The Hanged Man's Noose

by Judy Penz Sheluk

  Emily sighed. “First off, it’s a bit too late to renege now, the night before the tournament, don’t you think? What would that do to our reputation? Second, I’ve already explained how little money this will actually cost the shop. One good sale should easily cover it. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll go over the numbers one last time.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Fine. The jet ski is being supplied by Luke’s Lakeside Marina. Luke transported it from the marina, at no cost to us, and he’ll either take it back to the marina after the tournament, or arrange delivery to the winner, should there be one. He’s also springing for half the insurance and fifty percent of the sign, which, as I already told you, is costing us next to nothing. Essentially, we’re co-sponsoring the hole with him.”

  Arabella suspected Emily’s relationship with Luke Surmanski ran a lot deeper than co-sponsoring a hole in one contest at a golf tournament, but she let it go. Emily would confide in her when she was ready.

  “Explain the insurance again.”

  This netted another sigh, along with an exaggerated eye roll. “I gave you the policy to read over two weeks ago. Didn’t you do that?”

  Arabella had meant to, but she’d been busy. Then there’d been that two-day multi-estate auction in Pottageville. She’d won more box lots than expected, and had been sorting through them ever since. It wasn’t easy to decide what items to keep for sale in the shop, which to reserve for sale online, and what should be donated to the local ReStore. Before she knew it, the day of the tournament had arrived. She shook her head and did her best to look sufficiently contrite.

  The look must have worked, because the exasperation on Emily’s face softened ever so slightly. “I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version. I went to Stanford McLelland Insurance Brokerage, and you’ll be happy to know that I dealt directly with Stanford.”

  That, at least, made Arabella feel better. Before opening the Glass Dolphin, she’d worked for Stanford doing a variety of claims-related tasks, especially those involving antiques and collectibles. When it came to the insurance business, there wasn’t much the man didn’t know.

  “Stanford found a company that specializes in hole in one insurance. That’s all they do, actually.”

  Incredible. Here they were, trying to diversify to boost sales, and there was a company that did nothing but sell hole in one insurance.

  “How does it work?”

  “They calculate the number of golfers participating in the tournament, which in this case is nine holes with four golfers per hole for a grand total of thirty-six, minus our foursome, which leaves thirty-two possible winners. Then they calculate the degree of difficulty for the hole along with the value of the prize. The cost for the Glass Dolphin, all in, is two hundred dollars, which we’ll split down the middle with Luke’s Lakeside Marina.”

  “It does sound like you have every angle covered.”

  “That’s the spirit. Trust me, nothing will go wrong.”

  2

  The morning of the tournament was picture perfect, a mid-July day which brought cloudless skies, temperatures in the mid-seventies, and the hint of a gentle breeze. Gone was yesterday’s intense heat, and while the humidity was forecast to return later in the week, Arabella was grateful for the temporary reprieve. She allowed herself to hope that the change of weather bode well for the success of the tournament and Kids Come First, and in turn, that the jet ski strategy would bring customers into the Glass Dolphin. She hadn’t wanted to worry Emily, but the Pottageville purchases had all but obliterated their bank balance. So far, summer sales had been soft. Hot weather sent people to parks, beaches, and ice cream parlors. Shopping for antiques was a long way down on the to-do list.

  But today wasn’t the time for negative thoughts. Arabella smiled when she thought about the perfume bottle they were donating to the tournament’s silent auction. It was part of one of the ten-dollar estate sale box lots she’d bought in Pottageville. In amongst the glass doorknobs, embroidered doilies, and an assortment of what looked like polished rocks, but might have been semi-precious stones or crystals, were a half dozen circa 1890s Herman Tappan clear glass figural perfume bottles. Unmarked, yes, the labels long removed, but definitely signature Tappan if you knew your stuff, which thankfully, the estate sellers had not.

  To be fair, the Herman Tappan Perfume Company wasn’t a household name in the same way Lalique was. Nonetheless, Tappan had been one of the major American perfume companies during the Victorian era, producing glass novelty perfume bottles shaped like street lamps, ladies’ slippers, baseball bats, birds, and more.

  Arabella thought donating one of the bottles to a worthy cause would bring more good luck, not to mention the interest it might bring to the Glass Dolphin—so much more on point than a jet ski. She’d studied each of the six bottles in the lot and finally selected a figural bottle of a small girl wrapped in wolf skin fur for the auction.

  Levon had been at the same sale, and still couldn’t believe he’d missed the perfume bottles. Levon Larroquette was not only her ex-husband, he was also an antiques picker by trade, having taught her most of what she knew. Sure, she’d had to dig a bit under the doorknobs and doilies, but it wasn’t like they’d been invisible. When she’d shown him, afterwards, he’d looked slightly annoyed and more than a little embarrassed.

  As well he should. Lately he’d been off his game and Arabella blamed Gilly Germaine for his lack of concentration. The self-proclaimed philanthropist had managed to get her French manicured hooks firmly into Levon, and he was beginning to act like a love-struck schoolboy who couldn’t concentrate on his studies.

  She shook her head, tossed her golf clubs into the back of her aging SUV, and got ready for the drive to Miakoda Falls. It was time to get to the tournament.

  Arabella tucked the Tappan figural perfume bottle inside a small black velvet-lined case—the original box was unfortunately missing. Of course, if it had been intact, the bottle would never have been in a box lot. She placed the case on the white linen tablecloth in the space reserved for the Glass Dolphin. She straightened the bidding sheet for the umpteenth time, and then reread the index card with the details.

  Clear glass figural perfume bottle by the Herman Tappan Perfume Company, New York, NY, c. 1890. Tappan’s colognes were aimed at the middle class and the prices affordable. He was quite fond of the glass novelty figural bottle, for which he owned two patents in the 1890s. This figural bottle of a small girl wrapped in a wolf skin fur is valued between and $100 to $150.

  Emily would tell her she was being obsessive, but when it came to antiques, Arabella couldn’t help it. She prided herself on her research and the information she provided. Accuracy mattered every bit as much as authenticity.

  It wasn’t until Arabella put the index card back in its holder, satisfied it was acceptable, that she noticed Gilly Germaine had put the Glass Dolphin’s spot next to Larroquette’s Antiques: Pickers & Appraisers. Was this her way of telling Arabella that she was secure in her new relationship with Levon, that she was completely fine with Levon and Arabella remaining friends? Or did she think his donation would outshine hers?

  Levon was offering a free estate or household appraisal service: “From basement to attic and every room in between,” which in theory sounded incredibly generous, but actually gave him first foot in the door. It didn’t guarantee him the commission, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt.

  Arabella was still debating Gilly’s motives when she heard someone slip into the room. Levon sauntered in, a half-smile playing on his lips. It was one of the rare occasions when Levon wasn’t dressed head to toe in denim, but Arabella knew the Miakoda Falls Golf and Country Club adhered to a strict dress code typical of the majority of golf courses: collared shirt and long slacks for men, long shorts permissible but in truth often frowned upon, and collared shirts and long slacks and skirts, skorts, or long shorts for women. No matter how relaxed a club’s dress code might be, Daisy Dukes and denim were definitely taboo
.

  Nonetheless, Levon had managed to find a golf shirt in indigo blue to set off his eyes, and the khaki pants he was wearing managed to accentuate every square inch of his physique, which was fit and trim from years of lifting and moving boxes of collectibles and antique furniture. His hair, slightly shaggy and soft brown, with the first hint of gray at the temples, was all but hidden beneath a golf cap that matched the shirt to perfection. Arabella wished she didn’t still notice all those details about him—they were divorced, done and done and done again, a reality that by now was more on her than on him—but with Levon it was damn hard not to. Look up “charisma” in the dictionary and you were likely to see a picture of Levon Larroquette. With a half-smile, no less.

  “Nice perfume bottle, Bella baby,” Levon said. “It should fetch a decent amount. Gilly will be pleased.”

  Arabella knew Levon was trying to pay her a compliment, but she couldn’t help but feel a flash of annoyance. She could care less if Gilly would be pleased. She did care whether the folks at Kids Come First would be pleased. Arabella believed in supporting her community, and from what she’d been reading about the charity, KCF did just that. She glanced over at the bid sheet for Levon’s appraisal service and noted the estimated value at three hundred dollars, double the amount of her perfume bottle. That ticked her off even more.

  “Your appraisal offer should also do well. Are you sponsoring a hole too?”

  A hit below the belt, given the fact that Arabella knew full well he wasn’t—she’d studied the sponsor page on the golf course website and tournament brochure with the same intensity she’d given the index card.

  Levon, however, didn’t rise to the bait.

  “No, Gilly thought it would be more helpful if I took on the job of Course Marshal.”

  Of course she would. As marshal, Levon would be expected to report in to Gilly the entire morning.

  “I get to zip from hole to hole in a cart, trying to speed up slow play without offending anyone, making sure nobody’s drinking too much once eleven a.m. hits and the cart girl comes around—” Levon caught her eye and grinned.

  They both knew he was referring to Poppy Spencer. The real estate agent was far from a lush, but when she got into the hard lemonade coolers, she had a tendency to forget there was liquor inside them. The Lount’s Landing Canada Day celebration on July first had a very inebriated Poppy standing on top of a table at The Hanged Man’s Noose and begging for business, her speech slurred and her usually impeccable clothing disheveled. Betsy Ehrlich, the pub’s owner, had managed to talk Poppy off the table without incident, and Emily had driven her home, but no one wanted a repeat performance.

  “Sounds like you’ll be kept busy,” Arabella said, trying to block out the thought of Levon at Gilly’s beck and call.

  “I’ve got it covered. It’s only nine holes, and it’s a best ball scramble. That should keep the pace under two and a half hours, even with all the duffers that are bound to be out there playing for a good cause. Everyone should be back in the clubhouse by twelve-thirty at the latest. That leaves plenty of time for folks to view the silent auction items and bid on them before lunch at one fifteen. Gilly has everything arranged, doesn’t leave anything to chance. Well, except for the weather, and even that is cooperating.”

  Levon smiled, the full-on one he tended to keep in reserve, and Arabella felt something tug inside of her. She had heard quite enough about Gilly St. Germaine and how amazing she was. It wasn’t as if she was jealous, exactly, more like she felt Levon slipping away from her little by little. They might not be married any longer, but she never stopping thinking of him as a friend, someone who knew her and loved her, blemishes and all. Since Gilly had arrived on the scene, Levon had become more and more distant. This past month he’d been all but absent. Today was the first time they’d spoken in two weeks.

  It didn’t help that she’d recently split up with Aaron Beecham.

  For a small town cop, he seemed to be on duty more than off. Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. It was just that when he was off duty, the Glass Dolphin was usually open, and she couldn’t exactly close the shop for a date. Emily was a fast study, but she had a lot to learn. If a customer came in with a question—

  “I should get going,” Levon said, interrupting her thoughts. “Gilly is driving around the course checking that everything’s perfect before everyone heads out to their respective holes. Once she’s back at the clubhouse, I’ll do a final drive about. She’s relying on me.”

  I’m sure she is. “I better get going as well. You know what Emily’s like about punctuality. If I’m so much as five seconds late, she’ll start to panic that we’ll be banished from the tournament, or worse, that we won’t get to our hole in time. We’re starting on number two.”

  “Just remember not to hit the ball until the shotgun sounds.”

  “Gilly’s using an actual shotgun? I thought everyone used sirens or horns these days.”

  Levon laughed. “Gilly’s as much of a stickler for research as you are. She read back issues of Golf Digest at the library. In 1956 the head pro at the Walla Walla Country Club in Washington—the state, not the city—fired a shotgun into the air to sound the start of play. Apparently that was the first time, though other tournaments have done it since. Gilly thought it would be more authentic if she used a shotgun, too. You of all people should appreciate that, Arabella. After all, isn’t that your motto? ‘Authenticity matters?’”

  It was, but Arabella didn’t like it that Gilly had adopted the same motto.

  She didn’t like it one bit.

  3

  Arabella made her way to the parking lot where the double row of golf carts, golf bags firmly attached, waiting to be driven to their respective holes. One golf cart was missing, which seemed odd, but there was still a good thirty minutes to go before the tournament officially started. Naturally, Emily was already there.

  “Poppy Spencer donated golf balls with her real estate logo on them,” Emily said by way of greeting. “Every golfer gets a sleeve of three. They’re in the cart.”

  “Good advertising. Even if you lose the ball, someone else will find it and notice the logo.”

  And it was much more sensible than a jet ski. Why hadn’t they thought about golf balls?

  Most of the golfers were milling about, checking their phones, chatting, and sampling the coffee, fruit, and breakfast pastries arranged on a side table. Arabella grabbed a lemon poppy seed muffin. “Where are Luke and Hudson?”

  “They’re here. Luke wanted to check out the jet ski one more time, so he took the cart.” She grinned. “I don’t think that’s in the Gilly Germaine rule book, but she wasn’t around to stop him. Neither was Course Marshal Levon.”

  That would explain the missing cart, Arabella thought, alternately worried and amused at Gilly’s potential reaction if or when she found out. “What about Hudson?”

  “He’s checking out the silent auction table. He’s donating a signed first edition of his first two books, and a “name-a-character” in his next book.”

  Hudson Tanaka was Luke’s best friend, an athletic forty-something guy that Emily obviously thought was a good fit for Arabella. Since her split with Aaron, and Levon taking up with Gilly, Emily’s not-so-subtle matchmaking attempts had been relentless. Tall, short, fat, thin, if the men were old enough to shave and remotely interested in the opposite sex, Emily seemed to think Arabella would be interested.

  Emily was wrong. It wasn’t that the men she’d “found” for Arabella were losers. Far from it: they were well educated with decent jobs, or at least a reliable source of income. Hudson Tanaka was a Toronto transplant who had settled in Lakeside to write his third novel, the first two books in his Medieval Knight Mystery series apparently selling well enough to afford him a lakefront property. Not in the nosebleed section of Moore Gate Manor, but certainly beyond anything Arabella could hope to afford in this lifetime or the next.

  Hudson was also handsome in a storybook sort of way
, his slender six-foot frame, long narrow face, and angular chin inherited from his Scandinavian mother—a former magazine and runway model according to Emily—and almond-shaped eyes with the sparkle of black Alaskan diamonds from his Japanese father.

  It wasn’t his appearance or his profession that was the problem. It was just that Arabella had sworn off men, at least for the time being. Her marriage to Levon had flopped and her relationship with Aaron—which had seemed promising for a while—had been a bust. The last thing she needed was a third strike in the relationship department. She intended to celebrate her upcoming fortieth birthday unattached and proud of it.

  A shot rang out, loud and clear. Arabella jumped at the sound. “That must be the starter’s gun. Levon said Gilly was going to use a real shotgun.” She glanced at her watch. “Talk about a keener. She’s a good twenty-five minutes ahead of schedule.”

  “Maybe she’s doing a trial run.”

  “Seriously,” Arabella said. “It’s bad enough she’s using a real shotgun when the rest of the world is satisfied with a horn. She has to shoot the darned thing twice?”

  Emily grinned at her in that way she had when she’d figured out something you didn’t necessarily want her to know.

  “I’m just saying,” Arabella said, knowing that she sounded peevish.

  “Just saying what?” Hudson appeared at her side.

  “Arabella is annoyed that Gilly is using a real shotgun.”

  “Well, it is a shotgun start,” Hudson said, smiling. “Besides, we all know what a perfectionist Gilly is. No detail too small.”

  “Sounds like someone else I know,” Emily said.