The Hanged Man's Noose

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  “No, I suppose there isn’t,” Michelle said, her lips pursed ever so slightly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find alternate accommodations or negotiate extending your lease with Camilla Mortimer-Gilroy directly.”

  “I can do that. So where do we go from here?”

  “You sign the papers. The money will be wire-transferred into your account within the next forty-eight hours.”

  Emily reached into her desk and pulled out her gold-filled pen. Signed the termination papers with a flourish.

  I’m not giving up, mom. I’m not giving up.

  35

  With Michelle gone—no hugging and air pecking to worry about this time—Emily spent the next hour cleaning out the office of Inside the Landing. Not that she had a lot to clean out; she hadn’t even gotten around to hanging a single picture on the wall before she’d been fired.

  At least she wouldn’t have fill nail holes or repaint. But it would have been nice to have enough time to make the space her own, bit by bit, until it reflected her personality. Or at least some personality. As it was…

  Emily shook off the feeling of isolation and emptied a box filled with printer paper—the paper belonged to Urban-Huntzberger, but surely the box wouldn’t matter—and slowly began placing the handful of personal belongings inside it. Her “World’s Most Honest Golfer” mug. A long-sleeved cardigan for when the office got chilly. Her jersey knit black dress and low-heeled pumps, in case she had to clean up fast. A purple leather-look notebook with a stylized peacock embossed onto the cover. Her laptop.

  The printer, paper, pens, and paperclips belonged to Urban-Huntzberger.

  So did everything else, with the exception of the used sofa. She remembered the way Garrett Stonehaven sank into the black leather cushions, the way he’d tried to intimidate her. The sofa had cost her less than a hundred dollars. Whoever moved in here next could have it. It and the blank, personality-free walls.

  Emily arrived at the Gilroy Mansion at three o’clock. She’d run by it a number of times, but had yet to step a foot inside, partly because there had never been any real need, and partly out of a sense of loyalty to Arabella.

  She rang the doorbell. Camilla opened the door less than a minute later. She wore form-fitting jeans, a designer T-shirt in swirly shades of brown, and ankle-high, tan suede moccasins, complete with beaded fringe. Her blonde hair had been pulled back into a careless ponytail, stray wisps and tendrils framing her heart-shaped face. Clear blue eyes, long dark lashes, skin the color of softly tinted porcelain. A woman like that could definitely influence the men in her life.

  “Hello, Camilla. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Michelle called. I’ve been expecting you. Come on in. It’s cold out there.” Camilla led her into a large, sunlit room filled with Victorian furniture, the kind of room the English would call a front parlor. “I was about to sit down for afternoon tea. Would you care to join me?”

  Emily blushed. She hadn’t expected Camilla to be so gracious.

  “I’m not nearly the nasty witch Arabella has told you about,” Camilla said with a smile.

  “Arabella didn’t—”

  “Of course she did. But it’s old business between the two of us. It has nothing to do with you and me. It isn’t every day a person gets fired. If this isn’t a time for tea and sympathy, when is?”

  “Tea would be nice.”

  “I’ll be back in a jiff,” Camilla said, leaving Emily to assess her surroundings. She couldn’t help but admire the detail in the crown molding, the gleaming wood trim, the wainscoted walls, the vintage fireplace with its burnished mahogany mantle, the faint smell of furniture polish permeating the air. Everything about the room spelled old money.

  But did it spell new money? A closer look at the furniture revealed patches of threadbare fabric, carefully disguised with pillows and throws. True, a case could be made for maintaining authenticity, but Emily suspected Camilla’s financial situation could use a boost. There wasn’t a single picture, yet there were faded patches, the odd nail hole, telltale signs that pictures had once hung on these walls.

  “I forgot to ask you how you took your tea, so I brought milk, sugar, and lemon,” Camilla said. She was carrying a tray laden with a blue and white teapot, matching bone china teacups, and dessert plates. Emily had seen a similar pattern at the Glass Dolphin. Arabella had labeled it “Willow.” A tiered platter held what looked to be homemade scones, clotted cream, and strawberry preserves. The woman knew how to put on an afternoon tea.

  “It looks wonderful,” Emily said. “You needn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

  “It was no trouble. Now, what brings you to the Gilroy Mansion?”

  “I suppose Michelle filled you in on my situation. Regarding the house rental.”

  Camilla nodded. “Urban-Huntzberger has paid up to the end of the month. After that you’re on your own. If it’s any consolation, the termination wasn’t entirely Michelle’s decision. She always liked you.”

  “It’s a minor consolation.”

  “We go back, you know, me and Michelle.”

  “How far back?”

  “More years than I care to admit. My late husband, Graham, was at the same camp as Michelle’s son, Ambrose. They were just wayward teenagers back then. Graham was always rebellious. I’m not sure what Ambrose’s story was. He was always more of a follower than a leader. When I heard he died, I sent Michelle a card and made a donation in Ambrose’s name.”

  “I’m curious. How did you hear about Ambrose?”

  “I can’t remember. I suppose Graham must have told me. At any rate, Michelle called to thank me, and we arranged to meet for lunch. She’s quite knowledgeable about art. She helped me pick out a couple of nice pictures. They turned out to be a good investment.” Camilla smiled. “I’m sure you noticed the fade marks on the wall.”

  “I assumed you were getting ready to paint,” Emily said, pleased with her quick thinking.

  “Did you?” Camilla poured the tea. “The truth is I sold every last one of them. Graham’s family all but disowned him when he married me. When his parents died in an automobile crash about a year later, he inherited this house and its contents, but all their money was earmarked for charity. I’m afraid Graham’s spending habits didn’t coincide with a much-reduced income.”

  Emily wasn’t sure quite what to say. She certainly hadn’t been expecting Camilla to be quite so forthcoming. It felt oddly embarrassing.

  “It’s a well-known secret that when Graham died, he left me virtually penniless. I assumed Arabella would have told you some version of the facts. I thought you should know the truth.”

  “Arabella didn’t say anything, but Johnny Porter told me how you transformed the house into a B and B,” Emily said. “He was quite exuberant in his praise of Gilroy Mansion, and your accomplishments, including buying and renovating the rental property I’m currently living in.”

  “Fortunately, I had a few good things to sell, and the Gilroy family name to trade on. I took the money and decided to invest it in real estate. Renovated this house, along with the one you’re currently renting. Poppy Spencer has been a wonderful mentor. You might want to consult with her should you decide to stay.”

  “I’m considering it. Not consulting Poppy, though I might at some point. I’m considering staying. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to continue to rent the house from you, on a month-to-month basis. Until I can sort out what my Plan B is.”

  “Michelle mentioned you might want to continue the lease. Month-to-month is fine, but I’d need at least sixty days’ notice in writing before you vacate the property.”

  “That seems like a reasonable request.” Emily took a sip of her tea. Earl Grey. It was one of her mother’s favorite blends. But surely Camilla couldn’t have known that. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You can ask. I can’t promise I’ll answer it.”

  “I’m sure Stonehaven dying here was a dreadful shock.”

 
“That would be an understatement, but yes, it was shock. Is that your question?”

  “No. What I wanted to ask was, do you think Stonehaven’s death was an accident, suicide, or murder?”

  “What an interesting question. I’m not sure, to tell you the truth, though I’ll admit I was surprised when the police told me it looked like a drug overdose. Garrett never struck me as a drug user, though we can never be sure of what goes on behind closed doors.”

  “What about murder?”

  “It would definitely not be good for business if it turns out to be murder,” Camilla said. “Even an accidental death is far from desirable from a PR standpoint. But the reality is a lot of folks in Lount’s Landing weren’t too happy with Stonehaven or his proposal. Your friend, Arabella, for one. Whether she hated him and his plan enough to kill him is something you’d have to ask her directly.”

  “But you were right by his side on the night of the presentation. You were willing to act as his receptionist. Would you have invested in StoreHaven?”

  “I’m beginning to think Michelle made a mistake letting you go. You really are an investigative reporter, aren’t you? ”

  “Guilty as charged,” Emily said, smiling. “But you haven’t answered my question. Would you have invested?”

  This time Camilla actually laughed. “I’m not exactly flush with cash. Mortgaged to the eyeballs, I’m afraid. The white Mercedes you saw in the driveway is a lease. That’s why I hired Shakyra. It’s important to keep up appearances.”

  “But you believed in Stonehaven’s plan.”

  Camilla’s lovely blue eyes narrowed, and Emily knew she’d pushed too hard.

  “Johnny believed in it, and that was good enough for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some other business to take care of. I’ll make sure to draw up a new short-term rental contract for you. Swing by sometime tomorrow with your checkbook.”

  And with that, Emily was summarily dismissed.

  36

  Emily left the Gilroy Mansion feeling somewhat battered. First Michelle had fired her, and then Camilla had implied her rental agreement would be short-term. It was for the best, though. As lovely as the house was, it didn’t feel like home, and she still hadn’t repainted the main rooms with the Hay Bale Johnny had given her. She’d probably end up moving back to Toronto sooner rather than later.

  For the moment, however, she couldn’t face the thought of moving, or the thought of going back to the house. She decided to swing by the Glass Dolphin and update Arabella on her meetings with Michelle and Camilla.

  Emily arrived at the Glass Dolphin to find Arabella hunched over an old clock, a pair of reading glasses halfway down her nose.

  “I’ve been hired to do an appraisal of this antique clock,” Arabella said, not looking up. “A fine example of a Sessions Regulator ‘E’ clock made in Forestville, Connecticut, what collectors would call a square regulator.”

  Emily sensed a hint of repressed anger, nothing overt, but it was there. She knew it drilled back to not confiding in Arabella sooner.

  “What’s involved?” she asked, not necessarily asking because she was interested, but because she knew the surest way to Arabella’s heart was through her antiques.

  “I suppose it depends on the appraiser. I try to provide historical research, along with market comparables, sales on eBay and auctions, for example. What’s cool about this clock is that I found reference to it in this 1978 National Association of Watch and Clock Collectors publication called the Bulletin.”

  Arabella pointed to a black and white photo of a clock on page five hundred and ninety. It was a dead ringer for the clock lying on the table in front of Arabella, calendar dial and all.

  “I guess being an antiques shop owner isn’t much different from being a journalist,” Emily said. “We’re both investigators of a sort.”

  “I never thought of it in that way before, but you’re right. Look here. The article says these clocks were produced between 1903 and 1908, with a retail price of $7.35 as a timepiece and $8.30 as a striker in 1915. A calendar attachment was forty-five cents extra for either model. This clock would have retailed for $7.80.”

  “Was $7.80 a lot of money then?”

  “I use something called a Historical Currency Conversion calculator, and I have tables to tell me what the average salary was in any given year. Based on the currency calculator, $7.80 would be roughly $200. The average salary in 1908 was twenty-two cents an hour, so this clock would have cost the equivalent of about one week’s pay.”

  “You are an investigator.”

  “Speaking of investigating, how did it go with Michelle Ellis? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Not for a lesson in clock appraisals.” Arabella gave her a full-on smile, and Emily knew they’d be okay. She felt the tension leave her neck and shoulders.

  “Before we get to that, did you meet with Stanford?”

  “Yes, I did. He told me Camilla had recruited him to be part of Team StoreHaven, and he’d been led to believe they were sourcing out properties for a condominium, not a megabox store. He had no idea there would be a request for investors until the night of the presentation.”

  Interesting. Camilla hadn’t mentioned that she’d also been a recruiter for Stonehaven. Emily gave Arabella a quick rundown on her meeting with Camilla.

  “I thought you were going to meet with Michelle, not Camilla,” Arabella said after Emily had finished.

  “I did meet with Michelle first, but I also had to talk to Camilla about my rental agreement,” Emily said. “I’ll fill you in on the details later, but let’s get back to Stanford for a minute. Did he tell you anything else?”

  “Nothing of importance, why?”

  “Something Michelle Ellis told me.”

  “Like what?”

  “First off, she told me Ambrose died a few years after leaving Camp Miakoda. From what I can gather he was in there for possession of marijuana, but he’d managed to turn his life around.”

  “Did she say how he died?”

  “Uh huh. The police ruled it as an accidental overdose, some sort of street drug cocktail, but she never believed it.”

  “Let me guess. Her boy might have smoked some grass, but he didn’t do hard drugs.”

  “I hear what you’re saying. But here’s the thing, Arabella. Ambrose was working for Garrett Stonehaven when he died.”

  “Go on.”

  “He told Michelle he saw irregularities in the HavenSent sales model.”

  “What kind of irregularities?”

  “He said the format reminded him of a pyramid scheme they’d run at Camp Miakoda. A few days later, Ambrose died of an accidental overdose. And here’s the kicker. Stonehaven didn’t bother to attend the funeral.”

  “Nice guy. Did Michelle find any evidence of a pyramid scheme?”

  “No, but then again, she wasn’t directly involved in the project, and she would have been devastated by her son’s death. There’s something else you need to know, Arabella.”

  “What?”

  “Ambrose Ellis had a father.”

  “Everyone has a father,” Arabella said.

  “So they do, it’s just that this particular father might come as a surprise to you.”

  “Are you saying I know the father?”

  Emily nodded. “It seems his father was Stanford McLelland. I gather he and Michelle were teenagers when she got pregnant. They never married. Stanford didn’t know he had a son until Ambrose was about twelve.”

  “I can’t believe Stanford never told me. Do you think Levon knows?”

  “I don’t know. My guess is he might not. There’s no reason he would have known, unless Stanford visited Ambrose at Camp—or if he connected the dots. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  “I’ll ask him all right.” Arabella frowned. “Something doesn’t make sense to me. Why, all these years later, does Garrett Stonehaven surface in Lount’s Landing? With a plan sounding suspiciously like a pyramid scheme? Both Johnny and
Stanford were part of the Camp Miakoda years. He had to know they’d recognize the formula.”

  “What if he knew they’d recognize the formula and was baiting them?”

  “What kind of person does that? What was he hoping to prove?”

  “If we had the answer,” Emily said, “we might also know who wanted him dead.”

  37

  By the time Arabella finished the clock appraisal, it was after six o’clock, but she knew Stanford would still be at the office. The man lived and breathed insurance. Hungry as she was, she needed information more than sustenance. She went to her cookie stash, took out a couple of shortbreads, and ate them standing up. Dinner could wait.

  He picked up on the first ring. “McLelland.”

  “It’s Arabella.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “I found out about Ambrose today.”

  Silence. “Who told you?”

  “Emily. Michelle Ellis told her.”

  “By the time you started working for me, Ambrose was already dead. There didn’t seem to be any need to tell you about him. What was I going to say? By the way, I have an illegitimate son who is dead?”

  “You must have been surprised when Stonehaven arrived in Lount’s Landing.”

  “Surprised? That’s one way of looking at it. I was more suspicious of his motives. Michelle always believed Stonehaven was behind Ambrose’s death. I was never quite as sure. I figured Ambrose had taken another dark turn. He was easily led.”

  “Do you still believe that?”

  “I’m not as convinced. First Stonehaven arrives in Lount’s Landing, sets up the StoreHaven team, and before you know it, the bodies began to pile up. Carter Dixon. February Fassbender. All accidental deaths. I began to wonder.”

  “You think Michelle might have been right.”

  “I think it bears consideration. Ambrose had found something suspect in Stonehaven’s books. Or so he’d said. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t believe him at the time. I told him to man up and be glad for the job.” Stanford sighed, a sad, deflated sound. “Not my finest moment in parenting, I’ll admit. But Ambrose was easily led. He had a history of drug abuse. He had lied to Michelle and me on repeated occasions. But I can’t help but wonder. If I’d believed him, or at least given him the benefit of the doubt, things might have turned out differently.”