The Hanged Man's Noose Page 3

  There were some, among them her know-it-all ex-husband, Levon, who might say this wasn’t the time to invest heart and soul—not to mention her hard-fought life’s savings—into brick and mortar when so much of today’s antiques trade was negotiated online. But while Arabella had considered hiring a web design firm from Toronto to “enhance her online presence,” replacing lemon oil and old leather with search engines and live bidding was as foreign to her as relinquishing the tactile feel of page and paper for a Kindle.

  She squeezed into a pair of faded jeans and threw on a souvenir sweatshirt from the Royal Ontario Museum. Raked her fingers through chin-length auburn curls, glad she’d abandoned her fling with the flat iron. A pair of sneakers, a down-filled jacket, and she was out the door.

  Arabella’s walk from her midtown rental to the Glass Dolphin took about twenty minutes, including a breakfast stop at the Sunrise Café for a take-out coffee and a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel. She enjoyed the journey to and from each day, even if exercise wasn’t exactly on her top ten to-do list. She’d also come to appreciate the finer points of the town, though when Levon had dragged her here from Toronto a dozen years ago she couldn’t see it. Her favorite part of these walks was seeing the gradual transition of Lount’s Landing, the way the town was embracing its history. She loved the idea of being part of the revival.

  Her route took her past the Main Street Elementary School. Two years ago, the school board had put it on their deaccessioned list, claiming the early architecture was too costly to modernize for the few children in the area. A few months ago a “For Sale” sign had been posted on the property. Last week the sign had been replaced with a large billboard announcing, “Another Property Sold by Poppy Spencer.”

  Arabella hoped a cutting-edge developer would convert the space into loft condominiums. She could imagine herself living there, the school grounds home to green space, some picnic tables, a pond with ducks and geese, maybe a fountain that lit up at night. She’d read about other schools being repurposed. Why not in Lount’s Landing?

  She arrived at the Glass Dolphin to find a slender woman in a thin coat shivering by the front door. Arabella had made similar wardrobe miscalculations in November, a month where the prevailing Lount’s Landing winds could be as unpredictable as an eBay auction.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, but we’re not open until Saturday,” Arabella said, pointing to a sign in the window. Something was vaguely familiar about the woman, though she couldn’t stick a pin in it. Early thirties. Hazel eyes with a bit of a fleck. Dark brown hair tied into a ponytail, a red knit beret sloped back from her forehead. She wears it well, Arabella thought with a touch of envy. Her own attempts at beret wearing had resulted in the rather unflattering look of a Victorian shower cap crossed with a tea cozy.

  Mind you, the Coach handbag Beret Girl carried was definitely a knockoff. The single rows of Coach’s signature C’s, versus double, the way the C’s didn’t quite line up at the center. It was a dead giveaway.

  Arabella prided herself on her ability to spot the real from the reproduction. The antiques world was full of fakes. But not the Glass Dolphin. Within her walls, everything would be original, from the exposed beam ceiling and the carefully restored pine plank floors to the merchandise she sold.

  Authenticity mattered.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” the woman said. “My name’s Emily Garland. I’m—”

  That’s where she’d seen her before. “I thought I recognized you. You’re the writer from Urban Living. They always include your photograph under the Contributors section.” Arabella opened the door. “Come in, you’re starting to look a tad blue. Ignore the myriad boxes. This week is all about unpacking and setting up displays. The larger pieces of furniture will be delivered from storage on Thursday.”

  “Thanks, I’m frozen solid. I’m surprised you read the Contributors page. I always figured only folks who looked at it were family members and envious writers. But what’s an antiques shop owner in Lount’s Landing doing reading Urban Living?”

  “The better question would be, what’s a writer for Urban Living doing in Lount’s Landing?”

  “Fair enough.” Emily handed Arabella a business card. “Actually, I left Urban Living. I’m the new editor of Inside the Landing.”

  “So you’re the one. I heard the owner finally sold the magazine. Wanted to retire for a while, but it turned out to be a bit of a tough sell. Not surprising. It was a bit tired. Not many people bothered to read it, went straight from the porch to the blue bin.” Arabella blushed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so blunt.”

  “No worries, you’re absolutely right. I wouldn’t have read the old magazine either. But I have big plans for a new format. More coverage of local events, plenty of photographs, in-depth interviews with local business owners. Give it a bit of a personality.” Emily shrugged. “It seemed like a good opportunity.”

  “It sounds nice. Or at least nicer.”

  “I hope so. That’s why I’m here. I was talking to Johnny Porter.”

  Arabella nodded. Johnny was good people, and a strong advocate for the businesses on Main Street. He’d even started the Main Street Merchants’ Association, of which she was now a proud member. If she had her way, history would be making a comeback in the Landing.

  Emily said, “Johnny tells me you’re planning a grand opening on Saturday and Sunday. I’d like the Glass Dolphin to be Inside the Landing’s first big feature story. I could cover the entire weekend, include some background information. The story behind the store. What do you think? It’s free PR for you, and it would give me the kick-start I need.”

  Arabella contemplated the offer. No question the Glass Dolphin could use the free press. As long as it was free. She’d heard of publications that offered free PR and then tried to upsell it with a paid advertising pitch. Then again, outside of the unfortunate choice of fake purse, Emily appeared to be perfectly legit. And she knew from personal experience how difficult it could be coming to a small town where everyone knew one another. If it hadn’t been for Levon, she might have gone back to the city within a few short weeks.

  “We can try it, Emily, see how it goes. I’m opening at eleven on Saturday, but I wouldn’t mind showing you around on Friday. Everything will be set up by then. Why don’t you come by after lunch, say about one o’clock? I can give you the grand tour. That way, come Saturday, I won’t feel as if I have to entertain you, and you’ll be able to meet other folks from town without worrying about following me around.”

  “Sounds like a plan. And I promise, there are absolutely no strings attached.” It was as if she’d read Arabella’s mind. “Now let me get out of your way.”

  Emily was halfway out the door when she turned around. “I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached. I have something for you from Johnny Porter.” She reached into her purse and handed over a cream-colored envelope.

  Arabella opened the envelope the minute Emily was gone. Inside was an invitation to a “Special Presentation” the following Tuesday, hosted by real estate developer Garrett Stonehaven of HavenSent Developments, Inc. A nice, handwritten note from Johnny encouraged her to attend.

  Garrett Stonehaven. Wasn’t he the Toronto developer Emily Garland was always writing about in Urban Living? Now the two of them were in Lount’s Landing. Which could have been a coincidence. Except for one thing.

  Arabella didn’t believe in coincidence.

  4

  Garrett Stonehaven stepped away from the lectern to address the five people sitting in the room. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the dry run. What do you think? Are we ready for next Tuesday evening? Can we sell our plan to the good people of Lount’s Landing?”

  “Yes,” all but Carter Dixon said in unison.

  Stonehaven crossed his arms and studied the lone holdout through narrowed eyes. For a long time no one spoke.

  “I still think the school is going to be problematic,” Carter said eventually. “When the members of the R
edevelopment Team were asked to consider properties, it was for a condominium conversion, not some big box store. Everyone agreed the Main Street Elementary School was perfect. Including you, at the time.”

  “We’ve been over this time and again,” Stonehaven said, trying hard to maintain his composure. He clenched and unclenched his fists. What part of making money did this hick from Hicksville not understand?

  “Converting the school into condos is not economically feasible, Carter. StoreHaven will require less capital outlay and encourage local business investment. Not to mention your personal takeaway as a profit-sharing member of the HavenSent Solutions team.”

  “I appreciate the monetary incentives, and I’m all for businesses becoming invested in historic Main Street. I’m merely suggesting we introduce the plans for StoreHaven a bit later on. Get revitalizing first.”

  “We have to be upfront if we’re going to have any sense of credibility. Particularly if we’re hoping to encourage investors, which, I might remind you, has always been the plan.”

  “But the school—”

  “Hasn’t been used for the last couple of years. Surely nobody expected it to stay vacant forever?”

  “Vacant, no, but nobody’s expecting this.” Carter Dixon looked at the other team members. “Am I right?”

  No one responded. A couple of the members looked down at their feet.

  Nor will they respond, Stonehaven thought with satisfaction. Nothing and nobody would get in the way of this plan. Not as long as he was running things. And it was high time this rural renegade accepted it. Nonetheless, he had to at least give the appearance of concession. “What if we titled the presentation something like Neighbors Helping Neighbors?”

  Carter snorted. “As opposed to neighbors screwing neighbors, Garrett? Or businesses screwing businesses? Because that’s what it sounds like to me.”

  “Then you don’t understand my concept, Carter. And if you don’t, others might not either.” Stonehaven closed his eyes and thought for a moment, snapped them back open when the idea came to him. How was it he hadn’t thought of it before?

  “What if we circle the entire concept back to the school, let folks know upfront that the school is the cornerstone of a renewed community.” Stonehaven smiled. “What if we call it The ABC’s of Revitalization: Neighbors Helping Neighbors.”

  “That might work,” Carter conceded. “At least we’re making the effort to be honest.”

  The other team members nodded.

  “Not only will it work, it’s bloody brilliant,” Stonehaven said. His mind and body started to relax. Time to start playing the game.

  Stonehaven watched the team leave the Community Center. He slipped a dollar into the hallway vending machine for a bottle of overpriced water, walked back into the conference room, and kicked the wall, hard. It didn’t make him feel any better.

  He collected his materials from the podium, sat down at a long table at the side of the room, and considered his plan for the umpteenth time. Reread his notes, flipped through the PowerPoint, reviewed the handouts, looked over the blueprints and the architects’ renderings, the financial analysis and the business case. It may have been a week until his official presentation to the townspeople, but he was nothing if not a perfectionist. You didn’t get ranked as number one in Urban Living’s first annual “Top 40 Before 40” by being sloppy. Didn’t matter that he’d slid in under the deadline a week before his fortieth birthday, or that he’d greased a few palms to get the nod.

  He expected—no, demanded—the same degree of dedication and discipline from everyone who worked for him. And Carter Dixon concerned him. Until now, he’d always had the same team based out of Toronto, people he could trust—as long as he paid them twice what the job was worth. Money could be a powerful motivator.

  Coming to Lount’s Landing meant getting in cozy with the community. So he’d gone against his instincts and brought a handpicked team of local business people on board, folks who had an interest in revitalizing historic Main Street, not to mention lining their own pockets. He’d been confident in his final decision. Everyone had appeared to buy into the concept, including Carter Dixon.

  Sycophants.

  Stonehaven wasn’t fooled by the way Carter had acquiesced. He could sense trouble the same way a bloodhound could catch a scent. No question about it, he would have to terminate Carter’s employment contract. The only decision was how and when to execute the termination. Everything about this project hinged on the Main Street merchants buying into it.

  He should have seen it coming. Wasn’t Lount’s Landing named after Samuel Lount? What kind of town was named for a man who’d been hanged for treason?

  Mind you, even Samuel Lount had his loyal supporters. The same would hold true for the traitorous Mr. Dixon, although arranging a hanging would be out of the question. An accidental death, on the other hand, might have possibilities.

  Stonehaven got up and started to pace. He hated when things got complicated. It was time to talk things over with the one person he could trust, the one person who believed in him back when he was plain old Garry Stone. He picked up his cell and pressed 2-1-5, listened to the ringtone, one, two, three. Waited for the brief voice mail message to finish.

  “Millie,” Stonehaven said, after the beep. “We need to talk.”

  5

  Emily had spent the rest of Tuesday getting her house in order, buying a few groceries, and going for a one hour run. The best way for her to get the lay of the land, she had decided, was to traverse the streets on foot. In doing so, she got an immediate sense of the community and the people who lived there.

  She’d also had a chance to think about her meeting with Arabella Carpenter, and she was more than satisfied with the results. Johnny had warned her that Arabella could be testy, but all Emily detected was a guardedness that could have come from a distrust of journalists in general. She didn’t take it personally; years of freelancing had given her a hard shell. The Kerri St. Amours of the world gave the job a bad reputation.

  Emily found herself feeling a tiny bit sorry for the antiques shop owner. Opening on Saturday and the furniture not coming out of storage until Thursday? Talk about working close to deadline. And what about advertising? The sole form of advertising appeared to be a sign on the door and word of mouth. Maybe that kind of thing was enough in a small town, but a spread in Inside the Landing couldn’t hurt.

  Wednesday’s first destination would be the Sunrise Café. According to her notes it was also on Main Street, six blocks south of her office. The restaurant had been open for less than three months, but Johnny had said it was already a local magnet for decent coffee, home-style cooking, and a healthy dollop of local gossip.

  The Sunrise Café was housed within a narrow, brown brick Victorian. A brass historical plaque indicated the building was once the establishment of Murdoch Gilroy, Esquire. Emily wondered if Murdoch Gilroy was any relation to her landlord’s late husband, and suspected he was. A small wooden sign showed the hours as Monday through Saturday, 6:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m., closed Sundays.

  She tried to think of a restaurant in downtown Toronto that was only open for breakfast and closed on Sundays. None came to mind. Real estate was too expensive to rely only on bacon and eggs for income.

  The front door was painted a bright, sunshiny yellow. Emily pulled on a brass handle and made her way inside. She was surprised to find the place packed.

  The restaurant was charming in a country cozy way, with colorful prints of roosters and other farm life adorning the walls. Overhead, ceiling fans with alternating blades of bright yellow and orange spun lazily, circulating the smell of coffee, cinnamon, and buttered toast.

  A tall, glass display case filled with fruit, homemade pies, and muffins separated the diners from an open-style kitchen. A basket of individually wrapped date squares and oversized chocolate chip cookies were strategically placed next to the cash register. Small town or not, whoever owned the Sunrise Café had business savvy.
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  A blonde waitress was the only server in sight. She was rail thin, early twenties, with inky blue eyes framed by heavily mascaraed lashes.

  The tables were artfully arranged to maximize space while providing a modicum of privacy. A small bay window overlooked Main Street, a vase of bright yellow roses filling the nook.

  She took a seat at the table for one and attempted to look inconspicuous. A burly man wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey jersey glared at her, his down-filled ski jacket draped carelessly over the spare chair, the sleeves flopping on the floor.

  Emily glared right back when the guy began grumbling loudly about “city slickers,” the irony of supporting an NHL hockey team apparently lost on him. Last time she’d looked, Toronto was a city. A big one. She watched as the man tore a strip off the waitress for leaving peanut butter packets in the jam basket.

  The poor thing tripped over the bulky ski jacket trying to get at the basket. Face red, lips trembling, the waitress pulled herself up, plucked the peanut butter packets from the offending basket, tossed them into her apron pocket, and muttered an apology. She took a deep breath, grabbed a plasticized menu from a stack on the counter, and made her way over to Emily’s table.

  “Welcome to the Sunrise Café, and my apologies for the show. My name’s February. I’ll be your server.”

  “Emily. I’m new in town. I took over Inside the Landing.” She caught February’s confused look. “It’s a monthly magazine.”

  “Sorry about that. I’m fairly new here.” February leaned over conspiratorially. “I’m also a writer.”

  Who wasn’t? Emily wished she had a dollar for every time someone told her that. At least the girl wasn’t claiming to be a poet. The worst was when they started spouting haiku.

  “I’m not published,” February acknowledged, as if sensing Emily’s hesitation, “but I do have plenty of stories to tell.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Working in a restaurant, you see and hear it all.”