A Hole In One

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  It wasn’t until a few minutes before closing time, when a woman asked, “Did Levon help you pick that lovely vase?” that Arabella finally connected the dots: being the ex-wife of a suspected murderer, it seemed, was good for business.

  Emily got off the GO train at Union Station and wound her way through the maze of commuters. Since moving to Lount’s Landing, she seldom came back to the city—too many memories, most of them bad—but when she did, she preferred transit to driving. The Don Valley Parkway, the main north-south artery into downtown Toronto, had long ago earned the nickname the “Don Valley Parking Lot.” She shook her head at the construction going on around Union. It had been ongoing for as long as she could remember, with every campaigning politician over the past decade promising to do something about it and Toronto’s ever-increasing gridlock. Maybe if Toronto’s city council stopped arguing about subways versus light rail and actually put a shovel to the ground, they’d get folks moving again.

  The Starbucks was packed as usual, although at this time of the morning most people grabbed their drinks to go. Emily spotted Kevin in the lineup and wondered whether to join him or politely take her place at the back of the queue. Her inner debate came to an end when Kevin called out that he’d get her nonfat, no foam latte. She wanted to tell him that she was off that kick since moving to Lount’s Landing, which didn’t have a Starbucks and probably never would. These days she preferred regular coffee, black, one sugar, but she didn’t want to cause a scene.

  Emily grabbed the first available seats and studied Kevin. He looked good, better than good. Buff, to be honest. His sandy hair was shorter than it used to be, almost military short, but it suited his square jaw. Mostly he looked happy. Happier than when he’d been with her, at least in the last few months when all they’d done was argue about everything from the kind of pasta to buy—white penne or whole wheat rigatoni—to what movie to see on Saturday night. Kevin liked Woody Allen films, which he considered brilliant. Emily couldn’t get beyond Allen’s personal life and refused to support him, brilliant or not.

  Kevin slid into the seat opposite her and handed her the latte. She didn’t offer to pay him for it, knowing it would only set him off. If Kevin bought you something, you didn’t argue. You accepted it, even if you didn’t necessarily want what he was offering. She took the lid off, took a sip, and murmured a quiet thanks.

  “No problem, though I’ll admit you’ve piqued my curiosity. What’s so important that you made the trek into the city? That we couldn’t talk about it on the phone?”

  Thoughts began running across Emily’s mind like a ticker-tape marquee. No “you’re looking good, how’s it going” type of pleasantries. Just straight down to business. Well, what did she expect, a dozen red roses and a box of chocolates?

  “I was playing in a charity golf tournament two days ago. Our group discovered a man on the third hole—a dead man. He’d been shot.”

  “Wow. That must have been traumatic.”

  Why was it that he looked more impressed than surprised?

  “You could say that. He’d been renting a houseboat from Luke’s Marina in Lakeside, which isn’t unusual in the summer.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Luke is a friend of mine.” Emily blushed at Kevin’s knowing grin. “Anyway, that’s not the point.

  The point is, he rented it using your name.”

  “My name?”

  Emily nodded. “Your full name. Kevin Hollister Cartwright. He used a Pleasure Craft Operator’s license. Boat licenses don’t have photo IDs on them, but because he paid cash up front, Luke considered it sufficient.”

  “Luke sounds like a very trusting individual.” He said in a tone that implied Luke was also an idiot.

  “What can I say? Small town values.” Emily pulled the page from Inside the Landing out of her purse and passed it over to Kevin, pointing to the police artist’s sketch. “This is the man. Do you know him?”

  The color drained from Kevin’s face. “He’s Chloe’s stepfather. Marc Laurentian. But what was he doing in Lount’s Landing, and why did he use my name?”

  16

  Emily stared at Kevin. Could it be possible? Was Chloe really related to Levon? “Marc was Chloe’s stepfather?”

  “Yes. He married her mom ten years ago. Chloe was twelve.”

  Which made Chloe twenty-two now, ten years younger than her, and thirteen years younger than Kevin. Focus on the task at hand, Emily. At least she’s not Levon’s sister.

  “What was Chloe’s mother’s name?”

  “Alice.”

  “Did she change her last name?”

  “I never asked, but Chloe’s last name is Brampton. Why?”

  “I’m trying to get all the facts.”

  “Once a reporter, always a reporter,” Kevin said, but he said it with a smile.

  “You said his name was Marc Laurentian. The police identified him as Marc Larroquette.”

  A couple next to them had stopped talking and started listening. Kevin must have noticed too, because he suggested taking a walk on the PATH. The PATH was downtown Toronto’s multi- directional underground walkway, linking nineteen miles of retail space. Emily got lost whenever she tried to navigate it.

  “Sure, as long as you promise to get me back to Union Station.”

  “Some things never change,” Kevin said, but his tone was affectionate.

  They walked along without talking for the first five minutes, both of them lost in their thoughts. It felt almost like the old days, before the fights and the drama that had taken over their lives. The moment was spoiled when they walked past the gym that Kevin had belonged to and where Chloe worked as a personal trainer. It hadn’t taken long for Chloe’s training to become very personal. The next thing Emily knew, Kevin gave her a Cooking For One cookbook and announced they were done.

  “As I was saying, his real name is Marc Larroquette.” She knew her voice sounded strained and wanted to kick herself.

  Get over it, Emily.

  If Kevin noticed, he ignored it. “He must have changed his last name to Laurentian. Maybe he had a good reason.”

  “What sort of good reason?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he went bankrupt or something and wanted a fresh start.” He wanted a fresh start, all right—one that didn’t involve his old family. “Was Chloe close to him?”

  “Not at all. Alice died in a car accident when Chloe was eighteen, and from what I can gather, Marc wasn’t the paternal type. Chloe left Goulais right after high school and moved to Toronto. She’s never gone back.”

  “Who’s ‘Gooley’?”

  “It’s not a who, it’s a where. The Goulais River, G-O-U-L-A-I-S. It’s about forty-five minutes northwest of Sault Ste. Marie, on Lake Superior. Beautiful country. I camped up in Pancake Bay Provincial Park when I was in university. It’s about as far from urban living as you can get. Chloe might have been born there, but she’s definitely a city girl.”

  Emily figured stilettos, skintight clothes, and spray-on tans wouldn’t be the fashion of choice in a place like Goulais. “Did she stay in touch with Marc?”

  “She didn’t talk much about Marc. I gathered she hadn’t seen him for years. Then he called her ten days ago, said he was in Toronto for a meeting, and asked if he could see her. She agreed to meet him for coffee.” Kevin frowned. “I offered to go with her, but she insisted on meeting him alone.”

  “Do you know what he wanted?”

  “Apparently he was trying to make amends with everyone he’d hurt in his life, starting with the most recent offenses.”

  “Sounds like Alcoholics Anonymous. I think they have a step like that.”

  “Except that wasn’t it. Marc had joined an association, although to my mind it sounded more like a cult. The group was called FYSST. They’re based out of Thornbury.”

  Thornbury was a four-season resort community about two hours northwest of Toronto. It was known for good skiing, apples, and the waters of Georgian Bay. It
wasn’t the sort of place you’d expect a cult to start up.

  “Fist? As in punch someone with your fist?”

  “No, as in F-Y-S-S-T, an anagram. It stands for Face Yesterday, Save Someone Tomorrow.”

  What was it Levon had said to Arabella? Something about Marc telling him he was there to face yesterday. Emily tried to keep her expression neutral. She could just imagine Kevin’s reaction when Chloe told him about FYSST. He was never much on organized religion. Something like FYSST would set his inner radar on high alert.

  “Where did Marc fit in?”

  “He told Chloe that he was in charge of the Northern Ontario chapter. She didn’t ask if he’d recruited any members.” Kevin stopped walking and led them to a bench. He turned toward her, his brown eyes serious. “I would never say this to Chloe, but my guess is that Marc Laurentian was nothing more than a con man.”

  If it was a con, it was his last, Emily thought. “What if someone wanted to join FYSST? Is there a cost to do that? Some sort of initiation fee or donation to the cause?”

  Kevin shook his head. “I don’t know. Chloe said he didn’t ask her for money, but even if he did, she might not have told me.”

  Translation: they’d been fighting about money.

  Emily predicted a cookbook for one in Chloe’s future. She almost felt sorry for her. “Did Chloe forgive him?”

  “She did. She said he’d done the best he could. She admitted that she hadn’t made life easy for him, either. I gather she would have preferred her mother remain single. According to Chloe, they promised to get together again the next time Marc was in the city. We thought he’d gone back to Goulais River. Now you tell me that he was in Lakeside, renting a houseboat under my name.”

  “And found dead at the Miakoda Falls Golf and Country Club,” Emily said dryly. She chewed the inside of her lip, thinking. The short odds were that Marc Larroquette, aka Marc Laurentian, had gone to Lakeside with the intention of seeing Levon and asking for forgiveness under the guise of FYSST.

  According to the latest post on Outside the Landing, the “prominent local realtor” alleged there had been “others” involved in Marc’s efforts at reconciliation. It appeared that Chloe had been one of the others. She needed to tell Arabella what she’d just learned.

  “I’ve got to get back to Lount’s Landing. Can you point me in the direction of Union Station?” Kevin stood up. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll walk you there.”

  They were within spitting distance of Union Station when Emily noticed Chloe strutting toward them, chest thrust out, hands on hips, her black spandex tights and leopard-print top accentuating every curve. How long had she been following them? Since they’d passed her gym the first time? Or on the way back? Emily didn’t know and was relieved to find out that she didn’t care.

  Unless, of course, Chloe knew more about Marc Larroquette than she had shared with Kevin.

  Damn it. She’d have talk to Chloe.

  But not today. Today, Chloe was Kevin’s problem. Emily patted Kevin’s arm, letting her hand linger slightly longer than necessary, then gave him a peck on the cheek.

  She wound her way through the throng of commuters to Platform 26, humming Bad Timing by Blue Rodeo. It was time to go home.

  17

  Arabella paced the shop floor, nibbling on a shortbread cookie as Emily filled her in on her conversation with Kevin. She was going to give them up…once she emptied the tin.

  “You’re telling me that Marc Larroquette was living in Goulais River for the past ten years as Marc Laurentian.”

  “At least ten years,” Emily said. “That’s when he married Chloe’s mother, Alice. It’s possible he’s been there longer than that.”

  “I need to speak to Levon about this. I wonder if he knows Chloe? What’s her last name?”

  “Brampton. Kevin wasn’t sure whether or not her mother changed her name to Laurentian.”

  “The easiest way to find out is to talk to Chloe.”

  “It’s not as easy as you think. I don’t want to talk to her, and I can pretty much guarantee she feels the same way. Especially since…”

  “Since what? What did you do?”

  “Chloe was following us on the PATH. I gave Kevin a peck on the cheek. I might have let my hand rest on his arm a bit longer than was absolutely necessary before entering the GO train station.”

  “Classy.”

  “Admittedly not my finest hour, but I might have done her a favor. I think Kevin is getting ready to dump her. He intimated they’d been arguing about money, and he didn’t seem too pleased to see her on the PATH. Either way, I think it’s probably best if I wait a while before calling her.”

  “Maybe Kevin will break up with her and Chloe will call you—” Arabella blushed. “Did I just say that out loud?”

  “Yeah. You did. Let’s just say I won’t be waiting by the phone. In the meantime, it’s time to go to Plan B.”

  “What’s Plan B?”

  “I don’t know. But we’ll figure something out.”

  Plan B turned out to be a visit to Levon’s farmhouse on the outskirts of town. He’d called Arabella. He kept details sparse, but he wanted her to know that he was back from the police station and he asked her to come to his house.

  His tone of voice indicated he needed her help. She wondered if he was going to tell her the whole truth or hold back information. After their divorce, they’d gradually gone from barely making peace with one another to becoming friends again, but she’d never been to his new home until today.

  The exterior was slate blue board-and-batten with carefully painted cream trim. Pink and purple verbena cascaded out of window boxes. Two vintage wicker rockers and a round wicker side table stood on the front porch. Arabella remembered being with Levon the day he bought them. She fought the lump forming in her throat, pushing the thought aside and focusing on how much Emily would love this Victorian house. It was on about an acre of land, with a stream running along the west side of the property, and a row of trees acting as a natural fence along the east. A large wooden barn, painted rustic red, would be where Levon kept his antique finds and where he’d restore and refinish the furniture when warranted.

  “Sometimes you have to leave the age in, and sometimes,” Levon had told her, his words befitting a person with years of experience and a practiced eye, “the only way to sell a piece is to make it pretty again.”

  She was still taking it all in when Levon sauntered out onto the porch. He looked every bit his forty years plus a few, the dark circles under his indigo eyes emphasizing an unusually pale complexion. Even his trademark shaggy brown hair looked limp and tired.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “How do you think?”

  “I can leave if I’m bothering you.”

  Levon grimaced. “You’re right, you didn’t deserve that. Have a seat on the porch. Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?”

  “A glass of wine would be nice. Chardonnay if you have it.”

  “I do.”

  “Just a small one, though. I’m driving.”

  “You can always stay over.”

  “That’s probably not a great idea.”

  “I meant in the spare bedroom.”

  Arabella blushed. “Yeah, I knew that.”

  Levon grinned. “Sure you did. Let me get the drinks.”

  They settled into the wicker chairs, Levon with a Sleeman’s Honey Brown Lager and Arabella with an Australian Chardonnay. For a few minutes, they rocked in companionable silence. Neither one wanted to ruin the mood, even though they both knew the mood would have to be ruined.

  Levon went first.

  “Thanks for arranging the lawyer. Isla Kempenfelt was very impressive.”

  “You can thank Gilly for that.”

  “Hmm. Funny, she’s not answering my calls.”

  “It seems that your potential incarceration for murder is bad for her reputation.”

  A flicker of hurt, then, “I guess
I shouldn’t be surprised. Appearances are important to Gilly.”

  “Too important, if you ask me.”

  “Claws in, Bella, and let’s face facts. Gilly dumping me is the least of my problems.” She had to admit he was right. “What happened at the police station?”

  “Merryfield left me alone in the interview room until Isla Kempenfelt arrived. You’d think that would have calmed my nerves, but it only served to agitate me more. The room wasn’t much bigger than a broom closet where I waited and wondered…you can’t imagine what that felt like.”

  Arabella knew what it was like to be left waiting and wondering and hadn’t liked it, though she had to admit that the circumstances had been nowhere near as dire. “What happened when Kempenfelt got there?”

  “Merryfield let her come into the interview room and speak to me first. We talked about the possibility of my being charged with obstruction of justice. Isla—”

  “Isla? You’re already on a first-name basis with your lawyer?”

  Levon sighed. “Why the hell does that matter? And yes, to answer your question, she suggested it as soon as we met. She said it would make it easier for me to confide in her.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t matter. Did Isla think you could be charged with obstruction of justice?”

  “She didn’t think the police would take that route, and she was correct.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Is it? She does believe they’re trying to build a case against me. Her strategy was to determine what they knew by the questions Merryfield asked. She did say there was one big thing in my favor.”

  “What was that?”

  “There’s no direct evidence against me.”

  “Meaning?”