The Hanged Man's Noose Read online

  “Both.”

  “I could ask why it’s your business.”

  “Let’s say I have a vested interest in making sure my plans for Lount’s Landing come to fruition. I would take a dim view of any interference, editorial or otherwise. A very dim view.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Merely a statement of fact.”

  “You overestimate my fascination with you and your life, Garrett. I was offered the opportunity to take on a new job with career potential. I took it. I didn’t know you were here until Johnny Porter handed me the invitation to your presentation.”

  “I suppose I have to take your word for it. But know this. There will be a heavy price to pay for anyone who attempts to sabotage either me or this project.”

  Emily bristled at the allegation. How dare Stonehaven come to her office and start bullying her?

  “And what will you do, Garrett? Ruin their reputation in the same way you managed to pulverize my mother’s? Or maybe you can drive them to take their own life, arrange an accident?”

  “Pulverize reputations? Drive people to suicide? Arrange an accident? What an overactive imagination you have, Emily. It sounds like you’ve been watching too many movies.”

  Emily fought the urge to drive the smug look on Stonehaven’s face right into next week.

  “All I know is that I’ve only been in town a couple of days, Garrett, but even I know that Carter Dixon wasn’t exactly your biggest fan.”

  “So? What of it?”

  “So Carter Dixon is also dead.”

  Stonehaven raised his eyebrows. “Carter’s dead?”

  Was he truly surprised by the news? A decade of interviewing and writing about the man and Emily still couldn’t read him. “Yes. Earlier today. At the Sunrise Café. The police are investigating. Unfortunately, I was there to witness it.”

  “Death does seem to follow you around, doesn’t it?” Stonehaven said. “First your mother and now Carter Dixon. You might want to heed my earlier warning. You know what they say. Things tend come in three.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Emily asked, not sure she wanted the answer.

  She needn’t have worried.

  The bastard walked out without answering.

  A confrontation with Stonehaven might have sent some folks to the nearest bar. Others might go in for chocolate or some other form of comfort food. Emily got her headspace back by going out for a five-mile run. By the time she returned to her office forty-five minutes later, she was feeling refreshed and ready to tackle what she’d come to think of as her investigation. Regardless of whether it was an accident or something more sinister, her nose smelled a story in Carter Dixon’s death. But first she needed to do some research. Not knowing anything about Miakoda Falls had almost put her in an embarrassing position at the Sunrise Café. She was determined not to let it happen again.

  A few hours spent online, supplemented by a couple more at the local library, filled in most of the blanks. Not only was the library stocked with volumes of the area’s history, the head librarian, a silver-haired sexagenarian, was more than willing to share her knowledge.

  The basic facts were this: Cedar County was a sprawling 975-square-mile stretch of land comprised of three burgeoning towns in the southernmost corridor, all within commuting distance to Toronto. Agricultural lands and gradually expanding villages lay in the middle. In the north were the tri-communities of Miakoda Falls, Lount’s Landing, and Lakeside. The latter was largely considered cottage country, an enclave of summer vacation homes, albeit with a modest core of permanent residents, mostly retired.

  Policing the area was the Cedar County Tri-Community Policing Center, affectionately known as the One-Trick-Pokey. Located inside the original train station in Miakoda Falls, the Center had been opened at a time when the towns had been growing in leaps and bounds, fueled by a buoyant economy, high paying jobs in the mill, and rumors of an automotive plant coming to the area.

  The mill had closed down, just as Poppy Spencer had informed Emily, and the automaker had fallen upon recessionary times. Any plans for opening a new plant had been abandoned, causing much of the tri-town’s workforce to seek housing and employment opportunities elsewhere.

  Nonetheless, the One-Trick-Pokey remained, although its primary role now involved registering bicycles and handing out pamphlets on boating safety and Neighborhood Watch programs. The Lakeside cottagers expected—no demanded—a high standard of service for their maximized waterfront tax dollars and minimized part-time residential status.

  As best as Emily could gather, getting assigned to the Cedar County Tri-Community Policing Center generally meant an officer’s career had stagnated beyond redemption. She could imagine the response to Tiffany Branson’s telephone call questioning her fiancé’s death by peanut butter. According to the librarian, Tiffany wasn’t a stranger to calling the police. “An active imagination, Tiff has. Started when she discovered Nancy Drew. Liked to pretend Lount’s Landing was River Heights.”

  Emily decided to talk to Gloria Moroziuk, February Fassbender, and Tiffany Branson. She figured Tiffany would be busy making funeral arrangements, and a call to the Sunrise Café resulted in nothing more than a recorded message saying the restaurant would be closed until the following Monday.

  She could wait. In the meantime, there was one day until the dry run with Arabella at the Glass Dolphin. Tomorrow she’d try to learn a little bit about the antiques business, show Arabella she took her job seriously.

  If Johnny was right—and there was no reason to doubt him—Arabella would be less than thrilled with anything Stonehaven might have up his sleeve.

  Which suited Emily perfectly. She just had to find a way to ignite that particular fire.

  Because the one thing Stonehaven didn’t react well to was opposition.

  Emily couldn’t wait to give to him.

  8

  Arabella surveyed the stack of unopened boxes. The thought of unpacking years of inventory might have been daunting to some, but not to her. She was determined to savor every moment.

  She’d been dreaming about owning an antiques shop for ten years, first with Levon, and then without him. No one could take it away now.

  But Levon had taught her well, Arabella realized with a trace of nostalgia. She remembered the days when they’d go picking together: estate sales, yard sales, auctions. Levon had an eye for finding a bargain in the rough. It was unfortunate his idea of picking things up went beyond antiques. For him, everything in life came down to the thrill of the hunt.

  But he had taken her on as an apprentice when she had nowhere to go and no one to go to, and for that she would be forever grateful. Under Levon’s tutelage, Arabella learned to love antiques for the history they told, the stories they shared. Take clocks. She could pinpoint the region a clock was made simply because of the primary and secondary woods selected. The same held true for antique furniture. No cheap “Made in China” knockoffs back in the nineteenth century. Craftsmen took pride in their work, unlike today’s shoddy built-in obsolescence.

  It was close to four o’clock before Arabella stopped, exhausted and hungry. She admired her wall of clocks. The styles were a nice assortment: regulators and banjos, schoolhouse and steeples, gingerbreads, and ogees. Tomorrow morning she’d hang up the vintage posters, the oil paintings and watercolors, the maps and mosaics, before the movers arrived with the furniture. Everything was going to be perfect.

  She sat down on top of a stack of flattened boxes and began to cry.

  “Am I crazy for thinking I can make a go of it on my own?” Arabella asked. She was perched on a wooden bar stool at The Hanged Man’s Noose, munching morosely on an order of Full Noose Nachos, all gooey cheese and ground beef, sour cream and spicy salsa, guacamole and pimento olives. A half-empty glass of chardonnay was close at hand.

  “Of course you’re not crazy,” said Betsy Ehrlich, deftly pouring draft beer for two men sitting at the end of the bar, watching television
.

  “Maybe I can still get my old job back.”

  “You’re kidding, right? That job at McLelland Insurance was sucking the life out of you.”

  “You’re right, you’re right. I know you’re right.” Arabella took a generous sip of her wine.

  “Do you really think I have a chance?”

  “Arabella, you’re going to be the pride of Main Street.”

  “You have to say that. You’re my friend.”

  “True, but I also know what it takes to run a business on Main Street. And you, Arabella Carpenter, have the magic combination.”

  With the exception of the two men, the pub, for all its phenomenal nineteenth-century saloon décor, was deserted. Not exactly a magic combination, but Arabella decided it was best not to go there. “What’s the magic combination?”

  “Passion. Knowledge. Integrity. Plus you care about all those dusty old things.”

  “Those dusty old things are antiques,” Arabella said, but she was smiling. Betsy could always lift her mood. Not to mention the Full Noose Nachos, which were to die for.

  “Okay, so that’s settled. Now you can do me a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “I’ve been working on a signature drink, a house martini. I’d like you to try it.”

  Arabella was more into Australian chardonnay than hard liquor, no matter how fancied up it was, but she had to admit having a signature drink was trendy. And trendy couldn’t hurt, even in a place like Lount’s Landing.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Blueberry vodka, triple sec, and blueberry juice.”

  “Sounds yummy. What are you going to call it?”

  “A Treasontini.”

  “I love it,” Arabella said, laughing. “Not only do you evoke images of a hanged man, you remind us why and how Samuel Lount met his death. But what’s the occasion?”

  “You know that real estate developer, Garrett Stonehaven, the one who’s always in the news? The tall, dark, handsome HavenSent guy?”

  Arabella nodded. She was no longer laughing.

  “He’s here. In Lount’s Landing. Arrived a couple of weeks ago. He’s staying at the Gilroy Mansion.”

  Arabella nodded again. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Betsy chattered away, mixing up a Treasontini at the same time. “He’s been in here a few times, always alone. Always orders the same red wine, Châteauneuf-Du-Pape.”

  “You stock Châteauneuf-Du-Pape here? Isn’t it a bit pricey?” Business must be better than she thought. Like most pubs, Betsy’s markup on wine, beer, and liquor was substantial.

  “Definitely pricier than my usual selection, but Johnny told me Châteauneuf-Du-Pape is one of Stonehaven’s few vices. So I took a flyer and bought a case at the liquor store. Figured worst-case scenario, I could always return them.”

  “Clever.”

  “I thought so,” Betsy said, a self-satisfied expression on her face. “Stonehaven has a plan to revitalize Main Street. It sounds exciting.”

  “Have you seen the plans?”

  “Not exactly,” Betsy admitted, handing the Treasontini to Arabella. “But he told me it could help Main Street merchants. He’s offering investment opportunities. What’s not to like? He booked The Hanged Man’s Noose for a post-presentation shindig. It will be great for business. Garrett’s going to foot the bill for the entire evening.”

  Garrett. Trust Betsy to be on a first-name basis already. The woman would flirt with a corpse. Arabella attempted a weak smile.

  “You’re going to come, aren’t you?” Betsy sounded concerned. “To the presentation? And the after-party?”

  “I wouldn’t miss either one for the world,” Arabella said, and downed the Treasontini in one quick gulp.

  9

  Arabella’s sweatshirt and faded blue jeans had been replaced by a pair of black denim skinnies tucked inside knee-high riding boots, a crisp, white blouse, and a herringbone blazer. Red, green, and yellow Bakelite bangles clinked on her right hand. On her left hand, the tiny diamonds on the dial of her Art Nouveau-style wristwatch sparkled. Emily was proud of herself for recognizing both Bakelite and Art Nouveau. Her research had paid off.

  The Glass Dolphin had also undergone a serious transformation. Every space was maximized; every nook and cranny filled with decorative pieces, from floor lamps and fireplace implements to fountain pens and furniture. Each wall conveyed a theme, from a comprehensive collection of clocks, to a wall of posters, prints and maps, to another wall filled with mirrors and sconces and girandoles. Throughout the space was the organized clutter of china and cabinets and chests and chairs, of quilts and coverlets, of paperweights and pretty things.

  The back of the shop had been set up as an appraisal center, with a large oak desk, a stacking bookcase brimming with reference books, and a burgundy leather chair broken in by time. The only modern touch was a laptop computer.

  The shop should have looked crammed and chaotic. Instead, Arabella had managed to make it look downright cozy. A place to explore, like some sort of magical world where time managed to stand still.

  “It’s magnificent, Arabella,” Emily said, and meant it.

  “Thank you. I’ll admit I’m more than a bit nervous. I’ve planned this for so long.”

  “I know where you’re coming from. My first issue of Inside the Landing has to be fantastic. That’s why this is so important to me. How about you show me around and I’ll ask questions as we go?”

  “You’re on.”

  “I have a few nineteenth-century maps,” Arabella said, walking over to the wall of prints and posters. She pointed to a framed map with the inscription Upper Canada, with all the Great Lakes, the image size about eight-by-ten inches. It was priced at $275. “Notice how it’s all hand-colored and engraved. This map is dated 1881, so it’s an accurate depiction of the time. Earlier maps often have cartographic errors. For example, maps from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries depict California as an island.”

  “California as an island?” Emily shook her head in wonder. “Would an error like that increase or decrease the value?”

  “Maps with cartographic errors typically command a good deal more money than factual representations, however attractive the factual representation might be. There’s a fascination with seeing the world the way some explorer charted it, albeit incorrectly, centuries ago.”

  “Do a lot of people collect maps?” Emily had never heard of such a thing, though she had to admit the story about California as an island was interesting. Even the map of Upper Canada had an appeal she couldn’t quite explain.

  “Certainly some folks do, but others buy one map and no more. Consider that for less than the price of a limited edition print you could own a unique piece of wall art.”

  Emily studied the map for a moment. Arabella was right. It would make a nice conversation piece. She thought back to yesterday’s research.

  “What about fakes and reproductions? I read that could be a concern if you aren’t dealing with someone reputable.”

  “That’s a good question, Emily, and a significant concern in the antiques trade, although the money and marketplace has to be strong enough for fakers to bother. The map of Upper Canada, for example, is priced at $275, but I’ll likely end up selling it for around $250. Antiquers are born to haggle. As for reproductions…” Arabella paused for a moment. “Do you know the difference between fakes and reproductions?”

  Emily was embarrassed to admit she did not.

  “Let’s look at the Sharon Temple, a national historic site in the Town of East Gwillimbury. A few years back, the Temple reprinted a late nineteenth-century map of the town for fundraising purposes. Quite a plain map, aesthetically, but of interest to local residents. Unframed reproductions were sold at the town’s two libraries for five dollars apiece. But here’s the thing. The reproductions were clearly marked. There was no intention to deceive.”

  Emily nodded. So far, so good.

  “Now let’s cons
ider fakes. Some fakes start off life innocently enough, not as reproductions, but simply as another item made during a time when such things were popular, like a stained glass lamp from the early twentieth century, or a piece of pottery from the same period. Somewhere along the way, an unscrupulous seller adds a forged signature, like Tiffany Studios, or Rookwood Pottery, with the intention of deceiving the buyer to get far more money than the object is worth.”

  There’s a lot more to this antiques business than I realized, Emily thought. She nodded again.

  “Then we come to our deliberate fake, something that starts off life with every intention of deceiving. We are seeing more of this coming out of Asia, everything from totems and tribal masks to Chinese porcelain and bronze sculptures. If the market is hot, and the money is there, someone, somewhere, will try to exploit it. That’s why it’s important to work with a reputable dealer. Of course, the age-old caveat applies. If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.” Arabella smiled. “Then there are knockoffs sold at a fraction of the cost of the real deal. You see it a lot with brand name clothes and accessories at flea markets.”

  Emily looked down at her fake Coach purse and blushed. Had Arabella noticed it was a knockoff? She made a mental note to ditch it as soon as she got home, replace it with her no-name leather satchel.

  “I’m so sorry, I’m afraid I may have gotten carried away,” Arabella said, her tone apologetic. “If I start pontificating again, feel free to kick me in the shin, or start snoring loudly. Some sign to let me know I’m being impossible.”

  Emily laughed. She couldn’t help but like this woman.

  “Actually, Arabella, I found it fascinating.” She twisted the strap on her handbag. “Do you find yourself categorizing people the same way? As genuine, deliberate fakes, reproductions, or knockoffs?”

  Arabella thought for a long moment before answering. “I suppose I do. But unlike objects, I like to believe everyone has a chance to become genuine again. At least people with a conscience.”