanted details about organizing the golf tournament and she practically implicated me with the insinuation about the shotgun—” Gilly caught herself and changed the subject. “Besides, it’s not like Levon and I were serious, not really. We were just having fun.”
Arabella stared at the phone for a long time after Gilly hung up. She doubted that Gilly Germaine had ever done anything “just for fun” in her entire life. She suspected that Gilly had been talking to Kerri about more than the golf tournament or Levon being Course Marshal. Not that she’d ever be able to prove anything. She walked over to Emily, who had been sitting at her computer, pretending to be busy.
“Gilly just dumped Levon over the phone.”
“How did he take it?” Emily asked.
“I haven’t told him yet.”
13
Arabella updated Emily with a quick recap of the morning’s events, including the phone call with Gilly.
“I’ve heard of Isla Kempenfelt,” Emily said. “She’s developing quite a reputation as a criminal defense attorney. Gilly must have called in a few favors to get her to defend Levon pro bono.”
“She has experience with first-degree murder trials?”
“Hmm…actually, no. She’s done more along the lines of vehicular manslaughter. Remember the case a few months back? A woman was coming back from her bachelorette party and went through a stop sign, t-boned a car coming the other way. The driver and the passenger of the other vehicle were killed, the bride-to-be escaped with barely a scratch. It was a loser of a case if there ever was one, but Kempenfelt managed to get her client a sentence of five years in jail plus probation.”
Arabella remembered the case—it had been radio talk show fodder for months—she just hadn’t connected it to Kempenfelt. For the prosecution, the crown attorney had been going for a ten-year sentence, and most folks figured the bride-to-be would get at least eight.
Nevertheless, vehicular manslaughter was a far cry from being accused of murdering your own father, though the sad fact remained that Levon didn’t have the resources to pay what were bound to be hefty legal fees in this case. She just hoped this Isla Kempenfelt was as good as Gilly and Emily seemed to think she was.
Isla Kempenfelt stopped by the Glass Dolphin on her way to the Miakoda Falls police station. The impression Arabella had from the online photos of a fine-boned woman with delicate features was quickly quashed. This woman might have been fine-boned, but she was as tough as Teflon and likely just as slick.
“I’ve called Detective Merryfield and told him I’m on my way,” Kempenfelt said. “They won’t question Levon without me present. However, I wanted to talk to you first. What can you tell me about his relationship with Marc Larroquette?”
For the first time, Arabella realized she only had Levon’s version of his father’s story. Until now, she’d always taken him at his word. Could she trust his word? She’d trusted him on other matters only to find out he had lied or withheld large portions of the truth. Why should the story he told her about his father be any different?
“Only what he’s told me. He grew up in Scarborough in a 1950s bungalow on what he called the wrong side of Highway 401. One day, his father went out for cigarettes and never came back.” Arabella blushed. It was the sort of story you heard about on television and movies. Did it ever actually happen like that? If Kempenfelt had the same train of thought, she didn’t vocalize it. “Okay. Daddy goes out for a pack of smokes, mom and Levon are left behind. What happens next?”
“Mrs. Larroquette…” Arabella suddenly realized she didn’t even know Levon’s mother’s first name, a sad reflection on their relationship when you thought about it. “His mother started drinking, taking prescription meds, and couldn’t hold down a job. One day she closed the garage door, sat inside her car, and left it running. By the time they found her, she was dead from carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“How old was Levon?”
“Seventeen. He was lucky, if you could call it that. At the time his mother was trying to kill herself, he was attempting to steal something from the local convenience store. The cop who got the call took pity on Levon and managed to get him into a boot camp for young offenders in Miakoda Falls. He’s been on the straight and narrow ever since.”
Kempenfelt was writing furiously on a yellow legal pad. She looked up when she was finished, a frown furrowing her brow.
“I’m going to need a few more details about his father.”
“You’ll have to get them from Levon. He doesn’t talk about his past. I’m surprised that I know as much as I do.”
“What about the day of the tournament? Did you see Levon before finding the body?”
Arabella nodded and filled Kempenfelt in: they were there setting up their silent auction items; he wasn’t agitated; nothing seemed unusual.
“How much time passed between when you spoke to him in the silent auction room until you saw him at the third hole?”
“About thirty minutes, give or take. The golfers were asked to wait by their golf carts in the parking lot.”
Kempenfelt didn’t have to say it. Fifteen minutes was more than enough time to kill someone, drive away in a golf cart to another part of the course, and come back after the body was discovered.
“Don’t worry, Arabella,” Kempenfelt said, as if reading her mind. “I’ve got this. You just have to go back to living your life.” She hesitated a moment, then said. “You do have a local reputation for ‘inquiring.’ Gilly Germaine implied that you get involved in matters that don’t concern you. Whether that’s the case or not, I want Levon to be focused and clear, not wondering what his ex-wife, Gilly, or anyone else is up to.”
Arabella bit back a retort and nodded, though she had no intention of acquiescing to Isla Kempenfelt—let alone Gilly Germaine. The first thing she was going to do when she got back was convince Emily to help her clear Levon of this charge. If it cost them customers or turned them into the pariahs of Main Street, that was just the price you had to pay for family. Because divorced or not, Levon was still her family. Always was, always would be.
She hoped he’d been telling her the truth about his past, that he hadn’t left out something important. A detail, however small, that would come back to incriminate him.
Even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew in her gut that he had. Levon never sweated the fine print.
14
Arabella arrived at the Glass Dolphin just before closing time. She was alternately pleased and annoyed to find Emily photographing a collection of knitting sheaths and clew-baskets.
Arabella had picked them up at auction for a song, and while Emily would need her help on the details, it was good to know she was taking the initiative to update items for sale on eBay and the website’s inventory. At least one of them had their eye on making enough money to pay the rent. Food—something outside of tinned tuna, peanut butter, and pasta—would be a bonus. So she should have been happy. But a big part of her wondered why Emily wasn’t pacing, waiting to hear about her meeting with Isla Kempenfelt.
Emily put the camera down. “Finally. I was going stir crazy here. Fill me in.”
Arabella breathed a sigh of relief. Emily cared. Right now she needed the friendship more than the partnership. She was about to update her on the latest in the Levon saga when Luke Surmanski and Hudson Tanaka strolled into the Glass Dolphin.
“We thought we’d update you on the hole i
n one insurance,” Luke said. “Apparently, since the tournament officially started, we’re out of luck getting any sort of refund.”
“Well, that sucks,” Emily said, “but you didn’t have to come all the way here. You could have called.”
“We could have,” Luke admitted, “but after reading Kerri’s articles and that blog…I don’t know what we can do to help but—”
Hudson interrupted. “It can’t be easy for either of you.”
“Is there any other reason for your visit?” As soon as she said it, Arabella knew that it sounded snarky. Emily’s quick glance in her direction confirmed it. But she wanted to tell Emily about her plan to clear Levon and she wanted to tell her now.
If either Luke or Hudson was offended, they didn’t show it. Nor did they offer to leave. Instead, their words tumbled onto one another’s as they said they wanted to find out the truth and to help in any way they could.
“Not that I’m ungrateful,” Arabella said, “but we’ve only known each other a couple of months and you don’t know Levon at all. So I guess I’m asking, why? What’s in it for you?”
“Arabella,” Emily said, her face flushed scarlet. “There’s no need to be rude. Maybe Luke and Hudson feel connected to this because they were there when you found the body?”
Arabella was embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Luke, Hudson. This whole affair has gotten the better of my manners.”
“No apologies necessary,” Hudson said. “Emily is right. We do feel connected, and concerned.
But there’s more, right Luke?”
Luke looked down at his feet and did a bit of a shuffle before looking up. “The thing is, the body did look familiar, but I couldn’t place him, at least not there and then. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”
“And now you’re sure?” Emily asked.
Luke nodded. “He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, but I’m sure he’s the same man who rented a houseboat from the marina about a week ago. Except his ID didn’t say Marc Larroquette. If it had, I would have connected him to Levon, or at least asked him if there was a family connection.”
“What name did he go by?” Arabella asked. “Kevin Hollister Cartwright.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Emily said. “Are you sure that was the name the man used?” Luke nodded. “Positive. Why?”
“Because Kevin Hollister Cartwright is my ex-fiancé. And the last time I checked, he was thirty- five, living in Toronto, and very much alive.”
15
Arabella got out the shortbread. If there was ever a time for cookie therapy, this was it. She opened the tin and offered it around. There were no takers. Fine, more cookies for me. “Did you tell the police about the houseboat rental, Luke?”
Luke shook his head. “Not yet, although of course I have to, and I will as soon as I leave here. In truth, I should have gone there first, but I didn’t want you to be blindsided. I also thought you might have something to add.” He gave Emily an appraising look. “It seems you did, though I’ll admit I wasn’t expecting it to be an introduction to your ex-fiancé.”
“You can’t think that I had anything to do with this?” Emily said. “I moved here from Toronto eight months ago. I didn’t know Levon or Arabella before that, and I certainly didn’t know Marc Larroquette.”
“Then why would he use your ex-fiancé’s name?”
“You tell me and we’ll both know, but there has to be a reason. Maybe he’s just messing with the people in Arabella’s life.”
“Maybe,” Arabella said, but she wasn’t convinced. A thought crossed her mind. “What sort of ID did Marc Larroquette have?”
“A Pleasure Craft Operating card.”
“Do you need that to rent a houseboat?”
“Not in Ontario, but that’s what he used as ID. He told me that he was simplifying his life and no longer used credit cards. He paid cash for a one month rental, plus a five-hundred-dollar damage deposit.” Luke grimaced. “In hindsight, maybe I should have been suspicious, but I’ve had people pay cash before, and it’s never been a problem. It’s the same paperwork for cash or credit when I do my taxes.”
“What about the Pleasure Craft Operator card?” Emily asked. “The one that had Kevin’s name on it?”
“It’s easy to get a boat license in Canada. There’s a three-hour class or you can do a five-chapter course on the website for fifty dollars. Anyone can take the test online, and as long as they manage to get seventy-five percent, they get a license for life. They can even retake the course as many times as necessary until they pass. But here’s the kicker—there’s no photo on the boating license.”
“So he could have taken the test as Kevin Hollister Cartwright and no one would have been the wiser,” Emily said.
“Exactly,” Luke said. “Which brings us back to where we started.”
Maybe not quite where they’d started, Arabella thought. At least they had another name, albeit one that was Emily’s ex. It was a thin lead, that much was true, but it was something. Now all she had to do was convince Emily to call her ex-fiancé.
“I don’t want to do it,” Emily said for the umpteenth time. She was back at the computer, uploading the knitting sheath and clew-basket photographs, a magazine open on the desk. “Besides, I’m busy trying to make us some much-needed money. There was a great article on them by Lucinda Seward in the March 2016 issue of New England Antiques Journal. Did you know that eighteenth- and nineteenth-century knitters were multitaskers?” Emily picked up the magazine and began reading.
“In order to keep one hand free to rock a baby, carry kindling, beat an egg—anything that involved one hand only, they pinned one of these devices to a garment or fitted it to a belt, and then used it to hold one of the knitting needles while continuing to knit with the other. Knitting sheaths were often used alongside yarn holders that were also attached to the woman’s clothes or belts. These bags or baskets were called ‘clew-baskets,’—that’s spelled C-L-E-W—which is an old word for a ball of thread. Her belt might also hold a hook to hold up larger pieces of knitting and save them from dragging. It all puts a new twist on the idea of work clothes.”
A big part of Arabella was impressed. Emily was really trying to learn the antiques trade, and she did a lot of research. New England Antiques Journal had become one of her favorite resources. Normally, Arabella would have been happy to see Emily’s enthusiasm. It was true they needed the money, except that right now Levon was being questioned for a murder he didn’t commit, and she needed Emily to focus on the investigation. Still, she had to play this one right if she wanted Emily’s help. And she did want it. Emily had been a journalist for years. She knew how to investigate and interview—a skill set that Arabella didn’t possess. “I did know that, but I would never have put it into that context, as if these women were the original multitaskers. What a great comparison. Good on you for finding that article.”
“Thank you. I’m having a lot of fun researching and learning.”
Arabella took a deep breath. “I really do appreciate all that you’re doing for the Glass Dolphin.
It’s just that—”
“I know. It’s just that you’re worried about Levon.” Emily sighed. “There’s something I haven’t told you. I heard from an old friend in Toronto last week—and I use the term ‘friend’ loosely. She told me that Kevin and Chloe are getting married in October. It’s bad enough that he dumped me for that platinum blonde bimbo who calls herself a personal trainer, but to marry her…honestly, I thought I was over him, what with dating Luke and all, but it still stings. That was supposed to be us getting married.”
“I’m sorry. You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important.”
“I know, and you’re right. My discomfort is nothing compared to what Levon must be going through right now. I’ll call Kevin. But if he gloats about Chloe, we just might have another murder on our hands.”
Emily arranged to meet Kevin at the Starbucks in Toronto’
s Union Station. “Not that I want to drink coffee with that man,” she’d told Arabella, “but I’d rather ask him about Marc Larroquette in person. Kevin is a consummate liar, but if he knows anything at all, I’ll get it out of him.”
With Emily away, Arabella had no option but to stay in the shop, not that she expected any customers. It was midweek in July, the height of vacation season, and while the Lakeside merchants enjoyed their fair share of summer visitors, Lount’s Landing was a good thirty-minute drive away. Historic Main Street, despite the efforts of local business, was not enough of a destination to draw them in. Even the once vibrant Main Street Merchants’ Association had started to fizzle out; everyone wanted to be the boss but no one wanted to do the work. In retrospect, maybe Emily’s jet ski promotion idea hadn’t been so bad.
She had just started unpacking the last box from the Pottageville auction—a nice assortment of Cornflower glassware that was always a good seller, especially the salt-and-pepper shakers and cream-and-sugar sets—when the bell on the door tinkled to announce a customer. Arabella glanced up, surprised to find five people entering the store. Before long, the shop was filled with folks milling around, picking up things and setting them down, followed by the inevitable question of “what’s the best you can do on this such-and-such?” Arabella was more than happy to negotiate, but she still had to turn a profit. Fortunately, most people were reasonable, and if they weren’t, Arabella’s acerbic response either got them there or out the door.
Customer traffic stayed steady throughout the day, and Arabella found herself too busy to think about Emily, for which she was grateful. By the time six o’clock rolled around, she’d run up several hundred dollars in sales. Her best sale was to a man by the name of Windsor Scott, who bought three oak end tables in assorted sizes and a child’s rocking chair, paying sticker price for the lot, and promising to come back soon. It was by far the most successful day she’d had since her open house eight months earlier.
A Hole In One Page 6