The Hanged Man's Noose

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  48

  Camilla looked up as Arabella came out of the woods. “Your ex-wife is here,” she said. “Or should I say your lover?”

  “Levon may be my ex-husband, but he’s certainly not my lover,” Arabella said, casting a disdainful glance in his general direction. “Not now, not any time in the foreseeable future.”

  “You expect me to believe that? From what Nigel tells me, you two have been spending a lot of time together. You and that snoopy journalist, Emily Garland.” Camilla pointed to the boat and the semi-conscious Emily. “You can see where snoopiness got her.”

  Where the hell did Nigel Watters get all his bloody gossip? Arabella wondered. “Levon’s been using me to make you jealous. I suspected he was seeing you again, so I followed him here. Frankly, when I saw Johnny’s car, I thought I might be wrong.” Arabella brushed a twig out of her hair. “I could have done without the scenic hike.”

  “She’s telling the truth, Millie,” Levon said, his voice tender. “I’ve loved you from the first day I met you. I never thought I stood a chance.”

  Millie? Camilla Mortimer-Gilroy was Millie? And this was how she had to find out? She was going to kill Levon if they managed to get out of this mess alive. Kill him with her bare hands, no gun needed.

  Emily tried to focus on the scene between Camilla, Levon, and Arabella playing out before her eyes, but it was getting harder and harder to concentrate. She tried to take her pulse, the way she did after a long run, knew it had grown faint beneath her increasingly clumsy fingers. Hypothermia. She closed her eyes, heard a faint hum.

  She was finally going to see her mother again.

  49

  The faint hum had been a police boat, which arrived just as Camilla was getting ready to hand the gun over to Levon. Arabella recognized the burly officer who had given her a speeding ticket and wanted to run over and hug him. The other officer was Detective Merryfield, who had interviewed her a lifetime ago when she’d discovered Stonehaven’s body. Another boat followed with two paramedics on board, making their way to Emily. It was painfully obvious Johnny could wait.

  They were questioned, admonished severely more than once for trying to take the law into their own hands, and questioned again. Emily spent the night in the hospital and came out the next afternoon right as rain, save for a tensor bandage on her left ankle. Camilla remained in jail, awaiting her day in court and the likelihood of life in prison without parole. As for Levon, as much as she hadn’t wanted to forgive him for not fessing up about the whole Millie business, she couldn’t seem to hold a grudge.

  She found herself reassessing a lot of things about her life. The next thing you knew she’d be accepting consignments from local artisans. Not reproductions, mind you, that wasn’t ever going to happen at the Glass Dolphin. Authenticity still mattered. But selected handmade arts and crafts? When she thought about it, what could be more authentic than that?

  “I didn’t think you believed me,” Arabella said to Constable Aaron Beecham. After all the hours of interrogation, she’d gotten semi-friendly with the burly police officer that had saved their lives.

  They were sitting inside the Sunrise Café, sipping coffee. The diner wasn’t quite the same now that Gloria had left town. Nigel Watters had closed down Frankie’s Fish and Chips and taken over. Then again, change took time.

  “I honestly didn’t think you believed me,” Arabella said, again.

  “I didn’t,” Beecham admitted. “At least not at first. But you were so determined to tell me something. I knew Detective Merryfield had his doubts about all the recent accidents in Lount’s Landing. So I called him, told him you’d mentioned a place called Camp Miakoda and a friend you thought might have been abducted. Turns out Merryfield’s partner grew up in these parts. She remembered the local outrage when it opened. Unfortunately, we didn’t get there in time to save Johnny Porter.”

  “Everybody always said Johnny was good people,” Arabella said. “He’d spent his entire adult life in Lount’s Landing trying to live up to that reputation. No matter how pure his intentions, I don’t think he would have been able to live with everyone knowing he was a cold-blooded killer.”

  “Not many people can,” Beecham said. “Not many people can.”

  50

  A couple of weeks later, the tensor bandage gone, Emily walked into the Glass Dolphin carrying a large gift-wrapped box. “The elementary school is back up for sale,” she said.

  “I saw that on my way in this morning,” Arabella said. “I notice Poppy didn’t get the listing this time. Can’t blame the school board for that one. What’s in the box?”

  “I brought you a shop warming gift.”

  “A shop warming gift? Sweet of you, but I’ve been open for a while.”

  “At first I bought it as a Christmas present, but I didn’t want you to think you had to buy me a Christmas present. Then I thought, I’d call it a New Year’s gift, but then I’d have to hold onto it, and people don’t give gifts on New Year’s and that might start another gift exchange. So I decided to call it a shop warming gift.”

  “I’m certainly not one to look a shop warming gift in the mouth. Can I open it?”

  “You can.”

  “It’s heavy,” Arabella said.

  Emily waited impatiently while Arabella slowly peeled off the silver wrapping paper. After what seemed like forever, she got around to opening the box.

  “A wine refrigerator. I love, love, love it, Emily. You shouldn’t have. But thank you.”

  “You did save my life. Plus, I fully intend to help you consume the contents.”

  “You stocked it with wine?”

  “Hell, no. A bottle of Courvoisier and a half dozen miniature carrot cake cupcakes with cream cheese icing.”

  Arabella opened the refrigerator door and laughed. “I always did like your style.” She sauntered over to the filing cabinet and grabbed two brandy snifters, then poured a healthy shot of Courvoisier in each. “What shall we toast to?”

  “Before we get to that, there’s something else I have to tell you. I’ve been waiting for the right time. Urban-Huntzberger has terminated my contract.”

  “They’re going to stop publishing Inside the Landing?

  “Not exactly. They’ve hired Kerri St. Amour as the editor.”

  “Nice.”

  “It’s okay, they were more than generous with their severance. Seems I never had a chance once you and I became friends. It turns out Camilla was one of the silent partners, along with Stonehaven’s accountant, a slimeball by the name of Eldon Thornbury. Urban-Huntzberger has been quick to divorce themselves from their association with Camilla, and the accountant will be doing some serious jail time once Revenue Canada takes a look at his books.”

  “Do you think Michelle knew about Camilla?”

  “Camilla said she didn’t, and I’m inclined to believe her. Why lie about that and not everything else? And Michelle assures me she never meant me to come to any harm. Not that it changes anything. I’m still unemployed.”

  “You were too good for that job.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s true. But thank you for saying so.”

  “What will you do?”

  “That depends on you.”

  “On me?”

  “You’ve got a great shop here, Arabella, filled with amazing merchandise. But you aren’t getting the sort of traffic you should be.”

  “It is still early days, and I have been a wee bit distracted,” Arabella said. “But I’ll admit I’m better at buying than I am at selling. And it’s a lot harder than I thought it would be, running a place all on my own. Every time I want to leave, I have to close the shop. I can’t imagine trying to go on a vacation.”

  “What if you had someone to help you? Someone to do the online stuff, keep the website updated with fresh merchandise, write a monthly newsletter. Start a blog.”

  “You mean, educate folks? Let them know antiques are green, that they’re the original recyclable. That antiques a
ren’t scary things you have to treat with kid gloves. That people have lived with these pieces for decades and decades.”

  Emily laughed. “Yeah, like that, although maybe a little less intense.”

  “Wait a minute, are you volunteering to do the online stuff and the newsletter? Because I can’t afford to hire you.”

  “I’m not volunteering, and I’m not looking to be your employee. I have some money from the Urban-Huntzberger buyout. I could put a down payment on a modest house in Lount’s Landing and still have some left to invest as a partner in the Glass Dolphin. Provided there aren’t any pyramid schemes involved.”

  “Ha, ha, very funny,” Arabella said. “But I have to admit, I’m intrigued. What would you do, as my partner?”

  “Marketing. Take care of the web presence, work at getting tour groups from the city to visit historic Main Street, get other businesses and associations to link to the website.” Emily grinned. “I would never have told him so, but not all of Garrett Stonehaven’s ideas were bad.”

  “You’ve thought this through?”

  “I have. And there’s more. I could write feature articles for antiques and consumer interest publications, include the website. I used to eke out a decent living as a freelance writer. I could do it again. I still have some connections, and I can build more.”

  “It all sounds good, but are you sure you don’t want to go back to Toronto? Don’t let the past few weeks fool you. This town is usually beyond sleepy. And as you pointed out, business isn’t exactly booming.”

  “I’m positive. With the right marketing strategy, the Glass Dolphin could become a huge success. Besides, I’ve always wanted to write a historical romance. What better place to write a historical romance than in a town filled with history and hangings?”

  “You’d have to learn more about antiques.”

  “I’m a fast learner, and I’d have a good teacher.”

  Arabella sipped her cognac and considered Emily for a long moment before answering. “We’d have to have a lawyer draw up the paperwork.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And we’d have to be sure of who was responsible for what.”

  “Naturally.”

  “So, I would be in charge of Sales and Acquisitions, and you’d be in charge of Online Sales and Marketing.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “We’d have to have an open and honest relationship. No more secrets.”

  “Agreed.”

  Arabella smiled. “Then I can’t imagine anyone who I’d rather have as my business partner. Shall we toast to becoming partners, work out the details tomorrow?”

  “I have a better idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How about toasting to the power of friendship instead?”

  “To the power of friendship,” Arabella said, and clinked Emily’s glass.

  Levon pressed his nose against the window of the Glass Dolphin, watching the scene between Emily and Arabella. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it had been a long time since he’d seen Arabella look that happy. He fingered the tiny velvet box in his left jean jacket pocket. Maybe he had misread things. Maybe you couldn’t go back.

  He turned away from the window and walked up Main Street towards The Hanged Man’s Noose.

  There was a Sleeman Honey Brown lager there with his name on it.

  * * *

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  All stories have to start somewhere, and in the case of The Hanged Man’s Noose, that somewhere was a short story written for a creative writing class. At the time, there was no murder or mayhem, but there was a small, fictional town—Lount’s Landing—and there was an antiques shop owner by the name of Arabella Carpenter. Long after I put that short story to rest, Arabella and the town rattled around in my head. And so, work on what would become the Hanged Man’s Noose began in earnest.

  But writing is a solitary pursuit, sometimes lonely, sometimes so all consuming you start to forget there’s another world out there than the one you’re immersed in. That’s where friends and family come in; they serve to remind us of reality, share in our angst over rejection and blank pages, and help us to celebrate every victory, however minor.

  While there are far too many people to recognize here, there are a few that must be mentioned. They include my first editors, Lourdes Venard and Marta Tanrikulu, early readers (the late) Lou Allin, Janet Bolin, Dorothyanne Brown, and Marcus Trower; my tea and sympathy group: Barry Dempster, Sharon Wilston, and Christine Barbetta, and, in alphabetical order, Carol Dee, Donna Dixon, Vicki Gladwish, Charlotte and Larry Owen, and Nina Patterson. For your support, encouragement, and unfailing belief in me, and my story, thank you.

  I’d also like to acknowledge the writing associations and members that have become an integral part of my life: Crime Writers of Canada and Sisters in Crime, especially the Sisters in Crime Guppy Branch, a supportive haven for published and “Great Unpublished” mystery authors.

  Last, but certainly not least, to my mother, who instilled my love of reading and watches over me now, and to Mike, who encouraged me not only to follow my dreams, but to believe in them.

  * * *

  Judy Penz Sheluk

  A HOLE IN ONE

  A Glass Dolphin Mystery #2

  * * *

  Judy Penz Sheluk

  * * *

  Four Chapter Preview

  1

  Arabella Carpenter ran her hands over the smooth surface of the shiny new jet ski. It was the hole in one prize at the Second Annual “Kids Come First” Golf Tournament. The tournament—a charitable initiative supporting program for at-risk youth in the tri-community area of Lount’s Landing, Miakoda Falls, and Lakeside—was being held at the Miakoda Falls Golf and Country Club.

  Somehow, Gillian “Gilly” Germaine, the tournament organizer, had convinced her that sponsoring the contest would be good advertising for Arabella’s Glass Dolphin antiques shop. Well, “convinced” wasn’t entirely accurate. It was her new business partner, Emily Garland, who’d talked her into it, though what jet skis and golf had to do with antiques was beyond Arabella. Nevertheless, their deal was that Emily would be in charge of advertising and promotion, leaving Arabella to concentrate on purchasing and sales. Nixing Emily’s first real A&P idea would have been bad form.

  Arabella didn’t have much choice in the matter. Emily had been adamant. A jet ski, she had explained, would be the kind of prize the well-heeled folks in Lakeside would gravitate towards. The Glass Dolphin sponsoring such a prize would give them the sort of chichi street cred that would make them want to visit the shop. Once they made the twenty-five-minute trek to Lount’s Landing, they were bound to buy something. Especially once they saw the quality of the Glass Dolphin’s merchandise.

  “What if someone actually hit a hole in one and they had to give away the jet ski?” Arabella had asked. Emily had a ready answer. The odds were astronomical. The third hole, a nasty par three, was one hundred and forty yards to carry over a pond, another twenty-five yards to the pin, with a thicket of trees on both sides, and a sand trap that beckoned from behind. Downright nasty it was.

  Having played the course on a couple of occasions, Arabella had conceded that number three was challenging. But that didn’t make it impossible. Not by a long shot—pun fully intended.

  Even better, Emily had countered. “If no one won the jet ski, it would be that day’s news, quickly forgotten. But if someone won, imagine the headlines. For sure it would make the local press, but they might even get some coverage in the Toronto papers, not to mention the rampant word-of-mouth machine that ran in the tri-communities.”

  The sound of a golf cart heading in her direction stopped Arabella’s thoughts midstream. She glanced over the green and watched as Emily wound her way along the paved path, a cardboard sign propped up in the basket at the back of the cart. She parked the cart a few feet from where Arabella was standing, hopped off, smoothed out her blac
k golf skort, and positively sprinted over to the jet ski.

  As always, Arabella felt a touch of envy at Emily’s glossy, dark hair, now neatly tied into a ponytail, her bangs held gently in place by a black and gold Miakoda Falls Golf and Country Club visor. Arabella’s own hair was a mass of auburn curls that behaved well enough on a cool, dry, winter’s day, but got wilder and woolier as summer’s heat and humidity ratcheted up. On a hot, muggy day like today, it was virtually unmanageable. Stick a cap on top of it and she resembled Bozo the clown. Not exactly the look an almost forty-year-old woman was after, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Even if she took the time to flat iron it straight, it would last all of an hour in this heat.

  “Gorgeous,” Emily was saying, her fingers caressing the jet ski. “Too bad we’re ineligible to win. You know, on the off-chance one of us gets a hole in one.”

  “I think the odds of that happening are pretty slim.” And slim just left town.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Wait ’til you see what I’ve got.” Emily ran back to the golf cart, pulled a gold-lettered placard out of the basket, and inserted it into the rectangular tee sign currently advertising the club’s twilight rates, fussing and fidgeting until she got it positioned just right.

  “Print It! did a great job, don’t you think? Gave us a good deal, too. I think Harvey felt sorry for me, and to be honest, I did milk getting fired from Inside the Landing to broker a deal. Plus I let him put his Print It! business logo on the bottom.” Emily grinned. “I think that was rather a stroke of genius.”

  A good cost-saving idea, sure. A stroke of genius? That might be taking things a bit far. “They look great. The sign, the jet ski. Except I’m the one doing the books, and believe me when I tell you, and not for the first time, that the Glass Dolphin is barely breaking even. I’m just not sure we can afford it.”