A Hole In One

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  Birdsong was a dozen doors up Main Street from the Glass Dolphin, a narrow store that had the singular advantage of being on the corner of Main and Prince, allowing for windows on both streets. Ned had filled them with an assortment of bird feeders in a variety of shapes and sizes. It was a bit cluttered, but the overall effect was pleasant—a look that carried throughout the small retail space.

  Ned had the ruddy-faced complexion of someone who’d spent much of his life outdoors. He was busy rearranging a display of oriole feeders. A sign announced twenty-five percent off. Arabella knew from her days with Levon that oriole season would soon be behind them, the birds starting their migration in August.

  Ned looked up, a pleased but surprised expression on his rugged face. “Hey Arabella, what brings you here?”

  His curiosity was well deserved since her only visit, aside from today, was in early May to purchase a hummingbird feeder and a jug of nectar. Unfortunately, she was never home long enough to see any hummingbirds. It also didn’t help that something—most likely a raccoon—seemed to consume the nectar every night, so there was nothing for the hummingbirds to drink during the day. Arabella had given up after the jug was empty and put the feeder away.

  “It’s about Levon’s father.”

  Ned nodded. “I suspected as much. I feel bad for Levon. He’s a decent man, and he’s been a good advocate for the store. I was also upset to read that Kerri St. Amour was trying to pin something on you and Emily. That woman is nothing but a muckraking bitch. Chantal feels the same way.”

  Arabella knew that Chantal and Ned had been an item for the past few months, an unlikely duo, though whatever they had going on seemed to work for them. Arabella didn’t know what Kerri had done to set them off, but it certainly seemed as if the reporter had few friends in the Landing.

  “Thanks for your concern. It means a lot.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Emily and I are following some leads. We want to clear Levon’s name, and our own, of course.

  It goes without saying that I want to keep Kerri out of this, as much as possible.”

  “You two didn’t learn from last year’s experience?” Ned shook his head. “Merryfield will be none too pleased. Beecham either, for more reasons than one.”

  Arabella shrugged. “Aaron and I split up a while back. As for Merryfield, I need you to keep this on the down-low. I’ll be sure to fill him in on anything he needs to know.”

  “Why do I think his idea of ‘need to know’ and yours are completely different? But okay, you’ve got a deal. I don’t owe the police anything. The way he treated me last year—”

  Arabella interrupted before Ned could go off on a tangent and filled him in on her visit with Nigel and Fran at the Sunrise Café.

  Ned frowned. “I don’t remember a guy with a muscle shirt, but there was this Elvis wannabe who came into the shop. He told me he wanted to do some serious bird watching. I sold him a pair of my best binoculars, and he didn’t squabble at the price.”

  “Did he say where he was going to use them?”

  “Sorry, no. He didn’t talk much at all, beyond asking about the technical aspects of the binoculars. At the time, I thought it was strange. He didn’t ask about the birds in the area or the best spots to watch them, but I was happy to make the sale.”

  “How did he pay?”

  “Cash. No paper trail there. He didn’t even want a receipt.”

  Arabella felt a wave of disappointment flood over her. Another lead gone with nothing much to show for it. “Okay, thanks. I suppose I should get back to the shop. I’ve left Emily alone long enough.”

  She was almost out the door when Ned called out after her, “You might check with Betsy Ehrlich over at the Noose. I saw Elvis go in there right after he left the building.” He chuckled at his joke. “Get it? Elvis has left the building?”

  Arabella laughed—it was kind of funny. Then she headed over to pay Betsy a visit. It was twelve fifteen. She was finally getting hungry, and it was perfect timing to stop in for lunch.

  24

  The Hanged Man’s Noose was across the street and two shops up from Birdsong. The pub was nearly deserted, save for three men in suits poring over paperwork while sharing a jug of beer.

  The quiet was typical for an early Monday afternoon. Arabella knew she’d have time to chat with Betsy since she did the bulk of her business for the dinner-and-drinks crowd.

  Betsy looked up from the bar and a smile lit up her gamine-like face.

  “What’s the lunch special today?” Arabella asked, swinging herself onto a bar stool.

  “Corned beef or shaved deli turkey on rye with a full sour pickle and hot mustard. French fries if you want them.”

  “I’ll have a club soda with lime and the turkey with fries. Do you have any gravy for the fries?”

  “I can get Nina to make some.” Nina was Betsy’s latest short order cook, a tiny woman with shoulder-length gray hair and well-defined biceps; the latter apparently came from her former career of hair stylist.

  “Then gravy it is. I need comfort food.” And maybe a touch of grease.

  “Let me see if the three men over there want to order lunch, so I can get Nina working on everything. After that, I should be able to join you, provided we don’t get an unexpected rush. Something tells me you’re not just here for lunch.”

  Arabella wandered about the pub. A passionate local history buff, Betsy had named the pub for the town’s namesake, the infamous hanged man, Samuel Lount. Arabella loved the vintage decor, especially the artifacts Betsy had acquired to add ambience and authenticity. She particularly loved the assorted antique clock shelves that lined the walls. Betsy had purchased most of the shelves from Arabella before she’d even opened the Glass Dolphin, and Betsy used them to display all manner of items.

  Arabella picked up a rebellion box and admired it. She had looked long and hard for it, and had given it to Betsy as a bar opening gift. Like the other boxes made by prison inmates in 1837 and 1838, it had been carved with a political message about fighting colonial rule and defending Lount: “May vengeance draw his sword in wrath and smite the traitors for the death of Matthews and Lount. Toronto, Aug. 1838.”

  Betsy slipped behind Arabella as silent as a cat, startling her. “A guy was in here a couple weeks back. It would have been the Canada Day weekend. I remember the day because he wore a Canada tank top.”

  If Betsy noticed Arabella’s reaction to her mention of the Canada tank top, she didn’t show it. “It turns out the guy knew a lot about local history. He came in here because the name of the bar caught his attention. He was fascinated with that rebellion box and offered to buy it. I told him it had been a gift and wasn’t for sale, but that he might want to check with you at the Glass Dolphin. He said he was already running late for a meeting in Lakeside, but that he’d pay you a visit another time.”

  “Thanks for the referral.” Arabella knew what Betsy was going to say, but she asked anyway. “Can you describe him? In case he does come in.”

  “You’d be able to spot him right off. He had this whole Elvis thing going on. Black hair slicked back, big sideburns, a bit of a belly. Not quite Elvis in Hawaii, but close. He had a wagon wheel tattoo on his arm, too, with lettering on it, but it’s dark in here and without my reading glasses… anyway, I couldn’t make out what it said.”

  “It spelled F-Y-S-S-T,” Arabella said. “It stands for Face Yesterday, Save Someone Tomorrow. It’s some sort of organization, group, or cult—I’m not sure which. Regardless, I’m looking for that guy.”

  Betsy sighed. “I should have known you weren’t just here for lunch. This is about Levon’s father, isn’t it? You’d think last year’s experience would have made you a bit more cautious.”

  Arabella was getting tired of being reminded about last year. It had turned out okay in the end, hadn’t it? “I’m being careful.”

  “If you say so. But what does Rebellion Box Elvis have to do with anything?” A bell ra
ng in the kitchen. “Lunch is ready. Hold that thought.”

  In between bites of her turkey sandwich and fries topped with a generous portion of gravy, and the periods when Betsy left to take care of the other customers that walked into the bar to eat and drink, Arabella filled Betsy in on what she’d learned so far: the houseboat rental; Emily’s meeting with Kevin; Levon’s account about meeting with his father; how Elvis bought expensive binoculars from Ned; and the other guy with the FYSST tattoo, who went to the Sunrise Cafe for lunch.

  “Let me get this straight,” Betsy said. “Marc Larroquette, aka Laurentian, belonged to an organization called FYSST. He went to Toronto to make amends with Chloe—that’s a bit of a mind blower, her connection to Levon—and then to Lount’s Landing to do the same with Levon. Next thing you know, Marc turns up dead at the golf tournament. Is that about the gist of it?”

  “An admirable summary.”

  “Do you think Elvis might be the murderer?”

  Arabella shook her head. “I don’t think so. People will remember a guy that looks like him. A murderer would want to keep a low profile. My guess is that Elvis was going to Lakeside to meet Marc. I’m not sure how the binoculars fit in. Maybe they don’t. Maybe he just wanted a pair and I’m reading too much into it.”

  “What about the other guy with the same tattoo?”

  “I wish I knew, though the reality is he’ll be more difficult to find. Fran called him nondescript.” Arabella brightened. “She did say that the guy ordered a BLT with double bacon and mustard instead of mayonnaise. Maybe he came in here another time.”

  “I do remember a guy like that. Who puts mustard on a BLT? But I didn’t get his name, and he only came in once.”

  “Did he have a tattoo?”

  “It was earlier in the year. Springtime, I think. He was probably wearing a jacket or a long- sleeved shirt.” Betsy sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m not being much help. I can’t even remember what he was wearing.”

  “Do you think you would recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Probably. I’m good at matching faces with orders. You have to be, in this business. Why?”

  “Because I have to find one or both of those men. I just don’t know where to look.”

  “I don’t know about your guy with the BLT and mustard, but as for Elvis, you might try the Elvis Festival in Collingwood. It’s on later this week. A guy like that, he’d probably want to go to the Elvis Festival.”

  “What Elvis Festival?”

  “You’ve never heard of it? It’s in July, been going on for quite a few years. I used to date a guy who was really into Elvis, and he took me there. It was a lot of fun, actually.” Betsy sighed. “He was going to take me to Graceland, but I found out he was married.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “His wife called to tell me. I gather I wasn’t his first transgression.”

  Arabella couldn’t help but grin. When it came to men, Betsy’s loser radar was legendary. But the Elvis Festival sounded promising. She put a twenty on the counter—she had to get back to the shop and Google it—then leaned over and gave her friend a hug. “The festival is a great lead. Thank you.”

  “Just bring me back a souvenir. Something tacky. And stay away from the fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Those things will kill you.”

  25

  Arabella hurried back to the Glass Dolphin, anxious to tell Emily everything she’d learned. But first, she wanted to know what Emily had found out about FYSST.

  “Not much,” Emily admitted. “They do have a website, but it’s more of a placeholder, with a password-protected members only section.”

  “How do you become a member?” Arabella asked.

  “There’s a contact form to fill out with the usual questions: name, address, how you heard about FYSST, why you want to join. There’s no ‘About Us’ section and no physical address. The Wikipedia entry was just a rehash of the information on the home page, not that I expected Wiki to be a source of information. What did surprise me was today’s blog in Outside the Landing.”

  “I haven’t seen it yet. What’s it say?”

  Emily opened the page on her tablet and read. “Chirp, chirp. Why does an antiques shop owner care whether an Elvis look-alike purchased a pair of field binoculars? Could there be more to her inquiries than mere curiosity? And, hey, Elvis, what’s with the wagon wheel tattoo?”

  An earlier blog had referenced “a little bird.” Now “Chirp, chirp.” Could it be… “When did the post go up?” Arabella asked.

  “About thirty minutes ago. Why?”

  “Ned Turcotte was in the foursome ahead of us at the golf tournament, and I left his store about an hour ago. Truth Seeker’s chirping birdie has to be Ned. And to think I bought it when he told me Kerri was nothing more than a muck-raking bitch. Honestly, I don’t know who to trust any more.”

  Arabella filled Emily in on everything she’d done and learned that morning. Emily listened attentively, and to her credit, she didn’t bring up the subject of last night with Levon again. Arabella was grateful. She didn’t want to lie, but she also didn’t want to play true confessions. After all, it was just one night. It didn’t mean anything.

  Did it?

  Emily was already Googling the Elvis Festival in Collingwood. “Betsy was right. It’s later on this week. It starts on Friday. It says they expect thirty thousand visitors. I have no idea how you expect us to find this guy—not to mention that we can’t exactly close the store for that long. And if you think you’re leaving me out of this, you have another thing coming.”

  Arabella paced. She was tempted to bring out the shortbread, but she had two things working against her: a nagging hangover and the sandwich and fries with gravy sitting heavy in her stomach. So much for Levon’s grease remedy. She vowed to stop drinking cognac.

  “I think opening day is our best bet,” Emily said, still navigating the website.

  Friday was one of their busier days, not that any day was action-packed. Still, closing the store wasn’t a viable option. She toyed with the idea of asking Levon, but he’d want to know why they needed to go to an Elvis Festival. She couldn’t think of an answer he’d believe.

  “Caitie Meadows has offered to mind the store,” Emily said, interrupting her thoughts. “I’m sure she’d be happy to help, if we asked her.”

  Arabella knew that Caitie hoped to own her own boutique one day, specializing in estate and vintage costume jewelry, as well as pieces made by local artisans. “I don’t know,” Arabella said. “She doesn’t really know anything about antiques beyond jewelry. What if someone wants to haggle with her?”

  “We can give her specific instructions. Like she can accept five percent off the sticker price. Or she can phone you and ask if the customer has another offer in mind. It’s not like we’ll be out of cell phone range. Besides, Collingwood is only a couple of hours from here. We can leave at noon. Caitie would only have to watch the shop from noon until six. Of course, if you don’t want to help Levon—”

  It was a low blow, but it was effective. “I’ll give Caitie a call,” Arabella said.

  Caitie was happy to help. They negotiated an hourly rate, along with a ten percent commission for anything sold. She arrived at the Glass Dolphin on Friday morning at eleven for a quick run through, eager to prove herself. Arabella remained nervous, but she knew Emily was right. It was only for a few hours, and it would be nice to have another person to trust with the shop.

  The trip to Collingwood was uneventful, the worst part of it, as usual, the trek up Highway 400 through Barrie. It always seemed to be busy, regardless of the day of the week or the time of day. Once they turned off and wound their way by Angus and through Stayner, the traffic thinned considerably. They made good time, arriving at the designated parking area by one thirty, and walked up Hurontario Street. They were a little overwhelmed by the throng of people and Elvis impersonators. There were kids as young as five, men as old as ninety-five, and every age in be
tween, donning Elvis’s signature outfits: the white sequined bellbottom pants and embroidered jackets. Others wore red, blue, and black versions of the ensemble, equally embellished.

  “How are we ever going to find Rebellion Box Elvis here?” Emily asked. “They all sort of look the same, and if he’s wearing a jacket, we won’t be able to spot the tattoo.”

  Arabella had to admit it was a problem, and one they should have had the foresight to consider. She was, however, intrigued by the intricacy of the costumes, which featured everything from starbursts to eagles. No doubt, there was some serious money invested. She had an idea.

  “There has to be at least one antiques shop in the area. This is a four seasons resort area, after all. Maybe our guy went into it. He wanted to buy Betsy’s rebellion box, and he admitted an interest in Canadiana.”

  Emily checked her phone for antiques shops in Collingwood. “There are a couple of décor-type shops. I doubt those will have the sort of thing we’re looking for. It looks like Stayner has a couple of shops, and there’s an antiques mall in Thornbury.”

  They could check Stayner on the way home. Thornbury was the next town west on Highway 26, a twenty-minute drive from Collingwood.

  “I think the antiques mall in Thornbury is our destination,” Arabella said. “Let’s go. We’re never going to find Elvis here.”

  A couple next to her snickered and made their way into the crowd.

  Emily was not to be outdone. “It was a bit of a hair-brained scheme,” she said to Arabella, and the two of them laughed at that until they were almost in Thornbury.

  The Thornbury antiques mall had a decent selection of vendors. “If nothing else, we might find a bargain or two to take back to the Glass Dolphin,” Arabella said, wandering the aisles with a purposeful stride. The first step was to find someone who specialized in Canadiana, but in the meantime, she might as well seize the moment.